Page 39 of Broken Bayou
I need to be careful here. Like when I had patients, getting information is a dance. Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow. Ermine might need me to lead. “I remember the Aunts never wanted me to go to their house. And I remember their father. He always scared me.”
“Their father? Oh no, he wasn’t the problem. That poor man did the best he could.”
The men at the other end of the counter have moved on to fishing stories. Ermine glances at them. Taps her hand on the side of her leg. Now, I follow. I don’t say a word.
Ermine studies her fingernails for a second, then sits back down on the stool next to mine. Here we go.
“It’s the mother who’s the problem,” she whispers.
“How so?”
Ermine says, “You’ll want to steer clear of Liv Arceneaux. Not that you’ll have a hard time doing that. She’s a recluse.” She looks to the ceiling. “Praise Jesus.”
“What do you know about her?”
“The rumors around her and that poor darlin’ Eddie are tragic. Some say he was born the way he is, and others aren’t so kind. Say Liv Arceneaux fed him all sorts of things like arsenic and rat poison, trying tocurehim when he was a baby. Made him worse.”
“Oh my God.”
“I know. Who knows? She could’ve done that with Doyle too.”
Nausea builds in my stomach at the thought of a mother doing that to her child. It’s sickening. I hope Ermine is wrong.
“What about Travis’s other brothers?” I ask.
“Now, that’s quite a crew. Let’s see. The oldest, I think his name is Thomas, lives in Houston. Divorced and in and out of rehabs. James the Jaybird, as they call him ’cause he got drunk and ran into a Piggly Wiggly naked as the day he was born, is incarcerated up in Monroe. Drugs. Hunter moved down to Houma, and last I heard, he was working on a rig out in the Gulf of Mexico. And poor Boone found himself on the wrong end of a shotgun when his girlfriend’s husband came home. Tragic.” I don’t miss the glint in Ermine’s eye. We’ve stumbled onto a topic she likes. “Then there was that sweet angel baby, Emily.” Ermine shakes her head. “That family is cursed. Seven boys and one girl. And a mama I wouldn’t trust to watch my cats.”
Emily. If I remember right, she’d been a couple of years younger than me but looked closer to Mabry’s age.
“What happened to her?” I say. “Travis told me she passed away.”
“She was a sick little thing. Frail. Travis and Doyle were always the ones looking after her, getting her medicines, getting her groceries, but she was on a bad path too. Even Travis couldn’t protect her. Ran away one night.” She sighs. “Doyle found her. In the woods behind their house. Unconscious. Never woke up. After that, Eddie quit talking altogether.”
I cover my heart with my hand, close my eyes. I had no idea how bad Travis’s story was. But how would I? I left that summer and never looked back. I exhale as I look into Ermine’s sad eyes. “Did they ever find out what happened to her?”
“Autopsy was inconclusive. I remember rumors, though, after.” She takes a paper napkin and wipes away a coffee stain on the counter. Then looks back to me. “I’m telling you, whatever Liv Arceneaux was doing out there wasn’t right. Who knows what really happened.”
“Oh, Ermine.” A lump lodges in my throat.
Ermine folds the paper napkin into a tiny square. She’s upset. I need to wrap this up. “Ermine, thank you for telling me. It’s absolutely tragic, but it does help me to understand some things.” And of all the things Ermine just said, one phrase stands out: Doyle found her. Doyle, who was waiting for me at Shadow Bluff yesterday with a knife in his hand. I shudder.
“You know,” Ermine says. “Travis moved back home a while back to try to keep the peace over there, but that didn’t last. Too big of a job, even for a police officer. I think he still feels guilty about that. That he couldn’t fix it.”
A sharp pang ricochets in my chest. “I understand.”
Ermine’s sweet smile threatens to undo me.
“I know you do.” She pats my hand.
“Holy shit!” The man named Dixon yells, and Ermine and I both jump.
“What in the world?” Ermine says, glaring at him.
His mouth falls open as he points to the television behind the counter. “They found another one.”
The cook hits the volume on the television, and we all turn to watch. A familiar face fills the small screen.
Rita Meade stands on the levee in her yellow blouse, her shiny red smile beaming. “What started as a simple missing person story has escalated into something unfathomable for this small town. Locals here are in shock. So far, the West Feliciana Parish Sheriff’s Office says four barrels have been recovered from Broken Bayou. The first one, over fifteen years ago in 2002. The last one, just this morning by volunteer divers. According to my source, this barrel contained human remains as well. Three of the four victims have been identified.” Three pictures fill the television screen. One is an older woman, one a teenager, and one in her thirties. Rita continues, “Suzy Weatherton of Houston, reported missing in January 2002 after a trip to a St. Charles casino. Destiny Smith of Birmingham, Alabama, a fifteen-year-old runaway last seen in the New Orleans area the summer of 2015. And Teri Thompson of Biloxi, reported missing after a girls’ trip to Jazz Fest in 2006. And there is some speculation the remains of the last victim have already been identified, although details on that cannot be confirmed.” Rita squares her shoulders and stares down the camera lens. “Divers are back in the bayou this morning as this small Louisiana town holds its breath and waits.”
