Chapter Nine

George’s story

Suzanne is dead, drowned in the bayou on Mardi Gras day. Linc went under and had to be saved. By the time he lay stretched on the shore and coughing up brown water, she’d vanished downstream. If her arms hadn’t been bound, her mouth gagged, she might be alive, but no, they killed her trying to bring off a stupid, stupid romantic stunt. George St. Julien, CPA and murderer.

This whole crazy idea was Linc St. Julien’s style, not at all the way George St. Julien would do things, but then he thought he never did have much imagination. Linc deserved to be called a showboat. Watching him do his stuff on the court, on the dance floor, with women—pure pleasure for one who always stood on the sidelines. A shy man needs a friend like that to make him take the chances he would never take alone. Linc is a generous man, too. He always left enough for good old George. During those years of taking care of his mother, George missed Linc’s friendship the most, not the big games or the easy women.

Not to say he didn’t miss being with women. When he first saw Suzanne Hudson at the airport, he thought she had warm brown eyes like LaDonna, but with little gold specks in them, he noticed when he bent over to greet her, and a great, curvy build like Cherry Fontaine hidden away under that navy blue suit. George expected an academic geek wearing glasses even nerdier than the ones his mother picked out for him to wear, her hair all pulled back tight in a bun, not this young, sexy woman. He could tell right away she saw her new boss as nothing more than an employer. It took a winning game or a push from Linc for women to notice George St. Julien.

On the way back to Magnolia Hill, he put her straight to sleep with his company. George felt as gray as the clouds overhead, as uninteresting as the local crops in the fields. Sometimes, he expected to see gray hair on his head when he looked in a mirror. He’d been fading away ever since coming home to Port Jefferson to take care of his mother. Funny, they called him Ghost in college at a time when he was most alive. Now, the nickname fit.

George tried not to stare while Suzanne slept, but he liked the way her hair, the color of tupelo honey, curled softly around her cheek, the surprising candy pink of her half-open lips, the fullness of her breasts beneath the blue jacket. He felt a woody coming on and had to turn his thoughts back to ways to make Magnolia Hill pay for itself before he had to sell out. That always had a deflating effect. By the time they reached the Hill, he had himself tightly under control. Suzanne had gotten a little rest and was bursting full of questions.

They had formal coffee in Mother’s uncomfortable parlor instead of in the kitchen with Birdie. He started to tell the George Washington’s descendents story but Suzanne, being smarter than Cherry Fontaine, caught on right away. He would have enjoyed watching Virginia Lee and Suzanne Hudson going at it over tea and tiny sandwiches. George imagined Suzanne winning the conversation.

She passed your test, Mother, she passed, he couldn’t help thinking.

Okay, he had another infatuation setting in. Linc said George was prone to them, that he didn’t have to propose to every woman he dated. George thought he’d outgrown this failing with graduation, but his “dates” came few and far between afterwards, and he had no extra cash to pay for them. LaDonna knew they weren’t right for each other and moved on. Cherry Fontaine—Mother said at least she least was white, but definitely trailer trash—had folded without a fight and found someone else. But, George raised his guard now. He did his best to nip this one in the bud by being as businesslike as possible. He would not make any stupid moves like the kid fresh out of St. Mark’s all-male Academy.

He would have been safe if Linc had stayed out of it. George didn’t know how his old teammate found out about Suzanne so quickly. He never mentioned her to him, but Port Jefferson is a small town, a place where people talk to their mamas every day.

Why did he let Linc talk him into the whole crazy scheme? First, Linc always led and fixed him up in college. Second, he always wanted to be like Linc St. Julien, the star player in the big leagues, the man adored by his mother, his wife, his children, and let’s face it, lots of other women.

Why was it, George pondered, that women always wanted the bad boys, not a kind, intelligent guy who would treat them well and remain faithful? LaDonna and Cherry wanted the sports star, the big house, the presumed fortune. No chance he would ever be a star again. He neared losing the big house, and the fortune vanished a long time ago. Not much of a chance of being desired for himself. Chances. George decided to take this one, even with his brain and another good friend telling him, “No, no, no!”

The day he bought the costume and hung it up in his rented office space in Lafayette, he had a meeting with a long-term client, Robert LeBlanc, a cattleman from Chapelle, south of the city. Bob eyed the black plume, the red-lined cape, the whole shebang not yet concealed in the garment bag as they pored over his account in preparation for tax season.

“You wearing that for Mardi Gras? I just rent a tuxedo for the ball. Of course, I have to dress like a clown to ride on the floats in Chapelle, but I really, really don’t do costumes unless I must. Besides, I thought you hated Mardi Gras.”

Fine for Bob to say. His elopement with his second wife on Mardi Gras eve came pretty damn close to being a local legend, and George told him so.

“Oh, I see. You want to impress a woman. With that. I’d stick to a tuxedo. That’s what I had on when Laura and I got hitched at Broussard’s Barn. Of course, we’d both been drinking.”

“There’s more—a white horse, a pirogue ride.” George laid out the whole scheme along with the spreadsheets they studied.

Much shorter than George, solid of build, and dark of hair and eye like most people having French ancestry, Bob shook his head. “Too elaborate. Lots can go wrong. Would be easier to get her drunk, and even then you have to face what you’ve done in the morning.”

