Bayou Bodyguard. Jana DeLeon
He cut off his train of thought as he drove into Cypriere. The owner of the rental house promised to leave the keys with the café owner, Tom, so Brian pulled into a parking space in front of the café. Justine pulled in next to him.
“We’re supposed to pick up the keys at the café,” he explained to Justine as she joined him on the sidewalk in front of the place. “If you’re hungry, I figured we could eat supper here. We’ll need to stock the rental house, and quite frankly, I don’t feel like grocery shopping at the moment.”
She hesitated for just a second then nodded. “Fine by me. I totally skipped lunch.”
Brian opened the door and waited while she stepped into the café, wondering if during her hesitation she’d decided that eating with him in a public place was preferable to eating with him alone in the rental house. He’d been warned that she was reclusive, but from what he observed, Justine acted guarded.
It took him a minute to realize that she wasn’t moving forward. One look around the café filled him in on the why. Every patron in the place sat frozen in time. Even the waitress had stopped serving to stare at them. Feeling as if he’d trespassed onto private property, Brian took Justine’s arm and steered her to a table in the far corner at the front of the café, away from the curious patrons.
Justine immediately lifted a worn plastic menu up to hide her face. “Wow. I guess we should have called ahead and warned them we were coming.”
“I think we could have held a parade and gotten the same response. I’m sure everyone in town knows we’re here and why.”
“Guess they’re not happy about it.”
Brian looked to the side and the patrons all averted their eyes, except one. He was young, maybe in his twenties, wearing jeans, a red ball cap and a T-shirt with smears of motor oil on it. He stared directly at Brian, as if challenging him to say something. Brian stared right back until the guy looked away. Best to let them know up front that he wouldn’t be intimidated.
“This sorta puts a damper on my research,” Justine said and sighed.
“You were planning on doing interviews?” It had never occurred to Brian that Justine would talk to the locals.
“I still am, even though it might be hard to get information from them.”
“What kind of information do you think they have?”
“Tales mostly. Stories handed down among the generations.”
Brian nodded. “I see. You’re figuring that the campfire tales and stories used to scare kids might contain an element of truth.”
“They usually do.”
“That’s smart of you and something I never would have thought of.”
“Really? I thought cops used rumor and gossip to get leads.”
She made an attempt to say it lightly, but Brian caught the underlying animosity and sarcasm in Justine’s words. Interesting. Maybe her problem wasn’t just with strangers or men, but only with cops. He logged that tidbit for future pondering.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said. “It’s all hearsay and it’s never quite correct, but it’s usually enough to send us in the right direction.” He was about to ask another question about Justine’s research methods, hoping to learn more about his new roommate, when the waitress stepped up to the table.
She was probably in her thirties, but the years of sun and bayou air had weathered her skin, making her look older. Her long, dark hair was piled on top of her head and she looked down at them, brown eyes full of suspicion. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll have sweet tea,” Justine said. “My name’s Justine and this is Brian.”
Justine’s introduction clearly surprised the waitress and she bit her bottom lip, the indecision on her face clear as day. “I’m Deedee,” she said finally, but Brian could tell she had given the information grudgingly.
“What would you like to drink, sir?” she asked Brian, her eyes fixed on her order pad.
“Sweet tea for me, too.”
“Did you want anything to eat?” Deedee asked.
Justine ordered chicken-fried steak and Brian put in an order for a burger and fries. Deedee barely nodded and scurried away from the table, without so much as a glance back. Justine gave Brian a wry smile. “You should really work on your technique. You’re scaring all the women away.”
Brian saw the cook stop Deedee and ask her a question. Deedee shook her head and started to fill two tall glasses with tea. Her hands shook as she poured the tea from the pitcher into the glasses. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the waitress’s discomfort because when she finished pouring, the cook took the glasses and directed Deedee to make more coffee.
Brian sized the man up as he made his way from behind the counter and across the café to their table. He was a big guy, probably in his fifties, and looked as if he could handle most anything life dealt him. He studied them carefully as he walked up to the table, but the fear that Brian saw in the waitress wasn’t present in this man.
“Two sweet teas,” the cook said and placed the glasses in front of them. “You must be the people that’s here to research that house of the damned.”
Brian blinked at his rather abrupt, albeit accurate, description. “Yes,” he replied and stuck out his hand. “I’m Brian. This is Justine.”
“Tom Breaux,” the cook said and shook his hand. “I own the café.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and handed them to Brian. “These are for you. Sammy’s house is on the street behind the café, about fifty yards east. Has yellow siding and white trim.”
“Thanks,” Brian said, and took the keys.
Tom looked at Justine. “What kind of research are you doing?”
“Family stuff mostly,” Justine relayed the cover story she and Olivia had agreed upon, “and furniture cataloging. Antiques are a specialty of mine.”
Tom nodded then fixed his gaze back on Brian, narrowing his eyes. “Pardon me if I say so, but you don’t look like some brainy researcher.” He inclined his head at Justine. “Not that you do either, ma’am.”
“I’m not a researcher,” Brian said, certain the man had already heard about the sheriff’s visit and was fishing for information. It was the setup Brian had been looking for. “I’m more of the freelance security sort.”
Tom raised his eyebrows. “Seems a strange place to freelance.”
“I’m a friend of Olivia’s. She asked me to watch over the repair people she has scheduled, and make sure Justine’s work follows an uncomplicated path.”
Tom gave a single laugh. “Yeah, well, it’s gonna take more than muscle and a keen eye for shooting to best what’s going on at that house. You can’t shoot or wrestle haunts.”
Justine leaned across the table toward Tom. “You really believe the house is haunted?”
“I know it for a fact. Things has gone on out there as long as I lived and a hundred years before. Ain’t no human been out there causing trouble for over a hundred years. The place is cursed. I told your friend Olivia the same thing, but she didn’t listen. And look what it got her—almost killed by a madman.”
“But a human madman,” Justine pointed out.
Tom shook his head. “The man was cursed. Cursed by the spirits in that house.”
“That man was cursed by insanity,” Brian said.
“Yeah,” Tom agreed, “just like Franklin Borque. I heard all the stories growing up—about why he built that monstrosity in the swamp to hide all the valuables he acquired,