Jennifer Moorhead | Exclusive Excerpt BROKEN BAYOU

Chapter Five

 

Travis navigates his truck down the narrow lane, away from Shadow Bluff. The truck is spotless. A Ford F-250 with a leather interior and a dashboard that looks like the inside of a cockpit. A siren rests on the top of the dash.

“Nice truck,” I say.

“Thanks. Took me forever to save up for it.”

“No patrol car?”

He laughs, and there goes the dimple again. “Hell, no. Even the chief doesn’t have a patrol car. No damn money. We’re lucky we even have a police department. Lots of small towns have lost theirs. It’s just me, the chief, and two other officers in a run-down rented building north of Bridge Street. Oh, and we do have Margie, who works the front, but she volunteers because she’s married to the chief.” He side-eyes me and winks. “A real coup.” He glances at me again. “You know, Nan’s is pretty casual.”

I look down at the suit pants and navy-and-white-striped blouse. Silk, like the one I ruined on Fort Worth Live. “Unfortunately, this is my casual.”

“Suit yourself.” He slides his gaze at me with a smile. “No pun intended.”

I roll my eyes. It’s strange, being in a car with him again. One of the last times I was in a car with him, Travis snuck me to a spot outside the town. His uncle’s place, where Travis worked during the summer. Then he took me for a joyride. In a crop duster. I remember the sinking drops in my stomach as he dipped over the fields. I was laughing and crying at the same time. No roller coaster came close. I’d never been that out of control. And by the time we finally landed, I’d discovered a piece of me actually liked it.

I gaze out the window. The town looks tired. The ditches are overgrown with weeds, and the small houses are sagging, some even boarded up. The complete opposite of the town down the road. St. Francisville capitalized on its antebellum homes and gardens, and created a quaint place for tourists to ooh and aah over a past we have no business oohing and aahing over. Maybe that was Broken Bayou’s hope for Shadow Bluff. Even though Shadow Bluff isn’t technically antebellum. It’s old, yes. But not a plantation. The Aunts liked to brag it was, but it’s just an imitation. I looked it up, researched it when I was in middle school and looking for a history project. Shadow Bluff was built in the nineteenth century but well after the Civil War ended. Beautiful, but never even had a crop. And as I look around, I don’t think the restoration of that place will bring this town back to life. Broken Bayou looks . . . broken.

Travis pulls into the parking lot of Nan’s Café, a small box building with windows on two sides. We hop out, and Travis opens the glass front door for me. A lively hive of clinking silverware and slow southern drawls greets us. Inside, it looks like most small diners. Booths against one wall, tables in the middle, and in the back, a long counter with stools facing the open kitchen. A menagerie of jelly packets, salt and pepper shakers, and Louisiana-brand hot sauce jars adorn every table. Beige walls and linoleum floors finish out the look. No cutesy decor like I expect in a southern establishment, only kids’ drawings taped on the walls. Which is odd considering there don’t seem to be many kids here.

We head for an empty booth. It’s overly warm and smells like sweet perfume and bacon. Topics of conversation float around us as we weave through the tables, most people commenting on the worst drought in this region’s history. As we pass, one man takes off his cap, rubs his thinning hair, and says to the waitress taking his order, “Some people talk about hundred-year floods. Well, this here’s the hundred-year drought.”

We slide into the booth, and a waitress with a messy ponytail and a sour look on her face approaches, turns over our ceramic coffee mugs, and pours coffee before we ask. Then she abruptly leaves.

“So much for southern hospitality,” I say.

“The locals can be a little cranky.” Travis nods to a table in the back. “You look like one of them.”

I look around more closely and notice a table where the customers are dressed like me, suits and slick city hair. “What’s going on?”

“Media.”

The waitress reappears, tops off my mug to overflowing, and onto the table, drops two plastic menus that announce Nan’s proudly serves breakfast all day. Before she can walk off, Travis stops her and orders spicy sausage and biscuits with white gravy, a side of fried green tomatoes, and a crabmeat omelet with grits.

I stare at him with my mouth open. “Really?”

