“Uh hmmmm, hello,” My voice was foggy and bass as I was startled from a deep sleep.

“Good morning, sweet lady!” Michael was gleeful. “Sounds like I woke you, sorry.  I’m an early riser.”

Great. . . .a morning person.

“No problem,” I lied. “Let me just try to open my eyes and then I can get my mouth to work.”

Michael laughed. “I love your sarcastic wit.  I called to see if you have time for an early Sunday lunch today.  I have a late afternoon flight, so maybe we can meet around noon?”

“Sure.  How’s sushi at Yoshi’s on Jack London Square? Then I can take you to the airport for your flight. I’ll call you when I’m on the way.”

“I love sushi and thanks for offering to take me to the airport.” Michael promised to be packed and ready promptly at 11:00am.

At 11:00 am, I buzzed Michael’s cell phone.

“Your car is nearing the hotel, sir,” I faked a bad British butler accent.

“Excellent, Giles. Come up to get the bags,” Michael played along. “Thanks, Babe, I’ll be right down.”

Michael and I always had so much to talk about. I saw a few people look at us and smile.  I was a pro with sushi and chopsticks, but Michael gave up and switched to a fork.

When our blissful lunch ended, we zoomed to the Oakland Airport and I pulled up to the  terminal curbside. Michael leaned over to kiss me goodbye and my world felt right.

The next three weekends were similar with Michael flying to the Bay Area, sometimes for one night only. Some weekends we went to the theater or found other entertainment in and around Oakland and San Francisco. After several weekends, I gathered the guts and invited Michael to hear me sing at Skates on the Bay.

“You mean I get to see the famous Sarah Doucette Jean-Louis in action?” Michael teased.

“Yep. And if Chico likes you, you can sit close to the stage,” I teased back.

I slowly integrated Michael into parts of my life.

“I don’t like him. There is somethin’ about him that’s fake and creepy, girlfriend.” Chico didn’t hold back.

I pulled the microphone away from Chico so he wouldn’t be overheard.

“What do you mean fake and creepy?”

“Can’t you see it? This guy is a fake. Physician, heal thyself. You’re eyes are closed, Sarah.”

“Oh, you never like anyone.”

“Not anyone who could be trouble for you.”

“He is nice to me. He treats me like a queen. He hasn’t been trouble.”

“Yet. Humph. He’s got a bad vibe, Mz. Girl. Bad. Throw that one back.” Chico waved a well-manicured hand covered in diamond rings, and made a throw back into the sea, motion.

That’s strike two. Aunt Cat, and now Chico. They feel something, but in reality Michael’s actions are not suspicious. What were they talking about?

Chico scrunched his nose and frowned.

“I don’t like the way he tried to act so familiar when you introduced us.  I don’t want you to waste your time on somebody like that.”

“I think he really is a good guy, Chico.” I fought the defensive sound I heard in my own voice.

“I may not know him, but I can tell that he is a phony. I’m here for you, my sistah, no matter what.” Chico turned his attention and jeweled fingers to the piano keys.

“I waved and smiled a forced smile in Michael’s direction.”

Before long, a couple of months had passed and Michael and I were growing closer in some ways, but standing still in others. He had now been living in Los Angeles for about a month but hadn’t invited me to his place for a weekend yet. He said he preferred being at my place and in the Bay Area.

I wonder if Aunt Cat and Chico were right about Michael. But he was so kind and sweet to me. This wasn’t making sense.

It was a Thursday evening when my mind raced with confusion. I held each yoga position, but ended the session when a flash of blue pierced through my head. My stomach turned sour and the room spun. It was a vision. I saw a huge diamond with spots inside and dirt crusted all over it. I jumped up to try and see more details and hold on to the vision, but it vanished as fast as it had come.

Was this relationship leading up to an engagement? And if so, did the dirty ring mean a dirty engagement? That was hard to believe because over the past few months, Michael and I had not become sexually involved. I hadn’t been spending much time with my girlfriends since I met Michael. I spent my weekends with him or singing and I had neglected my friends. Funny how I always did that when I had a man in my life. They understood and forgave me, afterall, they had husbands. Michael was not visiting the coming weekend, so I called Nikeba to plan the meet up.

