Lies Agreed Upon (13 page)

Tess noticed that Mimi glanced up
sharply at Lillian and then dropped her eyes back down to focus on gathering up the dirty plates and cups. Tess guessed Lillian was being less than truthful about her knowledge of more recent Cabrera doings, but one glance at Lillian’s stony face told Tess that further probing would be fruitless.

“Well, let’s talk about something more upbeat,”
said Mimi. “What tourist adventures do you plan next, Tess? Lillian and I can give you some recommendations.”

So for the rest of the visit, Tess drifted in pleasant lethargy, listening to the counterpoint of the old voices, one trilling and the other brusque. The afternoon light deepened to mauve u
nder the trees, and an occasional leaf twirled down to land silently amid the crumbs on the patio table. Finally, Lillian abruptly announced she needed to go home to “Ralph.”

“Is Ralph your husband?”
Tess asked and rose politely as the other woman stood to go.

“Ralph is my cocker spaniel. I’ve never had to cater to a husband, and thank goodness for it,” replied Lillian with a pugnacious thrust of her chin.

“Oh, I just assumed…” Tess mumbled.

“Well, this has been lovely, Lillian,” Mimi rushed into the awkward pause. “I’m so glad you could make time to tell our new young friend about her heritage,” she bubbled as she escor
ted the plodding, silent Lillian to the front door. Tess followed and waited as Mimi waved farewell to her friend.

“Well, I’ll be going now, too,” Tess said after Lillian’s departure. “Thank you for the wo
nderful tea and the fascinating stories,” she smiled in sincere appreciation of the old lady’s effort.

“My pleasure,” Mimi said and gently clasped Tess’s hand with her brittle fingers. “Do forgive Lillian for her sometimes rude
behavior. She’s not a happy woman. I hoped this chat would help her exorcise some demons, but I was wrong. A thwarted romance has made her bitter and suspicious of men, you see. She identifies too closely with Muriel and Marie.”

“I’m sorry if I caused her to relive painful memories,” replied Tess. “Please convey my thanks to her again.” She gave Mimi’s hand an earnest farewell squeeze and turned to descend the steps. She was startled when Mimi suddenly reached out a restraining hand, nails biting into Tess’s arm.

Mimi spoke with an odd intensity. “I’m not a believer in ghosts and curses, but I do believe we all have a sixth sense that sometimes can be a better guide than logic or experience. The older I get, the more I believe it. I say this because I’m getting a bad feeling about digging up these old secrets and sorrows.”

She paused
and frowned. “The past can reach deeper into the present than young people imagine. Old sins cast long shadows, as they say. Former passions may look like dead ash but they can be smoldering in secret. If you keep poking, you may rekindle a dangerous blaze, dear. So if you get a feeling of, um, foreboding or danger, take it seriously, please. Now, I’m not saying you should stop exploring your family history. Just go carefully, darling.”

She released Tess’s arm and smiled, but her eyes did not hold their usual twinkle. “
Enjoy the rest of your stay here, and do stop by to see me again at 1850 House if you get a chance. I help out there Thursday through Saturday.”

The little woman stood waving solemnly from her doorway until Tess climbed into her rental car.

“Wow, that was a weird ending to the tea party. Just follow the white rabbit down the hole…”

“That’s enough ghostly business for today,” Tess announced to the car’s shadowed inter
ior. She let the engine’s rumble drown out any uncanny whispers for the rest of the drive.

7
secrets

Tess went in search of Samuel Beauvoir on Monday. A quick look at the phone book in her hotel room revealed that the only likely Beauvoir business on Canal Street was not
called Beauvoir’s Bar but rather Beauvoir’s Oyster Bar and Restaurant. She wondered if Dreux had purposely misled her.

In any case, Tess was relieved. She had been dreading a dark dive where seedy characters hunched on barstools. Instead she was going to a restaurant, and an established one based on the
Yellow Pages
ad claim of “a New Orleans favorite since 1931.”

Tess skipped a stop at Café Bon Temps but could not resist making a detour to pass by and reward herself with a blushing wave to Remy as he cleared tables.
It was pleasant to think of herself as not just any tourist among strangers. She knew people in New Orleans now: Remy, Mimi, and even sour Lillian.

She then spent the mor
ning shopping for gifts: a feathered Mardi Gras mask for Christina and a Cajun cuisine cookbook for Jen. For Katie, she wanted some local art for her newlywed home with Trevor. But nothing struck her fancy until she saw a photograph in the window of a small gallery. She entered to inquire about it, and the manager hustled her to a display of “The Natural Visions of R. Thivet.”

“Mr. Thivet specializes in photography of our endangered wetlands and is gaining pop
ularity locally and even with New York galleries,” the gallery manager lectured. “This would be a great time to purchase because prices are rising steadily—”

“I like those two,” interrupted Tess, gesturing toward the front display and
then a framed photo on the wall. In the window, a great white egret, neck curved into a shepherd’s crook, extended a chevron of wing like an angelic shield above a nest of fuzz-haloed chicks. On the wall, white spider lilies rose pure and delicate under a spider web mantilla, every strand jeweled by minute gems of mist. “Are there any less expensive ones?” asked Tess, eying the price tags.

