“Gonna be a nice day after all,” said Carmela, feeling upbeat. She had a good feeling about this little trip. She felt sure they’d obtain some sort of resolution. Or new information, at the very least.
Jamie Redmond’s home was instantly recognizable from the photographs Carmela had brought along. Though not quite as rustic as a traditional bayou camp house, the two-story building still had that same hunkered down, home-sawed look. Only now, of course, the place was deserted and half falling down.
The front door hung on a single hinge, the little overhang that had sheltered it had tumbled down. Every window pane was broken or gone. Exterior paint had long since been eaten away by heat and unbelievable humidity, beaten away by rain. Pared down to bare wood, the house was a not unattractive silvered gray.
Carmela wondered who owned this property now. Was the title still in Jamie Redmond’s name? Or had someone purchased it years ago and maybe just used the land for hunting and fishing? She decided that was something else she might have to look into.
“This is very creepy,” said Ava. “Kinda like that old farmhouse in
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
.” She rolled her eyes, ever the devotee of horror flicks. “And you know what happened
there,
” she added.
“This isn’t Texas and I’ll venture to say nobody’s fired up a chainsaw around here in years,” said Carmela.
“The place does seem a tad overgrown,” commented Ava.
Ava’s words were a complete understatement. Perched on the edge of a pond, the out-buildings were practically shrouded in kudzu. Mangroves had taken over where the yard had been.
“Look-it,” said Ava as they finally climbed out of the car. “Alligators.”
Way out in the middle of the pond, a half-dozen little rough humps stuck up out of the water. To the untrained eye they looked like half-sunken logs. Or rocks. But Carmela and Ava knew better. Those were the tell-tale backs of alligators.
Once hunted to the point of endangerment, alligators had made a nice recovery. The hunting season in Louisiana was now just one month long, the month of September. And many commercial alligator farms were required to return up to seventeen percent of their juvenile alligators back to the wild. So the snaggle-toothed
lagato
enjoyed a robust population.
“They won’t bother us,” said Carmela, “as long as we’re active and moving around. But we’ll keep the dogs in the car just to be safe.”
“So what do you want to do?” asked Ava. “Just snoop? Check the place out and see what we can see?”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Carmela. “What if I looked inside the house and you took a stroll around the out-buildings?”
“Sure,” said Ava. “But be careful. That old place looks like a stiff breeze could bring it crashing down around you.”
“Don’t worry,” said Carmela, heading for the main house. “I’ll tread lightly.”
DUCKING UNDER FALLEN BOARDS, CARMELA clambered over the front porch and stepped through what was left of the front door.
“Hello,” she called out, even though she knew no one was there.
Gazing around, Carmela’s first impression was that the place looked like a
Wizard of Oz
house. A house that had been ripped from its foundation, spun around inside an F-6 tornado a few hundred times, then slammed back down to earth. Broken furniture lay everywhere, old pictures hung catty-wampus on walls, plaster had crumbled off to reveal lath board and, in some places, interior wiring.
Ava’s right. This place is spooky and looks like it could collapse at any moment
.
Glass crunched underfoot as Carmela moved through what must have been the front room, the parlor, and into the kitchen.
There wasn’t much left. Wooden cupboards had long since been torn from the walls and pitched outside. Carmela could see what was left of them lying in the overgrown back-yard. Twisted black wires, the old connections for an oven that no longer existed, poked from the wall. A sink, rusty and dirty and piled with dust-coated dishes, was the only thing left.
What happened here?
wondered Carmela.
When the Redmonds died, was this house rented out to tenants who just let it go? Or was it put on the housing market where it just languished?
The notion of a house that had once hummed with people and their things, had once been cozy and secure, and then had fallen into utter disrepair, was depressing. Someone had probably hung curtains here once. Had lovingly prepared meals. Had mopped floors and polished wood. Had read books, played music, sang their child to sleep.
Carmela wandered back toward the parlor and carefully made her way up a narrow flight of steps. The upstairs was small and in slightly better condition. Two small bedrooms, a bathroom, and a storage closet occupied this floor. Peeking into one of the bedrooms, Carmela was startled to see what looked like an old sleeping bag.