“You have to try all the house favorites. Besides, I remember you liking a big breakfast.”

My cheeks flush, and I study the menu until it subsides. When I look up, he’s watching me.

“What else do you remember?” I say.

His smile mirrors mine. “I remember it all.”

What does that mean? His tone is flirty, playful, but so is mine. Maybe he’s following my lead. Or maybe he’s testing me. Or maybe I’m overthinking it all, and it means absolutely nothing.

I need to think of something to say. Anything that keeps the conversation from drifting to the past.

“How’s your mom? Your dad?” I say and immediately regret it. That might be the worst topic I could’ve picked.

Travis rolls his eyes. “My dad died a few years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. He got drunk and fell off the dock, drowned.”

“That’s horrible.” I remember his father. A burly man who watched Travis like a hawk.

“My mom is still out at the house.”

An image of Liv Arceneaux comes to mind, and it’s not a pretty one: of her holed up in their run-down house, staring out the window when Travis would run out to meet me. Although I didn’t go over there much. The Aunts forbade it. I don’t remember much about that house except that it sat tucked into the woods at the north end of town and that I could always see Liv peeking outside. She would have made a good research study in grad school.

“My brothers Doyle and Eddie live with her,” Travis continues. “The rest of my brothers escaped this place. And Emily,” he pauses, swallows. “Emily passed away a long time ago.”

I set my coffee down. Emily. The sister. I’d forgotten all about her. I only met her a couple of times, even with all our trips down. I want to ask him more about his dad and sister, but I can see the sadness in his eyes, so I settle on, “I’m so sorry.”

He nods, sips his coffee.

I point at his outfit. “And how did you end up in law enforcement?”

He laughs. A deep, hefty laugh that brings with it the memory of a boy and a girl and fireworks. “Thought I’d try out life on the other side for a while.”

“A while?”

“Yeah. Till I get bored, and the juvenile delinquent side comes back out.”

I hold my coffee mug up, and he clinks it, grinning. The scar under his eye crinkles. The one I know he got from falling through a glass-top coffee table while wrestling with one of his brothers. But there’s something unspoken in his eyes. It’s in mine too. I hope to God he doesn’t bring it up. I’m not ready for that topic yet.

I glance at the media table again. The Missing poster and the news vans come to mind along with the conversation with my mother the day before. “I saw several news vans yesterday, then the Missing poster at the turn to Shadow Bluff.”

He shakes his head. “The media’s not here for that missing schoolteacher. They’re here for the barrels.”

I sit up straighter. “What barrels?”

His mouth falls open. “Are you serious?”

That bayou is all over the news. I nod.

“Christ.” He rubs his face. “It’s unbelievable.” He pulls his cell phone out.

“Travis?” I say. “What barrels?”

He holds his finger up. “Hang on.” He taps on his phone, then turns it around so I can see the screen. “Watch.” He hits play on the video.

Two newscasters, a bright-eyed woman and a coifed, lean man, from a Baton Rouge affiliate fill the screen. They look very serious as they discuss the drought plaguing the area. Water levels are dangerously low. Crops are dying. People are worried. Down here, the concern is always too much water, not the lack of. For the first time ever, people are praying for a tropical storm. The two anchors look desperately at the meteorologist, who shakes his head and informs them there’s nothing spinning in the gulf, no rain in sight.

I reach for one of the individual liquid creamers on the table and pour it into my cup. When I look back at the screen, the newscasters have switched gears, and the woman says, “Now, Grace Morgan will follow up on that bizarre story out of Broken Bayou. Good morning, Grace.”

I turn up the volume on the side of Travis’s phone.

“Good morning, Sherri. As you can see, I’m here on the banks of Broken Bayou this morning, following up on a story that has some of the folks here quite concerned.”

I lean in.

