Chapter 4:
Lord of the Bayou
"Oh, Pa, why didn't you just reset the lines?" Aunt Renee asked as a concerned mass of people gathered around Papa LeBlanc. "Shouldn't you be out on the water? You've got tags to fill. This isn't the first time someone's stolen a gator or two. Besides, what's the Sheriff to do? Shouldn't we call Wildlife and Fisheries?"
The upset man in the holey polo grumbled. "Honestly, girl, aren't you listening? Sometimes you remind me of your ma. Always tellin' me what I already know like I'm half a loaf short. This wasn't just a couple of gators. And Clete Hebert ain't gonna do nothin'. Why he's as useless as that tramp, he calls a sister."
Hallie smirked. "Mama LeBlanc and Papa are divorced," she whispered to a wondering Trixie and Honey. "Mama lives in Florida. And Lt. Herbert's sister is Papa's older brother Terrance's wife. She used to be married to Mom's brother Sam. But they split up, and now Sam's with Max. Uncle Sam's the good-looking one with the cleft in his chin."
Trixie's blue eyes grew round as saucers. "Max?" she ventured cautiously. "Is he the other fellow in the white T-shirt?"
Hallie gave her cousin a shove and chuckled. "Nah, Max is short for Maxine. She's the strawberry blonde with the baseball cap that says 'Haul 'Em In!' She runs the office and does the books when she's not taking people fishing or hunting gators."
Honey shot Trixie a shocked glance. Max looked hardly old enough to be out of high school –more than half the age of Hallie's Uncle Sam. And the other man, the one in the tee, turned out to be Aunt Renee's oldest brother Zach.
"The tall fella next to Dad is my cousin Ben, Uncle Sam's son," Hallie went on softly. "He's twenty-four but still lives with his Mom, Camille, and my great Uncle T. Ben used to date Max before she hooked up with his father. Ben works for Papa as a guide. And of course, you know Cap, but…."
The Idaho girl was about to go on when Papa threw down his hat at something his daughter had just said and roared, "I'm a-tellin' you, Renee, this ain't like the last time. The low-life weasels even cut some of the empty lines. Dun tossed the bait right up on the bank, they did. "
"No joke, Renee," Uncle Zach stressed. "And we didn't take enough supplies to reset them all. That's why we're here, to pick up more hooks, bait, and whatnot."
Hallie's mother had explained to the Bob-Whites on the trip over that alligators mostly fed after dark. But hunting was only allowed from sunrise to sunset. As a result, tag holders hung their lines at the first of the season after scoping out all the best spots. They then checked or "ran" their lines daily, harvesting any caught alligators before resetting their hooks. Sadly, hunters often found a good share of the lines empty with the bait still hanging. That is unless the sportsperson was very experienced or had luck on their side.
"We also decided it was best if we dropped off the few gators we did get at Uncle T's," his brother Sam pitched in. "It's going to take all afternoon to get things rehung for tomorrow, and we couldn't risk letting the monsters sit in this heat and spoil. The skin would have slid right off, and the whole day, not to mention the tags, would have been wasted." Uncle Terrance owned the gas station the Bob-Whites had stopped at in Saint Estelle. He was also the area's chief buyer of alligators and had a meat locker and a small processing facility on the site.
As Maxine and Renee's two brothers headed off to the boathouse for the equipment they'd need, Papa ordered Hallie's meandering father, Cap, and another young man, about the same age, to go help carry the bait buckets. "And try not to heave up in the beef melt this time, Harry," he bawled before muttering something to Aunt Renee about her "namby-pamby " husband.
"Pa, please, we have company," Aunt Renee begged. "And don't forget, Peter is Harry's brother. Let me introduce you."
As Trixie's father stepped forward and pumped Mr. LeBlanc's hand, Papa smiled and said, "Now that's more like it. A good firm grip. At least all the men in your family aren't pantywaists, son."
Trixie's father laughed and waved his humored children and their friends forward. "This is the rest of the 'family'," he told his hip-shooting host. "I'd like to claim they're all mine, but I'm afraid only the two who are snickering are blood."
