Page 87 of The Shop on Royal Street
“Go ahead.” I kept my gaze focused behind him.
“Jaxson called me. He thought I should know about what his uncle Bernie told you about my grandfather. And Sunny.”
“Mimi told me to drop it, so I have. Is there anything else?” I allowed the impatience to be heard in my voice.
“Yeah. There is. He shared with me what his uncle Bernie discovered that implicated my grandfather. The information that he has not shared with anyone else because he was warned that it could be dangerous. To him and anyone else who finds out.”
“So don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“But you need to hear it. Because it involves Michael.”
I pulled back, wishing my head didn’t feel so muddled. “What? But that’s impossible—Michael was just a kid when Sunny disappeared.” I started to stand again, wanting him to leave and the conversation to be over.
“Because he’s a cop, quitting went against Uncle Bernie’s instincts. On a hunch he did some under-the-radar digging in an ancestry database, looking for connections that nobody had thought about. And his instincts turned out to be spot-on.” He took a deep breath, leaning forward as if afraid I might try to leave again. “Michael’s maternal grandmother was Marguerite Hebert, but her maiden name was Broussard. The sister of Jeanne Broussard. The same Jeanne Broussard who was murdered in our house.” He paused, as if to let his words sink in. “Has Michael ever mentioned that to you? That Jeanne was his great-aunt?”
I sat down hard, needing another drink almost as much as I neededto think clearly. “No. Why would he? Maybe he doesn’t even know that he’s related to Jeanne. She died in 1964, so it’s not like he would have ever met her. It could just be a—”
“Don’t say it, Nola. Don’t say it, because you and I both know that you don’t believe it.”
“But it’s just as ridiculous to say that something that happened more than six decades ago could have anything to do with your sister. Or with Michael.”
“Not him, Nola. His family. New Orleans was and is full of powerful people in powerful places. Jeanne and Marguerite’s father, Antoine Broussard, was one of them. He was either related or closely connected to the mayor and several other city officials since Prohibition.”
I shook my head, as much to disagree as to clear it. “Okay, but how does that relate to Michael? He and his sister were raised by his father’s sister and her husband. His father is a missionary, for crying out loud. Obviously, they’re not connected with anything the Broussard family might have been involved with over the years.”
“How can you know for sure? Marguerite married Carl Hebert, who became Antoine’s business partner. They owned a lot of real estate in the city, including most of Poydras Street. Think about it, Nola. Michael’s grandfather Carl and his great-grandfather Antoine were very rich and very influential.” He paused. “And my grandfather Charles Ryan was the Broussard family doctor.”
I picked up another cocktail and took a deep drink, the melted ice slipping down my throat along with the gin. Slamming it down on the table, I said, “So what? If you go back far enough, we could probably find out that you and I are somehow connected. Or, God forbid, even related. New Orleans is a small enough town that I would be surprised if we didn’t find those kinds of connections wherever we look within families that have been here as long as the Broussards and the Heberts.” I stood. “I’ve heard enough. All Bernie has really accomplished is digging into Michael’s family tree, which anybody could do just by checking out one of the ancestry websites. It proves nothing because it meansnothing. And it certainly doesn’t have anything to do with Michael.” I tried to send him a steady glare, but my feet wouldn’t stay put. “You know what I think, Beau? I think you’re jealous of Michael and you’re trying to ruin it for me. Just like you did before.”
Beau stood, too. “Answer me this: Has Michael once mentioned to you that his great-aunt was the woman who was murdered in your house? You told him about Jeanne, didn’t you? So that would have been the perfect opportunity for him to tell you, right? I think it’s naïve to think that Michael didn’t know the connection, don’t you? Unless he has already told you that he was related to Jeanne. And that his uncle’s offer to buy your house was a random thing. Then I’d be willing to say that it could actually be a coincidence.”
I could only stare back at him. Because he and I both knew that it couldn’t be.
“There’s something else you need to consider, Nola. What if Mimi’s wrong? What if my grandfather really did put a halt to further investigation into Sunny’s case? What if there’s some connection, some business dealings with the Broussards and my grandfather, that forced him to do something so abhorrent?” He leaned closer. “And what if Michael knows what that is?”
I looked up to see a young woman wearing a red sundress approaching us. I stared for a moment, wondering where I’d seen her before, and then I remembered. It had been while we were waiting in line to get into the Spotted Cat. Beau had been kissing her. Samantha was her name. Sam. Beau’s girlfriend and podcast partner.
I turned abruptly and walked quickly toward a path partially hidden under the wide branches of ancient oaks. I ducked behind one of the enormous trunks and rested my hand on the gnarled bark, attempting to ground myself and make the world stop spinning, unsure if it was from the alcohol I’d consumed on an empty stomach or from Beau’s words, which I couldn’t dismiss any more than I could the unsettling belief that what he had told me might be true.
CHAPTER 27
For the remainder of the evening, I ate and drank and danced, eagerly attempting to drown the doubts that Beau had inserted into my already foggy brain. Michael turned out to be an excellent dancer, and I made a mental note to thank both of my grandmothers in Charleston for forcing me to take dancing lessons when I was in high school. I’d since discovered that it was another one of those life skills that would carry me forward, much like good manners. And potty training.
Yet no matter how many times Michael took me out on the dance floor, and I allowed the swirling lights and the voices of people to pulse around me, I couldn’t completely forget what Beau had told me. If I’d learned anything in my recent past, it was that denial was about as useful as a broom without a handle. When I’d made the decision to move to New Orleans, my dad gave me a plaque as a reminder of where I’d been. It was on a bookshelf in my room where I’d see it every morning when I woke up.Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.I would ask Michael tomorrow about what Beau had said. I just wanted this one night to be perfect.
As promised, Michael bought us snowballs and we ate them whilewe walked and kissed beneath the branches of the oak trees. I had long since shed my shoes—although I couldn’t recall exactly where—and had voted twice for my favorite cocktail, since I liked two of them equally and had even gone back for seconds of each to make sure. Michael pulled me into his arms and I rested my head on his chest as we slow danced, listening to the sounds of the dwindling crowd and the chorus of frogs.
He gently kissed the back of my head. “Are you ready to leave yet?”
I smiled up at him and nodded. Taking my hand, he led us back to our table, where he’d left his jacket and I’d left Jolene’s purse—her shoes nowhere in sight.
“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll go look for them?” Michael suggested.
I pulled on his arm. “I’ll call lost and found tomorrow. Let’s go home.”
With his arm around me, I walked barefoot back to the car, barely feeling the rocks and the grass beneath my feet. In the car, I tucked my legs beneath me and began singing the last song from the party, “Beyond the Sea,” making up notes and lyrics for the ones I couldn’t remember.
“We’llmeeeetbehind thestorrrre, and shop likebeforrrrreat half-pricesaaaales... we’ll gosaaaailing.” I snorted, and Michael laughed, and then I was laughing, too, unable to stop. We continued singing and laughing the entire drive until we turned onto Broadway, quickly sobering as we approached my block. The blue flash from the roof light of a police car guided us to where it was parked in my driveway. No lights were lit in the downstairs apartment, but the windows in my apartment upstairs glowed like a lighthouse.