Grace says, “In a moment, I’m going to talk with Alice and Calvin Boudreaux, the parents of Katharine Boudreaux, the young teacher who went missing after a night out with friends in New Orleans.” A picture flashes on the screen. The same face I saw on the Missing poster. “The Boudreauxes believe Katharine took a route home that night three weeks ago that would have led her through Broken Bayou. Specifically, over the bridge behind us.” She points to the bridge in the background. A bridge I fished and swam under every summer. And every summer, there was always some story about kids swimming in the bayou and becoming violently ill from swallowing the water. But not Mabry and me. We never got sick. The Aunts said our stomachs must be made of stone. But it wasn’t stone that hardened our insides. We had Krystal Lynn to thank for that.

The reporter continues, “They believe Katharine never made it over that bridge and are pleading with local law enforcement to help in their search. So far, they say, the local police have been less than helpful, undoubtedly due to the other major story in this small town.” Grace straightens. I do as well. “We have new information on the grim story surrounding the barrel, containing human remains, found a few days ago in Broken Bayou.”

“Oh my God.” I hit pause on the screen and look up at Travis. “What the hell?”

He nods. “Yeah, like I said, unbelievable.” He presses play. “Keep watching.”

I struggle to swallow my next sip of coffee.

“Thanks to items found inside that barrel,” the reporter is saying, “the remains were identified as those of Destiny Smith, a fifteen-year-old runaway from Birmingham, Alabama. Her last known location was New Orleans, where she went missing in 2015.” After an appropriate pause, she adds, “Back to you.”

The camera switches back to the studio, with both anchors shaking their heads.

“Tragic,” the man says to his co-anchor and to the camera. “We will keep you updated on this story as we receive more information. We’ll be back in just a minute with Grace, live on the bayou.”

I lean back against the booth, speechless. The poor parents of that fifteen-year-old girl. Runaways think any place is better than home, and sometimes, that’s true, but an overwhelming percentage find a place that’s much worse. My heart breaks for that young girl. She needed help, and instead, a monster found her. I wonder what her story was. Where her issues lived. Was it abuse, addiction, both?

Travis pockets his phone. “That’s the second barrel that’s been found.”

I stop my coffee cup midsip. “What?”

“The first one was actually found over a decade ago. It’s been unsolved forever. Then some kids stumble upon this latest one. It’s insane. Chief Wilson called the sheriff. This shit is way out of our league. Then the sheriff called the state police, and now with the second victim being from out of state, the state police are talking about calling the feds. But I don’t know if that’s a great idea. Everyone will be stepping on everyone else’s toes. We’re still waiting for the crime lab to send us the DNA analysis from the first victim. My guess is it will be another runaway.”

“Travis.” A disturbing thought pops into my head. “Could this be a serial killer?”

He shrugs, nonplussed, as if I’ve asked if he wants more coffee. “Maybe. We’ve had our fair share down here. Hell, we’ve had our fair share in this parish. You remember Derrick Todd Lee?”

I shake my head no.

“He was the Baton Rouge Serial Killer. Stalked girls at LSU. Killed seven. And he was from our parish. Died in prison. Hell, the police chief in Derrick’s town knew it was him. He told the state police, the sheriff, the lead investigator. Nobody listened. And he was right. You just know when it’s one of your own.”

My coffee has lost its flavor. I set it down. “And do you think this is one of your own?”

“I sure as shit hope not. Anything’s possible, I guess, but we’re not saying the words serial killer yet. We don’t want to create any hysteria.”

The waitress clanks our breakfast order onto the table, and I jump. “Here you go.”

“Perfect,” Travis says to her with a smile.

My fingers unroll the paper napkin from the silverware and place it in my lap even though I have no appetite.

“This is crazy, Travis.”

“I know. And they’re not helping.” He nods toward the table beside us. “Only one reporter was here a few days ago. But the AP picked up on it, and you know, once they get a whiff of death, they come running.” He scoops a bite of grits into his mouth. “Waiting to see if there’s more.”

I stare at him as he chews.

“What?” He says around the bite in his mouth.

“How can you eat?”

“I’m hungry, that’s how.” He swallows the bite. “And I’d better eat now. It’s going to be a long day.”

“What’s going on?”

“You’ll see.”

