Mirrored
by Frederick J. Arceneaux
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 Frederick J. Arceneaux
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
Mirrored
Copyright © 2011 Frederick J. Arceneaux
ISBN 978-1-936852-88-8
Cover Art Designed by Elaina Lee
Edited by Niko Silvester
To all the members of Romance Writers of America chapters, Heart of Dixie and Southern Magic. They have been by my side for almost 4 years teaching me and encouraging me in my pursuit of publication. This is especially due to the advice of author Peggy Webb.
Chapter One
October 1997, Birmingham Alabama
While the events of that day were far from ordinary for the fourteen-year-old girl tied to her bed, for Father Victolini they were all in a day's work. His calm, however, did little to ease the mind of the girl's mother. Although only thirty-nine, lines of weariness and distress etched Cynthia Albright's cheeks, and she grasped the priest's arm in a gesture both pleading and full of fear.
"Father Victolini, do something." His hand covered hers, white against the austere blackness of his sleeve, as it clutched him, and he squeezed gently in a gesture of reassurance. "Cynthia, I promise I won't give up until Christine is freed. But I caution you, cases such as your daughter's often take days to resolve." He looked over at her husband. "Robert, take your boys downstairs, and don't let them back up tonight!"
The older boy, seventeen-year-old Bobby, protested as he pulled his arm free from his father's restraining hand. "No! She's my sister, and I can't leave her, not while she's like this."
Father Victolini caught Bobby's eye, his look stern yet compassionate as he spoke to him. "Tonight will be too dangerous for you and your family. Take your brother, Steve, and stay downstairs. No matter what you hear, do not come up here! Do you understand me?" Bobby knew by Father Victolini's tone that he had no choice but to obey. Stubborn reluctance etched on his face, he led his brother down to the sitting room, followed by their father, and the three of them sat without looking at one another. Robert quietly instructed them to take out their rosaries.
As the sound of their strong voices lifted in prayer, the hallway lights outside Christine's bedroom suddenly went out, leaving Cynthia and Father Victolini temporarily blinded by the unexpected darkness. From inside Christine's room, an unnaturally deep, coarse, guttural male voice said: "Come in Priest. I have been waiting for you."
Cynthia looked at the priest, tried to say something to him, but the shock of that unearthly voice stunned her senses and prevented her from getting a sound out of her throat.
Father Victolini sighed and let his eyes adjust to the darkness as he slowly entered the room.
Once inside, he heard the bedroom door slam shut behind him and whirled around to grab the door handle, turning it as he attempted to open the door. It jiggled but remained, to all intents and purposes, firmly locked.
"Father, open this door! Why did you shut and lock it?" Cynthia's frantic voice rose in evident fear, then she called out to her husband. "Bob, get up here. Father Victolini has locked himself inside Christine's room."
Bob Junior and Steve bolted past their father, headed for the stairs, but their father's stern command stopped them in their tracks. "Hold it, boys. Stay down here, and keep praying. I'll take care of this." Robert ran up the stairs to his wife's side and attempted to open the door. "Father, unlock this door now!"
"I didn't lock the door. Get the key, and try to open it."
Bob rushed to the end of the hall and into the master bedroom. A moment later, he came back with the key and inserted it into the lock. The key turned easily but the tumblers did not, and he scowled his bewilderment and rattled the handle in frustration. "Father, the door is unlocked."
"Be patient, Bob. The door will open soon."
Father Victolini turned to the figure lying in bed. He knew it was Christine, but it did not look like her. Staring up at him was a voluptuous blonde in a nightgown with her hands and feet tied to the bedposts. The figure spoke with a soft and seductive tone.
"Father, come closer. You like what you see; you used to. Come closer and untie me so I can give you what you've not had in years. You loved it and took it as often as you could. Don't you still miss it? You can have it again."
Father reached for the crucifix hanging from a cord around his neck. "May God rebuke you for tempting me and possessing this innocent girl."
The thing that controlled Christine's body ignored Father Victolini's commands. "Innocent? Who is innocent? Look at me, priest. This is what you crave. You couldn't get enough when you didn't have that collar around your throat."
The thing had the appearance of sensual lust and Father Victolini struggled within himself to resist its temptations. "In the name of Jesus Christ, I command that you depart from her now!"
At these words, the figure in bed changed back to Christine and called out to her mother. "Mommy, come here and help me. It's gone, and I'm okay now."
The bedroom door instantly opened, and Cynthia saw her little girl. She looked tired but appeared normal. Cynthia rushed past Father Victolini to her daughter's bedside.
"Mommy, untie me, and let me hug you."
Cynthia began loosening Christine's right wrist.
"No, don't; get away from her!" Father Victolini shouted a warning, but too late. Her right wrist freed, the figure in bed struck Cynthia across her face and blood welled from a long scratch to run down Cynthia's left cheek. She looked bewildered, and small wonder. Her daughter would have never done such a thing. Repulsed, she jumped away with her gaze fixed upon Christine's face, which was suddenly dry and covered with fine scales, having a serpent's open mouth with fangs ready to strike.
****
August 2011
The late-model silver Audi sedan barreled south on Interstate 59 at the seventy-miles-per-hour speed limit, and it was minutes from crossing the Mississippi state line into Louisiana. Behind the wheel sat Christine Albright, a self-employed international home furnishings buyer. Her clients were strictly the wealthy. Speaking five languages fluently kept her in demand, traveling the world to find just the right furnishings for the homes and businesses of her international clientele. From her office in Birmingham, Alabama, she had easy access along Interstates 20 and 59 to Atlanta and New Orleans for domestic and international flights. A real advantage of having headquarters in the heart of Dixie was the access to great food and shopping centers. The locals were friendly and helpful, for the most part anyway.
