The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(8)
Author: Karen White
Beau faced me, his pupils reflecting the orange lights. “I think there is real evidence. There’s a reason why my dad stored the Maison Blanche door here instead of destroying it. Probably the same reason he saved Jeanne’s clientele book and the other items in the hatbox hidden behind a sealed closet door.”
I thought about the tie clasp and pipe that had belonged to his grandfather, as well as the photograph negative and yellow hair ribbon that could have been used as evidence if the case had ever made it to court. But it hadn’t. Hurricane Katrina and the years since had intervened, and the case had been conveniently closed.
The faint scent of pipe smoke once again flitted through the air, my skin responding with goose bumps rippling down my arms beneath Beau’s coat. “Your grandfather isn’t alone.”
“I know.” He studied his clasped hands before turning his attention back to me.
“I’m pretty sure it’s your mother,” I added quietly.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve seen her footprints. I thought they would both go once we found Sunny.”
“Me, too. You should ask her why she’s still here.”
Beau sat up in his chair, the metal frame groaning in protest. “No. I can’t. I’m still so . . . angry with her. For leaving me.”
I knew that wasn’t the whole story. I’d heard too much of his conversation on a disconnected landline phone with Adele, his mother, who was presumed dead during Katrina. Either he didn’t remember asking her for help or he didn’t want me to know he had. Can you help me find her? I know she’s alive, or she’d have told me. I’ve been searching for so long and I can’t do this on my own. And then his response to her unheard question. Not her. I want her too much. I’d known he was talking about me.
I wanted to take his hand, to let him know I understood. I had been angry at my own mother for a long time after her death following a short life full of bad choices. I kept my hands in my lap, not wanting to complicate our already complicated relationship. But I’d learned a few things from my therapist and the never-ending road to recovery.
“Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting, Beau. Loving someone and being angry with them at the same time is actually a thing. Maybe your mom is still here because she needs to know that you’ve forgiven her.”
I heard the sound of him swallowing, then waited for him to speak. “It’s more than that. And I think there’s something else, too. I think it’s the same reason why my grandfather is still here.”
I took a deep breath, needing to voice the one thought that hadn’t left me alone since I’d first smelled the pipe tobacco long after I thought Beau had sent the restless spirits in my house into the light. “Maybe they’re still here to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. Like poking a stick in the lion’s cage.”
He exhaled, a small puff of air rising from his mouth. “Or maybe he’s here to protect me while I expose the truth and see that someone is punished. Antoine Broussard got away with murdering his own daughter while incriminating my grandfather for the crime. And his family is still benefiting from his evil deeds from decades ago. I want justice. Accountability. Even now, the family business, the Sabatier Group, goes against everything you and I believe in. Tearing down older buildings to replace them with cheaply built, less sustainable structures. Why should they be allowed to have any say in the rebuilding of the vernacular architecture of New Orleans when they’ve been sucking this city dry of everything of value for generations? Their greed is why they’re where they are now, and it seems I’m the last man standing who can bring them down.”
“That’s admirable, Beau. Really. But the Sabatier Group is huge, and the family behind it is very powerful in ways Uncle Bernie is afraid to tell us. You can’t do it alone.”
He paused. Took a deep breath. “I know. I wasn’t planning on it.”
I studied him with growing incredulity. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I realize this is a big ask. . . .”
“A big ask? That’s like calling Katrina a little storm. I never want to see Michael again.” I paused, needing to redirect the conversation before I lost my self-control. Forcing a smile, I said, “Not to mention that if something happened to you, I’d have to find another general contractor to manage my renovation, and that could slow me down a bit. A good contractor is hard to find.”
He didn’t smile. “Have you ever wondered about Michael’s parents? I’ve been doing a lot of research on the Broussard-Hebert-Sabatier family connections. Michael’s father, Marco, is Antoine’s grandson and worked for Antoine for a number of years. And then, suddenly, he and his wife decide to become missionaries and pack up to go live on the other side of the world. They left their children in the care of Marco’s sister, Angelina, and her husband, Robert Sabatier. This same arrangement stipulated that Michael and his sister, Felicity, be educated up north. Both were sent to boarding school, and Felicity decided to stay. I know I’m not the only one to find that not only weird but also highly suspicious.”
“Sure, that’s strange, but not inconceivable. A lot of kids go to boarding school away from home.”
Beau’s gaze held mine. “That’s not the part that confuses me. It’s the fact that Michael’s parents apparently suddenly found God and decided to devote their lives to saving souls on the other side of the world, leaving their children behind. There is nothing that I have found in any of my research that hints at anything more religious about Marco and his wife, Theresa, than dutifully bringing their children each week to Sunday mass at Holy Name. That’s it. And then boom, they’re off. There’s a story here, just waiting for someone to crack it open and expose all of their dark secrets.”
A cold chill swept over me, raising the hair on my scalp. “Don’t do this, Beau. Please. You have Sunny back. Can’t you just leave it at that? No good can come of you dredging up the past.”
“I’m not so sure.” He turned away from me and stared across the street at the festive trees in their odd coffin planters, each washed with pinpoints of orange lights. “Could you at least think about it?”
“I already gave you my answer—”
“Just think about it, okay?” he said, cutting me off. He stood, holding out his hand to help me up.
I hesitated before slipping my hand into his, preparing myself for the jolt of warmth and that unnamed spark that I refused to identify. I dropped his hand as soon as I could.
Beau’s face remained serious as he spoke. “You’ve had a long day. I’ll help you lock up, and then drive you home.”