Chapter 4

THE MOURNING AFTER

Mourners queued like ants to make their appearance in the vestibule of the cathedral for the funeral mass on Tuesday. Cousins I hadn’t seen in a decade or two had arrived from homes scattered across the South, some with grown children and grandchildren I’d never seen. Business friends and foes alike filed in, many I had seen last evening, some I had not seen in years, all looking as pious and contrite as they thought befitted the occasion.

The parade to the graveside service at the family mausoleum must have stretched five miles south along Highway 90 and managed to span the bulk of the afternoon, followed by several of Ethel’s nieces and nephews joining us for an early evening potluck meal provided by neighbors and friends. Several planned to stay over in a couple of spare rooms upstairs and head out after breakfast. Ethel was visibly exhausted, but she managed a stoic front, though her face looked drawn and pale. As for me, I endured the camaraderie, joined in the reminiscences with cousins as I ate my way through the chicken casserole, the three-bean salad, the chocolate cake.

Relieved when the ritual was in my rear view, I crashed early, slept soundly, and woke with the chickens. Literally. Ethel’s rooster jarred me out of a dream about thugs speeding after me in a James Bond-style car chase hours before dawn and just moments before I would have flown off a cliff at 70 miles an hour. Once I figured out where I was, I was wide-eyed, so I dragged myself out of bed onto the chilly wood floor and found my slippers.

Leaving my bedside lamp on and the door ajar so I could see to walk down the stairs, I felt my way along the hallway to the kitchen at the rear of the house to start the coffee. To my surprise, behind the swinging door, the kitchen was lit up like a shopping mall, while a local AM station spouted off the early farm report. Squinting in the glare, I saw Aunt Ethel at her usual post hovering over the stove. I would have thought, since she no longer had to feed breakfast to ten hired hands, she would have broken the habit of pre-dawn culinary feats.

“My land, Aitchie. You startled me!” she exclaimed when she saw me.

“I’m sorry. What time is it, anyway?” I grumbled, rubbing my eyes in the blinding light as I followed my nose to the coffee pot and found a cup in the cupboard.

“It’s only 5 AM, cher.”

“Good God, Aunt Ethel! You still get up this early?”

“Oh, I’m an early riser.” She turned her attention back to whatever simmered in the pot. “I’m used to gathering eggs and fixing the farm hands biscuits, gravy, boudin, and grits to go with them eggs. I never could break the habit of getting up early. Besides, we still got folks rattling around in the house. No telling what time they’ll be pokin’ their heads in here, ready for some chow before lighting out for home. But you’re sure the last person I expected to see this early!”

“That damn rooster woke me up,” I complained, carrying my cup to the table. “I can sleep fine through F-15 take-offs, but I’m not used to squalling damn roosters.”

“Better get used to ‘em if you’re going to stay around here awhile.” Ethel turned down the flame, then poured herself a cuppa and joined me at the table.

Her coffee tasted a damn sight better than that instant rot gut I’d been choking down lately. “Ethel, let me ask you something,” I said after my first few slurps. “Did you see Father at all after the inundation?”

“Placide carried him over here the next evening around two, while I was folding clothes right here at this table. Come here looking ghostly white. Why, ‘Tee?”

“Did either of them discuss the inundation at any length?”

“Not a word… Mostly they just set still, right there where you’re settin’ now, Aitchie, staring into space, ya know? Didn’t talk to nobody. Your daddy didn’t even touch the coffee I poured him.” She pointed to the door leading to the dining room. “But then he got on the phone out there in the hall… There was one thing I overheard on my way to the stairs. Now, mind you, cher, I wasn’t eavesdropping. Just happened to hear as I passed by with the laundry. I think he said something like, ‘OK, Mr. Gremillion. I’ll see you then.’ I ain’t positive I got that name right. Why, Aitchie?” She paused and looked me in the eye. “What are you driving at, cher?”

“Oh, nothing, really, Aunt Ethel. I was just wondering how Father was feeling after the accident.” I didn’t want to let her in on my suspicions of foul play, at least until I had some solid evidence. There were plenty of Gremillions in South Louisiana, so the name didn’t help narrow it down much.

“Placide was in the kitchen drinking his coffee while your daddy was on the phone,” she said. “I asked him, ‘Placide what’s the matter?’ but he just shook his head. Didn’t say nothin’, just stared at the floor. I knew they was broken up about the inundation, so I didn’t ask anymore.”

After a few sips of coffee, she went back over to the counter, humming “Amazing Grace” as she began putting together a peach cobbler for Uncle Louis and the cousins still upstairs.

“Listen, Ethel, I need to borrow your car, just for today, if it’s OK. I’ll rent a car, then get it back to you. Will that be OK?”

