Lost Daughters by J.M. Redmann

Author:J.M. Redmann [Redmann, J.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 9781602820913
Google: u8pkPwAACAAJ
Amazon: 1932859039
Publisher: Bywater Books
Published: 1999-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The morning brought no news, no phone calls, no word from Joanne.

It could be days, I told myself. Or years. Or never. Whether it was only hours or not at all, the details of my life still remained for me to do.

The first thing I did when I got to the office was again call the number I’d gotten from Suzanna Forquet. Still an answering machine. She was probably at work. I decided against leaving a message.

Next I called the lawyer in Chalmette. I also got an answering machine, but this time his worked. “This is Chester,” it told me. “If you want to catch me, I’ll be in the office from three to five, if not, toots sweet.”

I didn’t leave a message there either. I would just go visit Chester in Chalmette between three and five p.m.

So I sat at my desk, staring at the wall. It was Thursday morning at ten a.m.

Thursday at ten o’clock, Aunt Greta would be out of the house. Every Thursday at ten, she volunteered at the church. She always had when I was growing up. Did she still?

What had Uncle Claude wanted to give me?

Someday soon, she would sort through his things, and I might lose forever my chance to have what he wanted me to have.

Could I risk it? It wouldn’t make Aunt Greta like me any more if she discovered that I’d broken into her house. Of course, there wasn’t much that would cause Aunt Greta to like me any more.

Thievery and going to Chalmette, all in one day. Maybe next time I should listen when Danny tried to talk me into going to law school.

But I had to know what it was that Uncle Claude wanted me to have.

I hurriedly locked my office. I was glad to be driving Cordelia’s nondescript maroon car—even Aunt Greta couldn’t miss my lime green Datsun if she happened to come back early.

It took me about twenty minutes to get there. The streets were quiet, only a few cars parked in driveways.

I drove around for a bit, checking out the neighborhood in case Aunt Greta was only running a quick errand, or had stepped over for coffee with a neighbor and was only a few blocks away. But I didn’t see her car anywhere, only those houses, built in the same year by the same developer, all of a yellow brick sameness.

Coming from the bayous, with our houses built by different generations, some rough-hewn shacks, others elaborate structures with ornate columns and long verandas, this neighborhood had seemed so sterile and confined.

I parked in front of the next house over, but stayed in my car for several minutes, watching the house for any sign of twitching curtains or shadowed movements. Nothing stirred.

Finally leaving my car, I walked to the door and rang the bell. If Aunt Greta did answer it, I would tell her I had lost an earring and wanted to look for it. A flimsy excuse, but it would suffice should I come face-to-face with her.

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