Chapter Eight
I’m parked in front of the antique store again, this time in my car, not Travis’s.
The sign in the front window says OPEN but I’m dragging my feet.
Not sure if going inside is the best idea.
I saw what the Sack and Save had to offer, and I’m not ready for another dose of public humiliation.
But this place looks relatively empty of people. It is, however, full of memories.
I searched for electronic stores nearby on my phone and called around in New Orleans and Baton Rouge.
A guy at Best Buy suggested I take the tapes somewhere and have them digitized to a thumb drive.
That’s a hard hell no. I open my phone and check my order.
It still says delayed. I click the tracking number, and I’m routed to the shipping site.
It says In Transit, scanned in Memphis, but now it’s expected to arrive tomorrow. I glance up at the store.
Dolly’s Antiques is my next option.
Part of me wants to hurry in and look for what I need. Another part wants to run like hell. I open the door before the second option wins.
I step inside and exhale a long, slow breath.
No disheveled office. No upturned desk. No papers scattered on the floor.
Just a treasure trove of junk that contemporary designers would call brown furniture.
Large wooden armoires, heavy dark nightstands, bowfront chests of drawers sitting alongside end tables, lamps, and twin iron bed frames.
All waiting to be wanted again. Several used televisions and miscellaneous electronics line a wall in the back. Bingo.
I weave my way toward the electronics, past two ladies who stare at me as if I’m an alien. The navy wrap dress with large bright geometrical shapes and the tall heels don’t really say local. I smile. They smile. They look suspicious. So much for this store being empty.
The one with wild, frizzy hair says, “You a reporter?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Your people here?”
“No. I’m visiting Broken Bayou.”
She scrunches her face into an exasperated look. “Why?”
“Long story.” I’m trying to keep my answers short and my gaze down. All the cues she should need to see I’m not up for a chat. But this woman is up for a chat.
“You know what’s going on here, right?”
“I do.”
“It’s just awful. But I’m not surprised. There are some real lowlifes ’round these parts.”
I nod, start for the electronics section.
“Y’all know they found another barrel,” the frizzy-haired lady says to her companion and me, assuming I’m the other half of the y’all.
Her friend pops her arm, mouth agape. “Get out.”
I stop walking.
“Yep. That makes three.” The woman ticks off her fingers. “The old one from 2002 that’s been unsolved. The runaway druggie they ID’d, and then this latest one. Saw it on the television.”
“It’s a serial killer,” the other woman says. “I knew it. God only knows how many they’ll find.”
Another barrel. Cold air prickles the back of my neck. “Did the news say anything else about what was found over there?” So much for not chatting.
The other woman leans in, her eyebrows raised. “I heard that old car they pulled out has been put in impound over at the sheriff’s station and that the investigator over there had ’em all diggin’ around in it for something.”
I stumble back on my heels, work to keep my composure. “What?”
“Well, my cousin—” the woman starts.
“She’s the local beautician,” the frizzy-haired lady clarifies to me.
“Anyway,” the other woman says, giving her friend a quick glare. “My cousin heard it’s good and tore up.” She pauses, glances at us to make sure we’re listening. She lowers her chin and her voice. “I may go by and take a look.”
“Why in the world would you do that?” her friend says.
“Why not? It’d probably be easy. Raymond’s watching the impound.”
“Oh Lord.” The frizzy-haired woman rolls her eyes. “No wonder. My two-year-old grandson could watch it better.”
A woman wearing a flowing dress that looks like a thousand scarves sewn together and sporting long gray hair that hangs loose to her waist appears next to me like a vapor. “Can I help you?” The smell of patchouli surrounds her.
I stutter over my words. “Um . . . I was . . .”
“Wait, you were outside the other day,” she says. “Looking for the VCR.”
The two ladies next to me pretend to shop, but I see them exchange a look. I nod.
“I’m Dolly,” she says.
I shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.” I don’t offer my name.
“I checked for one that day,” she says, following me as I head for the back of the store. “Sorry. No luck.”
I stop at the back shelves.
Dolly watches me. “You might find something else you need, though. I’ve got just about anything and everything. You’d be surprised what grown men with decent jobs think are collector’s items.” She rolls her eyes. “Then they gotta bring ’em here for me to sell.”
Televisions are stacked in rows, a clunky original iPod sits on one shelf, a Polaroid camera next to it, even an old black rotary phone.