“Well, I suppose…” the gallery manager paused and looked over Tess’s shoulder. “Oh, how lucky for you. Mr. Thivet is stopping by right now.”

Tess swiveled around, and her jaw dropped. Remy was entering the shop. He caught sight of Tess and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Hello, café patron,” he laughed. “Are you a photography patron, too?”

“Are you sure you don’t have clones running around? You wait tables, rock on Bourbon Street and display in art galleries! Anyway, I love your nature photography. I hope to buy something later,” gushed Tess, trying to calm her jittery pulse. If it wasn’t such a ridiculous notion, both flattering and disturbing, she would think Remy was following her around the city.

“Sorry, there’s only one Remy Thivet. Hey, if you like my swamp pictures, how about the real thing? 
Stop by the café tomorrow, and I’ll give you a free ticket to my Uncle Joe’s swamp tour and gator encounter,” offered Remy. “Sometimes I even help out and pilot the tour boat.” He laughed at Tess’s dumbfounded expression over yet another incarnation of Mr. Thivet.

“Wow, thanks for the ticket. It sounds fun. You know, I don’t think I ever told you my full name. I’m Therese Parnell, but my friends call me Tess.”

“Well, I’m glad I ran into you, Tess. If you’re heading toward Canal, I’ll keep you company.” At Tess’s shy nod, he opened the door with a gallant bow.

“So how’s your family research going?” Remy asked conversationally as he relaxed into a stroll beside Tess. Tess began to spill out new details of her family story to the sympathetic Remy.

Her narrative took them all the way to Canal Street, where Remy gave her shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze. “Well, I look forward to the next installment of your family saga tomorrow. Adieu and Bonne Chance!” 

He waved as he sprinted across the street, and Tess began her trek to Beauvoir’s Oyster Bar and Restaurant.

It was a long walk, and Tess pushed gratefully into the air-conditioned relief of a crowded dining area when she finally reached the restaurant. Her eye was caught immediately by a lone figure in the deserted oyster bar section, whose hours catered to the evening trade. An African-American man in an expensive gray business suit was strumming a calculator amid stacks of paper. She assumed he was a manager or bookkeeper, and thus a possible conduit to Sam Beauvoir.

Before she could muster the courage to approach
the man, a young African-American hostess asked perkily, “How many for lunch?”

“
One for lunch,” responded Tess with a smile, deciding to try her luck with this easier target first. “But I wonder if you could direct me to Samuel Beauvoir, or someone who can contact him.”

The young hostess looked amazed. “Sam Beauvoir? He been retired for
ever! His son runs the place now.”

“Oh, well, is there some way I could get a message to
Sam Beauvoir? Maybe through his son or a manager?” asked Tess, glancing again at the lone man in the oyster bar area.

Not
ing the hostess’s suspicious look, Tess added quickly, “I was told that Mr. Sam Beauvoir knew my grandfather so I wanted to talk with him about my family past. My grandfather’s last name was Cabrera, so you can tell Mr. Beauvoir I’m researching the Cabrera family.”

“So you researchin’ family?” asked the puzzled girl. “I guess I can ax
someone to ax him about the, um, Cabaret—” the hostess began.

“Cabrera,” corrected Tess.

“—yeah, the Cabrera family,” the girl nodded, still looking dubious. “Lemme see about it. Please follow me to a table f’now.”

After seating more diners, the young woman walked into the empty oyster bar and spoke briefly with the suited man, whom Tess could see frowning and shaking his head. Things did not look promising, Tess thought gloomily as she scanned a menu.

More than 30 minutes later, the hostess bustled up to her table. “Scuse me, miss. When you finish, you can go by the erster bar (oyster bar, Tess translated) and see Jonathan Beauvoir, Mr. Sam’s gran’son,” said the girl with the self-importance of a royal messenger. Tess hurried through a plate of the city’s ubiquitous red beans and rice with spicy sausage. The simple but well-prepared food and reasonable pricing explained the restaurant’s popularity. She then headed determinedly for the oyster bar.

As Tess cautiously approached Jonathan Beauvoir, she could tell that he was tall and at
hletic, even seated and suited. He had a chiseled Egyptian pharaoh’s profile, high cheekbones and smooth, rubbed-bronze skin. He glanced up at her and then stood up to be polite or intimidating, depending on a reading of his intent. He accomplished both.

He was indeed tall, over
6 feet with a swimmer’s broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped power. He extended a graceful, long-fingered hand toward Tess and looked down his nose coolly as she silently accepted his firm grip. He had arresting hazel eyes, the irises dark-ringed but the brown interior flecked with gold. Their intensity was heightened by the striking contrast with his darker complexion. As Tess met his gaze, his eyebrows twitched together in a frown, and he released Tess’s hand and stepped back.

He began to speak in an aloof voice
that showcased an East Coast education, with only an occasional hint of his New Orleans origins. “I understand you wish to speak with my grandfather Samuel Beauvoir about your relatives, Ms.…”

He
raised his eyebrows and waited until Tess softly supplied her name.