Before I can question him, Travis turns to the older ladies sitting next to us and says, “Ladies.” He looks back to me. “Think you might have been spotted.”

“Wh-what?”

He points to the ladies. They wave, then lean in and begin to whisper. I look back at Travis. “Great.”

“Well, I’ll be,” a voice from the table says. “Willamena Pearl Watters.”

Travis and I both look up as an elderly lady approaches our table. Her white cotton candy hair perches on top of her small head. I picture her wrapping that hair in toilet paper at night like Pearl and Petunia used to do so it’d keep until the next beauty parlor appointment.

I nod at her.

“I’m Ermine Taylor, darlin’.”

“Ermine!” I jump up from the table.

She wraps her little bird arms around me and whispers in my ear. “You sweet angel. Bless your heart.”

I hear pity in her voice. Ermine’s been watching more than just the local news. She’s been watching YouTube, and from the looks we’re getting around the room, she’s not the only one.

Ermine took her daddy’s bait shop and turned it into a business that actually thrived in this town. She offered hot food, cold beer, and easy conversation. And she bucked every stereotype about a Black woman owning a business in the South. Ermine Taylor had been a force to be reckoned with, and from the steely gaze in her dark eyes, she still is.

I smile at the woman who became like a second mother to me over the years. Her store and her hugs something I looked forward to every summer. Then, like so many other things in this town, I’d let her fade away too.

“I . . . I . . .” I stumble over my words. “I should have kept in touch.”

She waves a hand in front of her. “Water under the bridge, honey. Tell me, how’s your mama?”

Again, that question. And again, I answer, “She’s fine.”

Ermine looks at me like I’m a lost puppy. She pats my arm and tells me to come by Taylor’s Marketplace if I’m in town for a while. I promise I will.

A few of the other ladies are up now that Ermine led the charge. They surround me in a huddle of hugs and sugary perfume, going on about how good it is to see me and how much they miss the Aunts. I don’t recognize most of them as they say their names in one continuous stream. June, Lydia, Barb, Sally. They ask questions all at once about living in a big city and how Mama’s getting along and why I haven’t been back sooner, all in slow rolling accents that sound more Brooklyn than southern gulf. The Yat dialect, as it’s called in New Orleans.

I answer the gaggle in front of me in order: wonderful, just fine, working too hard. None broach the topic of Fort Worth Live, but I see their sparkling curiosity behind their smiles. What they wouldn’t give to have me sit at their table and replay that tale. Then Travis saves me.

“Ladies,” he interrupts. “I hate to steal the main attraction, but we have to go.”

“Thank you,” I mouth to him, then turn, and say my goodbyes, leaving with promises to keep in touch, although I have no way to back that up.

 

Travis pulls out of the parking lot, crosses Main, and parks his truck sideways in front of Ace’s hardware store. The whole process takes less than a minute. I don’t even think he checked for traffic when he crossed the street. Not that he needed to. There’s not a car in sight. It unnerves me a bit. I’ve grown used to city noise, cars, people yelling, airplanes overhead. This town is way too quiet.

“So Ace’s is where we’re going?” I say.

He opens his door. “No. We need to do something about those shoes before our next stop.”

I look down at my kitten heels, but before I can respond, he’s out of the truck and disappearing into Ace’s.

Ned’s Pharmacy is next door, like I remember when I first drove through town. Then my eyes land on the business next to it.

The antique store. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Something about it still seems familiar.

A woman is out front, sweeping the stoop. Ancient high chairs, crates of old colored bottles, and rusted Dixie Beer signs overflow onto the front porch. The woman waves. I wave back. Then a thought hits me. I open my door, glance at Ace’s. Travis is still inside. But for how long?

“Excuse me,” I say to the woman.

She stops sweeping.

“Would you happen to have a VHS player in there?”

The woman shakes her head. “I don’t think so, but you’re welcome to come inside and look.”

I study the glass door behind her. “I’ll stop in later,” I say as I climb back into Travis’s truck.

What is it about that door?

My mouth goes dry. It’s not the door that’s the problem, it’s what used to be on the other side.