“Nikeba. How’s it going?”

“Hi, stranger. The question is, how are you and Mr. New Guy? Every time I talk to you, I can hear you smiling through the phone.”

“I tell you the truth. This feels great. I feel comfortable and relaxed. There are just a couple of little things.”

“Uh ,oh. What little things? He doesn’t have a little thing, does he?”

“Actually, I don’t know what he has.”

“What do you mean you don’t know what he has?”

“I mean, I don’t know. Never seen it.”

“How long have you been seeing him?” She asked.

“Almost three months.”

“No sex? No kind of sex?”

“Nope.” I said.

“And you don’t wonder why?”

“Oh, I definitely wonder…”

“Oh, this calls for a meeting. Somerset, tomorrow at noon?”

“Yep  noon, or sooner.”

“I’ll call Char. Sarah, it will be good to see you. Ciao.”

The clang of dishes and faint crowd noise in our favorite restaurant felt like home.

Char was immediately her forgiving self about a man she had never met.

“I think it’s kind of sweet. Waiting is special.” She said.

We had a full agenda and martinis to get through it. Nikeba and Char were the kind of friends every woman should have, two women with their own successful relationships and successful professional credentials.  They were both secure enough to share in the happiness of a friend.  Ours was a friendship without the competitive undertones that can sometimes characterize female relationships. We had a real sisterhood that spanned more than a decade. We all had mouths like sailors, but hearts as big as the city.

Nikeba Cooper and her husband, Steve, had been together for more than 20 years. They met their senior year at Berkeley High school, and lived together through college and law school. They got married after graduation. They chose to remain childless because they loved living a strong two-career lifestyle.  Both were attorneys with high-dollar practices, her practice in labor law and his in environmental justice.  Nikeba was a dark brown African American woman, tall and slender like a Senegalese princess. She wore her hair in a short Afro. It complemented her perfectly chiseled face which was narrow with high cheek bones and deep brown eyes.  Nikeba usually wore contact lenses, but kept black horn-rimmed reading glasses on hand when she wanted to look lawyerly.  She was a Berkeley native. Steve was a mingled grey-haired Jewish man, with electric hazel eyes.  The two made a gorgeous couple and although of different races, people often commented that they looked alike.  They lived in a 1920’s, craftsman home in Albany, a small city near Berkeley. They updated the house and added a pool in the small yard.  It became a popular entertainment spot for our circle of friends.

Charlotte, who preferred to be called, Char was taller and thinner than Nikeba and me.  She wore her curly red-hair in its natural state with an obviously expensive cut designed to look uncut. It was a look reminiscent of 1960’s era hippies.  Char had grown up in Marin County with affluence and privilege.  Her husband of six years, Raphael Acosta, was Chicano and originally from East L.A.  His family moved up economically and geographically to the Bay Area when he was in elementary school. The two actually met at a night club, dated two years and then got married. Raphael was fashion-model attractive, with jet black hair and eyes to match.  He was buff and tanned. Char became a stay-at-home mom after the birth of their four-year-old daughter, Marisol. Char had been a corporate executive working in Government Affairs.  Raphael was a contractor whose firm specialized in the restoration of Victorian homes.  They lived in one of his best works, a beautiful Victorian kept in its period externally and internally but with contemporary amenities.  They lived not far from me in the Bella Vista area of Oakland.

Nikeba blurted, “Okay, screw it, I’ll ask. Do you think he’s gay?”

“Oh, Nikeba,” Char chastised, “just because a guy doesn’t act like a dog, it doesn’t mean he isn’t attracted to women.”

Nikeba locked her eyes and added sarcasm, “Yeah, right. How long was it before Raphael tried when you were first dating?”

“Well…” Char hesitated, “N-n-not all men are the same.”

We all laughed, remembering how much Char had been shocked and fascinated with Raphael’s over-the-top aggressive behavior.

“Well, that’s just how he is. You guys remember how I thought that sex was all Raphael wanted.  And in reality it may have been. I just managed to hold his interest until he could get to know me and appreciate me for more than just sex,” Char explained while trying to control her laughter.

