Jolie Blonde (Vigilare Book 3) (5 page)

Alonzo looks at his wristwatch. “Come on now, Winona,” he mutters to himself as she and Brianna are inside getting ready. “I swear, I spen’ half ma life waitin’ on a woman. Grew up waitin’ on ma mama. Spose I’ll die waitin’ on yers,” he speaks to Lon.

The word
die
sinking in, Lon questions, “What’s it like, Pop? To lose a parent?”

Alonzo leans forward, resting his elbows on his bounding knees attempting to cease their activity. “It’s lonely, son. Kinda feels like ya don’ belong ta no one no more.” He tucks his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Ma daddy an I had diff’cult relation, as mos’ fadders an sons do. But, he was always dare when I needed him. Dat was a comfert ta me. When he died, dat comfert died wid him. Nothin’ replaces da love of a parent.”

The inside door opens, propelling Alonzo to stand. Lon grabs the outside screen door, swiftly opening it for his mother and Brianna.

“Mama, you look beautiful,” Lon says, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek, taking in the sight of her in an attractive and suiting black dress.

“Why Missus Castille,” Alonzo pipes, holding his hand over his heart, “you shore are finer dan snuff. But you ain’ near as dusty.” With the wink of an eye, he places a kiss on top of her hand, then guides it to the crook of his arm for a proper escort.

Winona playfully pats his hand, giggling at his rustic compliment.

Brianna appears in the doorway, taking Lon by surprise with her drastic change in hair color. Her golden blonde locks are gone. The remaining short, spiky sprigs are fashionably mussed and dark auburn.

“You don’t like it,” Brianna says, her tone slightly challenging and defiant.

“Um,” Lon searches for words, noticing how the deep crimson color accentuates her emerald green eyes. “It’s nice,” he recovers. “Makes your eyes stand out.”

She flexes her eyebrows accompanied with a huff. “Might give folks something to talk about, other than the fact that my parents are dead.”

At a loss for words, Lon extends his arm. Brianna reluctantly accepts, the two of them following loosely behind his parents.

“What’s dat all ’bout?” Alonzo whispers to Winona.

“Maybe she didn’t like being called Jolie Blonde,” Winona jokes about the complimentary nickname her husband quickly assigned Brianna.

“Yeah, Jolie
Roux,”
he emphasizes the Cajun French slang for redhead, “dudn’ quite carry da same ring.” He lowers his voice, speaking out the side of his mouth, “Da girl hasn’ gone mental, has she?”

Winona chuckles. “No, dear. Remember that time you shaved off your mustache?”

“I do recall.”

“Why did you do so?”

Alonzo shrugs. “Was time fer a change, I guess.”

“Well, this is no different,” Winona coaches.

He looks over his shoulder at Brianna and Lon, returning his attention to his wife. “You shore? She looks diff’rent.”

Winona guffs at his obvious conclusion.

“Not jus’ her hair. Da girl’s not da same,
Win,”
he uses the affectionate moniker. “She looks angry.”

“She probably is. It’ll be okay.” She pats his arm. “This too shall pass.”

Alonzo maintains his trajectory toward a docked airboat, their chariot to the other side of the bayou where their car awaits near the highway to transport them to town. “You hear dat?” he asks, the sound of a boat engine approaching. “We spectin’ comp’ny?”

“New Orleans Sheriff’s Department,” a male voice sounds over a loudspeaker as a Marine Patrol boat rounds the corner. Two sheriff’s deputies stand guard, their posture authoritative.

“What’s dis all ’bout?” Alonzo stops, his arm protectively around Winona, he waits for Lon and Brianna to catch up to them.

The deputy who is driving coasts the boat up on the embankment beside the Castilles’ modest airboat as his partner jumps out approaching them, his manner determined. “We’re looking for Alonzo Castille,” the deputy informs.

“Ya foun’ him,” Alonzo speaks up.

“Junior. Alonzo Castille Jr.,” the deputy readdresses.

“I tink dis boy’s insinuatin’ I’m old,” Alonzo jests to Winona before returning his attention back to the young deputy. “An what bidness you got wid ma son?” Alonzo challenges, his gaze investigating back and forth between the deputy and Lon.

