Wolfsbane (5 page)

Betty Jane Vincent pulled herself into a corner of the kitchen and wept.

 

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Pat moaned, collapsing on the damp ground. He had done as many pushups as his straining arms would allow, then tried to run a mile. Wobble a mile would be more like it. Now he was certain he was having a heart attack. “Why am I doing this?” he panted.

But he could think of no logical explanation for his sudden burst of exercise mania.

Pat rested for a time, then did ten more pushups and this time, instead of wobbling/running, slow jogged a few hundred feet, walked a few hundred, and repeated the process several times, down the dirt road that led to the county-maintained blacktop. He repeated that run/walk once more before sunset, then, too tired to eat, collapsed in his bed. He could not remember ever being so exhausted.

Or so sober.

 

In her dreams, she heard a howling; a howling of such fierceness she fought her way out of sleep and sat up in the bed, her heart pounding from fright. She listened carefully to the night sounds, but the howling—if it had been real—was not repeated.

She rose from the canopied bed and walked to a window, slipping into a gown. She stood for a time, gazing over the moonswept grounds, the open areas of the estate bathed in soft light, with tall, leaping shadows dotting the landscape.

So beautiful, she thought. So beautiful. Why was I never told about this lovely place? Why did
grand'mère
Bauterre keep its existence from me?

So many unanswered questions.

Janette knew she had been born in Louisiana, of course, but she had left there when she was a month old—and had never returned. Until now. Raised and educated in France, Janette had learned at a very early age not to ask questions about Louisiana, or about
grand-père
Bauterre, or the mysterious deaths of her parents.

So many unanswered questions.

Somewhere on the sprawling estate, a dog howled. But it was unlike any howling she had ever heard. It was—she searched for a word—a warning howl.

Something dark and large darted from the protection of a huge live oak. Janette watched the . . . thing lope across the yard on all fours. Then, to her amazement, the creature suddenly stood up on its hind legs, as erect as any man. The moonlight was brilliant, illuminating the grounds and the reflecting pool by the side of the house. A hexagonal
garçonnière,
on the south side of the mansion, dwarfed by the immense trees surrounding it, seemed to glow as the moonlight struck it with shafts of light. The creature moved toward the
garçonnière,
then stopped, suddenly spinning about, and turned its face upward, toward the mansion. The man/beast screamed as it spotted Janette standing in the window.

The creature was just like the one she'd seen in the villa in France.

Janette slumped to the carpeted floor in a dead faint.

She awakened by her bed, the canopy familiar and reassuring above her. Then quick fear struck her: how had she gotten in her bed? The last thing she remembered was the sight of the creature . . . and then falling to the floor.

Who had put her in the bed?

And that awful dream. She had dreamed that her grandmother was standing over her . . . but that creature in her nightmare could not have been her grandmother. Not with wild eyes and fanged teeth. And that awful-looking man . . . so pale.

No! Janette sat straight up in bed. No, it was not her grandmother. It had been her mother! But who was the bloodied man?

“Impossible!” Janette stepped from the bed and walked to the window. “That is ridiculous!” She looked down at the peaceful grounds in full light.

She brushed the nightmare away and tried to convince herself that she had seen no creature on the grounds. “It was all part of my dream,” she muttered.

She tried to convince herself of that. She tried very hard as she bathed in oiled and scented waters in the large sunken tub. But the image of the creature and the people in her dream stayed with her, unshakable.

And she knew the creature had been real. She wondered about the people in her dream. She wondered if there was truth in that, as well.

She dressed carefully . . . in a dress. For Victoria Bauterre did not approve of women in men's pants, as she referred to them. Whores paraded around in britches, she was fond of saying.

Of course, Janette owned several dozen pantsuits and at least that many jeans, but she tried to dress for meals.

She walked down the elegant curving stairs to the ground-level rooms of Amour House. Victoria's constant companion and chief of staff met her at the bottom steps. Sylvia gave Janette a disapproving glance.