“
Ms. Parnell, you may not be aware, but my grandfather is over 90 years old and naturally doesn’t get out much. I wonder if you could provide a little more detail on why you want to speak with him.”

“It’s a long story,” answered Tess and launched into a summary speech she had pr
epared. “Basically, I just inherited a small piece of land here through my deceased grandfather, Guy Cabrera. Unfortunately, I never met him and know nothing about my Louisiana roots. A lawyer who contacted me regarding the property recommended speaking with your grandfather because he knew my grandfather.”

“I am a local attorney
at law myself, so perhaps I know the man who referred you to my grandfather. What’s his name?” he asked with a polite condescension that Tess found slightly irritating. She also noted his assumption that the other lawyer was a man.

“Philip Dreux of Graham, Odom
& Dreux,” answered Tess and was surprised when Jonathan Beauvoir stiffened.

“Old Phil Dreux,” he murmured with a sour smile. “Why is Mr. Dreux involved in an i
nheritance matter? His firm handles corporate clients.”

“Mr. Dreux’s firm represents a corporate client that would like to purchase my inherited property,” explained Tess.

“Ah, of course,” responded Jonathan Beauvoir, “but what did Mr. Dreux suggest you could learn from my grandfather?”

“More family history,”
said Tess. At his blankly disinterested expression, she quickly added, “And he implied there was a family connection to your ancestor Solange Beauvoir.”

“Solange!” exclaimed Jonathan Beauvoir and stared blindly at the scattered papers. He pinned Tess with an intense gaze. “Well, Ms. Parnell, I personally hesitate to disturb my grandfather, but I’ll leave it to his judgment, which is still quite keen. Do you have a number where I can reach you?”

Tess promptly gave him her cell phone number and asked diffidently, “When do you think you’ll get back with me?”

“When I can,” he stated, sitting down and picking up a sheaf of bank statements. “My f
ather has asked me to help him analyze the restaurant’s debt issues. Just as we began to put Katrina behind us, along comes a damn oil spill—”

H
e stopped, sighed and glanced up at Tess. “Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but I’m very busy. I’ll talk with my grandfather, but I can’t promise when, or if, he’ll see you.”

“I certainly understand,” said Tess quickly. “Thank you.” She almost felt she should humbly bow herself out as he nodded dismissively and returned to his task.

Tess was not optimistic about the outcome of this conversation, so she was surprised when she later answered a call and heard Jonathan Beauvoir’s haughty voice.

“Hello, M
s. Parnell? This is Jon Beauvoir. I’ve spoken with my grandfather, and he would like to see you. He wondered if this afternoon is OK.”

Tess noted for future reference that he called hi
mself Jon rather than Jonathan. “Yes, of course. How shall I get to—?”

“I’ll drive you.
Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up at your hotel at 3:45 sharp,” Jon Beauvoir announced.

She started to give him directions to
the Hotel d’Iberville, only to have him interrupt, clearly irritated. “I’m local. I know the place.”

Tess began to dread the idea of even a short car trip with Mr. “Stick-Up-His-Butt” Beauvoir.

Jon arrived dressed in khakis and a polo shirt. But his formal manner had not disappeared with his formal clothes, and he remained coolly unreadable behind a pair of dark sunglasses. As they drove away in his new-model, silver Mercedes, Tess felt uncomfortably out of her financial and social league.

After a long, awkward silence, he asked, barely turning his head, “Are you comfortable, Ms
. Parnell? Is the air conditioning OK for you?”

“Yes, thank you. And please call me Tess,” she responded and racked her brain for some conversational gambit.

“Of course, and feel free to call me Jon,” he returned without any believable warmth. Tess took a deep breath and tried for casual friendliness.

“A friend in Los Angeles is an attorney with a firm specializing in labor
law. Do you have a specialty, um, Jon?” she prompted. To her critical ear, the question was painfully contrived, a “some of my best friends are lawyers” effort at camaraderie.

“My firm focuses on environmental and health law, so we are quite busy with the after
math of the oil spill, as you can imagine. In fact, that is how I know of Mr. Dreux. The Graham, Odom & Dreux firm represents Gulf Coast Refining, and we represented employees in a complaint involving health risks at the refinery—unsuccessfully I’m afraid. How is Dreux’s law firm connected to your inheritance, Tess?”

“It’s a small world. Mr. Dreux still represents the refinery, and it’s the refinery that wants to buy my land next to their facility. They want to expand,” Tess explained.

“How large is this property and how much is the refinery offering for it, if I may ask?” queried Jon after a slight pause. He did not turn his head, yet Tess sensed his focused attention.

After Tess gave him a brief summary, he said, “Ah,” and fell silent.

“Do you think they are offering a fair price?” Tess prodded.

Jon was noncommittal. “I would suggest you get an independent assessment. I can re
commend someone if you like.”

“Thanks. I may take you up on it,” responded Tess, and they journeyed on in silence until Jon f
inally announced, “We’re here.”