“Yeah, I remember you having to take naps so you could hang in there. You were determined to keep the relationship going. You had your legs in the air more than an airline pilot.” Nikeba chuckled.

Char’s embarrassment made us laugh more.

“And I can’t talk,” Nikeba confessed, “A week after we started dating, Steve told me that he didn’t want a platonic relationship. I thought to myself, this white boy is crazy.”  She laughed at the memory of the early years with her outspoken husband.

Char brought the subject back around to me and Michael.

“But this guy sounds like he is really interested in building a relationship. And he seems to be sensitive to the fact that you may have concerns about his intentions.” Char looked at me for a response.

“Yeah…that could be true.” But still. It seems a little out of the ordinary, huh? Plus, Aunt Cat and Chico say he’s bad news. They got a bad vibe from him.” I spit it out.

“What? Sarah, I love the stories of your aunt, but are you really going to let frog eyes and lips of newt determine who you date?” Nikeba was harsh about my Louisiana cultural, spiritual stuff.

I rolled my eyes at her and could see that we now had an audience in the busy restaurant.

“We don’t use frog’s eyes anymore. We use lawyers.” I shot back in fun.

“Okay. Listen, I don’t know that I like the guy, but your aunt the voodoo queen, and Chico the angry gay man, are not exactly great sources.” She reasoned.

“I can’t believe that I am agreeing with Nikeba, but it may be too soon to make a judgment call on this. It sounds like he spends a lot of time with you and you just look so happy. You are glowing.”

“Thanks, Char. But there are a few questions. Shouldn’t a man invite you to his place after a few months?”

“You have never been to his place. I mean, I’m all for giving him the benefit of the doubt, but you have not been to spend a weekend in L.A.?”

“No ladies, not one trip to L.A. yet.” I declared.

Nikeba was tipsy, but trying to focus.

“Hmmm. Now, that’s a different story and I wonder what that story is.”

“Ooooh, Sarah. I’m not sure I am good with that one, either. I just assumed when we hadn’t seen so much of you, lately that you were trading visits. If he hasn’t invited you by now, I think you should ask him why not. You know how you always avoid asking questions when you get involved with a man. You become this unfamiliar shy person. You need to ask about that.” Char insisted.

“Char may be right for once, because she agrees with me. Put your cards on the table. Ask.”

“As bold and strong as I am, I always have trouble asking for what I want from a man, or asking anything that could be confrontational or challenging.  I don’t know why I lose my nerve. You know?”

“No, we don’t know. You sure argue us into the bowels of hell and you ask us anything damn thing, too.” Nikeba stuttered.

“Nikeba, you are a mess.” Char had a tipsy giggle.

“I gotta work on this.” I was barely listening to them.

“Yeah, you do that. But Sarah, in the meantime talk to the boyfriend. Not just about easy things, talk about the difficult things,” Nikeba ended her sentence with a loud hiccup.

We all sprayed our drinks with laughter.

Nikeba pressed on through slurred speech.  She raised her glass in an imaginary toast.

“Here’s to Michael. After all this time, he damn well better be worth the wait!”  Char and I joined the toast.

We had water and coffees to sober us up and left for our homes. I already had a nervous stomach with the thought of confronting Michael.

Make a roux with the oil and flour (add more oil if it’s too dry). Stir over medium heat until light brown. Add onion, bell pepper and celery. This will prevent the roux from getting darker (like for gumbo). Stir until wilted. Add water and stir in tomato paste. Add rice and stir in all other ingredients and cook, covered, on medium-low until the water has evaporated (usually about 30-40 minutes). It is important not to disturb the mixture. Do not open the pot. The ingredients have to steam.

I closed my eyes to drink in Preston’s laughter and the sound of happiness all around me. The chilly banana daiquiri slid down my throat adding another layer of satisfaction to the steamy and humid day. Sacrificed crawfish and shrimp were loaded into huge hot kettles with corn, potatoes and hot spices. One of many perfect parties that shielded a rotten marriage.

