The Committee by Terry E. Hill Read Free Book Online Page A

her to explain her presence in this part of town, in front of this peculiar house, at this hour of the night.
    The moon followed her as she opened the gate and made her way hurriedly up the whitewashed walkway. The door slowly glided open before she could ring the doorbell.
    No one stood in the threshold to welcome Camille. Instead, she heard a voice in the distance call out, “Come in, Camille, I’ll be right out.”
    Camille was accustomed to such theatrics as doors opening by themselves, the occasional flickering of the lights, or the always perfectly timed “Squawk!” of the blue and gold Macaw named Louie Armstrong in the birdcage hanging in the corner of the dining room. Her favorite was the black candle that would light and extinguish itself at least once during her periodic visits.
    Camille entered the house and closed the door quickly behind her. The smell of burning incense assaulted her nose as she hung her coat on the rack in the entry hall. The interior of the house was much like the exterior. Framed pictures of New Orleans’s scenic points of interest, Bible verses stitched in needlepoint, and faded black-and-white photographs of long-since-dead ancestors hung on the yellowing floral wallpaper. The chairs and couch were guarded by plastic covers and finely crocheted doilies. The furniture was a mix of 1950s tables and chairs, and antiques that would fetch jaw-dropping appraisals on the Antiques Roadshow .
    Just as Camille was preparing to sit in her usual seat, Madame Gillette Lemaitre entered the room from the kitchen.
    â€œHoney, I had a taste for collard greens,” she said wiping her hands on an apron cinched around her waist. “Sit down, sit down,” she said summoning the Southern manners she learned at the knees of her mother and grandmother. “Would you like to try them? No pork at all. My doctor said I can only use smoked turkey now. Not quite the same but still does the trick.”
    Gillette was a sturdy woman in her sixties. She moved with the steady determination of a person half her age. Her lovely bone structure and virtually wrinkle-free skin and jade-green eyes were gifts from her Louisianan ancestors. Most assumed she was forty-five or, forty-six at the most, but her grandmother’s Bible held the secret of her true age within the hallowed confines of its weathered pages.
    â€œIt’s a little late for greens,” Camille said as she sat on the couch.
    â€œYou know how that is. When you get a hunger for something there’s no point in putting it off,” Gillette said sitting in the chair directly in front of Camille. “Besides, when you live to be my age, there’s no reason in denying yourself whatever gives you pleasure because soon enough, you’ll be six feet under.”
    Camille heard a loud, “Squawk!” from the dining room as if Louie were saying “Amen!” to Gillette’s most recent pearl of wisdom.
    â€œWhat’s on your mind, child?” Gillette said looking deeply into Camille’s eyes. “I can see something’s troubling you.”
    Over the years, Camille learned it was useless to hide anything from the woman who sat in front of her. She was like an open book to Gillette and deception could prove to be costly.
    â€œYou’ve read about the new Dober Stadium,” Camille launched in.
    â€œYes, yes,” Gillette said clapping her hands once. “It’s beautiful. I hope you can get me a ticket. I would love to see it before I die. When is it going to be done?”
    â€œThat’s the problem. It might not be approved by the Planning Commission,” she said mournfully. “The chair, John Spalding, is opposed to it and has vowed to stop it from being built anywhere in the city.”
    â€œI saw pictures in the paper, and it’s something else. Looks like a flying saucer landed right in the middle of a field. What kind of fool wouldn’t want a stadium