I'm running late; I should have left earlier. Still irritated at her late departure, Christine checked the rearview mirror. As always, her ash-blonde, shoulder-length hair stayed perfectly styled, and the satisfaction brought a quick smile.
Perfectionist. Her contemporaries called her that, but she had always thought otherwise. As successful as she was, she could only be on top if she kept striving to make her clients happy. She worked in a man's world, and she had to work hard to show what a young, intelligent woman could do.
I didn't realize the trip would take this long. She checked the mirror again, this time to check her makeup, enjoying the eye shadow she'd recently bought at the Summit in Birmingham. It brought out the beauty of her pure, sapphire eyes.
As she crossed the Louisiana state line, a sign greeted her:
Welcome to Louisiana—Bienvenue en Louisiane
The addition of French on the road sign brought a thrill of pleasure. Being the second language she had mastered, it was by far her favorite.
Christine stood five feet seven inches tall in her stockinged feet, weighing one hundred twenty-seven pounds. People always saw her wearing professional but stylish business clothes, usually one size too large. Today's white blouse, and a short, light blue tie, with matching blue jacket and skirt two inches below her knees, was no exception. As always, she carried a matching purse with the strap carefully shortened so her purse hung at waist length. Well endowed with her fair share of feminine charms, Christine chose, instead of flaunting them, to hide them so as to appear more businesslike.
Being the Wednesday of the first week in August, the afternoon heat was building as Christine drove on, deep in thought about her current client. Jonathan Thibodaux. He hailed from the town of the same name in Lafourche Parish, Louisiana, southwest of New Orleans along the banks of Bayou Lafourche. He was renovating the old abandoned Tradeau Plantation, built before the Civil War, which stood about a quarter mile north of town, set back off Highway twenty. Jonathan, a descendant of town founder Henry Schuyler Thibodaux, had been referred by one of her Baton Rouge clients. Experience had taught her to work by referral only.
In his phone conversation the previous week, Mr. Thibodaux asked her to take him on as a client because the construction renovations to the pre-Civil War plantation house kept him on-site at all times. He needed her to travel to New Orleans and Baton Rouge to find period furnishings, for the plantation house had been severely vandalized and all its contents either stolen or destroyed, and the few remaining were beyond repair.
She groaned when her GPS's annoying female voice directed her to turn and wished, for not the first time, she'd changed the settings. It directed her to turn left off Interstate 59 and onto Interstate 10 west, taking her through New Orleans. Christine let her mind drift to their last conversation. Over the phone, Mr. Thibodaux's voice had suggested he might be in his thirties. He had been professional and to the point with her over the phone about why he required her services.
"Miss Albright, your name came to me from Peter Clairbeaux. He told me you furnished his property in Mobile, Alabama. Peter said you know your southern plantation history, so I'd like you to furnish an old plantation house I'm renovating." Underneath his mild Cajun accent, she couldn't help but notice an odd sadness lingering in its tone.
****
Christine made two more GPS-instructed turns and now headed north on Parish Road 20, passing through the town of Thibodaux. She noticed the delicate balance between the old historic buildings of the town, some with historic markers, and the modern structures alongside. She resisted the urge to study them in detail, afraid to miss the plantation house.
Then, suddenly, there on the right she could see it. Straight ahead, an avenue of centuries-old oak trees, ten each side of the alley, led her back in time. The beautiful trees kept drawing her back from the road, two hundred feet, to a grand sight. A white two-storey, sun-bleached, Greek Revival plantation house perched eight feet off the ground, supported on forty cypress pillars. A curved, white, double staircase with three-foot-high railings formed an arch leading from the ground to the first floor, inviting her inside. The first and second floors contained an open full breezeway, with railings that matched the front staircase, surrounding the house. What impressed her the most was that there were no windows. In their place were sun-bleached green French doors. She counted seven facing the front on both floors. The roof was made of sandy brown cypress shingles, and it seemed the entire house, from its foundation pillars to its roof, had been made entirely from locally cut cypress.
Christine drove slowly up to the house on the gravel road leading from Parish Road 20. She felt as if she just had driven back in time to a quieter, more aristocratic, era. She could see several larger oaks, centuries old, scattered around the grounds of the house with curtains of Spanish moss hanging from their branches. The house stood alone, out in the middle of acres of fields spotted with a few trees and shrubs. Christine wondered absently, her attention still wrapped in the stunning scene, why she didn't see a family burial plot anywhere.
Just as she turned off her car engine and opened the car door, Christine heard the familiar phone voice of Jonathan Thibodaux. Looking up, she saw him walking towards her car, his steps measured by the sound of leaves crushing beneath his feet. He stood an impressive six feet, two inches tall with a solid build, wide shoulders, and narrow hips. His hair was dark brown, neatly trimmed, and parted on the left. He wore a blue plaid cotton work shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and faded blue jeans. His shoes were rusty brown, and well worn. Christine stood next to her car staring at him. He looks more handsome than I imagined. She became aware that she was staring at him and quickly diverted her eyes to the house to hide her embarrassment.
"Welcome to the Tradeau Plantation. You must be Miss Albright." His voice was commanding, yet gentle, as he reached out his hand in friendship. She responded instinctively and, as his warm grasp met hers, she felt strangely small beside him. Now she could see his eyes…light brown, but with a sense of sadness.
It took her a moment to come back to herself, back to the twenty-first century. "Yes, Mr. Thibodaux, I'm Christine Albright. I'd like to get started, as it's very late and I haven't gotten a room for the night." They began walking to the house as they talked.