The deputy looks to Lon. “According to our reports, your son was at Marsh Creek last Saturday night. With Mr. Edward Bentley and his wife.”

“Yes, I was,” Lon pipes.

Brianna tugs on his arm, quieting him.

“If you would kinely remove yerself from ma property,” Alonzo begins. “We’re headed ta da Bentleys’ fun’ral. Shorely yer bidness can wait ’til a more ’propriate time.”

“Unfortunately, sir, it cannot,” the deputy stands firm. “I apologize for the ill-timing, but we have a warrant from the judge to take Junior in for questioning.”

“If you have questions, I’m shore ma son has answers. Why don’ ya jus’ go ’head an ask. Now.”

“What kind of questions?” Winona interjects, growing defensive along with her husband.

“Well, you see, ma’am,” the deputy begins, “Mr. and Mrs. Bentley, their car was pulled from the swamp. After thorough investigation, it seems as though the reason they veered off into the marsh is because they didn’t have any brakes. The brake lines to the vehicle were severed.”

“And what does that have to do with our son?” Winona further questions.

The deputy looks down at the ground before returning his attention to the Castilles. “Junior was one of the last folks to see the Bentleys…alive.”

“What?” Lon crows, insulted by the insinuation that he would have anything to do with their severed brake lines.

“Technically, my father’s team was the last people to see him and my mother before the accident,” Brianna defends, her arm still snugly wrapped around Lon’s. “Are you taking them in for questioning, too?”

“No, ma’am. We have no evidence of such a team,” the deputy answers.

“It’s in the report,” Lon adds, “the one I gave to the police the night they took Brianna and me in for our statements. Mr. Bentley called his team. His Astrobiology buddies from his work.”

“Did you see them? His team?” the deputy asks.

“No. How could I see them? Mr. Bentley sent me back to his house to check on Brianna before they even arrived,” Lon rebukes.

“Therein lies the problem,” the deputy says. “You didn’t see the team. Nobody saw the team. There’s no evidence of such a team at the marsh. Only your tracks. And the Bentleys.”

“What about the skull?” Brianna presses. “The one Lon and I found at the river.”

“Ma’am, I don’t know nothing about no skull,” the deputy replies, aggravated by the premise of some teenage lore.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” she contends. “The same as you don’t know anything about my father’s team. They took the skull. They probably cut my father’s brake lines, too!” her voice on the rise with the surfacing mystery behind her parents’ death.

“Little girl, you can’t go accusing folks to save your boyfriend’s hide,” the deputy scolds.

“Little girl?” Lon bites, offended by the condescending title. Breaking free of Brianna, he steps challengingly toward the deputy.

The deputy rests his hand on his gun belt.

Alonzo extends his arm, catching Lon across his chest, holding him at bay. “You an yer pardner,” Alonzo speaks to the deputy, “you boys go on ’bout yer bidness. Go back an tell dat judge I’ll bring ma son in fer questions…after da wake.”

“Afraid I can’t do that, sir,” the deputy stands firm.

“Well den, I guess we got us a pro’lem, don’ we, officer?” Alonzo turns, facing him. “You wanna take ma boy in, an I won’ allow dat.”

The deputy motions to his partner for backup. His ally jumps out of the boat, heading in their direction. “We’ll take you, too, Mr. Castille. If that’s the way you want it,” he challenges.

“Now, there’s no need for that,” Winona says, inserting herself between Alonzo and the deputy. She turns to her husband. “Lon has done nothing wrong. Once the judge hears such, he will have no other option but to release him.”

“Dis idn’ ’bout da truth, Win,” Alonzo warns. “Dis is an ambush. A setup. I refuse ta let our son be da sacr’ficial lamb.”

“Nobody’s setting anybody up. Nobody’s accusing anyone,” the deputy assures. “We just have to take the boy in for questioning. That’s all. It’s standard procedure.”

“I’ll go,” Lon mediates.

Brianna laces her hand through his. “I’m going with you.”

“Brie,” his voice tender, Lon faces her. His attention is drawn to her stunning emerald greens, her new hair color seemingly lighting them up against her porcelain skin. “You can’t miss your parents’ funeral on account of me.”

