“Grann’s Secret”

“Grann’s Secret”

Deborah A. Ratliff

The tinkle of a bell attached to the door frame announced her arrival. Intense aromas from bins of fragrant herbs and incense assaulted Veronique Bergeron’s senses, and memories of her childhood hiding in the nooks and crannies of her grandmother’s Bourbon Street voodoo shop swept over her. Memories she had long repressed.

So little had changed, at least in the shop, but she had changed. She was nineteen when she fled New Orleans immediately following her parents’ funeral, vowing never to return. Only a letter in her grandmother’s handwriting enticed her back to her hometown.

The rustle of a worn beaded curtain drew her attention to the back of the store, and her aunt, her matant in Haitian creole, appeared. Veronique braced for what she expected would be a chilly greeting. She was right.

“You.” Hélène Dufour stood, hands-on-hips, her dark eyes boring into her niece’s gaze. “Before she died, Manman said you would come. I had hoped she was wrong. Now I know why that lawyer waited to schedule the reading of the will until next week. He waited for you to arrive. Should have cast a spell to keep you away.”

“Lovely to see you, as well, Matant Hélène. I wouldn’t be here if Grann hadn’t invited me personally.”

“Personally?”

Veronique pulled a rose-colored envelope from her purse and held it up. “You recognize Grann’s favorite color and her familiar scrawl. Her attorney sent this to me after her death. According to her note, she was on her deathbed and requested that I come here as she was leaving me an inheritance.”

Satisfaction spread like warm honey through her, as she watched Hélène’s eyes widened in fear. The source of her aunt’s anxiety was palpable. It was fear of losing the shop.

Hélène spoke in the patois that endeared her to tourists. “Why you be here? Go see the lawyer man and get your nonsense done and leave.”

“I only wanted to see the shop. Don’t worry. I won’t be in New Orleans long.” Veronique turned to leave but paused, looking over her shoulder. “Unless Grann had plans for me to stay.”

She walked along Bourbon Street, absorbing the smells of beer and exhaust as snippets of jazz flowed from bars and restaurants onto the streets. Her pulse quickened as the flavor of the city seeped into her pores. This had been her home but became her nightmare. That the mystique of the French Quarter drew her in after she vowed never to return confused her. She needed a drink.

Half-a- block down Bourbon, she entered a bar and made her way to a table in the back away from the other customers. She ordered a scotch and smiled as the server walked away. She imagined her father’s reaction when she didn’t order bourbon. He always told her bourbon was the nectar of the Cajun people. She had spent the last ten years trying to deny her Cajun roots. Back in the Quarter, she realized she hadn’t succeeded. It was in the blood.

The server brought her drink, and she took a sip of the smooth amber liquid, then opened her grandmother’s note.

My lovely Veronique,

I have missed you so much but that you left is my fault. What happened to your parents was a tragedy, and I know the truth. I am dying, and I cannot take this secret to my grave.

You must understand, I had to protect the others. They couldn’t know what your grandfather had become involved in to protect all of us. I loved him with all my heart, and I couldn’t betray him, even though his actions led the people your grandpapa was involved with to murder our daughter and your father. It was a warning and one I heeded to protect everyone else. I didn’t expect you to flee without saying goodbye. I would have tried to keep you here where you belonged.

Your grandfather became involved with drug dealers when he was just a small boy. His uncle led him down that path. When we met, he was a brash young man of nineteen. We were in community college. I took business classes because my destiny was working in the shop as the long line of Voodoo priestesses in our family had done. He was going to be a cop and went to school to better himself. He was a good cop.

Then the bastards from his past found him and threatened to harm all of us if he didn’t help them. He tried, but when he found out they were murdering those who stood in their way, he planned to turn them over to his commander. They killed your mother and father as a warning and vowed they would kill us all. That fear must end.

The attorney who sent this letter to you has $20,000 for you, all I could save and not let anyone know. I am leaving the shop to you and Hélène equally. She holds a grudge, believes since you left without warning that it was something you did that caused her sister to die. You must tell her what you know.

The attorney is holding a journal that your grandfather kept with all the information he had on the drug dealers and murders they committed. He knows to give it to you, and I want you to take it to Police Captain Frank Jackson. Your grandfather said he is an honest man.

Forgive me for being so weak that I couldn’t reach out to you. Talk to Hélène, make things right with her. Family is important, and I have taken you from ours for far too long.

I have and will always love you.

Grann

Veronique finished her drink and opened her Uber app, time to visit the attorney.

***

The following morning, Veronique opened another door. The door to the New Orleans Police Department’s main headquarters where she had an appointment to meet with Captain Jackson. She stopped in the lobby before pressing the elevator button. The small, black notebook in her hands carried the fate of many people within its narrow lines. Her grandfather had kept notes on everyone, including many corrupt police officers, and he identified the criminals who killed her parents. Today she hoped justice would prevail for the criminals who took her family from her.

She pressed the up button, and as the elevator door closed, she clutched the notebook to her chest. This was also the day to rejoin her family and the city she loved—and maybe cast a spell or two for justice.

The end