I had made my contentious mother-in-law my confidante. Preston’s affair had the unexpected effect of bringing his mother and me, closer together. Marguerite never liked me. As far as I could tell, I was too dark-skinned for her. She represented the worst of the old-school Creoles who believed anyone darker than a brown paper bag, should be kept from the bloodline.  During the ten years of our marriage, she never said more than a few hundred words to me, directly.  So when I broke down in tears during one of her visits with the children, she seemed to enjoy taking me on as a project.

“You see, cher single women don’t understand that the men they see are not the original man. We help to create them. After they’ve been married, they are much better men. So it’s true, married men become more attractive after they’ve lived with a good woman.” Marguerite smiled broadly as she shared her philosophy.

“So how does that help me?” I was puzzled.

“You just needed to understand that. Now, tomorrow, we are going on a journey. I will take you to Miss Robichaux, and cher, you will not have any more problems.” Marguerite nodded, affirmatively.

I was from a middle class Philadelphia family. Our southern roots were out of Georgia so the blend of Catholicism and mysticism I learned from Preston’s family was as foreign as their food. We lived in New Orleans. We had evacuated during hurricane Katrina, but returned to our home in the Garden District a year after the storm to resume our lives. My dark-skinned parents had passed away five years ago, only six weeks apart. They were hesitant for me to become part of a Louisiana family, but they eventually accepted Preston. But they never trusted his parents.

I continued to confess my deep feelings to Marguerite. “You wake up one morning and realize that your entire life revolves around your marriage. I used to be a whole person. I haven’t had a job in years. What will I do if he leaves? There are the kids and I don’t know what we would do.” I cried.

“Forget all that. I’ll pick you up tomorrow and we will see Miss Robichaux. You’ll see how we handle these things. As good as done.  My foolish son. Just like his father.” Her sinister eyes traveled to the past but quickly regained focus upon me.   “Get yourself ready by 9. I’ll be here in the morning. Make us some coffee. We have to drive near Gentilly.” She grabbed her snake-skin purse and left.

Marguerite was a stately, older woman. She had the bearing of a Diahann Carroll and the cuteness of Lena Horne. She surrounded herself in delicate beauty, but had the constitution of an NFL coach. She used the term, “walk it off,” in nearly every context, even death. She did not suffer weakness or fools.  Smart, attractive and cunning, she had a forty-five-year marriage to an attractive, tenured professor at Xavier University. He taught future pharmacists and was part owner in a chain of neighborhood urgent care clinics.  They were the picture of New Orleans Afro-Creole society. They were involved in Mardi Gras parade committees and socials. All five of their children participated in cotillions, the girls as debutantes and the boys as escorts. All of the children were now in their 30s and had professional careers and spouses. They all lived in New Orleans. I was the only outsider and was made to feel that way.

Miss Robichaux’s bungalow looked like every other house from the outside, but no other house held what was inside.  I could smell a mixture of herbs and spices at war with mothballs and the mustiness of old wood.  I couldn’t believe that my mother-in-law brought me here and left me alone to ask for help. She said Miss Robichaux had helped her with Preston’s father when they were younger.

The woman’s voice was a raspy whisper in a fragrance of mint and tobacco. She smoked a pipe.  “Don’t say nothing. Hold my left hand, put your money on the table and stare at these stones. Pick the stone that you like and stay quiet. I will tell you what I see.”

I stopped tracing Miss Robichaux’s creviced face with my eyes and stared at the stones. I was drawn to a rich red one. It sparkled. I was expecting her to tell a time-worn story of midlife crisis affairs, but what Miss Robichaux proceeded to say shook me.

“This woman is not trying to take your husband. It’s much worse. She’s trying to kill him. “She motioned for me to remain quiet, just as I was about to speak, my chest rising in fear.

“Your husband was the prosecutor who helped to send her brother to prison, where he was killed. She wants revenge.  You are not here to save your marriage, you are here to save your husband’s life. Wait here.” She gathered her long skirt and purple shawl and walked into her kitchen.

I listened, nervously as pots and glass jars clanged. She returned with a horrible-smelling pouch. She waved it in front of me and put it in a glass jar.

