Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (25 page)

“We’re about ready to start,” Claire said, wending her way toward him through the stalagmites. “Is anyone else coming?”

“I don’t think so,” he said.
Those of us here are a captive audience. We couldn’t escape in time.
“You can start.”

He glanced over at LeDeux and Famosa, who’d stopped working to watch the proceedings, along with Del and his two geologist friends, who paused in their chipping away at the fissure that led to the other chamber, much larger than this one. They might eventually have to dynamite in spots. And of course they would have to find an ecologically acceptable method of draining the chamber now that they’d dumped all the water and mud there.

All eyes were on Claire in her Indian outfit. A knee-length leather dress with fringes, belted at the waist. Moccasins on her feet. And her dark red hair plaited into two braids with a headband wrapped around her forehead, holding a single feather. An Irish Pocahontas.

“Do you want to participate?”

“Huh? What? Me?”
Is she crazy?

She smiled at his discomfort.

So, of course, he tugged on one of her braids and remarked, “I was kinda hopin’ you’d be wearing that Victoria’s Secret Indian maiden outfit like in the picture back at your cabin.”

“I told you that wasn’t authentic Lenni Lenape clothing.” She shook her head at his hopelessness. “Victoria’s Secret?”

“Well, Hiawatha’s Secret.”

“You’re an idiot.” She turned and walked away from him.

When they were done with their “Hi-ah, Hi-ah, Hi-ah” chanting crap, and dancing crap, and incense crap, the bones were raised carefully in special canvas bags, which had been blessed. A hearse was waiting outside.

An hour later, everyone had gone up the ladder, including Big Bear, who put the tensile strength of the rope to the test. They had two more days before the big event they had planned for Saturday. A news conference. Exhibits. Some special invited guests. Music and refreshments. Then the party on Saturday night.

Jake and Ronnie and Brenda would be back here by then, their project in Mexico having been completed, not as successfully as they’d hoped, but the Pearl Project proceeds would make up for that. Then Caleb was out of here, on to the next treasure hunt, wherever that might be.

Everything would be fine then. Back to the way they were before. Just peachy! Just freakin’ peachy!

Staring around him at the huge chamber, rather churchlike with its high dome ceiling and columns, Caleb felt a strange sort of peace. Inside his head, a voice seemed to say,
Everything will be all right.
It was probably just wishful thinking.

Chapter 16

A three-ring Cajun circus . . .

John and his great-aunt were sitting on a back-yard swing having a three-way conversation, via cell phone conference calling, with his brother Luc back in Louisiana.

“Do ya promise that y’all will be here fer the party Saturday night?” Tante Lulu urged.

“I promise, I promise, for the tenth time,” Luc said with a laugh. “But I still don’t see why we couldn’t have the party here. At last count, I figure there must be fifteen of us, including the kids. Besides, Charmaine would love to show off her latest addition to the spa out at the ranch. A vibrating couples’ massage table.”

“Ooooh, I like the sound of that,” John said. “Maybe we should reconsider, Auntie.”

His aunt slapped his arm. “Behave yerself. We kin allus go ta the ranch. Besides, this isn’t jist a birthday party fer Tee-John. It’s also a reunion celebration fer Caleb and his twin brother. They grew up Amish. Kin ya believe that? I was hopin’ Caleb and Claire would get together by now, and we could have another surprise weddin’ . . .”

Tante Lulu had put together an unbelievable surprise wedding for his brother René and Valerie Breaux two years ago. It was still the talk of the bayou.

“. . . but Caleb and Claire gots some kinks ta work out first.”

“I like kinky,” John interjected.

Without skipping a beat, his aunt gave him a disapproving glare and blathered on, “Claire is nuts about Injuns, bless her heart. Did I tell ya that, Luc? Not that Caleb is an Injun, bless his heart. Nope, he’s an ex-Amish Navy SEAL. I ain’t never met an Amishman before I came here, but whoo-boy, the place is jumpin’ with ’em, buggies an’ all. Also, we wanna honor Mark Franklin at this
fais do-do.
He lost an arm in Af-ganny-stan.”

