The Red-Hot Cajun (14 page)

“What thunderbolt?” her mother wanted to know.

“The love thunderbolt,” Tante Lulu informed her. “Dontcha know nuthin’? Val and my Rene is prob’ly in love by now.”

Valerie’s mother bared her teeth at Tante Lulu, who just smiled innocently. “Over my dead body,”

Simone said. Then she looked pointedly at Valerie and said, “I’ll see you at home.” She spun on her heels and walked away.

“Is my rental car still in the lot?” she asked Remy.

Remy nodded. ‘Tee-John went to get it for you. He’ll be pulling up any minute now. He just got his driver’s permit and any excuse to drive is—”

A black BMW pulled to a screeching stop just outside the chain-link fence. How he started the car without her keys, she didn’t want to know. Country music blared from the radio through the open windows and sunroof. Shania Twain was bemoaning the fact that it only hurt when she breathed.

Yep. A perfect commentary on her life.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Home not-so-sweet home

Val was back home in Houma.

Here in her bedroom in the historic mini-mansion, the walls seemed to crowd her. Her mother’s family had lived here for 150 years or more. She wondered how she had managed to live here for eighteen or so years.

The room was decorated the same as it had been when she was a toddler, the same as it probably had been before the Civil War. Red and black Aubusson carpet on the floor, dark mahogany four-poster bed with heavy gold brocade bedspread matching the tasselled drapes that hung about the narrow floor-to-ceiling windows. Carved plaster moldings around the ceiling with an ornate center medallion. Priceless antique furniture passed through generations of Creole families, mostly in the federal style using native cypress stained to resemble the satinwoods so popular in the nineteenth century. On the walls were original signed Audubon prints of bayou birds and a massive oil painting of a Southern belle having her fortune told by a black mammy.

Formal and dark, that’s how she would describe it.

Definitely not the warm, cozy room that a toddler would feel comfortable in. Not a teenager, either.

And God forbid that she put a crayon mark on the museum-quality wallpaper or get a glass stain on the Hepplewhite nesting tables. Her eyes darted quickly to the closet, then away just as quickly, not wanting to be reminded of what happened when little girls were bad.

Hard to believe that only twenty-four hours had passed since she’d been deep in the bayou. Even harder to believe that she actually wished she were back there. She was drowning in all the distasteful memories this showcase of a room brought back to her, not to mention the crap awaiting her this day.

She had three appointments with the news media scheduled over the next few hours. But first, she had to face her mother, who wasn’t speaking to her after their shouting match the night before. It hadn’t been shouting per se; her mother had civilized shouting down to an art form. Also gathered below, ready to pounce, were her grandmother, Dixie Breaux, her aunts Madeline, Margo, and Inez Breaux, and the long-time family lawyer, Armand Cuvier. Her mother, it turned out, had drawn up a plan—a typed-up plan—of specific things Valerie was expected to do about her recent “kidnapping.” It had infuriated her mother that she wouldn’t even read the damn thing or fall in with her strategy for milking her recent adventure for all it was worth. She was talking money, jail time, political benefits, personal gain. In essence, according to her mother, Valerie had the wherewithal to bury the entire LeDeux clan and the bayou environmentalists along with them. Her mother had wanted to have the police and FBI present, but Valerie had put her foot down then. “No police. No FBI. If and when there are charges to be filed, I will contact authorities. No one else.”

If that wasn’t enough, she’d found several interesting messages on her answering machine.

Elton Davis, of the small penis, had called three times. Most of his messages were pretty much like the first. “Hey, babe! How ya doin’? You didn’t really think I fired you, did you? Ha, ha, ha! I’ve got a great idea for you. Call me.”

Hmmm. There must be something in it for dear old Elton. Either his tail was in the vice for firing her, or he had some sleazy idea that only she could do and thus make him look good.

Amos Goodman, head of Trial TV and boss of Elton Davis, had called, too. “You and I need to talk, Ms Breaux. Call me when you can. I’d like to have a meeting, face to face.”

Hmmm. She’d only met the head honcho on a few occasions the past three years, and then strictly in group settings, such as a company cocktail party. It must be important.

One of the cameramen she worked with a few years ago, Justin Dugas, had called, too. “Hey, Val, if the rumors are true that you’re considering a bayou documentary, count me in. I do freelance work now, and I would love to tackle that job. I’m from Chauvin, in case you didn’t know. My maw-maw and paw-paw were shrimp fishermen here before God was a baby. I’m part Houma Indian. Anyhow. Here’s my number.” Justin was a twenty-something young man who’d covered a notorious child slavery trial with her two years ago. He had black hair that hung down his back, an athlete’s body from years of running track, and a real talent for videography and photography. In fact he’d won a Pulitzer for some photos he’d taken in Afghanistan two years ago.

Hmmm. She was intrigued that Justin called her... and that he believed she’d consider such a non-profit, low-profile kind of project.

Missing from her phone queue were any calls at all from the LeDeuxs... in particular, Rene. She really had thought he would have called her to see how she’d fared. Or just to talk.

On the one hand, she wanted to discuss her out-of-character proposition and why he hadn’t taken it to its natural conclusion—and what he thought of her now.

On the other hand, she was mortified by her behavior. She’d never been the aggressor in sex before, but she’d practically jumped Rene’s bones without invitation. Maybe it was best just to drop it. Pretend it had never happened.

Furthermore, she thought his family would have tried to pressure her not to file charges.

Nothing. They were leaving it up to her.