Or is it just a pile of rags?
She tiptoed in. Well, it was
something
. Maybe a dirty old comforter that had been scrunched up.
Has someone been sleeping up here?
It was certainly possible. And the notion of someone hiding out here gave her a serious case of the creeps.
Time to go. Check around outside, see if I can find a family plot or something.
Descending the stairs, she heard a noise, a faint scuttle, on the front porch.
Ava?
Bending low as she ducked through the front door, trying to avoid shattered wood and splinters, Carmela was intent on making a fast exit. But as she began to straighten up, her head ran smack dab into a very hard, immovable object.
Whack!
The blow rocked Carmela’s entire being and sent her crumpling to her knees. Still wondering what had happened, not comprehending that she’d just been hit, Carmela uttered a loan groan as she struggled to her feet. She took three, maybe four stumbling steps and then she was falling, falling, falling and the lights winked out.
Minutes later, she was aware of warm sunshine on her face and a buzzing, a terrible reeling in her head. But to move, to actually move, would require an act of sheer heroism.
Ava, where are you? Help me. Something happened. I whacked my head or somebody whacked it for me.
Slowly, like a diver coming up for air, Carmela began to regain consciousness. Struggling mightily, Carmela pushed herself up on one arm. Sunlight glinted off the nearby pond. A gentle breeze riffled her hair. And the alligators, the humpy bumpy alligators that had been way out in the middle of the pond, seemed strangely closer.
Alligators? Are they really there or am I just seeing things? Oh, lord, my head aches.
Carmela closed her eyes and fell back. The pounding in her head was making her almost physically ill, and she had to suck in air quickly to avoid getting dry heaves.
She lay there panting for a few minutes until she was finally able to get a grip on things. But when Carmela finally opened her eyes a second time, they were immediately drawn to the alligators. The humps of their backs were more defined, eyes and snouts protruded just above the surface of the water. They had definitely moved in closer! And this time Carmela understood that they were very, very real!
Got to get out of here! Got to haul ass!
Carmela knew she had to move, but her brain still kept going fuzzy. She could clearly hear Boo and probably Poobah barking off in the background somewhere, but the synapses still weren’t firing properly.
Then she was aware of footsteps nearby and a sharp cry of alarm. And warm hands quickly encircling her shoulders.
Ava. Dear, dear Ava.
“Get up!” screamed Ava. “Now! Those damn gators have got you in their sites!” She grabbed one of Carmela’s arms and tugged hard. “Holy shit, Carmela, they’ve moved in at least fifty feet! I think they’re still coming!”
Carmela fought for consciousness even as she struggled to her feet. Ava charged a few steps forward, cartwheeling her arms and letting out whoops and hoots that would have been worthy of one of Jean Lafitte’s pirates.
“Heeyoo! Get away, gators! Shoo, you ugly buggers!”
The alligators seemed to hesitate a moment, trying to decide what to do. Then they slowly slid backwards in the water, their powerful feet and tails acting as silent-running reverse motors. In the alligator universe, anything taller and larger than they were wasn’t usually worth the tussle.
Ava came circling back to help Carmela. “Did you fall?” she babbled. “Did you hit your head?”
“Not sure,” said Carmela, tentatively. “Somebody could’ve whacked me one.”
“I thought I heard a car,” said Ava. “I was walking down this path though the woods ’cause I thought it might lead to a family plot or something. Anyway, I heard it and I thought you might be leaving! I got panicky!”
“I heard someone outside,” said Carmela, “and thought it was you!”
“I
knew
that blue car was following us,” Ava fumed. “I had a bad
feeling
. Damn, if it turns out to be that weird Margot person, I’m gonna kick her skinny butt from here to next Tuesday.”
“What if it was Dunbar? Or Blaine?” asked Carmela. Ava was still pulling her and half carrying her toward the car.
“One thing you should know about me,” said Ava fiercely. “I’m an equal opportunity ass-kicker.” She looked at Carmela closely and her eyes suddenly teared up. “You’re really hurt, aren’t you?”
