Water Witch (7 page)

Aside from its swamp, Bayou Crow didn’t offer
a hell of a lot. A few beat up mobile homes and weathered
clapboards lined its west bank, along with a beige metal building
that held a large red and white sign which read: DALE’S TRADING
POST. Just below that sign were notices that DALE’S now carried
live bait, served frozen daiquiris, and had a thirty-percent sale
on Blue Bell ice cream. One block past Dale’s was a squat,
pale-brick building that, judging by its sign and the crooked cross
on the roof, was the Unified Kingdom of Christ Church. It looked
more like a post office with a broken weathervane.

Angelle took a left on a side street that ran
alongside the church, her foot still heavy on the gas. I couldn’t
blame her. For the past half hour, Poochie had been talking
non-stop about ghosts, the feux fo lais, and shoes that disappeared
from china ball trees. The only time she came up for air was when
she asked a question, and even then you had to answer quickly or
she’d fill in the blanks for you.

“You see dat?” Poochie said, tapping a finger
against her window.

“The church?” I asked.

She nodded. “Dat’s where de little girl
lives.”

I glanced at Angelle. “The girl who’s
missing?”

“Yeah,” Angelle said. “The preacher there is
Sarah’s uncle, Rusty Woodard. They live in that old house, just
behind the church.”

“Dat man’s cuckoo in de head, yeah,” Poochie
said. “He can’t hardly keep track of his ownself. No wonder dat
baby got los’.”

“Where are her parents?” I asked.

Angelle shrugged. “Sarah’s lived with Woodard
as long as I’ve been here. I’ve never met her parents.”

“I don’t know about de daddy, but I know
about her mama,” Poochie said matter of factly.

“How can you know?” Angelle said. “You’ve
only lived here a couple of weeks.”

“Sook tol’ me, dat’s how I know. She said
when dat little girl was three, four years old, her mama just drop
her off in de church like a sack of dirty clothes and tol’ her
cuckoo brother she didn’t want her baby no more. Sook said de mama
was trash, all de time jumpin’ from boyfriend to boyfriend. I guess
she didn’t want no baby around when she did her jumpin’ so she
brung her here.”

“Why do you keep talking about Woodard that
way?” Angelle asked. “I’ve met him a few times, and he didn’t seem
crazy to me. A little enthusiastic maybe . . .” She turned left
into a parking lot that fronted a run-down metal building with
glowing Budweiser and Miller Lite signs in the windows.

“Meetin’ dat man on de street ain’t de same.
I’m tellin’ you, he don’t got all his marbles in de same sack, no.
When he’s in dat church, he gets all crazy, jumpin’ up and down,
wavin’ his arms in de air and talkin’ stuff dat don’t make no
sense.”

“Maybe he’s a fundamentalist?” I offered.
“You know, speaking in tongues and all that.”

Poochie tsked. “De good Lord gave you a
tongue, me a tongue, him a tongue. Just ‘cause we got one don’t
mean we s’pose to run around and talk stupid.”

I turned away, hiding a grin. The woman had a
point.

“Enough about him,” Angelle said, killing the
engine and opening her door. “Let’s get you inside, Pooch.”

”Where are we?” I asked, following her out of
the car.

“This . . .” Angelle spread her arms out wide
in mock presentation of grandeur. “Is the Bloody Bucket.” She
rolled her eyes, then opened the back car door. After pulling out
the collapsible walker, she opened it, then helped Poochie slide
out of the backseat.

Obviously happy to be mobile again, Poochie
clomped off with the walker like someone eager to lead a Mexican
standoff—pretty impressive for someone supposedly unsteady on her
feet. Angelle followed with less enthusiasm, and I trailed behind,
worried about what had my sister looking so bad, so exhausted. I
had to admit spending that much time in a car with Poochie
Blackledge prattling on nonstop
was
tiring. Although far
from boring, being confined in a small space with her was like
playing tennis in a closet—in the dark. You couldn’t tell where the
ball was coming from next or at what speed. Living with the woman
twenty-four-seven had to require the patience of a saint, and even
then it wasn’t hard for me to imagine Mother Teresa doing a few eye
rolls.

The sound of arguing reached us before we
made it to the front door. A man and a woman from the sound of
their voices, and if volume had anything to do with surmising the
winner, the woman was way ahead.

“ . . . and you know that doesn’t make a lick
of sense, Vernon Francis—”

“—
said
put it on.”