Sage advice he did not take. He felt he had to do more to impress Suzanne than wear a tuxedo. Those first fumbling attempts at spontaneity nearly ruined any chance he had with her. The lunch, a terrible idea, the dinner even worse, and that sideshow he put on at Joe’s Lounge, a disaster.

He heard more about the fight around town on Monday than he could remember about it himself. Lonnie complimented him on showing some spine and putting the Patout boys in their place. He couldn’t look his own secretary in the eye for most the day. But, the most troubling part, deep inside George enjoyed acting like an alpha male, like Linc, like his father. He had to go farther, be bolder if he wanted Suzanne to pay attention.

The only good coming out of that John Wayne episode—he won Suzanne’s sympathy. She made it easier to tell about his trouble with Magnolia Hill than he thought possible. Suzanne liked to touch a person to give comfort. Her warm hands covered his. She touched his shoulders lightly. He hadn’t felt a touch like that since Birdie said good-bye the day he left for St. Mark’s Academy. His dad shook hands. His mother cried in her room. George went on to fantasize how Suzanne might touch a man in other ways. She had no idea what a brush of her fingers could do to him.

He wanted to be more than a person she could pity and pat on the hand. Linc’s plan looked better every time she smiled his way. Mardi Gras is just a centuries-old excuse to do things a man would not ordinarily do, to be someone he is not while hiding behind a mask. The plan took his mind off the fake silver and what mayhem he wanted to commit on Randy Royal in real life. Randy could be dealt with after the Courir.

Mardi Gras day started out better than expected. Suzanne didn’t seem to notice George sweated like a pig in August under the flannel shirt and baggy pants covering the Devil’s Horseman costume and all but the toes of his boots. Pig sweat, didn’t some experiment show women found the scent so attractive manufacturers used it as a base for cologne? Good, he needed all the help he could get.

Excited as a child waiting for the riders to come, Suzanne easily accepted his suggestion to watch their approach from his mother’s room. She was like that about a lot of things, full of enthusiasm for robins and drawbridges and early flowers, ordinary, everyday things. He enjoyed that about her, but why went beyond male comprehension. Maybe, Randy Royal would have understood her better.

Still, her excitement about the Courir gave him the opportunity to slip out and check on Alcide Porrier’s horse staked out of sight. Puffy cleaned up better than expected. With fifty dollars worth of oats and a good rest under his girth, he looked fairly spry. Another piece of good luck—the saddle, the very one once owned by his father, Jacques St. Julien, silver mounting and all. Old Alcide must have bought it when his mother sold off the horses and tack. Virginia Lee deemed silver saddles tasteless and probably sold it for a song. Its shiny rosettes sparkled now. Putting on his cape and plumed hat, George used them for a mirror, pleased with what he saw.

Finding a vicious rooster in Port Jefferson—no problem. Suzanne felt sorry for the one-eyed bird that would end up in a gumbo pot, but George had collected enough rents in backyards and around the Hollow to recognize a retired gamecock when he saw one. The granny who sold the cock figured the rooster’s breeding days were over, but fed up on corn, he would give those riders one hell of a fight. He did, too.

They still hadn’t caught the bird when the Devil’s Horseman charged up the hill. Hippo and two of the Patout boys crossed themselves. The Devil’s Horseman! Aiii-eeee! George threw back his head and laughed at the expression on their faces.

Not such a joke when he put his arms around Suzanne. He didn’t want to hurt her or scare her, but could see she got into playing a part, too, joining in the game. They cantered away while the cowboys still said their Hail Marys.

They just about reached the boat when the saddle slipped an inch because of Suzanne’s wiggling. George pulled her up and kissed her simply to be in character. Seemed like what his father would have done. The kiss grew harder along with another other part of his anatomy. He hurt her a little, but that’s the way the Devil’s Horseman would have kissed. Then, Linc said to hurry. For once, he wished Linc had let him take the lead. If he had been alone with Suzanne, they could have ended the farce right there or gone into the shady, private clump of basswood and made love on top of the satin cloak, the fantasy he really desired. But Linc gestured toward the boat and insisted on that damn rope and gag to “heighten the experience,” he said.

Shit! That boat turned out to be the dumbest part of the plan, free or not. When the pirogue capsized, he was the first with his head above the water. George hung on to the hull and scanned the river for Suzanne. Screaming his lungs out for help, Linc thrashed about five feet away in the slower water by the bank. George let him swallow one more mouthful of dirty brown water, then kicked the pirogue over to him and reached out a hand. Terrified, Linc just kept flailing and went under again. He pulled the master planner across the bow and kicked them to shore, all the while calling “Suzanne! Suzanne!”

Stripping off the cape, boots, and gloves, the mask and the sodden hat dragging at his neck by its cord, he threw the garments into the righted pirogue and began diving while Linc coughed up water on his own. The turgid bayou ran heavy with silt. He dove six times looking for her white blouse or fair hair, but no sign of Suzanne. George sat down in the mud next to where Linc still breathed hard and put his face in his hands.

“My God, Linc, we killed her. We drowned Suzanne.”