“Sure thing, Aitchie,” she answered, turning toward me. “Your Uncle Louis and me don’t hardly ever drive it. Only once a week, on Saturdays, to pass by New Iberia for a few groceries and go to mass at St. Pete’s is all. You just borrow it as long as you like. No sense wasting money on a rental car.”

“Well, we’ll see how much I need it, then decide. Anyway, I’ll use it today. Thanks, Ethel.”

I refilled my cup and carried it upstairs to shower as the morning sky was beginning to show gray on the horizon. Then I grabbed the keys off the hook by the back door. Ethel said, “Land’s sake, Aitchie. You didn’t even eat any breakfast.” I gave her a peck on the cheek and a hasty, “Later, Ethel,” then headed out.

In the early morning haze, the lonely road to Oka Chito Island, the island that was not an island but a peninsula, looked ghostly. Eerie gray Spanish moss hung like hag’s hair from the live oak and cypress. As I neared the island on the only road, a roadblock stopped me, manned by a lonely overweight Rent-a-Cop, his distended belly stretching the seams and buttons of the tan uniform shirt he had somehow squeezed into this morning. His bulk dwarfed the makeshift sawhorse barricade with its hand-painted sign that read, “Road Closed Indefinitely to All but Residents.”

“Sir, we can’t let no one enter!” he barked, red-faced and expressionless, as I eased Aunt Ethel’s ten-year-old Grand Prix up to where he postured, fists planted on hips, his disdain revealing a general distaste for his mundane existence beside a barricade. He lifted one hand the heft of a T-bone to wipe away some sweat that trickled down his forehead, notwithstanding the chilly November morning.

I stuck my Air Force I.D. under his nose and said, “I’m Major Doucet. Now that Harvey Doucet is deceased, I’m in charge of Doucet Drilling. I have some information that I’m pretty sure investigators would like to get their hands on,” I fibbed, holding up my pocket Day-Timer as flimsy proof of the urgency.

“Well, Sir, I…uh…” he stuttered. He took the I.D. and continued staring at it, then back at the Day-Timer, wheels obviously turning in a brain that hadn’t had to form an original thought for a while. He scratched his head, handed the I.D. back to me, and said, “Yeah, yeah. I guess it’ll be OK. Let’s don’t make a habit of it, though.”

“Thanks, Chief,” I said. I shoved the I.D. back in my wallet, then eased around the sawhorse and onto the narrow road.

I expected to find havoc at the end of the road, but the total devastation I saw nauseated me. It looked like a bomb had hit. Houses, some split in two, sat at odd angles as though they had skidded to a sudden stop on their trip to Lake Chevreuil. Three-hundred-year-old live oak trees lay like giant fallen soldiers, their massive arms akimbo, their monstrous roots reaching in supplication to the heavens, dwarfing the out-of-kilter houses. The island was vacant of any living thing, save a few free-ranging peacocks strutting amid what looked like the ravages of war. By the looks, a Victorian mansion remained virtually untouched, but a couple of ancient oaks lying in the front yard had not been so fortunate.

Dotting another section of Oka Chito sat a few makeshift living quarters for investigators and officials, consisting of mildewed campers and government-issue motor homes. A few hastily constructed metal buildings looked as though they must be serving as storage units and meeting rooms. I parked, then walked over to one of the buildings that already had a couple of cars lined up out front. The air reeked of mildew and the rotting flesh of belly-up marine life. The hand-stenciled sign on the door read, “Mine Safety and Health Administration,” so I walked on in.

Inside, a girl Friday, who might have been attractive if she had scrubbed off the top two layers of make-up, had just arrived and filled the room with the scent of her knockoff cologne. She looked up from the Mr. Coffee she was pouring water into to see what I was about.

“Good morning, Sir. May I help you?” she asked through a bright red smile. Outsized dangling gold ear medallions continued to swing after she raised her head, like hypnotic trance inducements, daring me not to follow them with my eyes.

“I’m Major Doucet,” I announced, showing her my I.D., “owner of Doucet Drilling Corporation. Is anyone here yet who could talk to me?” I asked, glancing around at the few closed doors that led off the cramped reception area.

“Mr. Morton is in, I believe. I seen his car outside when I come in a few minutes ago. Just a moment, please.” She picked up her phone and hit a few buttons. “Mr. Morton? Yes, good morning. I have a Major Doucet out here, says he owns the drilling company. Uh huh…uh huh…yes, sir.” She hung up and looked back at me through black-rimmed puppy eyes. “Mr. Morton says you can go on in,” she said, pointing at the office door behind her, her eyes still fixed on me.

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Stewart. Babette Stewart. But you can call me Babette,” she said as I walked past her to Morton’s door.