After giving the Bob-Whites a brief "Bonjour" and nod, the grizzled gator hunter again insisted that his daughter go call Sheriff Theriot. "Tell him I'll expect him at the public boat launch in twenty minutes," he bellowed as Aunt Renee and Hallie headed off to use the phone in the office. In the meantime, the senior Mr. LeBlanc began sizing up his new out-of-state deckhands. And Trixie took this opportunity to lure Honey into the shadows of the carport for a private talk.
"Did you catch all that?" she asked her partner with a gasp. "Gleeps, Honey, you were right. Not two hours in Louisiana, and we've already got ourselves a new mystery!"
Honey pushed one side of her shiny bob behind an ear. "Not to mention quite a soap opera," she whispered back. "Hallie's mother has one colorful family, Trixie. I feel like I should have been taking notes."
"Me too," Miss Belden admitted, craning her neck. Trixie had thought she'd heard the sound of footsteps coming the girls' way. But her father and the boys were still talking with Papa. And her cousin and aunt were nowhere in sight? So the young detective spun in the direction of the boathouse.
More of an oversized garage, the three-bay structure sat off to the left of the office. Leading from it was a paved access down to Bayou Chevrette. The steep ramp had once served as the resort's private boat launch. Only it was currently out of commission. Not only had the concrete buckled from the recent rains, but the storm had left the remnants of someone's dock strewn across it.
But the only person Trixie saw nearby was her poor Uncle Harold. And he was in the process of losing his lunch in a patch of tall reeds down by the water. At least this time, he hadn't gotten sick in one of Papa's bait buckets. But his cringing niece made a mental note to avoid the beef melt. It must smell mighty nasty!
"At least we'll have a lot to giggle and gab about tonight," Trixie told her partner, deciding she'd only heard her uncle. "But what do you make of Papa's gators being stolen, Honey? You don't think Hallie's kooky old aunt set them free, instead, do you?"
"I really don't know what to think," Miss Wheeler admitted. "Your father said everyone around the bayou is desperate to fill their tags, Trixie. So I'm more inclined to think the alligators were taken. But you're certainly right about one thing. We can't rule out Miss Izabella. If she's nutty enough to jump on the hood of a rolling van to stop Papa from hunting, I wouldn't put it past her to do something like cut his lines. But if Hallie's great aunt was the one who did it, how would she have known which lines were his and where he'd hung them?"
As a metallic green fly buzzed Trixie's perspiring forehead, she brushed it away with annoyance. "Mart says tag holders are assigned specific areas to hunt," she replied. "And I gather, from some the stuff Aunt Izzy was spouting, that she's all up in Papa's business, anyway, Honey. Besides, this was no simple case of theft. Think about it. If you were out late at night trying to poach someone's alligators, wouldn't you be nervous about getting caught and want to get the job done and then skedaddle? I sure wouldn't waste time messing with empty lines. What would be the point?"
Honey was preparing to comment when her sharp-eared friend again heard a noise. Only this time, it was a wet, sputtering hack. And it was coming from the porch of cabin four.
Glancing up, the curly-haired detective took note of a shaggy, gnarled man leaning against the railing. With one arm in a sling, and a smelly cigarette precariously balanced between his lips, the shady character seemed to be keenly watching Papa LeBlanc, who was currently complimenting Mart on his maritime haircut.
"I keep warnin' Chaplain I'm gonna take the scissors to that ponytail of his when he's not lookin'," she heard Papa thunder, referring to Cap's long tied back do.
As the mysterious man cackled, Trixie tossed her head in his direction. "I wonder who that fella is?" she hissed. "I thought Papa wasn't supposed to have any guests. You don't think he's more family, do you, Honey?"
Only Honey wasn't the one who answered.
"I suppose you could call Bernie family," Hallie said, causing the girls to jump.