A vision of Mama racing into Shadow Bluff, out of breath, one hot, muggy evening flashes in front of me. We’d been in Broken Bayou about a week that last summer, and the Aunts had made it clear we would all sit down for supper at six sharp.

“Let’s eat. I’m starving,” Mama said, sliding into her seat at the table. She wore her tightest pair of jeans and a top that would have fit better on Mabry.

The Aunts scowled and simultaneously asked the Lord to bless our food and forgive us our sins. The last part directed at Mama.

“Guess who got a job today?” Mama said in a singsong voice as she slung mashed potatoes onto her plate.

I studied her. Mama getting a job during summer was not normal. She liked her months off. Said it gave her time to think, whatever that meant. Something was up.

“Why’d you get a job?” I said.

She smirked at me. “You’re welcome.”

“Where you gonna be working at?” Pearl said.

“Oh, just a temp job at a little office up the road. Guy who runs it is a real hotshot. Drives a Cadillac. Probably a bookie, but whatever; he’s paying me cash.” She winked at me. “He’s a pill, but I can handle his type.” She hoisted up her already-hoisted breasts. “He would not stop staring at the ladies the whole time he interviewed me. Perv.” She found my gaze and winked. “But the pervs are the easiest to control.”

My eyes stay fixed on the glass door. A door that once led to a dark narrow office. My seventeen-year-old self never stopping to think why that door was unlocked at two o’clock in the morning. Papers were scattered all over the floor, the phone off the hook and hanging over the side of the desk. A chair overturned. A safe in the corner, open and empty. But I found what I needed. I punched the eject button on the antiquated video recorder, snatched the black tape that shot out, then ran as fast as I could into the night.

Travis opens the car door, and I snap back to reality. He studies my face. “You okay?”

I blink several times. Away goes the memory. Professional Willa is back. “I’m good. But I think I better get back.” I leave off the last of my sentence: to a box of forgotten tapes.

“Sure, but we need to make a stop first. That’s why I got you these.” He smiles and presents a pair of bright orange rubber boots. “I guessed your size.”

I stare at his hands. “What are those?”

“Bayou boots.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. My next stop needs to be Shadow Bluff. “Travis, I don’t—”

The radio on Travis’s dash crackles. “Hey, Travis. You out there?” The woman’s voice on the other end contains the distinct gravel of a lifetime smoker. She sounds tired and bored.

He unhooks the radio from the dash. “I’m here, Margie. What’s up?”

“Is your phone off or something? Chief needs you. Now. Crowd’s getting out of control. It’s a circus down there. Check your gosh-darn phone.” The radio goes silent.

He looks at me and shrugs. “Sorry. You can wait in the car if you want.”

He shifts the truck into drive and pulls away from the antique store. Away from the woman sweeping. Away from the glass door. Toward a place that has me regretting I ever said yes to breakfast in the first place.

Copyright © 2024 Jennifer Moorhead

BROKEN BAYOU by Jennifer Moorhead

In this debut thriller, a troubled child psychologist returns to a small Louisiana town to protect her secrets but winds up having to protect her life.

Dr. Willa Watters is a prominent child psychologist at the height of her career. But when a viral video of a disastrous television interview puts her reputation on the line, Willa retreats to Broken Bayou, the town where she spent most of her childhood summers. There she visits her aunts’ old house and discovers some of her unstable mother’s belongings still languishing in the attic—dusty mementos harboring secrets of her harrowing past.

Willa’s hopes for a respite are quickly crushed, not only by what she finds in that attic but also by what’s been found in the bayou.

With waters dropping due to drought, mysterious barrels containing human remains have surfaced, alongside something else from Willa’s past, something she never thought she’d see again. Divers, police, and media flood the area, including a news reporter gunning for Willa and Travis Arceneaux—a local deputy and old flame.

Willa’s fate seems eerily tied to the murders. And with no one to trust, she must use her wits to stay above water and make it out alive.

 

Thriller [Thomas & Mercer, On Sale: July 1, 2024, Paperback / e-Book, ISBN: 9781662518775 / ]