“You're late,” she said. “Madame Bauterre is waiting for you.”

Since her arrival at Amour House, Sylvia had been very cold and distant.

“Sylvia? What's wrong with you? You've known me since the day I was born.”

“Night,” Sylvia corrected. “Halloween night you were born.”

“Excuse me for using the wrong noun.
Night
I was born. You've never acted this way before.”

“You were asked not to come here,” Sylvia hissed at her. “You disobeyed your
grand'mère's
wishes. Why don't you just get out! Go away!”

There was a look in the woman's eyes Janette had never before seen; her eyes were filled with hate and ugliness. It was as if Janette were looking at a stranger.

“I own part of this house,” Janette replied, steel in her tone. “I own one-half of the entire Bauterre empire. You do not speak to
me
in such a manner.”

Sylvia stiffened as if slapped. “Yes, Madame. Do forgive my impudence.” She walked away.

Phoebe, the black kitchen maid, stood in a doorway, taking in the exchange. Janette looked at her. The maid's muddy eyes were expressionless. “You have anything you'd like to add to that?” Janette asked.

“Best you leave,” Phoebe said. “Things go on here you don understand. Leave.”

“Thank you very much,” Janette replied. “But I believe I'll stay awhile.”

“Might stay longer than you intend,” Phoebe said, then walked away.

What is going on around here? Janette wondered. She walked into the dining room. Her grandmother's dark eyes bored into hers.

“You're late.”

“I was not aware I was on a timetable.” Janette sat down and picked at the melon in front of her.

The matriarch of the Beauterre family was ninety, and looked seventy. Her mind was still as sharp as any fifty-year-old's.

Too sharp, Janette had only recently begun to think. There was no hint of senility. And she did not like doctors; had never been in a hospital. She went only to a very old French GP. Janette had always thought her grandmother to be in very excellent health . . . strangely so . . . that was why she did not see doctors. Now she wondered if that was really the reason.

What was that old doctor's name in Paris? Camardelle. Yes, that was it.

Camardelle! Janette dropped her spoon.

Janette picked up the spoon and glanced at her grandmother. Victoria's hair was still thick and supple, pulled back in a bun, the bun adorned with an antique comb, gold rimmed.

Victoria sipped her morning tea and met her granddaughter's eyes. The cup she drank from was worth more than many residents of the parish made in a week. Unexpectedly, she said, “You need a man to look after you, Janette. As much a man as Lyle was. You're a lot of woman, Janette—you need a man with a steel hand, gloved in velvet.”

Janette was a lot of woman: five feet, seven inches tall, a magnificent figure with full breasts, slim waist, long, shapely legs. Her hair was black as a raven's wing catching sunlight in flight. Her eyes a dark blue, almost black when angered. Her skin was smooth and ivory colored.

She had a temper that would awe a drunken Seabee and a right cross that had once floored her ex-Green Beret husband.

“You give me too much credit,
grand'mère.
And there will never be another man like Lyle.”

“You haven't been looking,
mon joli.
You wore black for much longer than I should have allowed, cloistered in that great villa in France, seeing no one. I should have taken a cane to you and forced you out into the world.”

“Well, perhaps I will meet someone in Joyeux and . . .”

“No!” Victoria spat the word, her voice filled with venom. “There is no one in that wretched village I would allow to lay a hand on you.” Her eyes were hot with hate.

On thing hasn't changed, Janette thought: the old woman's hatred of Joyeux and all its inhabitants. Someday, perhaps soon, she will tell me why the years of hatred.

“I saw something from my window late last night,
grand'mère.”

Something clouded the old woman's eyes. “Oh? And what did you see, child?”

Their eyes met, locked. “A creature,” Janette said softly.

“Did you now? And what kind of creature did you see in your dreams?”

“It was no dream,
grand'mere,
I assure you of that. I saw it, and I heard it howl. I watched it lope across the yard, then saw it stand on its hind legs like a man. It turned, looked straight at me, and screamed.”

