Under the Cajun Moon (29 page)

That also explained exactly why my father wanted to buy Paradise from Alphonse Naquin. According to Kevin Peralta, my father called him on Monday morning, before he was shot, sounding very excited and saying he was willing to lose the battle over the treasure with Alphonse Naquin as long as Naquin would finally sell him Paradise in return. I just knew that the excitement in my father’s voice had come from something salt
related, perhaps the discovery of a whole new rich vein of especially pink salt. Regardless of what my father had found here, it was important enough that he was willing to do whatever it took to buy this land and its mine, even if that required him to capitulate in a battle of wills, something Julian Ledet would otherwise never have done. Knowing my father as I did, I realized that for him the real treasure of Paradise wasn’t made of gold and shaped like a fleur-de-lis at all. It was pink and crusty and came from a hole in the ground!

As we reached the upper boundary of Paradise, Travis turned left into the narrow channel that would bring us to the river on the other side. Our little boat chugging along slowly, I told Travis my theory, but he didn’t seem convinced.

“Louisiana salt isn’t good enough for food,
cher
. It’s mined for rock salt. You know, like for deicing bridges and roads?”

“I live in Chicago, Travis. I’m familiar with rock salt and icy roads.”

“Well, then, chances are you’ve been driving safely up there thanks to rock salt that came to you from down here. We’ve got a couple of big salt mining operations in the state.”

“Okay, so Louisiana has its share of salt mines,” I said, “and what they get from those mines is used as rock salt. That still doesn’t mean edible salt couldn’t be here too, at least in a limited quantity.”

“I suppose,” Travis replied, but he didn’t sound convinced.

We reached the end of the channel and turned left onto the river, passing back down the other side of Paradise. More than anything I wanted to go ashore, take a look at the old mine, and see if I could find the pink vein my father had been secretly exploiting for years. But considering that he had been shot here just three days before and the person who shot him hadn’t yet been apprehended, it simply wouldn’t be safe. Instead, I contented myself with looking out at the wooded, hilly terrain from our motorboat and listening as Travis described how this land had been passed down through his family for many generations. Sooner or later, once it was safe, we would come back, and I would get my chance to explore.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing toward a crumbling structure on the bank nearly hidden by weeds and brush.

“That’s the old mine office,” Travis said. “Nothing left of it now but ruins.”

There was a dock at the water’s edge and I studied it closely, but again I didn’t see signs of blood or previous policy activity. Passing further down the property, I could see what looked like the white tip of a rooftop in and among the trees.

“Is that more of the mine?” I asked.

“No, that’s an old houseboat that washed up in Hurricane Betsy.” We continued puttering past, and as we did I realized he was right. What I was seeing wasn’t a roofline at all, but the crumpled, rotting bow of a big boat that had long ago been pushed from the river onto the land and set straight up on one end, like a toy boat cast aside from a bathtub.

“And that’s about it,” Travis said now. “The property line ends down there just ahead of us. See that big cypress tree? That marks the boundary. Everything beyond that belongs to somebody else, a timber company, I think. Looks like they’re building something.” I looked where he pointed to see some heavy equipment in and among the trees, a big crane and some bulldozers.

Travis sped up the motor again and we were off. I was glad he had taken the detour to show me Paradise, as it helped orient me to the place even without setting foot onshore. It also led to my revelations about the salt, something I felt deep in my bones wasn’t just a theory but fact. I wasn’t sure where we would be going once we left Ben’s house, but if following the recipe reached a dead end, maybe we could follow the trail of the salt instead.

F
RANCE, 1719
J
ACQUES

Papa was gone.

Not just Papa. Everything was gone.

The trunk, the cart, the worktable, the cot, the food, the supplies, the clothes. Everything. Gone.

Jacques ran to the back door and looked out, but there was nothing and no one to be seen. He returned to the gathering of men in the main room, nearly hysterical, demanding they speak with the farmer and his wife next door.

Two of the men stepped out to do just that, and while they were gone Jacques continued to probe every corner, every nook and cranny for some evidence of what had been here only hours before. The furnace had been doused with water, so there wasn’t even any proof of hot ash at the bottom.

Finally, the men who had gone to question the farmer returned.

“They say they don’t know what we are talking about. They said this old blacksmith shop has been empty for two years at least, and no one has come or gone on this road all day.”