“It’s too deep, doggonnit!”

“Just listen to dat,” Poochie said with a
snort. “Dem two is at it again.” Having reached the glass door
first, she turned her walker sideways and hipped her way into the
building.

Once inside, it was easy to see why Angelle
had laughed when I’d asked if the place was a bed and breakfast.
Judging by the four aisles filled with assorted foodstuffs, we’d
entered the grocery store end of the Bloody Bucket. The small place
looked clean but old, and it smelled of grilled onions and fresh
fish. The short, narrow counter near the right wall was crammed
with various displays—chewing gum, cigarette lighters, artificial
fishing bait, rhinestone bracelets, beef jerky, and Eveready
batteries. There was hardly room for the cash register, which was a
punch key model circa 1953. Butted up against the backend of the
counter were two tables, both with faded red bench seats made out
of hard plastic. Each table held an ashtray, salt and pepper
shakers, a bottle of ketchup and an even taller bottle of Tabasco
sauce. On the other side of the room was a set of old saloon type
swinging doors, which I assumed led to the bar. And to the right of
the doors stood an elderly couple who appeared to be in the middle
of a hand-wrestling match. The woman was nearly half a foot taller
than the man and probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds.

“What’s all de noise about?” Poochie
demanded. “We could hear y’all big mout’s all de way ‘cross de
bayou.”

The wrestling stopped immediately, and the
couple turned towards her at the same time. Angelle let out a
little gasp, and my heart did a
kerthunk
when we caught
sight of the generous amount of blood smeared on the front of the
man’s white t-shirt.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Merciful Jesus and all de saints!” Poochie
said, her face growing pale. “What you did, Sook? Stab him?”

The woman tsked loudly. “No, the darn fool
did it hisself.” Grabbing the man’s left hand by the wrist, she
pulled it into view. A blood soaked paper towel covered his palm.
She yanked it off, revealing a deep gash that promptly sprouted
fresh blood.

The man grimaced. “Dammit, woman! Look it,
you got it bleedin’ again. Now I gotta start over with the paper
towels.”

“Don’t you‘woman’ me, Vernon Francis Nezat,
and don’t you be cussin’ like that in front of comp’ny. That thing
needs stitches and you know it.”

Poochie nodded vigorously. “Dat’s for sure.
Sook said it right on de nose.”

“And quite a few stitches from the looks of
it,” Angelle said grimacing. “How on earth did you manage to do
that?”

He pulled his hand out of Sook’s grip and
hissed in pain through his teeth. “First off, ain’t nobody takin’
after me with no needle and thread. I can fix it my ownself.
Nothin’ a little rubbin’ alcohol, paper towel, and freezer tape
won’t cure.” He marched over to the counter, grabbed a roll of
paper towels, and tore off a few sheets.

Sook stuck a fist on her hip and huffed.
“Freezer tape ain’t gonna hold that, you old hard-head.”

“Then I’ll use duct tape goddam—” He threw me
a quick, sheepish look. “I mean doggonit. Sorry.”

I grinned. “No problem.”

“Now ain’t that a fine howdy-do,” Sook said,
and headed towards me. “We standin’ ‘round here like fool idiots
that ain’t got a lick of sense for introducin’. You’ve gotta be
Gelle’s sister. How you doin’, Sugah?” She held out a hand, which I
quickly scanned for blood before shaking. “I’m Sook, and that
skinny piece of man over there with blood all over ‘im ‘cept for
that darn camouflage cap on his head is my husband, Vern.”

“Dunny,” I said still holding my grin.

She gave my gloved hand a curious look, and I
saw the question flash in her eyes. She didn’t ask it, though, only
released my hand and grinned back up at me. Her smile appeared easy
and genuine, but it did little to soften her face. Sook’s head and
neck looked as if they belonged on a linebacker, her nose to a
boxer who’d been in too many fights. She wore a red smock, baggie
denim, knee-length shorts, and green flip-flops that revealed
bright red toenails. Her dark gray hair sat near the base of her
neck in a haphazard bun.

“Angelle says this here’s your first visit to
Louisiana,” Vern said, his hand now gloved in paper towels and duct
tape. “That true?” He cocked his head, sizing me up, taking in my
boots, jeans, long-sleeved button-down shirt, black gloves. His
eyes settled on my left hand, and I crossed my arms reflexively
over my stomach, meaning to hide both hands from view.