“But I don’t want them to take you, Lon.” She bites down on her lip attempting to force the welling tears in her eyes to standby. “You’re all I’ve got.” Swiping at her face, ridding it of moisture, she turns to the deputy, her pent-up anger releasing, “You’re really going to do this? On a day like today? Have you no conscience? How about your parents? Do you still have your parents? I don’t!”

“Brie,” Lon tries to quiet her.

“They’re dead. D-E-A-D…dead! And now you’re going to take him, too?” She bends over picking up a handful of dirt and wings it at the deputy.

“Brianna.” Lon swaddles his arms around her, forcing her hands to her sides, her body trembling in his grasp.

The deputy wields his handcuffs as his partner does the same, preparing to use them on whomever they have to.

“Now, there’s no need for those either,” Winona voices her displeasure with the cuffs. “Just give us a minute here.” She goes to Lon, helping him contain and comfort Brianna.

“It’s going to be alright, Brie,” Lon says. “You go with Mama and Pop.”

Brianna looks past him, unwilling to hear his sentiment. Her amped body shuddering, tears running down her face, as she hatefully eyes the deputies.

“Mama,” Lon addresses, handing Brianna off into her care.

“Please don’t let them take him, Mrs. Castille. Please,” Brianna begs as she watches Lon walk away toward the deputies’ custody.

“Hush, now, sweet girl.” Winona holds her tight. “He’ll be back.”

“My parents were supposed to come back, too,” she laments.

“I know, dear. I know,” Winona consoles, tears now surfacing in her own eyes.

Lon stops by his father, giving him a gentle hug. “It’ll be fine, Pop. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“I don’ like it, son,” Alonzo warns, pulling Lon to him for a more firm embrace.

“Judge is expecting us back,” the deputy says, displaying the handcuffs once again, a warning to keep the goodbyes short.

“I’m coming,” Lon speaks firmly, breaking his father’s hold and trekking off with the deputies. Before climbing into the boat, he looks back to his parents and Brianna, a brave smile on his face. “Save me a plate. I’ll be back for dinner.”

I wanna wrap myself around you

It’s your freedom I desire

Strap on your leathers

Take me out to your easy rider

I wanna drive tonight

“‘Jolie Blonde, ma chère ’tit fille. Tu m’as quitté pour t’en aller…’” the haunting voice of an aged male detainee rings through the holding cell at Orleans Parish Jail. His tone matches the night—somber.

Brianna sits, her back and head propped against the brick wall, knees hugged to her chest. Opposite her, just on the other side of the steel bars separating them, Lon’s posture and position mirror hers. His single cell apart from the main holding station, as he is a minor, provides them some privacy.

“Apparently everyone in this town knows that song.” Brianna rolls her eyes at the unwarranted handle given to her by Alonzo Sr., surely inspired by the tragic Cajun waltz.

Lon nods, a faint smile passing. “All the old-timers, anyway.”

“What does it mean?”

“Pretty blonde.” He subconsciously glances at her hair, no longer golden.

“I got that part,” she dismisses. “The song. What’s it about?”

“So goes the legend, a prisoner wrote it about his lover.”

“How fitting,” Brianna huffs, eyeing their surroundings.

“Apparently she left him for another man.”

“And then what?”

Lon shrugs. “That’s it. He had a pretty blonde lover, and she left.”

“Well, that’s hardly a song,” she disputes. “Did they get back together at the end?”

“Nope.”

“Huh,” she contemplates. “Wouldn’t make for a very good music video.”

He smiles at her, enamored with her conclusion. “I don’t think it’s so much about the lyrics. Pop…he plays the accordion. He says Cajun music is a feeling. A beat. You know, a rhythm. You ever dance to Cajun music?”

Brianna looks at him, her eyebrows perked, as if he should know the answer to that question. Returning her stare to the concrete wall opposite them, she asks, “Have you?”

“Yeah. Mama used to dance with me all the time when I was a kid.” He chuckles with the memories. “I can waltz pretty good. Mama says every young man should know a few basic moves.” He grins. “She says a man who can dance always gets the girl. That’s how Pop nabbed her. At a bayou dance.”