Black Cherry Blues by James Lee Burke Read Free Book Online Page A

it.”

    I looked out the window at the treetops, the way their leaves ruffled in the breeze, the whiteness of the clouds against the dome of blue sky.

    “I’ll come back and visit you later,” I said.

    “I think maybe you have too much faith in one guy.”

    “I’ll tell you a story I heard Minnie Pearl tell about Hank. This was right after he brought the whole auditorium down singing ‘I Saw the Light’ at the Opry. Backstage he turned to her and said, “But, Minnie, they ain’t no light. They just ain’t no light.” That’s when your soul is hanging on a spider’s web right over the fire, son. That’s right where I’m at now.”

    That afternoon I stood on the levee and looked down at the collapsed and blackened remains of the fish camp that, according to Dixie Lee, had belonged to Star Drilling Company. Mattress springs, charred boards, a metal table, a scorched toilet seat, half the shingle roof lay in the shallows at the bottom of the stilt supports. A paste of gray ash floated among the cattails and lily pads.

    I walked down to the water’s edge. I found what was left of a Coleman stove and a pump twelve-gauge shotgun whose shells had exploded in the magazine. The gasoline drum that had been used to fuel outboard engines was ripped outward and twisted like a beer can.

    The fire had made a large black circle from the water to halfway up the levee. Extending out from the circle were trails of ash through the buttercups and new grass like the legs of a spider. One of them led up to the road at the top of the levee.

    I dug the soil loose from around the trail with my pocketknife and smelled it. It smelled like burnt grass and dirt.

    I knew little about arson investigation, but I saw nothing on the levee that would help Dixie Lee’s case.

    I drove to St. Martinville and parked across from the old church where Evangeline and her lover are buried under an enormous spreading oak. The wind blew the moss in the trees along Bayou Teche, and the four-o’clocks were opening in the shade along the banks. I was told by the dispatcher in the sheriff’s department that the sheriff was out for a few minutes but that a detective would talk to me.

    The detective was penciling in a form of some kind and smoking a cigarette when I walked into his office. He affected politeness but his eyes kept going to the clock on the wall while I talked. A side door opened onto the sheriff’s office, and I could see his desk and empty chair inside. I told the detective the story that Dixie had told me. I told him about the lea semen Dalton Vidrine and Harry Mapes.

    “We know all about that,” he said.

    “That’s why the sheriff been talking to them. But I tell you right now, podna, he don’t believe that fella.”

    “What do you mean he’s been talking with them?”

    He smiled at me.

    “They in his office right now. He went down to the bat’ room he said. Then he got up and closed the door to the sheriff’s office.

    I looked at him, stunned.

    “They’re sitting in there now?” My voice was incredulous.

    “He called them up and ax them to come in and make a statement.”

    I stood up, took a piece of paper off his desk, and wrote my name and telephone number on it.

    “Ask the sheriff to call me,” I said.

    “What’s your name again?”

    “Benoit.”

    “Get into another line of work.”

    I walked back outside to my pickup truck. The shadows were purple on the bayou and the church lawn. An elderly Negro was taking down the flag from the pole in front of the courthouse and a white man was closing and locking the side doors. Then two men came out the front entrance and walked hurriedly across the grass toward me, one slightly ahead of the other.

    The first was a tall, angular man, dressed in brown slacks, shined loafers, a yellow sport shirt with a purple fleur-delis on the pocket, a thin western belt with a silver buckle and tongue. I could hear the change in his pocket when he walked. On his