Trixie and Honey had no idea that the Idaho girl had come up behind them. Apparently, she'd been eavesdropping on the pair from behind the van. Trixie now suspected those footsteps she'd heard earlier had come from Hallie's huge clod-hoppers. This wasn't the first time the young lady had known her nosy cousin to spy on her.
"Bernie is Beau's father," Hallie went on as her irked relative shot her a glare. "See that battered houseboat down yonder? That's their place. Only the storm did a number on it, and Mr. Benoit, Bernie as we call him, has to wait for a check from the insurance company before he can make repairs. So Papa's letting him and Beau stay here for a while. Bernie is usually Papa's gator-hunting deckhand. But he got hurt in the storm, so Beau's chipping in this year."
"Is Beau the muscular boy we saw with Cap?" Honey asked, feeling a smidge guilty about having been talking about the LeBlancs behind the tall girl's back.
Hallie grinned and glanced toward the boathouse. But the young man in question was still inside. "That would be Beau," she confirmed, shoving her hands in the back pockets of her cut-offs. "Papa claims Bea's got more strength in this little finger than Dad does in his whole entire body."
Trixie snorted. "Your grandfather sure doesn't think much of your Dad, does he?" she said, as a matter of fact.
"Not hardly," Hallie admitted with a tad of amusement. "And I'll warn ya now. Papa doesn't hide that he wishes Mom had married Bernie instead of Dad."
Trixie crinkled her nose. Granted, she didn't know Mr. Benoit from the man in the moon. But at first glance, he looked rather unkept.
On the other hand, Uncle Harold was a very put-together, handsome man. The Idaho geological engineer reminded Trixie of a lankier version of her father, except with a full beard rather than just a mustache. And though Trixie hadn't spent much time around her uncle, she certainly didn't think of him as a "pantywaist".
In fact, his niece had always seen her uncle as somewhat of an outdoorsy man's man. She could still remember the time Daddy's brother had been visiting and had helped her father fell a dead oak tree that had been threatening to come down on their house. He'd assisted the boys in splitting and stacking the firewood, too.
So why wouldn't Hallie's grandfather like his personable son-in-law? Aunt Renee had clearly made the right choice when it'd come to choosing a husband. Even Honey agreed. That startled "goodness-gracious me!" look on her best friend's face was a sure giveaway.
However, the always tactful Miss Wheeler decided it was best to side-step the matter. "So your family has known Mr. Benoit for some time?" she asked Hallie.
"Oh, sure," the blasé girl replied with a brush of her hand. "There have been Benoits in these parts as long as there have been LeBlancs. Mom and Bernie go way back."
Hallie then darted into the sunshine, calling, "Hey, Bernie! How's the shoulder doin' today?"
Glancing the teenagers' way, Mr. Benoit broke into a smile and returned, "Better than yesterday and worse than tomorrow, mon Chérie! But your Papa's not doin' so well, I see?"
Instead of replying, Hallie ducked back under the carport and grabbed Trixie and Honey each by the arm. "Come on," she said, dragging the pair toward cottage four. "This is no time to be shy. Bernie may have some idea who nabbed Papa's gators! Plus, I wanna collect the five bucks he owes me. I bet Bernie that the two of ya would dig up some kinda mystery while all ya all were here. He didn't much believe me."
Trixie's first instinct was to scoff. She'd never been accused of being shy before. And she didn't recall having invited Miss Buttinsky to join her and Honey in their investigation. Besides, adults rarely took the girls' sleuthing seriously.
"So Mr. Benoit knows we're detectives?" she grumbled as she stumbled, unable to keep up with the longer-legged girl.
"Sure as shootin'," Hallie snorted as she yanked her cousin back to her feet. "Cap and I do nuthin' but talk about all ya all."
Trixie wished her big-mouthed counterpart hadn't gone flapping her skinny lips. Usually, the experienced detective didn't go around announcing when she and Honey were on a case. The two Sleepyside girls had learned the hard way that sometimes it was better to keep things on the sly if they planned to go poking around for information. This was because everyone was a suspect until ruled out. And if a person was guilty? Why the dirty rotten criminals usually did everything in their power to throw them off their scent.