Jonathan looked closely at Christine, surprised but pleased. "I like a woman who doesn't waste time. I'll give you the quick tour, and I know a good motel in town with a café. It's only a five-minute drive from here. In the morning, I'll tell you what furnishings I want you to buy. Please call me Jonathan, everyone does." He looked down at her with a grin that teased a warm smile in response.
"Does everyone around here act so casual?"
"They do; it's natural for us. We all know each other, as did our families before us for the past nine generations. Most have lived within twenty miles of here their whole lives."
"In that case, I won't break with tradition. Call me Christine." She gave a slight smile, feeling more at ease.
As they approached the house Christine fell behind, unable to keep pace with his long, purposeful strides. He stopped and turned around, and noticed that Christine had increased her pace to catch up with him. "I'm sorry, Christine; my manners are atrocious. Dealing with sub-contractors all day, I rush from place to place, and I've developed an unhealthily fast pace."
Oh my. Not only is he handsome, he's courteous and concerned for me.
"Jonathan, I grew up with two brothers, sandwiched between them with one older and one younger than me. I know I don't look it, but I was a tomboy growing up." The experience taught her to be comfortable with being feminine, yet also made her capable of handling herself.
"Christine, you're full of surprises. I'd never have guessed" His smile made it a compliment. "Shall we go up to the first floor? I want to show you the four rooms up there."
She paused at the foot of the staircase, looking up, and noticed how large the house appeared, and how distinctive and imposing it seemed atop the large cypress pillars. Christine took hold of Jonathan's muscular left arm as he escorted her up the left staircase. It seemed a natural thing to do, a fitting gesture in the timeless elegance that infused the house.
As they reached the top of the stairs, Christine felt a loose floorboard shift under her foot. She slipped and lost her balance, but Jonathan spun around and grasped her around the waist to prevent her falling down the stairs. She reached instinctively and held him onto him for support.
He's so solid, hardly an ounce of fat. It seemed a crazy thought, but a good one.
Jonathan looked into Christine's eyes and their beauty reminded him of the warm blue ocean. The thought startled him. He hadn't felt the emotion in several years, the feeling a teenage boy has when he sees a girl for the first time and realizes she's more than just another girl. The sure certainty settled around him. This girl was someone he must find the time for. In the same moment, he realized this shouldn't be happening, that he had to keep their relationship on a business-only level. An odd silence reigned.
Jonathan spoke first "Please excuse me, Christine. I don't always act so forward. Are you okay?"
"Yes, Jonathan. You can let go of me now." Her words said one thing. Her heart shouted the opposite. No, don't let go.
Jonathan, somewhat embarrassed, released his hold on her.
They moved from the top of the stairs and stopped on the first-floor porch, directly in front of the main doors to the house. Feeling a need to distract them both, Christine said, "This is unusual, yet beautiful. I have never seen a breezeway completely surrounding a house."
Jonathan's pride at his knowledge of the house surfaced, and he once again took hold of Christine's right arm to walk her around. "We call it a porch, and it's designed to draw the cool breezes around the house and into the rooms. The summers are very hot and sticky here."
Christine, not objecting to his taking her arm, looked at the house in puzzlement. "There are no windows in this house, only these French doors."
He gestured to the north end of the house as he explained. "The doors are to allow access to the porch from every room."
Jonathan then led her back to the main doors and opened them, showing her the first of the four rooms that made up the first floor. "This floor contains a living room, dining room, parlor, and office. We're standing in the living room."
Christine stood in awe as she took in the historical atmosphere. She looked up, then pointed with her right hand. "What's that on the ceiling?" She seemed to be gazing at clouds against a blue sky, with a beautiful gold twelve-candle chandelier coming down out of the clouds.
"Yes, you're right about the ceiling." As he spoke in his captivating Cajun accent, she felt as if she stood in the middle of the nineteenth-century, surrounded by its Southern charm. "Are you all right Christine?"
She said nothing, just nodded, and he continued, "Pierre Armatage Tradeau, the man who built this house in eighteen fifty-four, originally was a sea captain. It's rumored that he would often go out on the deck in the cool of the late afternoon breezes, lie on his back, and look up at the brilliant blue sky for over an hour at a time while at sea. When he built this house, he wanted everyone to share the same calming effect he had experienced looking at the clouds when out at sea."
Christine twirled around, taking in the entire room. "Oh, I love the French cherrywood molding around the ceiling. I have some ideas for furnishing this room, but I'll wait until tomorrow to tell you. Once I've seen the other rooms, I'll get the full picture."
Jonathan smiled, pleased at her enthusiasm about this project. "Of course. I hired you because of your reputation for knowing just what to buy for each project. I heard from Peter that you've an instinct for this." He moved to open a double set of French doors. "Please step this way, and I'll show you the dining room."
She allowed him to escort her into the next room, noticing that he had been scraping and sanding the doors when she arrived. The dining room was the same size as the other room, but she could see faded outlines along the walls, despite the peeling paint, where furniture had once stood. He pointed to the darker patch on the floor where the dining table once claimed the center of the room. The shadow seemed at least twelve feet by five feet, but considering the overall size of the room, the table size seemed entirely ordinary.
She realized in that moment just how large the house really was. "Jonathan, this house is huge. It looks to be about forty-four feet by twenty-eight feet."
"Yes, that's right. Not large by today's standards, but extremely impressive in 1854, because plantation owners held their power by showing off their wealth. It was all about show. A man could have had great losses but, as long as he found a way to stay out of debt and feed his servants, not a single soul would know it if he put up an impressive front. After the Civil War, many plantation owners lost their plantations and became destitute, driving them to suicide. That humiliation became their final loss, from which many never recovered. The Tradeau plantation managed to survive until two generations ago. It fell to the parish tax collector because they had no more heirs to maintain it. I arranged to pay the back taxes, and they gave me the deed."