“Yuck. That is awful. What in the world is that?” I asked.

“That is pig bristles and the rest is none of your business. It is for you to use. You have to follow my instructions. Place this pouch under the stairs of the home of the woman who is after your husband. She must cross over it for seven days. After that, return the pouch to this jar and light a pink candle. Let that candle burn out.  I have no more to tell you. Your mother-in-law is out front. Leave.” She turned and walked to the back of her house and I heard a door close.

I walked to Marguerite’s running car.  I opened the door and sat in silence.

“I know. It’s shocking the first time you visit Miss Robichaux, but she knows her stuff. What did she tell you to do?” Marguerite asked.

I told her my instructions, but I didn’t tell her the mistress’s plan to kill her son. I thought that was too much for a mother, even the stone-faced and evil, Marguerite.

“Good. We’ll start tonight.” Marguerite seemed to be enjoying this drama. She dropped me off in front of my house and said she’d pick me up at 7:00 o’clock that night.

“But what do I tell Preston?” I asked.

“Just tell him that we are going to a play. You are such an amateur.” Marguerite laughed and drove off.

That night, I grabbed my purse which contained the pig bristles and God-knows-what-else, and ran to Marguerite’s car. I knew exactly where my husband’s mistress lived. I had followed Preston on more than one night when I first suspected what he was doing.

“Turn here.” I motioned to Marguerite.

I got out of the car and walked to the front porch. I found the perfect spot under the porch to place my voodoo bag.  Before I could turn around to leave, I heard the engine gunning and Marguerite sped off. For an older woman, she always drove like a teen drag racer, but this was faster than that. I needed to call for a ride home, but I was afraid the woman would hear me and have me arrested for trespassing.  I noticed that her door was ajar. Against every smart instinct, I peered inside the house into the living room. My heart pounded as if it would break through my chest. The veins in my neck bulged in fear and sweat formed beads above my lip. Curiosity trumped common sense and I walked in. Tracy Broussard was lying, face to the floor, in a pool of blood. I looked at her face and then realized her killer could still be inside. I turned to run but met police cars as they pulled into the drive way, sirens blaring. They ordered me to stop.

Preston’s eyes sent messages of contempt to me when he arrived at the police station. He refused to believe that his mother had taken me to Tracy’s home. Marguerite had denied everything, Miss Robichaux, the pig parts and the drive to Tracy’s home. Preston accused me of killing his mistress. I told him that she was plotting revenge against him, but he ignored it all.

Because of our reputations and Preston’s position in the district attorney’s office, I was released after posting bail. The complicated matter of the charges I would face would be taken up the next day. We rode home together in silence. Preston had tears streaming down his face, obviously for Tracy. Our night ended in a silent hatred.

The next morning, I drove to Miss Robichaux’s house to ask her to corroborate my story, but the house looked abandoned. It seemed that no one had ever lived there. The smells were gone. I looked through a front window and there was no furniture. The house was empty.

When I returned home, Preston was there. He tossed the keys to an apartment in my direction. They landed on the sofa in front of me.

“You need to leave here, now. I will take care of the children and you will have liberal visitation until we can finalize a divorce. You will be prosecuted as anyone else. No special favors. I consider you a jealous-hearted murderer.” Preston’s eyes were like cold steel.

“No thank you.” I refused the apartment keys. “I will find a place on my own.”  I ran upstairs to pack a few of my clothes. I hugged and kissed my crying children and left.

I took an executive suite at the Sheraton New Orleans. Once I was settled, I poured a brandy and pulled opened the yellow pages. I needed a private investigator with no ties to the D.A.’s office and my husband.

“Prevost.” He answered on the first ring.

“Are you familiar with Preston Chretien of the D.A.’s office?” I asked before volunteering any information.

“Ma’am. I don’t know what you want, but I don’t deal with the D.A.’s office. The sons-of-bitches rarely look beyond their own noses and are piss-poor investigators. May I help you?” He was impatient.

“Mr. Prevost, my name is Beverly Chretien. I am Preston Chretien’s wife and I am living a nightmare. I am accused of killing his mistress. I need someone to help me.” I began to cry.