“You had a dream, child. Just a dream.”

Janette would not back down. “No,
grand'mère.
I did
not
have a dream. And I did not dream what happened in the villa. The creatures were the same.”

The old woman shrugged her shoulders. “You always did possess an overactive imagination.” She smiled. “Tell me, Janette: exactly where in the villa did you see this so-called creature?”

Janette flushed, opened her mouth to speak, then shut it as Sylvia walked into the dining room.

“Yes, Sylvia?” Madame Bauterre looked away from Dawn's steady gaze and flushed face.

“It's the sheriff, Madame. A Sheriff Vallot.”

“Here?” Victoria glanced at a diamond-encrusted bodice watch. “At nine o'clock in the morning? Since when do gentlemen call at this hour without an appointment? She sighed. ”I have outlived my time. Well . . . show him in, Sylvia, but first have another place set for coffee. This village may be full of ill-mannered and ignorant louts, but we will always remember our manners.”

Sheriff Edan Vallot, a man in his early thirties, wandered into the mansion, hat in hand. He was awed by all the grandeur around him. He looked at the expensive rugs on the floor and hoped he hadn't picked up any dog shit on his boots. He finally located the dining room and stood awkwardly in the archway.

“Mrs. Bauterre?” he asked, looking from one woman to the other.

“Madame Bauterre,” Victoria corrected.
“Bon?”

“Oui,
Madame,” Sheriff Vallot shifted automatically into Cajun French. “Please excuse the interruption at this unseemly hour of the morning, but something has come up that I must discuss with you.”

“S'asseoir,
” Victoria pointed to a chair at the table.

Sheriff Vallot sat.

“Cafè?”

The sheriff nodded, silently praying to whatever God looks over men silly enough to enter the field of law enforcement not to let him drop the fragile-looking cup or to let coffee dribble down his chin.

“Your message, Sheriff?” Victoria asked, after introducing him to Janette and coffee had been served.

“It's . . . ah . . . your husband's grave, Madame. It's. . . ah . . . been desecrated.”

The old woman smiled.

Why, Sheriff Vallot thought, would she smile when I tell her of vandals breaking into her husband's grave? This old woman is weird!

“When did this happen?” Victoria asked.

“It looks like perhaps several weeks ago.”

“And you are just now reporting the event to me?”

“But Madame . . . it was just reported to my office last evening,” Sheriff Vallot defended his office and himself. “I went out early this morning to see.”

“My husband's ashes?”

“Gone, Madame. I am sorry. I don't know why anyone would do such a thing.”

Madame Bauterre's sharp, piercing eyes never left Vallot's face. “You really don't, Sheriff?”

Confusion passed over the sheriffs face. “No, Madame, I really don't.”

She smiled. “You have lived in this parish long?”

“About twenty years, Madame. My father moved here from Vermillion Parish.”

“Ah,” Victoria said. “Well . . . my husband was not well liked in this parish, Sheriff.” She waved her hand, indicating the mansion, the grounds, Janette. “We are not well liked.”

Sheriff Vallot remained silent. He knew almost nothing about the Bauterre family. Nobody ever said anything about them. Some . . . tiny bit of memory flashed through his brain, moving too quickly to be seized. Something his father had said just days before he died.

“You know, of course, how my husband died?” Victoria asked.

“No, Madame. I do not know.”

“The records . . . ?”

“There are no records,” Sheriff Vallot said. “The courthouse burned some years ago. A very mysterious fire, I'm told.” He smiled. “I was only four at the time.”

A child, Victoria thought. “Yes, I remember hearing about that.” She looked at Janette; her grandchild was poised on the edge of her chair. Victoria's smile was not pleasant. “My husband was murdered in 1934, Sheriff.” Janette's eyes widened. “His body was taken to the local
forgeron's
shop and burned to ash, the ashes buried in a steel box.”