His quiet words impressed her, and Christine gave him a slight nod of approval.
Jonathan showed Christine the other rooms and, finally, the plantation office from where Pierre Tradeau had managed the finances and activities of the plantation. Now the room stood completely empty. Christine used her imagination, trying to determine how Pierre Armatage Tradeau would have furnished it. She still wrestled with the possibilities as they passed into the living room where they had started.
She then noticed, at the far end of the living room, a large staircase leading up to the second floor. It matched the staircase outside in the front of the house. "Jonathan, does this lead to the bedrooms?" She began to climb the stairs.
He dashed up the stairs, and grabbed Christine's left arm, stopping her midway. "Hold on a minute. I'm not that kind of guy. We just met, and I'm not comfortable showing you my bedrooms just yet." He faced Christine with a broad smile on his face but inside was sheer turmoil. I'm breaking my own rules. I just met her and I can't get her out of my mind.
"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." She searched for the right words. "I just wanted to see the rest of the house before dark." Her voice sounded low and nervous, even to her own ears, and she felt her face begin to glow red with a blush. Jonathan burst out laughing. His laugh rang so loud and deep it echoed throughout the empty house, amplifying his amusement at her expense.
Christine could see the game he was playing and decided to match him. "Sir, unhand me. I'm a lady, and you, sir, are acting the brute. Take me at once to my carriage. I must be back in town before curfew." Faking anger, she turned to go.
"Yes, my lady. It's entirely my fault. I'm not accustomed to ladies of such refinement. Here, let me accompany you to your carriage." They left the house and approached Christine's car. Jonathan continued with his explanation, all laughter and mockery gone. "I didn't want you to see the upstairs today. I live on my properties as I'm working on them. Some time ago, I made the mistake of leaving one unattended, and vandals cost me a small fortune. Currently I live in the master bedroom. It's the one on the far right." Jonathan raised his right arm and pointed to the second floor at the far southwest end of the house. An oak tree stood at that corner and one of its branches stretched out over the second floor porch. A hank of Spanish moss blew in the wind, flapping against the room's door as if pointing in agreement with Jonathan. "As a bachelor, I'm not tidy, and I wanted to spare you the embarrassment of seeing my mess. I'll have everything in order tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock isn't too early for you, is it?"
"No, that will be fine." She wondered if he'd tried to change the subject and chose not to let him off the hook that easily. "I'm surprised that you would be embarrassed. I spent years cleaning up my brothers' messes, and they never showed any embarrassment." Seeing that he looked a little uncomfortable, she relented. "You mentioned earlier that you know a good motel?"
"The Days Inn is on Route 20, also called Canal Boulevard. You passed it on the way here. Just turn left at the end of the property and onto Route 20, headed for town. I hear they have a good breakfast, too. I'd join you, but I don't want to leave the house unattended. I'm fortunate to have someone willing to bring me my meals. Good night, Christine. I'll see you in the morning."
"Well, until tomorrow, then. Good night." Christine entered her car and drove off down the alley of oaks.
Jonathan just stood there watching and listening to the crunch of her tires on the gravel. He kept staring until she vanished out of sight, accepting the certainty that this woman was utterly unlike the locals he knew.
Chapter Two
Christine could see that Jonathan's directions were correct as she turned off Route 20 and onto the side road, from which she could see the Days Inn. He was right about her having passed it. She recalled the bright sign from the drive earlier in the afternoon as she had gone north out of town on her way to the plantation house, but she'd paid it little attention at the time. The building looked brand new, all clean and neat. Christine pulled under the overhang outside the front lobby.
I'm going to have a good night's sleep tonight. Once I check in and put my bags in my room, I'll find a place for dinner and head off to bed. I wonder how the gumbo tastes here.
She climbed out of her car as the lobby door swung open and a teenage girl darted out, almost knocking her down. The sultry air, which stuck Christine's clothes to her body, dissipated momentarily as the girl seemed to bring the air conditioning with her. Before the door slammed closed once again, a blast of cold, refreshing air struck Christine's face. She turned to look at the youth, who appeared to be in her mid-teens with waist-long red hair, and who wore blue jeans and a pink paisley blouse. Christine drew a breath to call out to her, but the girl had already crossed the motel parking lot, headed for the main road, running at the speed of a professional track athlete. She had something clutched in her right hand.
Before Christine could step through the door into the lobby, a businessman in a light gray suit blocked the entrance. "Stop her! She stole my cell phone!" He stopped yelling as the girl vanished, then addressed Christine belligerently, "Did you see her? Why didn't you stop her?"
Christine carefully kept her tone calm and authoritative. "Sir, I have a good description of the girl, and I'm calling the police. Just let me get my cell phone out." They stepped into the lobby as she pulled out her phone.
"No need to call. I've got everything under control." A man spoke from behind the front desk, though she couldn't see him. Just as the two approached, the desk clerk stepped out from behind a large information sign. He looked older than Christine expected from the sound of his voice, appearing to be in his fifties with graying hair, and he was close to six feet tall.
The businessman turned to the desk clerk. "Did you call the police?"
"Yes, Mr. Dressel, and you'll have your cell phone back any minute now." The desk clerk sounded confident.
"How can you be so sure? She was running at lightning speed." Mr. Dressel had so worked himself up the veins at his temples were throbbing.
"We know the girl, and she will hand you back your cell phone and apologize. Look over there." The desk clerk calmly pointed to the door. As Dressel and Christine turned to look in that direction, a police officer in his early forties came in with the girl, who still held the cell phone.
With the teenager in tow, the officer walked up to Mr. Dressel and spoke to his companion. "Cell, please give this man back his property and apologize." He appeared to be about six-feet tall but not imposing, even in his official uniform, but she obeyed immediately and with contrition.