Luc groaned at his end of the line. Their aunt had a tendency to go off on several tangents at a time. Amazingly, they had all learned to follow her trains of thought. Once Tante Lulu was on a tear, there was no stopping her.

“Oh, and wouldja tell Sylvie ta pick up a perscription fer me at Boudreaux’s drug store. Doc Pitrey called it in.”

“For what?” Luc asked. “Blood pressure?”

“No. Sumpin’ else.”

John narrowed his eyes at his aunt.

“Oh, fer goodness sake! It’s jist digitalis.”

John’s skin turned clammy. Luc swore and was asking Sylvie in the background if she knew about this.

“Digitalis is fer heart problems,” John told his aunt.

“So?”

“So, since when do you have a heart problem?”

“It’s jist a twinge now and then. Doan go worryin’ ’bout me. I’ll be there dancin’ at yer weddin’, boy, lessen ya decide ta become a forty-year-old bachelor. And that ain’t gonna happen if I kin help it. I got an in with the thunderbolt guy. And by the way, does ya want blue or yellow embroidery on yer pillowcases?”

Luc was laughing now. Everyone in the family got Tante Lulu’s love thunderbolt business at one time or another. Usually just before they met the love of their lives and got married.

John shivered at the thought. “I got a lot of wild oats to sow yet, so doan be bakin’ any weddin’ cake yet,” he told her.

“Yer wild oats is gonna turn inta oatmeal pretty soon iffen ya doan shape up.”

“Listen, darlin’, I’m like a guy livin’ in the middle of the produce section of the French Quarter Market. Why would I eat just one cherry when there are all those peaches, apples, pears, melons, strawberries, bananas, and grapes just begging to be tasted?”

“Hah! Too much fruit gives a man diarrhea.”

How did one respond to a statement like that? With silence, he decided.

She’d managed to change the subject with her usual expertise, but she didn’t fool him. He was going to investigate his aunt’s little heart problem. She was eighty-eight years old, after all, though you’d never know it by all her energy and enthusiasm for life. Hurricane Ka-trina had had an effect on her. Even though her cottage had been pretty much spared, many of her friends had lost everything. They would never recover, and neither would she.

Meanwhile, his aunt was giving Luc a list of things she wanted him and his brothers to bring.

“Make sure René brings his accordion. We’s gonna have music and dancin’. And tell Charmaine we gots this Amish girl what wants ta be on
American Idol.
Ask Charmaine if she has any clothes that might strike the judges’ fancy. Not slutty clothes. Simon Cowell would make mincemeat outta her in those. Jist colorful, kinda like what Paula Abdul wears. Ya wouldn’t believe how much black and blue these folks wear, and—”

“Oh, good God!” Luc interrupted. Sylvie must have asked what was wrong, and he told her, “Tante Lulu is invading the Amish now.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk!” Tante Lulu said. “And stop by my cottage and get me some more of that juju tea. I was tellin’ Amos ’bout it las’ night.”

“Who’s Amos?”

“You don’t wanna know,” John said quickly, but not quick enough.

“My boyfriend. Me and Abbie’re datin’ these twin brothers. Amos and Andy. Amos wants me ta move in with him, but I tol’ him I cain’t live outside the bayou fer long without gettin’ a hankerin’ fer crawfish. Besides, I doan go fer that hanky-panky outside marriage. Then he asked me ta marry him. Do ya know where he kin buy some Viagra?”

“Oh, good God!” Luc said again. “I thought you were watchin’ over her, Tee-John.”

“I am.”

“Who sez I need a chaperon? Did I tell ya ’bout the strip joint we went to this week, Luc?” She proceeded to tell him how the strippers picked up twenty-dollar bills with their “boobies.”

