Chapter Eleven

Suzanne’s story

Dr. Jefferson Sonnier repacked his black bag while Suzanne lay propped on fluffy pillows in the four-poster and enjoyed the novelty of a physician who did house calls. In Philadelphia, they dragged their fevers to a specialist’s waiting room. Doc Sonny, as he quickly told her to call him though she thought it childish, had a wonderful beside manner and an even better bedside appearance. Tall and lean, he possessed a head of iron gray hair sweeping back from a high and noble brow. His eyes, surrounded by just enough lines to give him an air of wisdom, were a serious blue-gray and set in a face marvelously long and craggy. She could picture him, captain’s hat firmly in place, on the bow of a sailing ship setting off toward the horizon. For just a moment, she had the absurd notion he might be the dark rider. Then, her blurred vision snapped back into place as Doc Sonny dispensed the usual advice.

“Stay in bed and rest. Drink plenty of fluids. Alternate aspirin and Tylenol every four hours for the fever. More seriously now,” Doc Sonny said as he swabbed her arm with alcohol and filled a syringe, “you could have picked up something more dangerous than a cold in that bayou. A lot of raw sewage drains into the water, and you have no immunity to local bugs. Not allergic to penicillin, are you? Good.”

Suzanne winced as he eased the needle into her skin and wondered what this treatment would cost George, who clunked up and down the hall like an expectant father outside the door. He insisted on paying the medical bills.

The doctor expertly swabbed the spot again and covered the tiny dot of blood with a small patch. “That little swim shouldn’t have brought on a fever so quickly unless you were already harboring a cold. Just in case, I’ll give George a prescription for some antibiotics. Make sure you take them all, and we’ll ward off whatever this is.” His smile deepened the crags of his face and increased his air of benign authority.

“I’ve seen your face before—in a local history book, and I think, in one of the pictures at the museum. Are you any relation to Eli Jefferson?” she asked, ready to test her theory.

“On my mother’s side. The Jeffersons are notoriously short of male heirs. No one white bears the surname now in this area, but it has lived on as a first name. I hope my daughter will see fit to use it if she has any offspring. You and Ginny have been the only outsiders to comment on the family resemblance, though.”

Impressed by Dr. Sonnier’s total acceptance of the fact that his gay son, Bobby, would not be the one providing the namesake, she was equally amazed that anyone would have called the stiff and proper Virginia Lee St. Julien “Ginny.”

“Perhaps we both saw Eli Jefferson in you because Mrs. St. Julien and I shared an intense interest in the past more than in the mundane realities of the present,” she commented.

Jefferson Sonnier considered her statement. “Ginny lived in the past. She held to a set of outmoded codes and standards, her source of protection and strength, I suppose, believing she was always right and the rest of the world in error. She had a Protestant background, yet she adhered to the indissolubility of the marriage vow far more than, say myself, with my Catholic heritage. She insisted on a formal mourning period for a drunken philanderer she ceased loving years before his death. She wouldn’t consider re-marriage once her illness had been diagnosed because, and I quote, ‘a wife must be able to fulfill the physical needs of her husband.’ I suspect, Miss Hudson, the only thing you and Ginny have in common is George caring about both of you.”

Right on cue, she heard George trip against the little gateleg table ornamenting the upstairs hallway. He replaced the vase he must have caught in midair with a thunk. Suzanne sighed as deeply as her congestion allowed. A fever and George’s clumsy affection were more than she could handle right now.

“I didn’t say you returned the feelings. Even propped in bed, you lack Ginny’s ability to be a martyred saint requiring the unquestioning worship of her subjects. George is capable of worship. Be careful with him. That young man is inordinately upset over a little Mardi Gras prank. I’ll send him back to work so you can get some sleep without all that thudding in the hall.”

Doc Sonny closed the bedroom door behind him. Suzanne could hear him telling George firmly to let her rest. Then, the doctor doled out instructions about the prescriptions he wanted George to fill downtown this morning. She barely listened. Her eyelids grew heavy. The door clicked open. George mumbled something apologetically. He would be back at lunchtime with the medicine. She nodded weakly without opening her eyes. He went away. Suzanne heard Birdie’s heavy tread on the stairs, and her voice as she asked the doctor to stop for coffee.

