LaShaun sat calm and still in the middle of bustling activity at the small sheriff’s station. Few of the deputies or civilian employees did a good job of hiding their sideways glances in her direction. In fact, she was sure not all of them had business that happened to be near the area where she was seated. With the exception of Deputy Myrtle Arceneaux. No doubt she had the duty of making sure LaShaun did not attempt to leave the premises. Deputy Arceneaux sat at a nearby desk rustling paperwork.
LaShaun wore an impassive expression, a skill she had learned as a girl at her grandmother’s knee. Lucky for them Momon Odette was seventy-seven and ailing or she’d have been present to quietly scare the jeebies out of them all. Her ability to exact revenge using voodoo was legend in Vermillion Parish, Louisiana. Momon Odette loved playing the part of a rural Marie Leveau. Despite her circumstances LaShaun laughed softly at the memory of how her grandmother relished the notoriety. And how she used it to great advantage. LaShaun fingered the snake shaped onyx and bone necklace she wore.
The young female stared at LaShaun’s hand in fascination. LaShaun transferred her placid gaze from a spot on the drab light green wall to the skinny blonde. The woman blinked in dismay then apparently decided she needed to take care of some urgent task elsewhere. In a flash she was gone. The tip-tap of her fake leather high-heeled sandals on tile echoed down the hallway. Moments later Deputy Lance Broussard strode toward her from the same direction with a dour expression. His harsh façade was meant to shake her up, LaShaun mused. Obviously Deputy Broussard had not done his research on her very well.
“Ms. Rouselle.” The tall husky deputy stood about three feet away. One hand was on the dark brown gun belt around his waist. He gave a curt gesture like a traffic cop directing cars. “This way.”
“Alright, Deputy Broussard. My, my. All this attention because my rental SUV had a broken taillight. Nice to know Vermillion Parish is protected against jagged plastic.” LaShaun knew getting smart might cause her more trouble. Still she liked seeing Broussard’s jaw muscle cramp up when she refused to cower. She had inherited a smart mouth from her late mother, Francine. Something Momon Odette chastised her for on numerous occasions.
“That bag of weed has more to do with why you’re here, ma’am,” he clipped back.
“Herbs,” LaShaun corrected mildly. She followed him to another room with desks where a scattering of three or four deputies sat completing reports or talking on phones.
“We’ll see. Have a seat, ma’am,” Deputy Broussard said in a brusque tone.
“You’re arresting me because I’m an old school herbalist?” LaShaun sat down, crossed her legs then arranged the way her long skirt fell. She tossed the single thick braid over her shoulder and gazed at the deputy.
“Them don’t look like no Creole seasonings to me. Now you just came from the airport from Los Angeles. Lot of drugs pass through here from Texas, New Mexico and California.” Deputy Broussard sat down and rested his beefy arms on the desk. “I’m not saying you’re some heavy duty drug dealer. Look, you like a little recreation use, get amped up on the weekends with some Acapulco gold maybe. I mean, you sure do have way less than sixty pounds. First offense gets you a five hundred dollar fine and maybe six months in jail. I’m checking your record. Hope this ain’t a repeat offense for you.”
“I’ve never even smoked tobacco. I allow nothing and no one to take control of me, Deputy Broussard,” LaShaun said quietly.
“But you have been arrested before in this parish.”
“I was questioned and booked, but the charges had to be dropped,” LaShaun said, her voice still held no inflection of anger.
“Suspicion of murder. Lack of evidence."
LaShaun stared at him as though he were part of a police line-up, taking note of the tiny scar beneath his left eye. He had the dark features of a Cajun, black eyes and curly black hair. Back then she might have flirted with him. Broussard was handsome in a rough way. She didn’t remember his face though. Of course eleven years had passed. Still the events of that night and what led up to her arrest played out in her dreams for years after, like a video in high definition.
“Because I was innocent,” LaShaun supplied. She lowered her eyes then looked at him again. Broussard stared at her in silence for a few seconds then glanced away. He tapped the keyboard of the ancient computer on the desk.
“Yeah, right,” he replied. “So tell me again why you’re back in Vermilion Parish.”