Cell lowered her head and spoke in a soft voice, just above a whisper, as she handed Mr. Dressel his cell phone. "I'm sorry, Mister. I won't steal from you again."
Dressel remained indignant. "This little thief shouldn't be loose on the streets."
"Mr. Dressel, your property has been returned, and I assure you, she will be locked up tonight. We take care of our problems." The officer remained calm even though Dressel was obviously livid.
"Good! That's what you're hired to do." With that statement he turned away and began walking out the lobby door.
Christine, upset at the officer's actions and feeling the heat of fury in her cheeks, walked up to him and got in his face. Although he was barely taller than she, they stood practically nose-to-nose since she wore heels. "Officer, why are you going to lock her up? She should be turned over to her parents." She allowed her anger to show.
"Miss, if you'll sit down with us just over here, I'll explain." The officer led Cell over to a set of leather chairs surrounding a glass coffee table. Christine followed them over, wondering what the officer could reveal that would adequately explain things.
"I'm Officer Paul Andre, and this is Cell Badeau. What's your name, Miss?" He confidently smoothed his black hair, and she noticed that it was graying at the temples.
"My name is Christine Albright." Still upset with the officer, she looked at Cell, trying to size her up.
Officer Andre caught Tim's eye. "Tim, thank you for your cooperation as usual. Call me again if you need me." Tim just nodded approval and went back to work at the desk. "Miss Albright, Cell is an unusual girl."
Christine found herself suddenly curious about the girl's name, "Cell? What kind of a name is that?"
"It's short for Celestine, and for another reason. Cell was orphaned at age eight. We found her wandering the streets a month after her parents' premature deaths. We thought Cell had died with her parents, although we couldn't find any bodies. One night, about a month later, Officer Shantz found a young girl stealing from the kitchen of a restaurant in town. We didn't recognize her at first. She was so skinny, and her pajamas were torn and barely above being rags. My wife, Linda, came over, and we took her home, cleaned her up, and gave her some of our daughter's clothes. That is when Linda realized she was Celestine."
"Oh, how horrible!" Christine felt ill with shock and pity for the girl.
Officer Andre continued his explanation. "Cell's parents were good, hardworking individuals. On a particularly cold December night eight years ago, the town awoke with the sound of a huge explosion. It seemed the whole town ran out to see what had happened. To everyone's disbelief, the explosion destroyed the Badeau house. We all believed James, Emily, and Celestine Badeau died in that explosion.
"We had to assume that, as our forensics department couldn't find any bodies. After testing some samples, they were determined to be the ashes of human remains, and so we believed the whole family had died together. Those ashes are in an urn with a marker in St. Joseph Cemetery. We still don't know how Cell managed to escape the explosion or how she survived on the streets for a month. Those thirty days changed Cell's life forever. She steals out of some disordered compulsion and not out of necessity. When we questioned her about what happened, all she would say was that something was in the house."
His choice of words puzzled her. "Don't you mean someone?"
"That's what we thought. She kept insisting that something was in the house."
Tim Alston, the senior desk clerk, came over with two cups of piping hot coffee and a cup of hot chocolate, interrupting their conversation for a moment. "I thought you could use this about now. I don't know how you like your coffee, Miss Albright, so I left some cream and sugar on the tray."
"Thanks, Tim. You know just what your guests need and when they need it!" The officer looked up and smiled at Tim.
Christine glanced at Tim to say thanks, but he just moved his finger over his lips, smiled, and then turned back to his duties. Cell sat and fidgeted in her chair, sipping her chocolate, not saying a word.
Officer Andre continued his story. "We don't have the heart to put Cell in the state's child welfare system. She would only run away every time. The entire town looks after her when she needs something. At night, I put her in one of our cells with the door unlocked. She feels safe there in our police station. I gave her a cell of her own, and that is why we call her Cell. My wife has become a surrogate mother to her. Besides, I want her close by. I have a double homicide to solve, and it's eight years old already." Christine could sense his frustration.
He stood up and approached Cell, gently taking her right arm. "Come along, Cell, it's time to go back to the station house for the night. Miss Albright, I wish you a pleasant stay here in Thibodaux."
As he and Cell turned to go, Cell put down her chocolate on the coffee table and looked over at Christine. Her eyes seemed to be expressing…expectation? Christine caught her breath, trying to understand, but they left without Cell revealing anything more.
****
Christine stood and went over to the front desk. I haven't checked in and registered. I'm getting tired. It's been hours now since I left Birmingham and drove here to meet Jonathan, and now this terrible thing with poor Celestine. All I want is to have a hot dinner and sleep.
"Miss Albright, here is your key. You're in room one-twelve, just past the breezeway and three rooms down on the left."
"But I haven't checked in or paid for my room."
Tim smiled at her puzzled look. "Don't worry, Miss Albright. Jonathan called ahead for you so I could prepare your room. You certainly have a good recommendation, coming from him. I took down your license plate number, and I know your name. You can fill out your registration card and use your credit card to pay us over breakfast in the morning."
"Thank you, Tim. You're very kind. Do you know a good place for dinner?"
"I recommend Demitasse Coffee and Tea House at this hour. They have the best gumbo in town."
Gumbo, how could Tim know that I have a taste for gumbo?
"It's on Route 1, also called St. Mary Street. Just turn left on Route 20 toward town, then right onto St. Mary Street. It's just a few blocks further on the left."
"Thank you, Tim. And, since I'm feeling like a member of the community, please call me Christine."
He smiled his agreement, then watched her go out to her car and drive away. He wondered what this new visitor would bring to Thibodaux.