Then, she slept and experienced a wonderful dream. The well-maintained floor to ceiling window leading to the gallery slid upward with the smallest sigh of sound. Something warm brushed her forehead, then her fever sensitive lips. He kissed her very gently as if he knew about the small cuts caused by the masked man. Suzanne opened her eyes and stared into his strange, deep blue gaze. She put her arms around his neck where the black mask fastened. The satin felt stiff as it had been immersed in water, then dried. The dream, amazingly tactile, just kept getting better.

She drew his face toward hers. Putting his full lips against the hollow of her throat, he moved them downward into the V of the light, peach-colored gown she’d put on the night before instead of her usual oversized T-shirt. Had she hoped for this visit? He put one knee on the bed and rested more of his weight against her body. Suzanne closed her eyes the better to feel the length of him all the more. A small rivulet of sweat ran between her breasts, and her nipples pushed against the fabric of her gown where his hand rested. His fingers slid beneath the cloth and cupped her. She pressed him closer. If this was delirium, bring it on.

Then a noise like old hens fighting sounded at the bottom of the stairs, and her dark rider vanished. Suzanne opened her eyes as the commotion came closer.

“Now you give me that bowl, Esme! I made it. You’ll spill it all over the place.”

“I guess I’m not too old to carry a bowl up a flight of stairs, Letty, regardless of who made the soup.”

Suzanne scooted the blankets up to her chin to cover any sign or scent of arousal. Dr. Sonnier, totally professional, had ignored the skimpiness of her nightwear, but she doubted if the great-aunts would let it go by without comment. Like ancient succoring angels, they descended on her sickbed.

“Look how flushed she is, Letty.”

“And the window wide open.” Letty closed it with a brisk downward motion that made the flabby wattles of fat hanging from her upper arms shake. She jerked Suzanne up by the shoulders and turned and poked her pillows before allowing her to fall back again, a relentless effort to make the young woman more comfortable.

“We brought you some nice, nourishing chicken rice soup.” Esme tried to force a spoon past the patient’s lips. “Letty made it,” she said, giving delayed credit. “But Mama always said I had the most soothing hands around a sickbed.”

“Eat it up, honey. It’s still warm even if Willie’s cab was slow getting it here. I simply can’t believe they left you here all alone with the back door unlocked when you practically have pneumonia. I’ll have to speak to George about his help. We could spare Sally for a few days until you feel better.”

“Oh, no! I’m recovering rapidly. Honestly!” In her haste to show how well she felt, Suzanne sat up abruptly. The blankets slipped, and a spoonful of lukewarm chicken rice soup landed on one naked breast. The skinny straps of the nightgown had slipped or been drawn down to her waist. Letty raised her eyebrows. Esme tittered. Hastily, Suzanne slid beneath the covers and put her gown into place.

“You certainly look well enough,” Letty remarked. “Quite healthy.”

“I caught a cold from my dunk in the bayou, that’s all. But thank you for coming.” She hoped they would be mortified and leave. Certainly, she was embarrassed enough to draw the blankets over her head and hide.

“Nothing else happened yesterday?” Letty hinted.

“She means—she means—did he ravish you?” hissed Esme, leaning very close to Suzanne’s ear.

“Who?” Suzanne asked, remembering her dream and feeling the heat of a blush spreading over her body even brighter than the fever flush.

“Jacques’ ghost—the dark rider,” Esme continued in the same hissing tone as an unlit gas pilot light.

“Rape. The word is rape, Esme. Did the man rape you, child?” Letty interrogated.

“No, of course not. It was only a Mardi Gras joke.”

“Come now. I can see your lip is a little swollen. Did he rough you up a bit, girl? My Henry could be that way when he had a few drinks. Don’t be afraid to tell me.”

