Page 39 of Rowe

“It depended on whether you were buying something. You bought something. Now I can tell you I ain't seen her.” Sal leaned across the counter.

“Lady, we're not playing.” The cashier rang a brass bell beside the register. From behind a curtain came a man as wide as a refrigerator, carrying a tray of cinnamon rolls.

“Everything all right, Mama?”

Sal slowly leaned back.

“Perfect.” The cashier smiled.

“You want directions to Belle Fleur?” Six men froze. Sal whispered.

“Yes.”

She drew a map on the back of his receipt. The map contained a canal, a cemetery, something marked OLD ROAD, a smiling alligator, and a large X.

“What is the X?”

“That's where not to turn.”

“How do we know it's not the place we're supposed to turn?”

“Because I just told you.”

They followed the map and reached a cemetery at sunset. A groundskeeper listened patiently before pointing beyond the headstones.

“Belle Fleur? Sure. Go straight that way.” Sal's men piled back into their vehicles and drove straight that way. The road ended at a boat launch. The groundskeeper, watching from a distance, shook his head. He had meant the river.

Another Rossi team reached a hunting camp where three brothers named Armand, Arnaud, and Arnold claimed to know every Guillory from one end of the parish to the other. Unfortunately, each brother insisted that the other two were liars.

Armand pointed east.

“Belle Fleur's past Cypress Knee.” Arnaud pointed west.

“He's trying to get you killed.” Arnold pointed north.

“They're both adopted.” Armand threw a crawfish shell at Arnold.

Within moments the three brothers were arguing over a dispute involving a lawn mower, a borrowed wedding tent, and a dog that had allegedly voted in a parish election.

Rossi's men slipped away unnoticed. They chose east. East delivered them to water.

A fourth team found a hand-painted sign reading BELLE FLEUR, three miles down a shell road. Hope spread through the vehicle so quickly that no one questioned the smaller words beneath it.

They arrived at Belle Fleur Beauty & Taxidermy.

The owner, Charlene, wore pink scrubs and was applying curlers to a poodle while a twelve-point buck watched from the wall.

“Medical center?” she said. “No, sugar. We do hair on Tuesdays, animals Wednesday through Saturday, and taxes February through April.”

Rocco Vale looked around.

“You do all that here?”

“Not at the same table.” Rocco showed her Mara's photograph. Charlene squinted.

“I know her.” The room became silent except for the poodle panting.

“You know Mara Guillory?”