Chapter Five #2
The reporter continues, “They believe Katharine never made it over that bridge and are pleading with local law enforcement to help in their search. So far, they say, the local police have been less than helpful, undoubtedly due to the other major story in this small town.” Grace straightens.
I do as well. “We have new information on the grim story surrounding the barrel, containing human remains, found a few days ago in Broken Bayou.”
“Oh my God.” I hit pause on the screen and look up at Travis. “What the hell?”
He nods. “Yeah, like I said, unbelievable.” He presses play. “Keep watching.”
I struggle to swallow my next sip of coffee.
“Thanks to items found inside that barrel,” the reporter is saying, “the remains were identified as those of Destiny Smith, a fifteen-year-old runaway from Birmingham, Alabama. Her last known location was New Orleans, where she went missing in 2015.” After an appropriate pause, she adds, “Back to you.”
The camera switches back to the studio, with both anchors shaking their heads.
“Tragic,” the man says to his coanchor and to the camera. “We will keep you updated on this story as we receive more information. We’ll be back in just a minute with Grace, live on the bayou.”
I lean back against the booth, speechless.
The poor parents of that fifteen-year-old girl.
Runaways think any place is better than home, and sometimes, that’s true, but an overwhelming percentage find a place that’s much worse.
My heart breaks for that young girl. She needed help, and instead, a monster found her.
I wonder what her story was. Where her issues lived. Was it abuse, addiction, both?
Travis pockets his phone. “That’s the second barrel that’s been found.”
I stop my coffee cup midsip. “What?”
“The first one was actually found over a decade ago. It’s been unsolved forever.
Then some kids stumble upon this latest one.
It’s insane. Chief Wilson called the sheriff.
This shit is way out of our league. Then the sheriff called the state police, and now with the second victim being from out of state, the state police are talking about calling the feds.
But I don’t know if that’s a great idea.
Everyone will be stepping on everyone else’s toes.
We’re still waiting for the crime lab to send us the DNA analysis from the first victim.
My guess is it will be another runaway.”
“Travis.” A disturbing thought pops into my head. “Could this be a serial killer?”
He shrugs, nonplussed, as if I’ve asked if he wants more coffee. “Maybe. We’ve had our fair share down here. Hell, we’ve had our fair share in this parish. You remember Derrick Todd Lee?”
I shake my head no.
“He was the Baton Rouge Serial Killer. Stalked girls at LSU. Killed seven. And he was from our parish. Died in prison. Hell, the police chief in Derrick’s town knew it was him.
He told the state police, the sheriff, the lead investigator.
Nobody listened. And he was right. You just know when it’s one of your own. ”
My coffee has lost its flavor. I set it down. “And do you think this is one of your own?”
“I sure as shit hope not. Anything’s possible, I guess, but we’re not saying the words serial killer yet. We don’t want to create any hysteria.”
The waitress clanks our breakfast order onto the table, and I jump. “Here you go.”
“Perfect,” Travis says to her with a smile.
My fingers unroll the paper napkin from the silverware and place it in my lap even though I have no appetite.
“This is crazy, Travis.”
“I know. And they’re not helping.” He nods toward the table beside us. “Only one reporter was here a few days ago. But the AP picked up on it, and you know, once they get a whiff of death, they come running.” He scoops a bite of grits into his mouth. “Waiting to see if there’s more.”
I stare at him as he chews.
“What?” He says around the bite in his mouth.
“How can you eat?”
“I’m hungry, that’s how.” He swallows the bite. “And I’d better eat now. It’s going to be a long day.”
“What’s going on?”
“You’ll see.”
Before I can question him, Travis turns to the older ladies sitting next to us and says, “Ladies.” He looks back to me. “Think you might have been spotted.”
“Wh-what?”
He points to the ladies. They wave, then lean in and begin to whisper. I look back at Travis. “Great.”
“Well, I’ll be,” a voice from the table says. “Willamena Pearl Watters.”
Travis and I both look up as an elderly lady approaches our table. Her white cotton candy hair perches on top of her small head. I picture her wrapping that hair in toilet paper at night like Pearl and Petunia used to do so it’d keep until the next beauty parlor appointment.
I nod at her.
“I’m Ermine Taylor, darlin’.”
“Ermine!” I jump up from the table.
She wraps her little bird arms around me and whispers in my ear. “You sweet angel. Bless your heart.”
I hear pity in her voice. Ermine’s been watching more than just the local news. She’s been watching YouTube, and from the looks we’re getting around the room, she’s not the only one.
Ermine took her daddy’s bait shop and turned it into a business that actually thrived in this town.
She offered hot food, cold beer, and easy conversation.
And she bucked every stereotype about a Black woman owning a business in the South.
Ermine Taylor had been a force to be reckoned with, and from the steely gaze in her dark eyes, she still is.
I smile at the woman who became like a second mother to me over the years. Her store and her hugs something I looked forward to every summer. Then, like so many other things in this town, I’d let her fade away too.
“I . . . I . . .” I stumble over my words. “I should have kept in touch.”
She waves a hand in front of her. “Water under the bridge, honey. Tell me, how’s your mama?”
Again, that question. And again, I answer, “She’s fine.”
Ermine looks at me like I’m a lost puppy. She pats my arm and tells me to come by Taylor’s Marketplace if I’m in town for a while. I promise I will.