Before she could deny it, Esme added, “There is a bruise on your bosom. Perhaps you should see a doctor. You could be…well, you might be—”

She cut her off. “I have seen a doctor, and I’m not pregnant because I wasn’t raped. His bugle caused the bruise when we were—dismounting.” She hoped her fever would provide a plausible excuse for the waves of red washing across her face.

“Which doctor did you see?” The sisters, instantly and oddly distracted from the state of her chest, inquired.

“Dr. Sonnier.”

The great-aunts exchanged a meaningful look.

“They say…” steamed Esme. “They say Virginia Lee wore sultry nightgowns like this. They say after she gave birth to Georgie, she couldn’t wait to fit in one just like it again.”

Esme laid her withered crone’s hand on the slender strap showing on Suzanne’s shoulder. “They say Dr. Sonnier gave her a shot so she wouldn’t have to nurse her baby, so she could be in shape to do—you know—sooner.”

“With him, with the doctor,” added Letty.

“We never go to Dr. Sonnier. We go into the city, all the way in a cab if Georgie can’t drive us.”

“Who knows what Jeff Sonnier thinks when he touches a woman’s body!” Letty ended.

“He gave me a very professional examination. Besides, George said Doc Sonny is an old friend of the family.”

“Doc Sonny!” the sisters cackled. “He was an old friend of Virginia Lee’s, that’s right, but no friend to the St. Juliens.”

Then, George came along and saved her from more of the same conversation. They all heard him coming awkwardly up the stairs. He cursed softly as he backed into the room carrying a small tray with a half-spilled glass of water and two pills on it.

“Aunt Letty, Aunt Esme. I thought I heard your voices from the kitchen. Why didn’t you call me if you wanted to see Suzanne?”

The great-aunts looked ashamed of themselves. “We didn’t want to put you to any trouble, Georgie,” Esme answered with mock innocence.

“Well, let me drive you home. Suzanne is supposed to rest. I only came here on my lunch hour to bring these pills and check up on her. Birdie had some sort of family emergency after the patient went to sleep. She’ll be back directly.”

He set the tray on the nightstand and herded his elderly aunts toward the door. Suzanne mouthed a “thank you” to him when he turned back to her for a second. George smiled, rather sweetly, and reminding her to take her medicine, shut the door.

Suzanne swallowed the pills and ate the soup because Birdie wasn’t around to ply her with food. She fell into a sleep so deep that whatever she dreamed this time evaporated when she opened her eyes.

This time, chaos in the kitchen awakened her. The setting of the sun left her room in darkness. According to the glowing hands of her travel clock, supper time had come and gone. She put on a thick robe and her slippers and made her way to the center of the disturbance, or—the scene of the crime.

The chandelier in the dining room illuminated the empty drawers and cabinets of the Renaissance revival sideboard. Every fish knife and asparagus tong had gone missing. The shelves sat bare of punch bowls and candelabrum. A fine black dust edged the drawers, coated the usually gleaming surface, and spilled down on the Oriental rug.

In the kitchen, Sheriff Duval loomed over a wailing Birdie. Unobtrusively taking notes, one of the deputies hunched in a corner. George hovered in the background.

“I been working here over thirty years. I never took nothing that wasn’t give to me.”

George intervened. “That’s right, Sheriff. I had as much chance to steal that silver as Birdie. Why aren’t you questioning me?”

“Why would a man steal his own silver? Besides, I already checked with the insurance company. They said your mother never upgraded the policy when the price of silver went sky high, so you are losing out. You’ll get about $100,000 if the stuff isn’t recovered, but you might have gotten more on the open market right now.”

His deep-set dark eyes shrewd and considering Sheriff Duval looked closely at George. “You could be trying to collect the insurance and sell it both, but that stuff is traceable. We’ll have alerts out to all the antique dealers in the state tomorrow. Miss Hudson, just the person I wanted to see. George was feeling protective, I guess, and wouldn’t let me wake you, but Birdie took care of that. This has been quite a couple of days for you, now hasn’t it?”

