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MARY-ALICE STOOD AT her window and watched Gertie’s old Cadillac limp around the first bend of her dark drive. Then she rushed back to her bedroom, pulling off the scratchy blonde wig as she went. She extricated herself from the corset, leggings, gloves, and earrings. Soon she was comfortable and ready for bed in her flowered flannel nightie.
But after the excitement at the Swamp Bar, Mary-Alice was still buzzing with adrenaline. Instead of going to bed, she sat down at her computer and searched for Victorin Lowery.
The man had almost no internet presence. No arrests, at least none flashy enough to make the Picayune metro crime news; no social media; no blogs or newspaper articles. Mary-Alice found exactly one instance of Victorin Lowery’s name: on the New Orleans city website. He was among a list of graduates from the New Orleans Police Department Training Academy. But that was it.
Mary-Alice had heard that the parish records were all online now. Maybe there was something to be found there.
But when she logged into the parish records database, she found nothing but a placeholder for the town of Sinful. She entered her credit card information to get premium access. But after all that, there were still no records to be found.
Unfortunately, this was something she’d have to pursue with the mayor.
Mary-Alice reached for her phone as soon as she woke up the next morning. She was an adherent of the “eat the frog” school of time management, which advised getting one’s most unpleasant tasks out of the way first. There was one clear candidate for the day’s most unpleasant task.
Mary-Alice took a deep breath, leaned back on her pillow, and called Celia.
“Celia, darling,” she began, “I know you’re busy, and I do hope I’m not calling to early. Did you have a good sleep last night? You must be just simply worn out and probably don’t have time for this. But I was wondering if I might ask you about the online parish records...”
“Oh, those folks,” Celia sniffed. “If they think my staff has time to run around scanning everything into some stupid computer system, well, they are most sadly mistaken.”
“So Sinful’s records aren’t online?” Mary-Alice thought sadly of the non-refundable access fee.
“No they are most certainly not, I’m thankful to say. That Clerk of Court can huff and puff all he wants but he will have to pry our records out of my cold, dead hands. Anyway,” Celia added, with the indignation of the lazy person being called on to do her job, “I don’t cotton to having our city records out there where anyone just any old body can get to them. If someone wants to look something up, they can just march themselves on down to City Hall and do it in person. You can’t be too careful when it comes to putting things online. After what happened here not too long ago, I prefer to err on the side of caution. I don’t think I need to revisit that issue with you again, Mary-Alice, do I, now?”
Sinful’s bank accounts had recently fallen prey to online theft on Celia’s watch. Ordinarily, Celia would never bring up such a failure. But because Mary-Alice’s grandson had been implicated in the hacking, Celia was happy to rub her nose in it.
“What kind of records would you be needing anyway?” Celia asked.
Mary-Alice froze. She hadn’t thought this far ahead. She didn't want to let Celia know she was investigating Victorin Lowery.
“Well, I suppose it’s—”
“Oh, it’s about the house, isn’t it?” Celia crowed. “There’s a lien on the Cooper place that you didn’t know about, I bet.”
“Why Celia,” Mary-Alice said, relieved, “you’re so perceptive.”
“I tried to tell you, Mary-Alice, it would’ve been better to buy something new and modern. These old houses are absolute money pits.”
“Yes, they are. You’re so right, Celia.”
In fact, Mary-Alice's renovation was going quite smoothly (except for the romantic complications). But Mary-Alice didn't tell Celia that. Good news seemed to make Celia angry and argumentative. Stories of other people's hardships, on the other hand, always cheered her up.
“I've had such terrible luck trying to find what I need online,” Mary-Alice said.
“Well, you just come on down to City Hall whenever you like,” Celia said warmly. “I'm sure my staff can help you find whatever you need.”
“By the way,” Mary-Alice said, “There was quite a commotion outside the Baptist church after Mass. It looked as if Deputy Breaux might have gone and arrested Miss Ida Belle. Have you heard any such thing?”
“You’re not mistaken, Mary-Alice. Not this time anyway. I probably oughtn’t to tell you this on account of it’s confidential and very serious.” Celia didn’t sound serious at all; she sounded positively giddy. “But I can tell you this, Mary-Alice. Under my administration, this town is finally going to punish its evildoers.”