Luc was silent on the other end, either horrified or laughing. Probably both.

“Oh, before I forget. Tell Charmaine to pick me up a bushel of crawfish. They ain’t got any crawfish worth eatin’ here.”

“Tante Lulu! Charmaine and Rusty are coming on a commercial airline. They won’t allow food products like that to be carried. Plus, they’ll probably be considered terrorists or something.”

“Terrorists?” Tee-John hooted with laughter. “What? Terrorists now carry bombs in food products?”

“You try carrying a bushel of crawfish on a plane, then, smartass,” Luc replied.

“Jist put ’em inside that hope chest that Remy is bringin’ fer Mark,” Tante Lulu suggested.

“You’ve already got that thing filled with doilies and pot holders and monogrammed sheets and stuff,” Luc reminded her. “Did you really make up his-and-her St. Jude nightshirts?”

“Jist bring the blasted crawfish,” his aunt said, throwing a hand up with disgust. “Y’all kin stick ’em in yer britches fer all I care. Jist bring ’em.”

“Oh, I have some gossip, Tee-John.” Luc’s voice was suspiciously serious all of a sudden. “Looks like we might have two more brothers we never heard of. Twins.”

“Huh?” he and Tante Lulu said as one.

“These two guys approached Remy recently when he was making a delivery to a customer up in Alaska. They claim to be sons of Valcour LeDeux.”

“I fer one ain’t surprised. I wouldn’t trust that Valcour any farther than I could sling an alligator,” Tante Lulu said.

“How old are they?” he asked.

“Are they Eskimos?” Tante Lulu asked.

He could hear Luc laughing on the other end of the line. “No, they’re not Eskimos. They’re into ranching or logging or something. Remy wasn’t clear. And besides, they weren’t overly friendly. They’re twenty-eight.”

“Hmmm. While he was with my mom but not married to her yet,” Tee-John calculated.

“Suppose that means I’ll hafta make more hope chests.”

“Don’t jump the gun,” Luc cautioned. “They might not really be our half brothers.”

“Hah! Would anyone in their right mind wanna claim Valcour LeDeux as a daddy iffen they dint hafta?” was Tante Lulu’s opinion.

Once the phone call ended, he and his aunt sat swinging slowly. She was quiet for once, probably contemplating okra.

Then, out of the blue, she asked, “How long do ya think it might be till yer ready ta settle down and get married?”

Huh? How about never?
He shrugged, then lied, “Four or five years, maybe.”

She remained quiet for a few long moments, then said, “I suppose I kin hold out that long.”

And John felt as if a vice were squeezing his heart.

Plain thinking . . .

Samuel Peachey threw his work gloves down with disgust and quit his morning chores halfway through. It was an unprecedented act for him in all his sixty-seven years.

He walked into the house and found Rebekah sitting at the kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a cup of tea, which she was staring at. Meanwhile, there was wet laundry to be hung on the line and tomato sauce bubbling on the stove, waiting to be canned. Rebekah being idle was unprecedented, too.

“Rebekah?” he said, sitting down next to her. “Does something ail ya? Do ya have the stomachache again?”

She shook her head. There were tears in her pale blue eyes.

Truth to tell, he felt like cryin’ himself.

“The boys?”

She nodded, knowing perfectly well what boys he referred to. Caleb and Jonas. Though they were grown men now. It was a subject that they’d avoided talking about for ever so long, and yet it was like a big wall between them.

He braced both elbows on the table and put his fists under his chin. After several long moments, he asked, “Could we have been wrong all these years?”

“I don’t know, Samuel, but it feels wrong.”

“If we break the
Bann,
we’ll be shunned ourselves, Rebekah. Do ya think ya could stand that?”

“I don’t know. I jist know this ain’t right.”

“I have an idea.”

“What?”

“I think it’s time ta go fly fishin’.”