Still, Hallie and her family did seem to know Mr. Benoit pretty well. And the seemingly amiable man certainly looked in no shape to be out poaching someone's alligators. So maybe it wouldn't hurt to open up to him just a little?
"Well now, Chérie, who have we here?" Bernie asked Hallie as she deposited a winded Trixie and Honey before him. Snuffing out his cigarette, Mr. Benoit then tucked the stinky butt into his shirt pocket. "God send your ol' Papa the help of the angels, did he now?"
Hallie chuckled and ungracefully flung herself down on the porch swing. "Only one's an angel, and that would be Honey," she said with a point of her finger. "The shrimp next to her is Cuz. And she's more of a devil."
As Trixie grimaced, Mr. Benoit laughed. "Is that so?" he asked her with a wink. "My Beau will find that all the much better. Such jolies filles are few and far between 'round the bayou."
This time it was Hallie who made a face. "Awe, there are lots of pretty girls in these parts," she scoffed. "Take me, for example, Bernie. Why Beau was just tellin' me this mornin' that he's never seen such beautiful eyes."
Trixie took this opportunity to roll her own baby-blues. Giving Honey a nudge, she whispered, "Lucky for Hallie, Di couldn't make it. I wonder who strong-boy would be sweet talking then." Miss Lynch was known for her rare violet peepers.
As Honey hushed Trixie with a quick "shh", Mr. Benoit smirked and went on, "Oui, oui, mon Chérie. I stand corrected. We certainly can't forget one as lovely as you. But tell me now; what brings your Papa in early on such a fine day? Are the ears playing tricks, or are there scoundrels about?"
Trixie had to hand it to Bernie. For someone so rough around the edges, he sure was smooth. He also appeared to have pretty sharp hearing. Best she and Honey keep it down.
"Oh, someone's causin' trouble, alright," Hallie harrumphed. "And you owe me five bucks, Bernie. I told you Sherlock and Watson would stumble across a good who-dun-it. Someone's been messing with Papa's lines. Cuz seems to think it's crazy, Aunt Izzy.
Bernie started coughing, and Honey asked if she should fetch him something to drink. As the man with the dirty blonde hair nodded, motioning that the cabin door was open, Honey rushed to the kitchenette and returned with a glass of water.
Once Mr. Benoit's fit had cleared, he thanked the thoughtful girl, then admitted, "More likely those Foret skunks' work, if you be askin' me."
Trixie and Honey's eyebrows shot up in unison. "Who might they be?" they chimed together.
"Bernie's neighbors," Hallie chuckled, causing the chains on the swing to jingle. "That eyesore down yonder, across from Papa's place, is their camp. Papa and Mr. Foret don't exactly get along. They vie for the title 'Lord of the Bayou'"
"Lord of the Bayou?" Honey mused, chewing on her lip.
"Yeah, best alligator hunter," the Idaho girl clarified. "Papa and Mr. Foret are both famous for their gator-hunting skills. Nobody in the area matches the number and size of beasts they haul in. But Papa insists there can only be one number one. And he's it. That's because Papa landed a massive thirteen-foot whopper that weighed almost one thousand pounds last year!"
"It was the biggest gator ever recorded in these parts," Bernie chipped in. "And let's just say, ol' man Foret wasn't doin' no two-step when Lucas stole his crown. He and his three boys are good as rotten apples when crossed. "
"Gleeps, Mr. Benoit," Trixie gasped. "So you believe Mr. Foret may be trying to ruin Mr. Leblanc's season in order to regain his title? Have he and his sons stolen alligators before?"
"It's been rumored," the lean man admitted. "But tell me now. What makes you think mademoiselle Izabella's behind such dirty work?"
"She accosted us at the gas station," Hallie hee-hawed, drowning out her cousin's reply. "Aunt Izzy put a curse on Papa. She says if he tries to fill his tags, the Rougarou is gonna get him, Bernie."