“Oh, my, Celia, that sounds serious. Well I thank you ever so much for your help. I will come down and see y’all at City Hall.”
Mary-Alice set her phone down slowly. Celia Arceneaux, she was starting to realize, was not a very nice person.
Mary-Alice got dressed and went down to City Hall as Celia had advised. She didn't know what she was looking for, exactly. A criminal record, perhaps. Or evidence of time spent in the Marines?
As she stood in line at the Records and Permits counter, she felt someone walk up behind her. She turned around to see a very familiar face.
“Why, Boon,” Mary-Alice exclaimed. “Why aren’t you in my kitchen?”
“Just pulling some permits. I’m surely sorry to have startled you, Miss Mary-Alice. If you don’t mind my asking, what brings you down here?”
“Oh, I’m just looking into some records. Although I'm not quite sure where to start. Especially when there's no one at the counter to help.”
“I think I see someone coming now,” Boon said.
“I'm surely not in any rush. Boon, why don’t you go first?”
Mary-Alice dashed away, leaving a perplexed Boon standing at the counter.
Mary-Alice had recognized the woman approaching the Records and Permits counter. She was Celia’s cousin Dorothy. Unlike Mary-Alice, who was only related to Celia by marriage, Dorothy was a real, blood cousin to Celia, and a member of the God’s Wives besides. Mary-Alice knew that anything she did would be immediately reported back to Celia. Celia would surely find out that Mary-Alice was looking into Victorin Lowery's disappearance, and would suspect, correctly, that Mary-Alice was trying to undermine the case against Ida Belle.
In the hallway, out of Dorothy’s sight, Mary-Alice pulled out her phone and frantically texted Gertie.
THANK GOODNESS YOU TEXTED Gertie responded. HANG ON
Mary-Alice paced, watched her phone, and waited an agonizing length of time for Gertie’s next message. Finally, it came.
TELL DOROTHY THAT YOU’RE JUST SO FULL OF YOURSELF THAT YOUR COUSIN IS THE MAYOR, YOU’VE DECIDED TO WRITE A HISTORY OF SINFUL.
I’M WRITING A HISTORY OF SINFUL? THAT’S WHY I’M IN THE RECORDS AND PERMITS OFFICE?
DON’T ARGUE NOW, MARY-ALICE, THIS IS A PERFECT PLAN. NOW GET IN THERE!
By the time Mary-Alice returned to the counter, Boon had already left. It was just her and Dorothy.
“Well. Mary-Alice Arceneaux,” Dorothy’s tone was chilly. “To what do we owe the honor?”
“I’m thinking about writing a history of Sinful,” Mary-Alice said. (This was not untrue; she was, indeed, thinking about it.) “There are so many important stories here, and it would be a shame to lose them. Why, Celia’s family, and yours too, Dorothy, practically built this town.” (Mary-Alice was guessing here, but she had no reason to believe this wasn’t true.)
Dorothy’s demeanor softened. A history of Sinful, whose founding members included her own ancestors? What a wonderful idea! Dorothy let Mary-Alice into a small room—barely more than a closet—crowded with metal file cabinets and stacks of files.
“If you need to copy anything,” Dorothy said, “bring it on out front. I’m supposed to charge you ten cents a page, but I’m not going to be a stickler. Oh, Mary-Alice, let me write down my mother’s and my grandmother’s maiden names. That’ll help you. And make sure you leave everything as you found it. We can’t have a mess.”
As soon as Dorothy left her, Mary-Alice took a quick mental inventory of the records room. For such a small town, Sinful’s level of disorganization was impressive. Stacks of manila folders teetered atop half-empty file cabinets. A single metal desk was buried under piles of yellowing paper, tin document boxes, and half-used legal pads. Next to the submerged desk teetered a stack of old-style waxed cardboard boxes, unlabeled and speckled with mildew. A glass-front bookcase held sheaves of damp, yellowed paper covered with spidery script.
Mary-Alice had worked as a bookkeeper, so she was good with files. But she had never seen such chaos. She heaved a deep sigh, then sat down and started reading.