Chapter Three
In the morning, Christine picked up a registration card from Tim, then sat in the motel breakfast room enjoying her coffee and scrambled eggs with bacon and toast. She picked up her butter knife and lightly spread orange marmalade on a slice of dry toast, then reached for the registration card and dug in her purse for her pen.
A server wearing a stained yellow apron came over with a fresh pot of steaming coffee. "May I warm up your coffee?"
Her pen picked that moment to be difficult, so Christine shook it, hoping to draw down some ink and smiled at the woman. "Yes I'd like a warm-up please. And do you have a pen I could borrow? This one is running out of ink."
"Have mine, Miss Albright. We have plenty." The server handed Christine her pen and poured a fresh, steaming cup. They exchanged smiles, and the woman left just as Tim entered the breakfast room. The two stopped and shared a quiet conversation. Christine could overhear a few words here and there, which puzzled her: Cell…would she…it might help. Christine shook her head, wondering a little but not making much sense of it.
Tim came over to her table and handed her credit card back to her. "Everything is all set, Miss Albright. Can I get you anything else?"
She reached up and took her credit card. "Yes, Tim, do you've the time? My watch seems to have stopped working."
"About ten to nine, Miss Albright." Christine jumped to her feet and handed Tim her registration card.
"I'm going to be late for my appointment with Jonathan…I mean, Mr. Thibodaux."
Tim watched as Christine darted for the front door and out to her parked car. He noticed that she wore the same type of clothes as she had yesterday, only these were light brown.
****
I'm glad Jonathan recommended that motel. It's very close, and I'll just make it on time.
She drove up to the plantation house as her car's clock read eight-fifty-nine. She could hear the distinctive crunch of her tires on the gravel, the sound a familiar melody of welcome. She parked adroitly, turned off the engine, then reached into the back seat and grabbed a small letter-size carrying case made of fine black leather with her name engraved on it.
Christine slammed the door behind her and rushed to the stairs of the house, nearly tripping on a root of one of the oak trees. HHer eyes found the lower steps, just as Jonathan's unmistakable voice spoke her name. "Christine, right on time. I have the upstairs ready for your tour now."
"That's wonderful. I can't wait to see it." She climbed the beautiful curved staircase as he walked down and met her halfway. He wore similar clothes to what he'd worn the day before, prompting her to tease a little. "Jonathan, I think we have something in common."
"What would that be?" He gave her a questioning look.
"You're wearing a different set of clothes, yet similar to yesterday." She reached out to touch his shirt.
The lighthearted statement seemed to touch an unexpected chord, and they stared at one another, momentarily confused. Then, as if prompted by some hidden cue, they continued into the house.
"How was your room?" Jonathan cleared his throat.
"Just what I needed after the long drive here yesterday. I had the best sleep in weeks. Thanks for calling ahead and speaking to Tim for me."
"It's the least I could do for my new furnishings buyer. By the way, you do look refreshed." He smiled at her, and she gave a low laugh, falling in with his cheerful mood.
They entered the living room and stopped just in front of the staircase leading to the second floor. Christine turned to Jonathan. "Do you know anything about a girl named Cell? I had an encounter with her at the motel."
Jonathan's smile was kind. "Cell is one of the town's mysteries. She knows something about the night her parents were killed, but either she won't say anything or she can't. I was out of town on business when it happened. When I got back to Thibodaux weeks later, everyone was still talking about it. A week later, they found her. My Aunt Mary looked after her. Occasionally she still does."
Christine reached out and took Jonathan's left arm. "What a terrible thing to happen to such an innocent girl."
"I couldn't agree with you more. If you knew Cell at age eight, as we all did, you would know just how traumatized she is. She was a typical girl—loving, playful, and full of joy. Now she acts like an eight year old, then at times she appears to behave as a sixteen year old." Christine nodded her agreement.
Wanting to get started with their business, Christine started up the stairs to the second floor, running her hand along the banister. "Ouch. A splinter."
Instinctively, Jonathan moved behind her and apologized. "Christine, I'm sorry. I haven't finished the stairs, and I'll get to it this afternoon. Are you all right?" He reached into his right jean pocket, took out a pocketknife, and deftly released a pair of tweezers tucked into its side. The splinter jutted out of the underside of the tip of her index finger, and he paused for a moment, feeling her soft, warm, delicate hand. He had not held such lovely hands in years.
How long since I held a woman's hand? Too long. And one this lovely…
Forcing himself back to the moment, he carefully grasped and yanked the splinter out of her finger. "Better?"
"Yes, thanks to you." She smiled. "I'd like to see the bedrooms now." He released her, and they stepped onto the bare wooden floor of the wide hallway running the length of the house. There were four bedrooms, all with the familiar French doors on the right side of the hallway and three on the left side. The first one on her left as she came from the stairs was the master bedroom. All of them seemed about eleven by fourteen feet, and the opening for the staircase took up the space equivalent to one room. She immediately noticed that there were no pictures on the walls. "I see I'll need to buy art."
"I know. It's hard not to miss. Come on in here, and I'll show you the master bedroom where I live."
"So you're going to show me how bachelors live in Thibodaux."
They stepped into the room, and she could see that he had a folding cot for a bed. Two old shipping crates made simple night stands with oil lanterns for lamps, the kind one used when camping out. The only other furniture in the room consisted of two metal folding chairs. His clothes were still in a large suitcase at the foot of the cot. "Do you have maid service out here, Jonathan?"
"Christine, I told you I'd have everything straightened up." He seemed somewhat surprised at her comment.
She wandered over to the cot with its perfectly straightened sheets and a pillow and sat down on it. "Oh, it's just that, with two brothers, I know how you boys keep a messy room, and this one looks as clean as having maid service." She was making fun, wondering what his answer would be.
"My aunt came over after you left yesterday and tidied up a bit," he admitted with a bit of embarrassment.