A few of the other ladies are up now that Ermine led the charge.
They surround me in a huddle of hugs and sugary perfume, going on about how good it is to see me and how much they miss the Aunts.
I don’t recognize most of them as they say their names in one continuous stream.
June, Lydia, Barb, Sally. They ask questions all at once about living in a big city and how Mama’s getting along and why I haven’t been back sooner, all in slow rolling accents that sound more Brooklyn than southern gulf.
The Yat dialect, as it’s called in New Orleans.
I answer the gaggle in front of me in order: wonderful, just fine, working too hard. None broach the topic of Fort Worth Live, but I see their sparkling curiosity behind their smiles. What they wouldn’t give to have me sit at their table and replay that tale. Then Travis saves me.
“Ladies,” he interrupts. “I hate to steal the main attraction, but we have to go.”
“Thank you,” I mouth to him, then turn, and say my goodbyes, leaving with promises to keep in touch, although I have no way to back that up.
Travis pulls out of the parking lot, crosses Main, and parks his truck sideways in front of Ace’s hardware store.
The whole process takes less than a minute.
I don’t even think he checked for traffic when he crossed the street.
Not that he needed to. There’s not a car in sight.
It unnerves me a bit. I’ve grown used to city noise, cars, people yelling, airplanes overhead. This town is way too quiet.
“So Ace’s is where we’re going?” I say.
He opens his door. “No. We need to do something about those shoes before our next stop.”
I look down at my kitten heels, but before I can respond, he’s out of the truck and disappearing into Ace’s.
Ned’s Pharmacy is next door, like I remember when I first drove through town. Then my eyes land on the business next to it. The antique store. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Something about it still seems familiar.
A woman is out front, sweeping the stoop. Ancient high chairs, crates of old colored bottles, and rusted DIXIE BEER signs overflow onto the front porch. The woman waves. I wave back. Then a thought hits me. I open my door, glance at Ace’s. Travis is still inside. But for how long?
“Excuse me,” I say to the woman.
She stops sweeping.
“Would you happen to have a VHS player in there?”
The woman shakes her head. “I don’t think so, but you’re welcome to come inside and look.”
I study the glass door behind her. “I’ll stop in later,” I say as I climb back into Travis’s truck.
What is it about that door?
My mouth goes dry. It’s not the door that’s the problem, it’s what used to be on the other side.
A vision of Mama racing into Shadow Bluff, out of breath, one hot, muggy evening flashes in front of me. We’d been in Broken Bayou about a week that last summer, and the Aunts had made it clear we would all sit down for supper at six sharp.
“Let’s eat. I’m starving,” Mama said, sliding into her seat at the table. She wore her tightest pair of jeans and a top that would have fit better on Mabry.
The Aunts scowled and simultaneously asked the Lord to bless our food and forgive us our sins. The last part directed at Mama.
“Guess who got a job today?” Mama said in a singsong voice as she slung mashed potatoes onto her plate.
I studied her. Mama getting a job during summer was not normal. She liked her months off. Said it gave her time to think, whatever that meant. Something was up.
“Why’d you get a job?” I said.
She smirked at me. “You’re welcome.”
“Where you gonna be working at?” Pearl said.
“Oh, just a temp job at a little office up the road. Guy who runs it is a real hotshot. Drives a Cadillac. Probably a bookie, but whatever; he’s paying me cash.
” She winked at me. “He’s a pill, but I can handle his type.
” She hoisted up her already-hoisted breasts.
“He would not stop staring at the ladies the whole time he interviewed me. Perv.” She found my gaze and winked.
“But the pervs are the easiest to control.”
My eyes stay fixed on the glass door. A door that once led to a dark narrow office.
My seventeen-year-old self never stopping to think why that door was unlocked at two o’clock in the morning.
Papers were scattered all over the floor, the phone off the hook and hanging over the side of the desk.
A chair overturned. A safe in the corner, open and empty.
But I found what I needed. I punched the eject button on the antiquated video recorder, snatched the black tape that shot out, then ran as fast as I could into the night.
Travis opens the car door, and I snap back to reality. He studies my face. “You okay?”
I blink several times. Away goes the memory. Professional Willa is back. “I’m good. But I think I better get back.” I leave off the last of my sentence: to a box of forgotten tapes.
“Sure, but we need to make a stop first. That’s why I got you these.” He smiles and presents a pair of bright orange rubber boots. “I guessed your size.”
I stare at his hands. “What are those?”
“Bayou boots.”
Oh no. Absolutely not. My next stop needs to be Shadow Bluff. “Travis, I don’t—”
The radio on Travis’s dash crackles. “Hey, Travis. You out there?” The woman’s voice on the other end contains the distinct gravel of a lifetime smoker. She sounds tired and bored.
He unhooks the radio from the dash. “I’m here, Margie. What’s up?”
“Is your phone off or something? Chief needs you. Now. Crowd’s getting out of control. It’s a circus down there. Check your gosh-darn phone.” The radio goes silent.
He looks at me and shrugs. “Sorry. You can wait in the car if you want.”
He shifts the truck into drive and pulls away from the antique store. Away from the woman sweeping. Away from the glass door. Toward a place that has me regretting I ever said yes to breakfast in the first place.