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Lafayette, Louisiana, USA
31st of January, 6:15 p.m. (GMT-6)
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What had started as such a promising day took a sharp turn after the locksmith drilled out the altar’s lock and the stacks of bones were found within. By that time, Acadian Village had opened, and all the visitors had to be found and escorted out. The wedding scheduled for the chapel tomorrow afternoon had to be canceled with much consternation and gnashing of teeth, but there was nothing to be done about it. The New Hope Chapel had become an active crime scene packed with human remains.
Within an hour of discovery, the crime scene investigators had descended upon the chapel. Zoe had no idea how long it would take to remove all those bones, much less reassemble them and determine which femur belonged to whom. The police had commandeered the administration office to interview the staff. By noon, everyone had been sent home for the weekend. She’d been thinking of taking some time off, but this was not what she’d had in mind.
As soon as she got home, Zoe started cleaning. She finished what she started in the kitchen, putting away the clean dishes and loading the machine for round two. Once she had an empty sink, she wiped down the counters and mopped the floor. The astringent scent of pine hung heavy in the air.
Then she moved on to the bathroom. She cleaned the bathtub and sink, scrubbed the toilet, Windexed the mirror, and mopped that floor, too. When all was white and the chrome sparkled, she pulled out the vacuum, going over every surface of the apartment including the baseboards, crown molding, and window treatments. She even dusted beforehand, which was generally against her religion.
In the bedroom, she put away her clean clothes and tackled the laundry, sorting the whites from the colors from the delicates. She stripped the bed sheets and put on new ones, adding to her laundry pile, but what was one more load at this point? There was order and purpose in the doing, and she took comfort in the smell of bleach and detergent. All things must be cleaned.
As long as she kept moving, she could push reality back for a little while longer—Eva was no longer a missing person, but a pile of bones. Of course, the police hadn’t yet officially identified the remains by the time she’d left work, but she didn’t need dental records to know Eva was among them. She knew it in her heart. Why else had Eva visited her last night in her dreams? Even in death, she was watching out for Zoe, preparing her for what was to come.
When there was nothing left to clean and the third load of laundry was rolling in the dryer, Zoe sat in her immaculate living room and cried. There was no need to spare her makeup now.
She supposed she should eat something, but she never made it to the grocery store. She didn’t even have milk and butter to make a box of macaroni and cheese, and she hadn’t sunk low enough to use the cook water to make the sauce. She pulled out her phone and trawled the internet for coupons on something that delivered. She didn’t have it in her to leave the house tonight. While she waited for her order, she turned on the TV to keep her company.
She was folding warm laundry and watching game shows when a firm knock fell on her door. She didn’t think twice about opening it, but instead of orange beef and hot and sour soup, she was greeted by two people in suits.
A tall Latina woman in a navy suit stepped forward and pulled out a thin leather wallet. “Good evening. I’m Special Agent Martinez of the FBI and this is my associate, Mr. Maycotte. We are looking for Zoe Miller.”
Zoe’s mind raced as she took a hard look at the presented identification, even though she had no idea what to look for. FBI! Will this day never end? She regained her poise and responded without moving from the doorway. “I’m Zoe Miller. May I ask what this is about?”
“We wanted to speak with you about recent events at the Acadian Village,” Martinez replied as she tucked her ID back in the inner pocket of her jacket.
“But I’ve already told the police everything I know,” the young woman wearily protested.
Martinez stayed firm. “Ms. Miller, the local authorities have confirmed that the three missing local women were among the bones. They’re still waiting for confirmation on the other missing persons visiting from out of town. We’ve been called because this is now a murder investigation that bears a striking resemblance to recent murders that have occurred in other states.”
Zoe was visible disturbed by the news. “There are others?”
“In Maine, Connecticut, New York, and Virginia,” Martinez ran down the list. “Eleven dead people in total, and you are the first witness we have that could lead us to who is responsible.” Martinez threaded her words with a little magic. “We just need a little bit of your time, and then you can get on with your weekend.” She let her spell settle and do its work while Zoe hemmed and hawed at the door, crossing one foot behind the other. Zoe didn’t love talking to police, but these two didn’t make her feel anxious like the other cops. Plus, she didn’t want her neighbors to see the FBI hanging around her door.
“I suppose you can come in,” Zoe relented.
When she entered, Martinez could hardly believe it was the same apartment she’d salted just yesterday, but the place did reek of disinfectants. Zoe hastily removed the laundry from the couch, stuffing her underwear under other articles of clothing before putting the full basket on the floor. “Sorry, I was in the middle of laundry. Please, take a seat.” She turned off the TV and took a seat on a chair next to the couch. “What do you want to know?”
Martinez sat furthest away, letting Morris take the lead. That was the plan: she’d get them in and cover his back while he’d work his skills.
“Ms. Miller, I’m trying to build a profile of who it is that’s doing all this. I’d like to hear about the night you encountered the man in the chapel, the one that spoke French to you. In your own words, in your own time.” His voice was like velvet, lush and soft. Zoe’s heart rate slowed and she breathed a little easier.
“Well, it’s just like I told the police. I was in the chapel going over everything before the wedding. I heard someone behind me ask ‘Où est Pauline?’ Based on the way he was dressed, I assumed he was part of the wedding and gave him directions, in French, to where the bridal party would be. He left and I never saw him after that.” Zoe was concise and to the point—the sooner she was done with cops and the FBI, the better.