“Don’t know,” said Carmela, still struggling to walk on her own. Ava let go and Carmela tottered a few steps, stopped, then reached a hand up to gingerly touch the back of her head. She winced. There was an enormous bump that felt like it was growing rapidly larger with each passing second.
“Do you need stitches?” Ava asked as she led Carmela to an old tree stump and eased her down into a sitting position. “Ooh, jeez. It looks like you got bonked pretty hard,” she said as she gently parted Carmela’s hair.
“It hurts like hell,” groaned Carmela, trying to pull away.
“Shush,” said Ava. “Keep still and let me take a look.”
Carmela finally held still and let Ava inspect her aching head.
“No gash or nothin’,
cher,
” said Ava. “But you’ve got a bump the size of a golf ball. You’re gonna have a killer headache.”
“I already do,” said Carmela.
“We better stop and get a can of Coke.”
“I don’t think I could swallow a drop,” protested Carmela. “I still feel woozy and sick to my stomach.”
“Not to drink,” said Ava, helping Carmela back up and over toward the passenger side of the car. “To hold against your poor little head.”
Chapter 17
T
HREE squares of melted chocolate formed a rich, dark puddle in the bottom of the sauce pan, as Ava stirred in water, watched the mixture thicken and bubble, then whisked in the rest of her ingredients. When the hot chocolate concoction was perfect, Ava poured a frothy serving into a large ceramic mug and carried it in to Carmela, who was holed up in the bathroom taking an extended hot shower.
“I’m gonna set this on the counter here,” Ava told her as she stepped into the warm, steamed-up bathroom.
Carmela’s head poked out from behind the shower curtain and billows of steam poured out. “Set what?”
“This cup of bubbling brown sugar hot chocolate,” Ava told her.
“What?” squawked Carmela. “You told me you couldn’t cook! You told me you never cooked!”
“Making hot chocolate doesn’t qualify as cooking,” said Ava, squinting at the fogged-up mirror. “It’s more like whipping up a little comfort.” She paused. “Do I look like I’m gettin’ a pimple? Sure I am! I had a teeny little bump this morning and now it’s glowing like a tiki torch!”
“Your face looks fine,” said Carmela as she reached out, grabbed the mug, and took a sip. The hot chocolate was rich and creamy and redolent with brown sugar. Even with her hair streaming down in wet tendrils and her face sans makeup, Carmela suddenly looked like she was in seventh heaven. “This is delicious!” she exclaimed.
“Of course it is,” said Ava. “But I have to tell you, I pretty much follow Sweetmomma Pam’s recipe. So it’s really her creation, not mine.”
“Whatever magic you worked, it’s fantastic,” said Carmela.
Pulling open the door to Carmela’s medicine cabinet, Ava rummaged around and eventually came up with a bottle of Motrin. “No witch hazel or nothin’ for my face, huh? Too bad.” She snapped the cap off the Motrin and shook out one of the orange tablets into her hand. “Take this,” she instructed Carmela as she held the tablet out to the shower curtain.
Carmela’s hand came out and grabbed the tablet. She popped it into her mouth and took a follow-up sip of cocoa. “This drink is so
good,
” she declared again.
“Good is when we get that nasty bump on your head knocked down a little more,” said Ava. “I sure hope your poor brain didn’t get all jiggled around inside your skull.”
Ducking back under the shower spray, Carmela said: “My brain’s been jiggled for years. Why else would I have married Shamus Allan Meechum?”
“Good point,” said Ava. “And don’t stay in there too long. Looks like your wallpaper’s starting to peel. Which could be a serendipitous thing, since you haven’t done a lick of decorating for almost two whole months.”
Ten minutes later, Carmela emerged from her bathroom wrapped in a white terry cloth bathrobe and smelling of lavender soap. She looked scrubbed, rested, and considerably more relaxed. “Something smells good,” she said.
“That something is dinner,” Ava told her.
“Now I know I’ve died and gone to heaven,” said Carmela, plopping down at the table where Ava had arranged two place settings and a small array of twinkling votive candles.
“Now don’t go gettin’ all moony on me,” warned Ava. “Because I didn’t fix much. Just a little soup.”