She didn’t know whether to be impressed or pissed. Whatever. Right now, she had to go face the big guns— her family—and after that, the lesser guns—the news media. She walked over to a free-standing mirror in an antique oval frame and checked herself over one last time: a tailored black silk blouse, open at the neck, its collar folded neatly over the lapels of a crisp white linen suit, great-grandmother Gisette’s pearl drop earrings, black designer pumps, more than enough makeup to accommodate the cameras, and not a hair out of place to accommodate her mother. If nothing else, Valerie did professional woman to a tee.

She walked down the wide central staircase and through the double-wide corridor to the back veranda, not once glancing at her surroundings, not even the paintings of family members in ornate frames who watched her progress. This was the house that
Architectural Digest
had once declared “a masterpiece of Southern charm” and whose meticulous landscaping was deemed “an ode to antebellum Louisiana and its history” by
Southern Living
magazine just last year. That old cliché “a house is not a home” popped into her mind just then.

The Breaux posse was seated around a large, round, white wrought-iron table, along with their attorney. They were all fortifying themselves with mint juleps, a specialty of Ada Rose Johnson, their long-time housekeeper.

Ada Rose, whose plump body was stuffed into a traditional maid’s uniform and orthopaedic shoes, winked at her from behind the gang and raised a mint julep from the tray she was carrying as a silent question to her. Valerie shook her head. No liquor today. She wanted her brain clear and alert.

She noticed her mother giving her a once-over to see if her attire was appropriate. Since she said nothing, Valerie assumed she was presentable.

After saying hello to all the other ladies present, whom she’d already greeted the night before when they dropped by the house, she leaned down and gave the lawyer a kiss on the cheek. His snow-white hair, goatee, and moustache were precisely cut and groomed, as always. His white Palm Beach suit epitomized the Southern gentleman of old.

“How are you doing, Armand?”

“Jus’ fine, darlin’. I heah ya’ll had a mite of trouble.”

“Just a mite,” she said, and sat down in the empty chair next to him.

“What are you plannin’ on doin’ ‘bout it?”

“Nothing,” she said.

A communal gasp sounded from her family members.

“For now,” she added.

Her mother narrowed her eyes at her. If they were alone, she probably would have slapped her face...

or tried to. She was too big to shove in a closet.

Her aunts exchanged meaningful glances as if they expected no less of her. Growing up, she had always been the perfect one, but in recent years her mother claimed that she’d been yankee-ized, a sin in the South. It came from too much living up North.

“Precisely what did happen, m’dear?” Armand asked her.

“Environmentalists want to do a documentary on Southern Louisiana and the bayou. For some reason, they thought I would be a good person to do it.”

“Which environmentalists?” her grandmother asked sharply. “Rene LeDeux?” Her grandmother had been a lobbyist for the oil companies for years till her retirement last year at the age of seventy-five. She still acted as a consultant for Cypress Oil. Dixie Breaux was not and never had been the poster girl for warm, cuddly grandma.

Valerie nodded. “Among others.”

“You oughta sue his pants off. The nerve of those LeDeuxs. Scum, all of them!” It was Inez Breaux speaking now. Inez was a U.S. congresswoman and the mother of Valerie’s cousin Sylvie, who’d embarrassed her mother mightily a few years back by marrying Lucien LeDeux. “That Rene had the nerve to come by my office last year and try to get me to vote against oil subsidies.

“Why you?” Aunt Madeline asked Valerie.

Precisely what I asked, though it sounds a bit offensive coming from you, Auntie.
“I went to school with Rene. He knew that I was involved in television and assumed, incorrectly, that I would be the right person to do a documentary.”

Her aunts Madeline and Margo owned a mail-order tea company, which had been on the opposite side of the courtroom from Lucien LeDeux on one occasion. He’d made them look foolish, to say the least.

There was no love lost.

“Did he kidnap you?” Armand asked, point blank.

“Actually, Rene had nothing to do with my going to his place.”
Oh, you owe me big-time for that one,
Rene.
“It was all the idea of his friends Joe Bob and Maddie Doucet from the Shrimpers Association.”

Well, that was a good job of evading the question.

“Don’t play games with us, Valerie,” her mother said. “I am not buying this story of yours. You would not have left your luggage and handbag in a rental car at the airport. You would have called to let me know where you were going and for how long. And, by the way, when were you going to let me know you got fired?”

Valerie felt her face heat up with embarrassment Did her mother have to bring that up in front of everyone? Actually, by the nodding heads, she could only assume that they’d already discussed her “failure”

in the workplace prior to her arrival.

Before she had a chance to defend herself, Armand squeezed her hand and said, “You always have a place at my law firm.”

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, “but that won’t be necessary. Besides, I’m not sure I am fired.” She saw the aunts about to question her and raised a hand to halt them. “My job prospects are not the issue here.”

“You’re right, Valerie,” her grandmother said. “Your work performance is not at issue here. Family is.

And, frankly, your attitude is not helping this family. Not at all.”

Valerie stiffened with affront.

“My business is being attacked by those environmental psychos,” her mother said. “People are afraid to buy real estate in my new development because of the unfounded concerns these people have raised. Plus, they don’t like having to drive through picket lines to get to their homes. It would be just like those psychos to try to get at me through my daughter. Imagine how I felt when the press said you might be working with them. A knife in the back, that’s what it was.”

Why does everything always come back to you, Mother?

“And those LeDeuxs,” Aunt Margo practically sputtered. “Someone ought to put the whole lot in jail.”

“There could be political ramifications if people get stirred up about pollution again,” Aunt Inez added.

“And a massive voter registration drive based on the so-called green agenda could very well spell disaster to my career.”

“Are you saying you’re in favor of pollution, Aunt Inez?” she asked with exaggerated shock.

“Of course not. Don’t be insulting. What I do favor is jobs over some measly tree-huggers’ latest complaint.”