“Mrs. Chretian, I know about the case. I have been following it in the Times Picayune. First, get off of this phone. We need to meet in person. Where are you?” He asked.

An hour later, I was telling James Prevost my story.

“Give me a $2,000 retainer and a few days.  At the end of my investigation, you can give me the balance of $5,000. I know this town, blindfolded. I will find out about Miss Robichaux and the Chretiens. Don’t cry, Mrs. Chretien. It will all work out. “Preston almost offered his hand  across the table to comfort me, but held back as if to maintain a preferred professional distance. I saw a mix of pity and anger in his eyes.

“I agreed and gave him cash.” He refused to take a check for fear it would alert Preston.

I spent the next couple of days visiting my children and trying to explain the inexplicable to them. I avoided Preston and his entire family. I fought the urge to call Prevost, but I was becoming anxious. There was one day left before my arraignment.

Around noon, my cell phone rang. “Mrs. Chretien. I have all we need. I can be over there in an hour.”

Prevost had taught me that sometimes the most public place can be private as you blend into the crowd, so I met him in the hotel bar for the second time.

“Mrs. Chretien, you have been victimized by a horrible and evil woman. She took advantage of you when you were down. That’s what disgusted me about this case and frankly, pissed me off. I’ll tell it to you straight. Your mother-in-law never took you to the real Miss Robichaux. The real Miss Robichaux lives in the lower ninth ward. You never went to her house. Marguerite Chretien paid a woman to pretend to be Robichaux.” He explained.

“But why? Why in the world did she do that?” I was on the edge of my seat in the booth.

“When your husband began the affair with Tracy, Mrs. Chretien had an investigator find out who she was. Turns out she was the oldest daughter of the woman your father-in-law had had an affair with years ago.  Her mother and father had divorced when she was a child. Her mother worked at Xavier as a secretary and had a long-running affair with your father-in-law. Tracy’s mother became pregnant with your father-in-law’s child. Marguerite knew this.  She threatened to ruin your father-in-law and he abandoned Tracy’s mother. She was fired from Xavier and they fell on hard times. Tracy’s brother, George turned to crime. He was caught up in a burglary and although he did not kill the victim, your husband prosecuted him and he was given life in prison. He died during a fight in prison. Tracy’s mother committed suicide after her son was killed and Tracy wanted revenge.” He took a huge swallow of the Jack Daniels I had ordered for him.

“But what about Miss Robichaux and her story about Tracy’s intent to kill Preston?”

“Remember, that was not Miss Robichaux. That was someone your mother-in-law found and convinced to fool you. Tracy’s revenge was the affair. But she was no match for Marguerite. Marguerite had killed Tracy before she picked you up. She wanted you charged with the murder.” He swallowed from his glass again.

“I can’t believe this. I knew she was hard and mean, but a murder?” I was in a daze.

“Oh yeah. She shot that girl at close range.” He nodded.

“Does Preston or his father know any of this?” I asked.

“They know it now.” Prevost  glanced at his watch.

“Your mother-in-law is being picked up right about now.” Prevost raised his glass in a toast. “Cheers.”

“I am . . . .I can’t believe this.” I said.

“I don’t know what comes next, but I say get your children and get the hell away from these people. You should try to have a better life.” Prevost finished his Jack.

The kids and I decided to sing songs as we glided up the ramp of Interstate 10 en route to 59 north and life in Philadelphia.  Marguerite was convicted of Tracy’s murder. Preston left the D.A.’s office and his father had become a recluse.

My divorce proceedings went smoothly and I received sole custody of the children without a fight.

I had paid James Prevost the final $5,000 and I suspected he had figured out the rest of my story.

I may have slipped up once and paid Tracy by check. I had found her and paid her to have an affair with Preston in order to taunt my mother-in-law and provide me the basis for a large divorce settlement. I had been miserable for several years. I no longer wanted Preston, but I didn’t want to give up our lifestyle or children. I knew about Tracy’s mother and her brother.  I thought she’d have an appetite for revenge. I was right. But, I didn’t know that Marguerite would kill her.  The murder was an added bonus. I had had many years to plan revenge against the Chretien’s for the way they treated me and my children.  I was on the road to Philly a new man and a new life. Our convertible top was down as we sang with the radio. And as the sun beat down on my brow, I laughed realizing that my revenge was best served, not cold as in the proverb, but hot, humid and spicy.