"Tidied up a bit, you say? I should know. After my mother died, I cleaned up for my dad and younger brother. Then when my big brother came home on holidays, I cleaned for three men. I know from experience how messy you are."
He changed the subject to get off the hook. "Isn't it time you saw the rest of the rooms?"
He lead her out into the hall as they continued inspecting the second floor, discussing the furnishings styles that would be appropriate for each room and where she could look for just the right beds, chairs, night stands, and pictures. The way he described the original condition of the house, she felt as if she walked in the past. Her interior decorating skills made it easy for her to visualize the furnishings as if they were already in place.
"Jonathan, Miss Albright. Are you in the house?" Officer Andre's now familiar voice called from outside and interrupted their discussion.
"Yes." Jonathan yelled back. "We're upstairs on the second floor. Is there something wrong, Paul?"
Officer Andre, with Cell in tow, climbed the stairs and met them in the hallway at the far north end. "I have a favor to ask you both, but Miss Albright in particular."
"Me? Officer Andre, what could you want from me?"
Cell stood there nervously, rocking back and forth on her heels, while looking around the grand house in something close to awe.
He explained: "Cell had a disturbed night last night. I was on watch as she slept. At about three, I heard her screaming at the top of her lungs in terror. When I got to her, she lay in a fetal position in the corner of her cell. I came over and asked her what had frightened her, and she scratched my wrist. Once she recognized me, she quieted down and clung to me, shaking nervously. It reminded me of how she acted eight years ago when we found her in that restaurant kitchen. I asked her again what had frightened her. Between sobs she would only say, 'It's coming; it's coming.' I haven't been able to get another word out of her. That is when I had the idea to bring her over here. Miss Christine, I have a feeling you came here not to just furnish this house, but for a greater purpose."
She looked at Officer Paul Andre, letting her eyes speak her inner question. "I don't know what you're talking about. What I do know is that she's frightened about something." Christine went over to Cell, reached out and took her hand. "Come, Celestine, sit down here on the floor with me." When Cell complied, Christine looked up at Jonathan and Paul. "I would like a few minutes alone with her, please."
Jonathan tapped Paul on the shoulder and said. "Let's go downstairs, and you can tell me more about last night." Paul said nothing, just nodded, and the two men went down the stairs.
Christine looked at Cell and reached out again to hold the girl's hands in her own. Cell made no move but held Christine's hands tightly. "Celestine, I have had some bad dreams myself. In fact, at the time, they seemed as real as when I'm awake. But they are just dreams, and dreams can't hurt you."
Cell looked at her with a deadly serious expression. "Oh no, Miss Christine. Dreams can hurt you. The last time I had a dream this bad, my Mommy and Daddy died."
Still wishing to reassure Cell, Christine asked, "What dream did you have, Celestine?"
Cell lowered her voice to just above a whisper. "I can't tell you. You won't believe me."
Christine spoke with confidence. "Nothing surprises me anymore, Celestine. I have seen things that I hope you never see."
Cell motioned for her to come closer and whispered, "Well…all right, I'll tell you. We have to keep quiet. It can hear us. Miss Christine, you and Mr. Jonathan are in danger, just as Mommy and Daddy were. Mr. Jonathan is in more danger. That is what my dream was. I came with Officer Andre to warn you."
Christine wanted to take Cell's mind off whatever it was that made her think she and Jonathan were in danger and wracked her brain for a suitable diversion. "Celestine, I have an idea. How would you like to take a trip to New Orleans with me today and help me shop for Mr. Jonathan?"
That did it. Cell jumped up all excited and said: "Oh, yes, please! I've never been to New Orleans. In fact, I've never been away from Thibodaux."
"Guys, could you please come up here? I have a question to ask you." The men complied and stood in the hallway, their faces a sure indication that they hadn't missed Cell's excitement and wondered what Christine had in mind. "Gentlemen, I would like the honor of escorting Celestine on my shopping trip to New Orleans for Jonathan today. I believe the change of scenery will do her good. Besides, I may have a budding apprentice here."
"Excuse us a minute, I'd like a word with Jonathan." Paul's apprehension showed clearly in his face. Jonathan led him into his room. "How well do you know Christine? Do you think she can handle her? Cell can be full of surprises. Besides, she has never been away from town. No one knows how she will act in a large city."
"Paul, from her references and my personal experiences with Christine, I believe she can handle whatever Cell does. Besides, I think she may be able to get some answers from Cell. This is an opportunity to get some of those questions answered that you've been asking for eight years."
Not having a better idea, Paul shrugged. "All right then, I'm willing to give it a try. The reason I came here today was to ask Miss Albright if she would take Cell shopping, but only here in Thibodaux. I didn't mean for her to leave town."
They went into the hallway, and Paul nodded at the two women. "Christine, Cell, we have agreed that a trip to New Orleans will be both fun and educational. He went over to Cell, looked at her and saw the excitement in her demeanor. "Do you want to go, Cell?"
She jumped up, threw her arms around Officer Andre and let out a squeal of delight. "Yes, yes, yes, I do."
Christine looked over at the three of them with mock severity. "Not wearing that faded old dress, I won't. Officer Andre, take Celestine to Linda or Jonathan's Aunt Mary and put a nice dress on her so she can feel grown up. Meet me back at my motel in, say, an hour. Celestine and I are going to have a girl's day on the town. I promise to teach her something about furniture shopping."
Concern still lingered in Officer Andre's face. "When will you bring Cell back?"
"We should be back shortly after dinner. Tell your wife she won't have to cook for Celestine tonight. We'll have supper in New Orleans, and I'll bring her to the station house."
Jonathan approached her. "Are you sure you want to do this? No one knows how Cell will react to a new environment."