“Thanks anyway,” I say, heading for the door.
“Found some old tapes, huh?”
I pause and look back at her. “Excuse me?”
Her thick eyebrows furrow. “VCR.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.”
“You know,” she says. “VHS tapes deteriorate over time. Not sure how old yours are or how they were stored, but chances are, they’re useless. Just a warning.”
My fingers are trembling by the time I climb back into my car. Time to meet Raymond.
The police station sits one street off Main.
I park along the shoulder and hustle to the front door.
The only thing I can say about the inside is it’s brown.
Brown chairs, brown floor, brown desk. Behind the desk is a woman with a big brown bouffant.
Streaks of gray run through it, and the wrinkled eyes beneath all that hair turn to sharp slits when they see me.
She doesn’t look surprised. She, like the ladies in the antique store, looks suspicious.
“No comment,” she says and goes back to reading her crossword puzzle.
I look down at my dress. “I’m not with the press. I’m here to see Raymond.”
When she looks back up, her gaze is even more suspicious. “He’s out back.”
I smile. “Thank you. Oh, and would it be possible to get Travis Arceneaux’s cell number?”
She sets her pencil down, lowers her readers. “No.” She picks her pencil back up and turns her attention to the crossword again.
“Can I leave him a note?”
Without looking up, she says, “Whatever.”
I scribble a note asking Travis to call me or come by, thank the woman I’m assuming is Margie, based on her voice, then hurry back into the broiling heat.
I spot a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire behind the station.
I look around, then redirect to the rolling gate in front of it.
It’s padlocked and covered with two signs.
One reads KEEP GATE CLOSED! The other states DO NOT ENTER.
MUST BE ACCOMPANIED WITH IMPOUND PERSONNEL.
Several cars sit on the other side. A few are wrecked, but one in particular has my attention.
It looks like it was dragged from a bayou.
My palms start to sweat. I rub them together as I move closer to the fence and stare at the old convertible.
It’s in bad shape. Rusted and molded, with the passenger door missing.
My throat constricts. I work to swallow as I move down the fence to get a better look at the back end.
I press my face against the cool metal, crane my neck.
“Can I help you?”
I jump back from the fence as if it shocked me. A baby-faced officer in a brown uniform stares at me from the other side. It’s the same guy I saw on the levee yesterday. The one I couldn’t place.
“Willa Watters, right?”
Shit. I nod.
“Yeah,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Saw you at the bayou yesterday. With Travis.” He studies my face a second. “It’s me, Raymond St. Clair. Remember, we all used to run around in the summers down here. Get into trouble every now and then.” His cheeks go pink.
So this is Raymond. Raymond St. Clair. I do remember him.
He was a shy kid who ran with a group of highbrow boys his older brother hung with.
They were always acting cool, usually at the expense of someone else.
That group taunted Travis, called him bayou trash.
Said his family was trouble. Not necessarily wrong, but cruel nonetheless.
Sometimes they made fun of Mabry and Eddie, who were usually tagging along beside us.
Raymond was always hovering in the background, kicking the dirt. I’d always felt sorry for him.
“Of course, Raymond. It’s good to see you,” I say, even though I wish I hadn’t seen him. Now, I may get asked questions I’m not ready to answer.
“Did you get your car towed?” he says. “Margie, inside, can help you with that.”
That’s not the question I was expecting. “No. I . . .” I’m about to say I was just leaving when Raymond nods, says, “It’s okay. I know why you’re here.”
My stomach drops. Has he talked to Travis? If so, what has Travis told him?
“Everyone in town is curious about that car.”
I breathe out a raspy laugh. “Yeah. I just had to see it.” I lean closer. “But it’s hard to get a good look from here.”
He scans the area behind me, shuffles on his feet. I don’t say a word. I let him sit with his thoughts about me and about how his friends acted in our past.
Raymond’s eyes finally come back to mine. “I mean, I guess if you want to come in and have a look-see real quick, it’d be okay. As long as you don’t touch anything,” he adds firmly.
Maybe being recognized by someone harboring old guilt isn’t so bad after all. “I don’t know, Raymond. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
He swats his hand. “Ah, no. Everybody’s down at the bayou anyway. It’s fine.”
“Well.” I pause. “If you’re sure? I would like to take a look.”
He grabs a key ring from his pocket and opens the lock. The gate swings open. “No touching, though, remember?”