“Yes, sir, first ti—”

“Hey, where’s my scoot?” Poochie asked. She
took off for the back of the store, her walker thumping the floor
with each step.

“Back in the storage room,” Sook said. “Vern
fixed some kinda spring thingee on it this morning. Saw it pokin’
out one side of the seat; didn’t want you hurtin’ yourself on
it.”

“It’s good to go now,” Vern said.

“’Preciate it,” Poochie said, then
disappeared down one of the grocery aisles.

“You really should have that cut looked at,”
Angelle said to Vern.

“Nah, it’s all good.” He held up his hand.
“See? Hardly bleedin’ anymore.”

As deep as his wound was, I was surprised to
see that he was right. There was only the smallest dot of blood in
the center of the paper towel.

“How’d it happen?” Angelle asked.

“You know that big jar of pickled eggs I got
behind the bar?”

“Yeah.”

“Fool thing up and broke. I was pickin’ up
the glass from the floor when one of the pieces up and stuck
me.”

“Whadda ya mean it up and stuck you?” Sook
said. “You wasn’t payin’ attention and grabbed that piece of glass
wrong, that’s what happened.”

He scowled. “I already told you I wasn’t even
reachin’ for one when it happened. I was sayin’ somethin’ to Pork
Chop and next thing I know, I’m bleedin’.”

Sook snorted. “That’s what I said. You wasn’t
payin’ attention.”

Batting away her words, Vern stormed off
towards the swinging doors, mumbling to himself.

When he disappeared into the next room, Sook
shook her head. “I swear that man’s gettin’ more senile by the
day.” She sighed, then went over to one of the tables and dropped
onto its bench seat with a grunt. She patted the space beside her.
“Y’all come sit, take a load off. Y’all hungry? Thirsty? I can get
Vern to cook up a couple burgers real fast.”

“Thanks, Sook, but we have to get going,”
Angelle said.

Sook’s thick eyebrows peaked. “Already? Y’all
just got here.”

“I know, but Dunny hasn’t even had a chance
to unpack yet. We came straight here from the airport. I’m sure
she’d like to freshen up.” Angelle looked at me, her eyes holding a
clear command.
Just tell the woman you’d like to go freshen up
so we can get the hell out of here . . .

I was about to comply when I heard the whir
of a small motor behind me. It was Poochie, driving up on her
scooter. The thing looked like a revved up wheelchair with
handlebars.

“Hey, y’all come see!” Poochie said to no one
in particular, then zipped past us and headed for the swinging
doors. She bumped the doors open with the nose of her scooter.

“We’re leaving,” Angelle called after
her.

“No, no, come see first!”

“What’s wrong, Pooch?” Sook asked. “You look
like somebody stuck a bee in your butt.”

“Just come on!” Poochie insisted, then
disappeared behind the doors.

Angelle sighed. “All right, all right, we’d
better go. If we don’t, she’ll just wind up chasing us down the
highway in that scooter until we do.”

For some odd reason an image of Fritter came
immediately to mind. Him chasing me down the highway, barking and
snapping. Instead of finding the correlation funny, it worried
me.

Sook chuckled. “You know her too good, Gelle.
She’d for sure do just that.” She shook her head in an appreciative
gesture. “You’ve gotta admit, for her age, that old woman’s still
got a lot of piss and vinegar left in her.”

I heard Angelle mumble a concession that
Poochie was indeed full of something before she pushed her way into
the next room.

As I’d suspected, a bar lay behind the
swinging doors. It was dark, the room much smaller than the grocery
store. A man with a handlebar moustache and a surly expression sat
at one end of an L-shaped counter. His potbelly and barrel-chest
had a camouflage t-shirt stretched to capacity, and the pant legs
of his jeans were tucked into rubber boots.

“’Bout time,” he said, and tapped the bottom
of the beer can he was holding on the counter. “Was gonna send out
a search party. Fixin’ to hit dry hole here.”

“Where’s Vern?” Sook asked.

He shrugged. “Either chockin’ his chicken or
stirrin’ the chili in the back. Fetch me another beer, will ya,
Sook?”

Poochie pulled her scooter up beside him.
“Pork Chop, you all de time got a dry hole. Whatchu doin’ here dis
early anyhow? It’s not even one and look at dat, you already
guzzlin’ like an old Ford.”

“Just leave him be, Pooch,” Sook said,
detouring behind the bar. She grabbed a Bud Light, and handed it to
the man.