Page 67 of Broken Bayou
I raise my eyebrows.
She takes a sip from her coffee, sets it down, and continues, “Old Walter has been in and out of jail since he was eighteen. Mostly petty stuff. And even though the police haven’t connected him to all the victims, they have connected him to the actual barrels. They’re his. He claimed they were stolen years ago, but there’s no proof. And Walter’s been caught dumping in the bayou before. Fertilizers and chemicals from his farm. The problem at this point seems to be motive. Some of the remains go back over a decade. Then there’s your mother’s car, which you dumped on the back of Walter Delaroux’s property. And now that missing teacher’s car. I keep getting the feeling your car and that teacher’s car are like bookends. The barrels in between. They must be connected somehow.” Rita sets her coffee on the table. “What I know so far is they’ve only tied Walter Delaroux to one of the victims, the senator’s daughter. He had beef with the senator over some nonsense about regulations on tree farming and had written her all kinds of rambling letters. The evidence is weak at best, but because that victim is high profile, the police moved fast. Whomever you have anidea”—she air quotes—“about might be worth discussing.”
I stay quiet.
Rita threads her long fingers together and rests them on her lap. “Who?”
“Doyle Arceneaux.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is that who you think left the plate?”
“I heard a truck that sounded like his that morning, in the driveway. But I didn’t get a good look. Something about Doyle doesn’t sit well with me.”
She nods. “Interesting family.”
“Do you know about his sister?”
Rita nods again. “Oh, I know about them all. And Emily Arceneaux has a strange story.”
“I’ve heard some of it. Not sure what’s local gossip and what’s the truth, though.”
“Did you know her?”
I shake my head.
Rita opens her phone and scrolls. “Emily Arceneaux. Youngest. Only daughter. Sickly kid. Lots of medical records but mostly just her mother bringing her to doctors, insisting she was ill. The jewel of her mother’s eye.” She looks up from the phone. “But people in this town talked. Turns out there are several complaints on record about the Arceneaux mother, especially in regard to Eddie and her only daughter.”
“Munchausen syndrome by proxy,” I say.
Rita taps the end of her nose with her slender finger. She opens her phone and scrolls again and looks up. “Emily attended school until she was eight or nine. The teachers and even the school principal noted the little girl wasn’t ever sick, but the mother kept insisting the daughter was indeed ill. They said in a statement in her file that Emily was a happy, healthy little girl. For a time. There’s even a complaint from a local doctor about finding no evidence of illness, yet the mother insisted to the point the doctor had to call the police to have her removed from his office. Then her mother pulled her out of school. There’s a note about homeschooling but no proof Liv actually did it. After that, Emily really was sick. There were a sprinkling of doctor visits where it was charted Emily had lost weight and looked malnourished. I even found a child protective services visit to the Arceneaux house about a year after she was pulled from school. A welfare check. Nothing came from it. Everything checked out.”
Everything checked out.I sigh. I’ve heard countless stories over the years about welfare checks to homes where everything checked out, only to hear later of a negligent death in that very home. It happens all too often with a broken system, exhausted state workers, and parents who can lie their way out of trouble. I find it hard to believe that anything in the Arceneaux home would check out, but maybe back then, thehouse wasn’t so chaotic and messy. Maybe back then, Liv had a better poker face.
Rita continues, “Rumor was her mother kept her locked up at home, treating her for illnesses she didn’t have. Some say the woman was overprotective and fearful, some say she was negligent, and others say she was just plain crazy. But whichever one she was, the fact remains, sick or not, that girl died in October of 1999.” Rita pauses. Her eyes lock on mine. “And she was buried on her family’s property.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Yep.”
The cross I’d seen outside the window of Emily’s bedroom. I shiver. “Is that legal?”
“It is. Thing is,” Rita adds with a sly smile, “she may not be buried there anymore.”
I gape at her. “What?” I repeat. It seems to be the only response I can say.
“The neighbors behind their property think Emily was dug up and moved at some point.”
“Why?” I think again of Liv and how she talked like Emily had disappeared. What if she had?
“Who knows? Could be a rumor. Nothing to back this one up but some nosy neighbors.” She crosses her legs and leans in. “I’m still working through it.”
“You’ve thought about Doyle Arceneaux too,” I say.
“I’ve thought about everyone. Unlike the police, I’m exploring every lead.”
She rolls her neck, checks her phone. It’s still recording. “Okay then,” she says, locking her gaze on mine. “Shall we change gears?”
I don’t answer her. My mind is reeling with the information she just shared, as it filters through what I know about that family. I need to talk to Travis sooner rather than later.