James Van Horne checked his watch for no apparent time. He had no more symmetry in his life. He looked out of habit and not obligation. There was nowhere to be or go and no one waiting there. He had many meaningless gestures now. Now that he had lost his wife and family and all recollection of his former life. Every now and then, a tear would trail his hard face and roll through the lines around his moustache. He had become fascinated with numbers. Numbers had been good to James Van Horne during this lifetime.

Before age thirty, he had attracted millions of dollars and pounds of good fortune. He turned his family’s small appliance company into an upscale home accessories business with seven locations in five cities. He married the woman of his obssession and had two children. They had two homes. An apartment in Manhattan’s Upper West side, near Central Park, and a four bedroom, three-and-a-half bath mini-mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut.

“What did you do Mr. Van Horne, when you supposedly found your wife dead? What did you do?” the attorney was now shouting, not in an uncontrolled way, but projecting in a trained and restrained way.

Sobbing, “I called 9-11 and. . . .and” Van Horne sobbed deeply.

“At what time?” The attorney verbally battered him.

“I. . . .I think it was about 7:00 o’clock that night.” he sniffled, loudly.

“Exactly.  But what time had you gotten home?” District Attorney John Winehouse was one of the best. He always built up to the denouement in testimony. He caused most juries to hang on to every word and their seats.

“I got home at 4:30pm,” Van Horne mumbled.

“Can you repeat that, please?” Winehouse leaned into Van Horne.

“4:30pm. I said, 4:30.” Van Horne’s demeanor abruptly changed. He was now irritated and his tears had stopped.

“So now will you please tell the court, what you were doing between 4:30p.m and 7:00pm that was so urgent that you failed to call 9-1-1 the moment you saw your dead wife and daughters? What were you doing?” Winehouse was now squarely in Van Horne’s face.

Van Horne stared into space and refused to speak, anymore. He remained silent for the next month. He was considered unfit to stand trial in the murders of his family and he was institutionalized. That was two years ago.

The day of his release, Van Horne dressed as if for a business meeting. He would be escorted to a half-way house of sorts, for the criminally insane.  Following a month of silence, he seemed to re-emerge as someone else. He never spoke of his late wife, daughters or their former life together. Power-of-attorney was granted to his brother who quickly liquidated  Van Horne’s assets to pay for the care he would need the rest of his life.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. And now, to return. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.  And now to return.” Van Horne performed his daily ritual.

The man with the gun had waited one solid year. The decision was a big one and he knew he would probably have to fire a second shot into himself, but now he was ready.

Whispering.   “Steady you crazy bastard. Keep those slow steady steps.”  His eyes were determined like cold glass.

Finger poised. He pulled the trigger and ended his pain. Before he turned the gun to himself, he thought of her and the way she smelled and felt every time they were together.

“You always won. You bastard. You took Marion and laughed about it. You flaunted your success in the face of my failures. You always got everything. I made sure you caught us. I made sure your arrogant ass knew that I had Marion’s heart. See you in hell, you miserable bastard. And with any luck, you will have to stay there to pay for the many lives you ruined in your climb to success. Marion. I wish I could have seen you, but I needed this.” And James Van Horne’s brother fired shot number two.

My character seems so real to me now. I feel obligated to tell her story…stories…she has three stories of her evolution as an intuitive being. She grows to become a channel through which crime victims exact justice. She begins as an insecure woman who pays more attention to the with-out than the within. She learns that at the core of her being (spiritual and physical), is the Source of all of her answers.  That center is also the location of all of her power.

Identifying her power, was the first step. Owning, the second.

Also important is her eventual embrace of the Louisiana Creole culture. As a child in California, she often found the culture inexplicable and embarrassing. The richness of the language and mysticism began to make sense and define her intuitive gifts.  The Creole language is being preserved at—–http://learnlouisianacreole.wordpress.com/