Morris adjusted his pitch slightly and tried again. “Was is French or Cajun?” Although Cajun had its origins in French, time and isolation had changed it to the point where it was almost unintelligible to straight Francophones.
Zoe smiled at the question and all that it said in the asking. “It wasn’t a long conversation, but the patois was definitely more French than Cajun.” He smiled back, like they were sharing a private joke.
“Tell me more about his clothes,” he invited her to expound. “The police report was very vague on the details, just called them ‘vintage.’” Morris wasn’t too concerned about fashion; what he needed was time to feel out Miller, preferably while her mind was focused on something else. In his experience, women could talk forever about clothes.
Morris hung on her every word, spinning his spell into a delicate lace. The more intently he listened, the more she spoke. She had just gotten to the gentleman’s footwear when Morris felt something, a slight resistance against one of his arcane threads.
“What was it that you found strange about his shoes?” he asked inquisitively. Martinez said nothing about the randomness of the question, and Zoe was so into the connection Morris had established between them that she didn’t even think to wonder how he knew such things. She certainly hadn’t told the police...they would have thought she was crazy.
“It’s probably nothing,” she said in a tone that completely undermined any attempt at trivializing what was to follow. “But I don’t remember hearing any footsteps. When I wear heels to work, my steps echo in there for days, and he was wearing nice leather dress shoes polished to a shine. Even if they were soft-soled, the floorboards creak at the slight shift in weight. But I didn’t hear him enter or leave the chapel. I thought I must have misremembered or not been paying attention because it just doesn’t make sense otherwise.” Zoe turned to her new confident and asked wide-eyed, “Do you think I should have told someone?”
“You’re telling me,” he pointed out and her transient anxiety melted away. “What did you do after he left?”
“I radioed Eva to let her know he was coming. She asked if she could get the mother of the bride out of her hair, and I said I was almost done,” Zoe paraphrased.
“How did Eva sound?”
“Fine. Well, she was about to throttle the mother of the bride, but that’s normal,” Zoe explained. “Weddings can bring out the worst in people and it was Eva’s job to roll with the punches. That’s why I deal with numbers. People stress me out.”
“What happened next?” Morris gently led her further down the narrative.
“After a few minutes, I tried the walkie-talkie to let her know the wedding party could start decorating. She replied, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying through the static. I asked her to repeat what she’d just said, but instead of Eva, I heard music followed by screams. That’s when I hightailed it out of the chapel and followed the music to the Stutes Building.”
Martinez observed Zoe as she spoke. She was speaking authentically, using words and phrases that would normally come out of her mouth, but the methodical order and her unnatural calm led Martinez to think she was in a suggestible state, not unlike hypnosis.
“And when you arrived?” Morris continued.
“The song ended and I opened the door. Everything a mess but no one was there. That’s when I called 911.”
“What can you tell me about the music?” he probed.
“It was an old Cajun standard called Pa Janvier, about a love-sick man asking for his sweetheart,” she replied.
“Asking her father?” he guessed from the name.
“More like old man winter,” she corrected his translation. “The young lady in question drove her carriage off a bridge and into the bayou after one too many drinks. You don’t get more Cajun than that,” she joked.
“That’s an odd choice for music for a wedding,” he remarked.
“It’s very popular among musicians. Anyone that wants bayou cred performs it and you can’t get through a Cajun music festival without hearing it,” she laid out the facts for him.
He felt another tug. “How did this rendition strike you?”
Zoe turned quiet and looked off in the distance, searching for the right words. “I’m no musician and Cajun love songs never end happy, but there was something so utterly wretched about it. You could feel it in your soul.” She instinctually reached for her locket, feeling soothed at its presence. Even though it hung under her shirt, Morris could see the charm for what it was.
She shifted her gaze to him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, but I may not have the answer,” he prefaced.
“Why those women instead of me? He saw me first. I was alone. It would have been so much simpler...” her voice trailed off without finishing the sentence.
Morris felt the raw nerve buried under all the protective layers and modulated the shape of his will, coating it with balm. “I’ve seen a lot of terrible things in my line of work and try as I might to understand why they came to pass, it isn’t always possible to know. When that happens, I stop asking why and focus on how to move forward with what I have been given.”
His voice was the vocal equivalent of a warm glass of milk and a toasty blanket. Even Martinez felt a tingle in her toes, and she was not the target of his will. “Nothing can change the past, and if someone has their hand on you, it would be a waste of a boon asking questions to which there are no answers.”
Martinez felt someone approaching the door and signaled to Morris by clearing her throat. He carefully withdrew his will the same way as he’d entered, gradually reintroducing distance in the intimacy he’d created. Zoe’s breathing returned to normal and she blinked a few times, slightly disoriented but noticeably calmer. The crisp knock at the door severed any lingering connection she’d had to Morris as she fully came to.
She walked to the door and cautiously called out instead of opening it right away, “Who is it?”
“Wok and Roll. Delivery for a Z. Miller,” a muffled voice yelled from outside the door.
“Just a minute,” she hollered back, before addressing her two unwanted guests. “That’s my dinner. Are we done here?” The sass in her delivery let Martinez know Morris was done—Zoe was back in full form.
They rose from the couch and Martinez extended her card. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Miller. You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything else, feel free to call this number.”