Christine moved in front of Jonathan, a little angry at his lack of confidence in her, and poked him in his muscular chest with her finger. "I know what I'm getting into, Jonathan. This is not the first time I have had to deal with delicate situations. Please don't worry. Celestine will be safe with me!"
Jonathan's response was a broad smile. "If you run into any trouble you have my number. Don't hesitate to call me."
"I won't, but don't expect a call. We'll be back by eight tonight. I'll have coffee with you as soon as Celestine is back with Officer Andre, and I'll tell you all about our day." Still angry with Jonathan she turned away from him and started walking down the stairs, shaking her head, saying: "Oh, men!"
Jonathan walked behind Christine as they went to her car, but she ignored him. A moment later, she drove off to her motel.
Chapter Four
A little later that morning, Officer Andre arrived at Christine's motel room with Cell. He knocked on the door, and she quickly opened it and stepped outside. "Thank you for being so prompt, Officer Andre." Cell whirled around to show off her new dress, waiting for Christine to notice her and say something. "Celestine, you look very pretty. I love your dress."
"Oh yes, thank you, and look at my matching purse. Ms. Linda chose it for me. She even found matching shoes. Are we ready to go now?" Cell fairly bounced on her toes in anticipation. She hadn't owned a purse since the death of her parents.
"We'll leave in a minute, Celestine. First, I have to give Officer Andre my cell phone number. Could you please wait in the car?"
Cell walked over to the car, opened the passenger door, and sat down in the seat to wait. Excited and impatient, she tried to turn on the radio, but the keys weren't in the ignition.
"Christine. May I call you Christine? Jonathan must have told you we're all friends here and informal whenever possible." Paul took the slip of paper she offered him.
"Yes, I'd like that." She smiled.
"Please call me Paul. I only like being addressed as Officer Andre when I'm on official business."
"I'll see what information I can coax out of Celestine today. I'm hoping this change of atmosphere will be just what you've been looking for. If she becomes uneasy in any way, I'll call you and bring her back immediately."
"Good luck." He gave a worried look as he helped her into the car and closed the door. "Have a wonderful day, Cell."
Cell kept waving good-bye as they drove out of the parking lot.
****
They left the familiar sights of Thibodaux behind and Christine said: "Relax and get comfortable, Celestine. We have a long drive. This should be an exciting adventure for you. As I understand, you haven't been far from Thibodaux all your life?"
"Well, almost all my life. Mommy and Daddy said I was born near the river and we moved here when I was two. I don't remember it, though." She looked at Christine with a bit of fear mixed with excitement. "Miss Christine, are we out of Thibodaux? I don't recognize anything out here."
Christine glanced over and gave her a reassuring look. "Yes, we are, and you're in for a wonderful time. Today will be our day, just the two of us having a great time shopping in the historic French Quarter of New Orleans."
"Okay, Miss Christine." Cell lapsed into silence and sat looking out the window at the countryside. Christine knew she had just touched a memory in Cell, a very painful memory. This is a very unusual girl. She goes from excited to sad and quiet in the blink of an eye. I pray I'm doing the right thing.
For over an hour, they traveled in silence. Christine simply waited for Cell to talk first. She remembered a sales class as a senior in college, when her professor told the students that when you close a sale, the first one to speak was the one who lost. If she spoke first, Cell might not open up all day. She had to be patient and wait for her to say something first.
As they crossed the Mississippi River, traveling north on Route 90, Cell suddenly came to life with excitement. "That's the biggest river in the world. Is that the river my Mommy and Daddy said I was born near?"
Christine felt the wonder in Cell's new experience. "You're almost right, that is the Mississippi River, and it's the largest river in the United States. I believe that is the river your parents were referring to."
Once across they turned east onto Interstate 10 going to New Orleans. "Miss Christine, look at those old buildings. We must be in New Orleans."
So my professor was right. I never thought I'd use that technique in a situation like this. "We're in New Orleans. In fact, we're in the oldest section of the city, the French Quarter. It was founded way back in the early seventeen hundreds."
They exited Interstate 10, coming onto St. Philip Street. Once past Louis Armstrong Park on their right, they made another right turn onto Royal Street. "Why do they use horse and buggies? Can't they afford cars?" Cell looked confused.
"Those horses and buggies are just a part of the old charm of this part of the city. It reminds visitors of what life was like a long time ago."
"That man over on the corner is selling those people food out of his cart. Don't people eat in their houses here?"
"Yes, they eat in their houses. That man sells snack food to the tourists who are enjoying their day and too busy looking at all these buildings and people to have the time to sit down and eat."
"I'm not too busy to sit down and eat. Can we find a place to sit and eat, Miss Christine?"
"Yes, I know you must be hungry, I am too. As soon as I find a parking space we'll look for a café and have lunch." A minute later Christine found a parking space, and they got out and began looking for a place to eat.
They found themselves on Pere Antoine Alley. Cell looked all around, awed at the sight of the old buildings, some with ornate ironwork. She stopped and stared at the most impressive building she had ever seen, eyes wide with excitement. "Miss Christine, I've never seen a church that big." She looked up and pointed at the large, imposing structure.
"Yes, it impresses me too. This is the St. Louis Cathedral, and it dates back to the early seventeen hundreds. Would you like to walk around to the other side of the Cathedral? That way you can see the front entrance."
"Yes, I would. Can we eat after I see the front?" They continued their walk along Pete Antoine Alley with the cathedral on their right until they reached the front of St. Louis Cathedral on Chartres Street. The church had three towering spires and the one in the middle looked like it reached into the sky. Cell kept looking up and then to her right, amazed at the magnificent cathedral but also drawn to the end of Pirate Alley.