“Mrs. St. Julien’s silver has been stolen?” Suzanne’s mind felt as fuzzy as her dry mouth, but she could have answered the sheriff’s question. Why would a man want to steal his own silver? Why? She knew.

“Correct. And you were in the house all day, right? Hear anything? See anything?”

“Not after lunch. I was sleeping.”

“So soundly that stealing $100,000 worth of silver wouldn’t wake you?”

“I’ll answer that,” George cut in. “She took a sleeping pill on doctor’s orders.”

Suzanne stared at George, amazed he would lie to keep her out of it. He noticed the expression on her face. “You did. Dr. Sonnier said young women couldn’t be trusted to stay in bed even when they needed the rest. That’s why I gave you two pills, an antibiotic and one to put you to sleep. I figured you would balk if I told you. The prescriptions are on file at the pharmacy. You can check, Sheriff.”

“Guess that leaves you out of the questioning, Miss. I could use any notes you have about that silver, that being your job here, I’m told.” Sheriff Duval eyed the inch of peach-colored lace her robe did not cover. He turned back to Birdie.

“So you were gone all afternoon because of a family emergency?”

“That’s right, Sheriff Duval, sir.”

“What was the nature of this emergency?”

“One of my boys crashed his car. Lionel, that’s my husband, called right when I was serving coffee to Dr. Sonnier. He’ll tell you. Doc Sonny waited in this kitchen here ’til Lionel come to take me to the hospital. My boy went into surgery for three hours, but he’s gonna be all right.”

“You left the invalid Miss Hudson alone in the house, and the back door wide open.”

“Guess I did forget to lock the door since it stood open come noon, but this here is Port Jefferson. Hardly no one locks. And Doc Sonny said Miss Suzanne had nothing serious and didn’t need no watching. I called Mr. George to tell him to check in on her at lunchtime.”

“Did you take the key to the sideboard with you?”

“No. I never does. I keeps it on a nail up under the sink. Even Miss Suzanne don’t know that, just Mr. George, me, and Miss Virginia when she was living.”

“Well, whoever took the loot knew. There isn’t a mark on that cabinet or a fingerprint either. They opened her up, hauled it out, and wiped her clean while Sleeping Beauty here was knocked out. I’ll want you down at the station tomorrow, Birdie Jones, to make a signed statement. A lie detector test might be in order, too.”

Birdie’s bulk trembled. The sheriff took note of it.

“Is that necessary? The lie detector test?” George asked.

“I think the insurance company will demand it, George. They may ask you to take one, too, but neither of you can be forced.”

George’s brow wrinkled, but he kept quiet.

“Step outside with me a minute, George. I want to have a talk with you.”

The two men went out into the night, the note-taking deputy shadowing them through the kitchen door without closing it entirely. Suzanne went to put an arm around Birdie and watched George and Sheriff Duval through the crack left by the deputy.

Sheriff Duval did not bother to lower his voice. She suspected that the crack in the door had been left for her benefit.

“Judging by what she has on under that robe, your Miss Hudson might be an expensive piece of ass up from New Orleans, though she sounds Yankee enough to me. I’m going to be checking her credentials, you know. Now what goes on in a man’s home is his own business, but that little caper yesterday set me to thinking. You know Jules Badeaux, the Capitaine, and he wasn’t drinking. He says that rider stood way over six feet tall, real long in the leg. Now us Cajuns aren’t known for our height. The only other man your size in Port Jefferson is black. So if you and Miss Hudson got yourself a little sex fantasy going, I say okay, fine, that’s your business. But if you’re planning to pay for it with your mama’s silver, I’ll be on your tail. Got me?”

George leaned over Sheriff Duval, looking directly down on the top of the lawman’s Stetson, his neck so bent he resembled a shamefaced child. “Yes, sir,” he answered.

Suzanne glanced at Birdie whose tears had dried. The housekeeper leaned close to the crack in the door and watched with the same amount of fascination she showed for the afternoon soap operas on the little portable television in the kitchen while she cleaned up the lunch dishes. Birdie rolled her eyes.

“Sex fantasies,” Suzanne whispered. They shared a good giggle.