She slapped his arm as she dabbed at her wet eyes with the hem of her apron. “It’s not the time fer joshin’.”

“I’m serious. I do my best thinkin’ when I fly fish.”

“Ya goin’ alone? Or are ya invitin’ Caleb and Jonas?”

“None of those.” He smiled, happy that he was finally about to do something.

“I’m goin’ ta Claire’s place over on the Little Juniata ta get me some advice. She noticed my fly rod when she was here the other day and invited me ta fly fish on her property.”

“Yer gonna take advice from an Englisher? Yer gone ferhoodled, fer sure and fer certain.”

“
Jah.
An Englisher who loves Caleb, I’m guessin’.”

“Ah!” Now she understood. “Well, as long as yer not consultin’ with that crazy Cajun woman.”

“
Ach,
but she gave ya some pretty underthings. Dint know I still had it in me.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

Rebekah blushed. “Should I plan on trout fer supper tonight, Samuel?”

“No, but I do expect I’ll smell like fish.”

They smiled at each other then. Maybe there was hope.

Ann Landers of the Little Juniata . . .

Claire awakened just past dawn, as usual. No alarm necessary. Still, she lay in bed for another half hour, just thinking.

Then, with a wide yawn, she padded out to her kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker. She reached down and patted Boney on his head, which he was rubbing against her bare leg below her nightshirt while he yipped loudly. It didn’t take much to get Boney barking. The cats, being more refined, all meowed good morning to her.

It looked as if it would be another sunny day, she thought as she yawned again and glanced out her back window. Then did a double take.

There was an Amishman standing in the middle of the river, wearing hip boots and a flat-brimmed straw hat. She didn’t own the river, so of course anyone could be seen fishing there on occasion. But an Amishman? That was a first for her.

Especially since it was Caleb’s father, she realized, peering closer.

Should she call Caleb and alert him to his father’s presence? No. First of all, she was a little peeved with the guy for not making more of an effort to see her again before he left town. Yeah, she’d agreed to cutting things off. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t welcome a little coaxing on his part.

When her coffee was ready, she went out on the deck with a mug, being careful to close the door on Boney, who would disturb the fisherman. She watched for about fifteen minutes. Mr. Peachey was clearly an experienced fly fisherman. Not just in his technique, but the way he studied the hatches flying above him. At one point, he reached upward and caught one in his fist . . . probably a green drake, it being too late for mayflies. He studied it in his palm, then took a new fly from his vest and put it on his line. Soon after, he had a twenty-inch rainbow on his line, which he immediately released, in tune with the catch-and-release pattern followed by most people in the area.

Which would be really unusual for an Amishman, she realized. Their culture was pretty much based on work and day-to-day survival. Fly fishing for the fun of it just didn’t seem to jive.

But actually, the man was relaxed as he cast, drawing his line back slowly, taking in his surroundings, which indicated to her that he was using the exercise for thinking. In fact, many books had been written about the philosophy of fly fishing, even one called
All I Need to Know about Ministry I Learned from Fly Fishing.

Eventually Mr. Peachey noticed her and gave a wave, after which he pulled in his line and waded toward shore.

“Don’t stop on my account,” she yelled down to him.

He shook his head. “I’ve had enough fer today.”

When he walked up the steps to the deck, she pointed to the extra mug of coffee she’d brought out for him.

“
Denki,
” he said, sinking down to the chair beside her with a long sigh, but not before going wide-eyed at the yip-yip-yipping dog and five meowing cats lined up at the kitchen sliding door, begging to come out. “I ain’t been fly fishin’ fer years. Guess I’m a bit rusty.”

“You looked pretty good to me.”

He fidgeted. Clearly, he had something else on his mind. “I come ta talk ta ya ’bout Caleb.”

Ooookay.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, he might not appreciate us talking behind his back.”

“We need advice. Rebekah and me.”

And you’ve come to me? Oh, boy! This is a disaster in the making.
“What can I do for you?”