“They’re lying!” Jacques cried. “They were paid to say that! The woman has been bringing my father two meals a day for over a month!”

It didn’t matter what Jacques said; no one believed him. For the return trip, Jacques was no longer perched up front. He was forced into the back carriage and held there under guard. Before they even reached Paris, the caravan came to a stop and he was told to get out.

There, on the dusty road he had already traveled twice today, he stood face-to-face with the royal goldsmith, who had climbed out of the middle carriage. The man looked at him with a mix of pity and sadness.

“I don’t know what has motivated you to perpetrate such lies today,” he said, “but I can only hope your father might be able to shed some light on this. In the meantime, we have decided that it will be necessary to keep you under watch. There is great concern about your mental health, not to mention the damage that can be done by someone who is obviously so impassioned in their lies. Once I have a chance to speak with your father, I will make a final decision as to how we will proceed in this matter.”

With that, Jacques was taken away, his wrists bound in chains, his body led into the Charenton institution that loomed so darkly in front of him, the home for the insane.

We finally reached our next destination about a half hour later.

The sun was sitting lower in the sky by that point, and I hoped we wouldn’t be there too long. I didn’t relish the thought of having to set out again in this tiny boat in the dark.

Travis studied the GPS screen as we puttered along past a broad curve. About half a mile past that curve, he turned left into a break in the trees, heading up a narrow channel that was probably too shallow for our previous boat anyway. We passed a small dock on the left and then a few minutes later spotted another.

“That should be it,” Travis said looking from his GPS screen to the dock ahead. “According to this thing anyway. See how God provides? We couldn’t have come here in the Sea Ray.”

We tied up the boat to the rickety dock and headed up a narrow walkway. The bushes were so overgrown near the water that we couldn’t see the house until we were practically on top of it. It was a standard ranch home, single story and made of red brick with white trim. We knocked on the door, and as we waited for someone to answer it, I looked around, deciding that the whole place looked like it needed some TLC. Besides the overgrown shrubbery, there were rotted boards and peeling paint and even a tangle of wires where the carport light used to be.

We could hear noises from inside, so we knew someone was home.
We knocked again, and finally a woman appeared at the door. She looked to be in her late fifties, and though she was attractive with dark eyes and wide, smooth cheeks, the overall impression she gave was that of exhaustion. Suddenly, I felt very bad for this breach of etiquette in not calling ahead. Given the situation we hadn’t dared, but it still seemed awfully rude.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear a car in the drive. Did you come by boat?” the woman asked, looking nervous.

“Yes, sorry about that. Hope we didn’t scare you.”

“No problem,” she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “How can I help you?”

“We’re here to see Ben Runner. Does he live here?”

“Yes, but who are you?”

I was hesitant to say my name or explain my connection, so I was glad when Travis replied with his own, adding that he was Alfonse Naquin’s grandson. That seemed to be enough for her because she opened the door, probably assuming I was Travis’ wife.

“Follow me,” she said, and we did just that as she led us through the living room and toward a hallway off the other side.

“I’m Ben’s daughter,” she said as she walked, and I was glad she was ahead of us and did not see the look Travis and I gave each other.

“Heidi ho!” someone called from the other side of the living room. Startled, I glanced that way to see an old woman waving at us from a chair. I wondered if that was Ben’s wife. I waved to her in return but couldn’t stay to chat because Ben’s daughter was moving too quickly.

The hallway she led us down was dim and smelled kind of like a hospital or a nursing home. There was more noise in a room off to our right, and as we passed the open door I looked inside to see two beds, an elderly person in each of them. Ben’s daughter stopped in front of the last door on the left, gave it a knock, and swung it all the way open.

“Sometimes I think he knows what we’re saying, but of course he can’t really reply,” she told us.

Travis and I both stepped inside to see an extremely old man sitting in a chair beside the window. He was surrounded by medical equipment,
and again that antiseptic institutional smell assaulted my nostrils. Ben’s daughter obviously provided some sort of in-home elder care.

“Daddy? Here are some people to see you. ’Member Mr. Alphonse Naquin? This is his grandson.”

The man didn’t move or make a sound but simply continued to stare out the window.

“Come on in, it’s okay,” the woman urged us. “He’s real quiet, but he always enjoys having visitors.”