The man in the soiled tee lost what little color there'd been in his cheeks. Dropping down on the swing next to Hallie, he mumbled ominously, "Did she now? Such hoodoo can't be good. I was once jinxed by a Rougarou's bite. Landed me in jail for a time, it did."
Honey shied back behind her bolder best friend. "You…you…don't turn into a werewolf when the moon is full, do you?" she ventured with a stammer.
Mr. Benoit's light eyes grew black as coal. "Nary, so," he replied without emotion. "Kept my tongue for a year and a day, I did. That wards off the curse, mon cher. But the phase of the moon matters not to those stricken by the sickness. Every night, the inflicted undergo their beastly transformation for one hundred and one days. Only thru death, or by drawing the blood of another, can the Rougarou escape their plight before hand."
"And I suppose it takes being shot with a silver bullet to kill one?" Trixie interjected skeptically.
"That only works the movies," Hallie crowed. "Anyway, a Rougarou's a different kind of wolf-man, Cuz."
Honey, who was already nervous enough, became even more so when Bernie corrected, "Some say it is, and some say it's not, Chérie. But either way, the Rougarou, or 'Loup-Garou', came to the swamps with our Arcadian ancestors. Papa Benoit, may he rest in peace, claimed it was Jean-Paul Benoit, his very self, who carried the curse to this new land. Ol' Jean-Paul hadn't followed the rules of Lent for seven years and brought down the plague, so I've heard tell."
Only Trixie was doubtful. None of what she was hearing was making much sense. But superstitious yarns rarely did. Not to her logical mind.
"So you believe Rougarou are real?" she asked Bernie.
"Oui, but of course," he confessed without hesitation. "Only I was as cynical as you until I came face to face with one, mon Petit. I was walkin' home from a fais do do late one night, when I heard a rustlin' behind me. Thought it to be a rabid hound and pulled out my knife. But no cur could be so large. And when I saw its glowin' red eyes, I knew what I was beholdin'."
"And that's when the Rougarou bit you?" Honey gasped, her own eyes nearly popping from her skull.
"It surely was," the solemn man said. "In this very arm, injured in the storm." Bernie paused and pushed back his sling, revealing a jagged scar on his forearm.
As the squeamish Miss Wheeler winced, Mr. Benoit went on, "But don't think ol' Bernard didn't leave his own mark first, though, mon cher. Stabbed the snarling beast twice in the ribs, I did."
"Were you able to kill it?!" Trixie exclaimed excitedly, having been sucked into the story.
"No, no, mon Petit," Bernie revealed. "The only way to destroy a Rougarou would be with fire. But I sent the furry demon to its knees, sure enough. That's where it retook its human form. I could hardly believe what I was seein'."
"I don't think I would have either," Trixie confessed.
"Who was it, Mr. Benoit?" Honey wondered uneasily. "Did you know the person?"
"Indeed I did," he returned darkly. "It was none other than ol' man Foret's middle boy, Bruce."
When the two New York girls gasped, Mr. Benoit grew silent. But Hallie, who'd heard the tale before, smiled and began rocking the porch swing. Only Bernie stopped her. He still had to finish his story.
"When the sheriff and medic arrived," he then went on quietly, "I told 'em Foret jumped me after the party. Made up some song and dance about gettin' Bruce riled up by hoofin' with Francine Boudreaux, his lady friend. It was all hooey. But Sheriff Theriot fell for it hook, line and sinker. I do have a reputation with the Mademoiselles. But it ended with him throwin' me in jail for bein' drunk and disorderly."
"But why didn't you tell the sheriff what really happened?" Honey burst out.
"Were you too afraid he wouldn't believe you?" Trixie piped in.
Bernie chuckled coldly, but it was punctuated by a savage cough. "Were you not listening?" he rasped, once the episode had passed. "The curse would have been mine, you foolish femmes! One hundred and one days, I had had to stay silent! So best you take my word as warnin'. Stay in your cabin when the moon shines ove' the bayou. Else the Rougarou will get you!"
Author's Note: Trix-or-Treat, Everyone!