“Major Doucet,” said the squirrely man inside, his Cream of Wheat complexion indicating a man whose life must consist solely of sitting behind a desk or in front of a TV. He stood as though it were an effort and stretched out an anemic hand.

“Mr. Morton,” I answered, grasping the hand across the desk and shaking it more firmly than he might have wished.

“You can call me Earl.”

“All right, Earl, and you can call me H.”

“So, H, what can I help you with this morning?” he asked, motioning for me to sit in the straight back chair facing his desk, while he continued shuffling a few papers.

“I’m trying to gather some facts about this tragedy,” I said. “I’ll be CEO of Doucet Drilling now that Father’s gone,” I fudged, not sure yet who would actually take the ropes, “and I need to build a report for my files. I thought maybe if I got out here to the island, I might find some kind soul willing to help me fill in some of the blanks.”

“Wish I could help. So far, we are simply seeing a gross error on the part of Calco Oil and Doucet Drilling. We haven’t concluded yet who’s responsible for the miscalculation, but there is certainly negligence on someone’s part. As you can see, it was a multi-million-dollar mistake, and that’s not even counting the loss of a dozen men, plus your father, God rest their souls.” He shook his head solemnly.

“Of course. You can appreciate my concerns and my hopes to clear my father’s name, now that he is incapable of explaining. I’m not too familiar with the drilling business yet, but I do know enough to look into where the orders to drill at that specific angle and depth came from.”

“Calco Oil says the map came from Louisiana DNR, but looking at their survey,” he said, hoisting himself out of his seat and walking over to an easel at the side of the room, “you can see that the angle of drilling they ordered would have put the drill here, under the salt dome.”

“I see. Well, Earl, can we not conclude that Calco Oil presented a flawed map here? And wouldn’t that exonerate Doucet Drilling from any blame?” I inquired using what I believed was simple logic following his explanation.

“Not that simple, I’m afraid. According to Calco Oil, Doucet Drilling ordered a study to determine the accuracy of the map. Calco is accusing Doucet of altering the map sometime during that process.”

“Well, who in hell did they order it from? Who did the surveys?”

“That leads us to another dead end. Doucet Drilling officials said they didn’t order the study, pointing the finger instead at Calco Oil. Said they didn’t arrive on the scene until Calco Oil merged with Aloco Oil and took over the rig, about two years ago. That’s when Calco hired Doucet Drilling to take over drilling operations. So far, everyone is just trying to pass the buck, as you might expect. We’re still digging through a paper trail, but I’ll keep you posted when we learn anything. Of course, your father’s death sort of put the brakes on finding a reliable source at Doucet.” He sat back in his swivel chair, hands folded across his chest.

I hesitated to tell him Earlene was at least as reliable as Father, and probably Marc LeBlanc as well. Let them figure that out on their own. I wanted to put off his next step, which was the “We’ll be in touch” step that I wasn’t ready to accept yet. “I mean, aren’t these wells all regulated on either a federal or state level?” I asked, thinking of the layers of regulation in any Air Force project I’d ever worked on.

“Yes, DNR would have granted Doucet the permit to drill, but the EPA oversees domestic waters, so they would have assisted in the survey and getting the permit. We still haven’t been able to pinpoint who made the error. I’m sure in time it will all come out. And I’ll be glad to call you when it does.” His forced smile was inviting me not to let the door hit me in the ass.

Damn bureaucratic red tape, I thought, then took a deep breath, remembering that this guy could eventually turn out to be an ally. “OK, thanks, Earl. I know you’re doing everything you can. Please get in touch as soon as you find out anything. I’ll be staying out at my aunt’s, and extremely anxious to hear.” I wrote my name and phone numbers for Ethel and the office on the notepad on his desk.

“Of course,” Morton said, clearly relieved to be getting me out of his hair. He reached out to give me one more limp-dick handshake, and I was on my way, not knowing much more than when I walked in. I didn’t get the sense from our first meeting that he was going to bother trying to get to the truth unless it happened to jump up and smack him in the face. Even then, I wouldn’t put corruption out of his reach. A milquetoast who would do anything to save his own ass and smooth things over for the agency, even lie through his teeth.

Sliding under the wheel, I drove back out the deserted road toward civilization, swerving to miss one of the island peacocks from the plant nursery dragging his furled tail slowly down the pavement behind him in his own silent desperation. As I eased past the barricade, I waved at Rotunda Rent-a-Cop, whose response was a flushed, stone-faced glare.

One look at that gut made me realize I was getting hungry. It was still early, so I decided to head into New Iberia, stop at Maybelle’s Diner for some eggs. Maybe I could nose around some while I was there.