Chapter Eight

In his sweltering truck, Remy cranked up the air-conditioning and aimed for Alleman Plantation. As he bucketed along crumbling country roads, he rationalized that his father’s family wasn’t really the Cajun mafia as some people called them. Those same people certainly hadn’t voted for Guidry Broussard as mayor or welcomed him into their social circles either.

No one “made their bones” slaying enemies or dealt in drug trafficking. Every one of them had the fortune or misfortune of being born into an actual huge, tight-knit family that accounted for a lot of small town corruption, most of it victimless crimes like backroom gambling, prostitution, and paying off politicians for favors. Hell, since the parish voted gambling back in to garner more taxes, the Broussards had gone legit and owned a couple of mini-casinos out on the highway, and another situated in a truck stop on the parish line, all very lucrative. The Black Diamonds development was another step in the direction of becoming completely legal. That’s what Remy told himself.

Remy figured after last night, he owed Julia a face-to-face conversation, not simply an email or text saying cease and desist or stay out of my business. He hoped they could remain friends, maybe with benefits, since she was from out of town and really didn’t understand the dynamics of Chapelle. He got to New Orleans fairly often and could look her up—if he’d remembered to ask for her email address or her phone number. Making a mental note to get that information, Remy steered between the two whitewashed brick pillars that denoted the entrance to Alleman.

He knew immediately that Julia Rossi and her uncles had gone. No motorhome sat parked under the shade of the oaks. However, Marv Holcomb heard the crunch of oyster shells beneath tires and appeared at the front door before Remy had a chance to turn around. He approached with arms wide, a welcoming smile expanding beneath a neatly trimmed silver mustache set in a thin face. Marv wore his hair in trendy short spikes of gray. When Remy looked down on the shorter man’s head, he could view the pink of his scalp between the peaks.

“Remy, have you come to see the progress on Alleman? It’s going to be stunning, absolutely stunning. Let me show you around.”

He had no choice but to get down. This man had encouraged him to draw, paint, and study art during those long summer stays with his grandfather. If Marv was disappointed that he’d given his support to a kid who later became an architect whose style he did not admire, Remy never would have known it by the greeting, a heartfelt light hug so different from being enveloped by Old Broussard’s flab.

“Actually, I was trying to track down Julia Rossi, but sure, I’d love to see the place.”

Marv’s hollow-cheeked face fell a little. “Julia and her uncles went back to New Orleans to do a small job and pick up an apprentice. She’ll return in time for the council meetings next week. That woman is on a crusade, I tell you.” He fanned the air with an artistic, long-fingered hand.

“Yes, I know.”

“Must you really tear down the Queen?”

“As I told Julia, I have investors for a new project.”

Marv shrugged his slight shoulders. “See what Regal Restorations has done for the house. Mind, the first floor is empty until they can do the finish coat, which should happen shortly. I’ve jammed all the furnishings into the second-floor rooms and the attic. What a boon the roof no longer leaks, and we can make use of that space again. Mr. Getty has vast collections of, well, this and that, he likes to rotate on display.”

Remy followed his old friend into the hallway of the mansion and peered into the parlor and sitting rooms on opposite sides. Farther on, a dining room sat across from a large master bedroom. All had huge fireplaces, paper covering the heart pine floors, and magnificent Corinthian molding topping the walls. Julia’s team had repaired that trim. Not a single acanthus leaf remained broken or chipped. They passed a rather decadent bathroom hewed from the kitchen space at the rear, which had once been a brick-floored pantry area and now housed modern appliances. That brought them to the rear verandah sporting the same four gracious Corinthian columns as the front of the house. Marv sank into a cushioned rattan chair and gestured Remy to take another.

“So very hot for May.” Marv picked up an old-fashioned paper fan distributed by funeral homes back in the day and stirred the air. “One of Mr. Getty’s collectables. I really shouldn’t be using it, but the ceiling fans are temporarily disconnected. I’d take you upstairs. However, it is simply chaos there. I culled out space for myself and Julia. The bathroom isn’t nearly as grand as the one downstairs with the tub inset in marble. She says she is simply grateful to have a bathtub instead of a shower. Such a nice young woman. Might I offer you coffee, iced tea, lemonade?”

Remy’s thoughts had drifted from Marv’s chatter to a vision of Julia in his bath. He imaged his hands slicking across those firm breasts so admired by NuNu, sliding down her back and under her buttocks as he lifted her on top of his erection hidden in a froth of foam. He felt himself going hard. That wouldn’t do in front of Marv who waited patiently for an answer to his question. He’d never put the moves on Remy despite what his grandmother believed, but didn’t want to give him any ideas either. “Uh, iced tea, no sugar.”

“Coming right up.” Marv bustled to the kitchen.

Without his host blocking the view, Remy could see his black tower of a house very clearly a half-mile away on the other side of the bayou. The glass glinted in the sunlight, but it still cast a long, dark shadow over the water. At least, his home hid the view from Alleman’s porch of NuNu’s rundown trailer.

Marv returned with a tray holding two tall, icy glasses decorated with a slice of lemon and a spring of fresh mint. He liked to make things nice. Even his khakis and short-sleeved cotton shirt were pressed. Remy accepted the glass. The chill against his skin made his hands less sweaty and burst the thought bubble of Julia in the bath.

“I hear you’re planning to plant bamboo to block the view of my house from Mr. Getty.”

Marv’s olive complexion showed a spot of color on the cheekbones. “Mr. Getty’s idea, not mine. I live to serve him. Alleman has become my haven since the school board let me go when they cancelled the arts program—due to lack of funds, they said. I should be glad I made the twenty years for my retirement before that happened.”

“I hope my grandmother had nothing to do with it. She tried to out you more than once.”

“No, no. I think the downturn of the oil industry meant less taxes collected. Time for a change for me regardless. Gay men of my generation never played in town. We took ourselves to clubs in Lafayette or New Orleans. Some of my friends married, had children to please society and the Catholic church, but I always thought that unfair to the woman. If you kept up the façade, people here looked the other way. When AIDS came along, the wives caught it too. Just another tragedy to add to the rest. Remy, I’m HIV positive myself, but I take my meds and stay fairly well. I’d appreciate if you kept that to yourself. Others guess, but they don’t really know.”

Remy clasped his old instructor’s hand which now appeared frail. “I can keep a secret. Thank you for entrusting me with yours. You were a great art teacher.”

“You’re better than most of the Broussards in this parish, dear boy.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ll come to visit again, but for now, I need to get back to work, make some calls.”

“Of course.”

Marv walked him to his truck and waved as Remy made the turn to take him away from Alleman. He should have looked in on his old mentor before now, not that he hadn’t greeted him cordially if they passed on the street. But, he’d been living in Chapelle for three years and never once sat down for a good visit. Exactly how good was he even if he’d never engaged in gay bashing like some of the Broussards. That had stopped with the fear of getting splattered with HIV blood.

Remy crossed the nearest bridge, one of four across the bayou, to return to his house. When he sat behind his desk again, he checked his computer for the number to Regal Restorations and called. No answer. He left a cordial message, “Please give me a call.” Tried later. Left another message. “It is important that I speak with you.” A third try late in the afternoon went to leave a message again. He didn’t bother. She could be up to her elbows in plaster, but he doubted it. Julia Rossi was avoiding him.