Page 46 of Poison Wood

Tandy slows her walk. “Eleanor Chamberlain. When she was governor she had a daughter at the school.” She eyes me. “You probably know that, though.”

“I do.” I don’t offer her any other information.

“Now, Eleanor did some good things for this part of the state when she was governor and that’s saying something. You know how everyone at the Capitol treats us like ugly stepchildren up here. No offense to ugly stepchildren. But that woman got so full of herself, thinking she had power even when she was out of office. You just don’t mess with history. Even if—”

Tandy starts to say more, then seems to remember she’s speaking to a former student who happens to be a reporter now.

I stop her before we enter the glass doors. “Even if what?”

She squares her narrow shoulders. “On the record or off?”

“Off.”

“Hi, Ms. Tandy,” a woman in ironed jeans says as she passes us for the front doors. “You coming in?”

“In a minute, dear.” She smiles and waves, then looks back to me. In a softer voice, she says, “If I were you, I’d start asking questions about why it took a girl dying to close that school down. Didn’t have to come to that. They could’ve shut it down long before that happened. And we could have made that historical school into something less ... troubled.”

My pulse quickens. “What specifically are you referring to?”

I think about Halloween, but it seems like Tandy Higginbottom might be hinting at something else.

“You need to talk to Martha Lee,” she says. “She was the cook out there forever.”

“I remember her.”

Tandy says, “She works down the street now. At a little café called Mockingbird Café.”

“Thank you,” I say.

She opens the front glass door, and I follow her in.

The city council room in back is small and jam packed. Every chair is already taken. Tandy walks to a group of women standing off to the left, and I find a spot to stand against the far right wall.

I fire off a text to Katrina.

Change of plans. Meet me at Mockingbird Cafe.

A wooden podium sits in front of where the council would normally sit, but there’s no scrum in front of it. No reporters scrambling to be the closest, only one small video camera attached to a tripod. I doubt that will be the case after today.

A crest hangs on the wall behind the podium, with a fleur-di-lis and the date 1714, the year Louisiana’s oldest settlement was established. An American flag sits on the right, the Louisiana flag on the left.

A tall Black man wearing a peaked cap with a gold badge, navy slacks, and a navy dress coat adorned in gold buttons and another gold badge walks in and approaches the podium.

I open my phone to my camera, attach the wireless mic, and wish like hell I had a tripod. Shaky footage is not going to do NCN any favors. And my hands are shaking.

I press my back against the wall and hold the phone horizontally, wedging my elbows against my stomach to keep the shot steady. “Good afternoon,” the officer says. “I am chief of police here in Natchitoches, William Duplantis. First of all, I’d like to thank you for coming out. Next, I’d like to introduce my staff.” He points to the men and women flanking him in starched white shirts and dark slacks and introduces each.

He shuffles on his feet, then continues. “We are here today to discuss some recent developments that have come to light in regards to the Heather Hadwick case. Seventeen years ago, Miss Hadwick went missing from Poison Wood Therapeutic Academy for Girls. A maintenance man, Johnny Adair, was later convicted for her murder. Although Miss Hadwick’s body was never discovered, DNA evidence combined with Mr. Adair’s confession led to his conviction.” He pauses and clears his throat. “However, we have recently discovered Heather Hadwick did not actually die in the early-morning hours of November 28, 2002, and I’m going to let Detective Lane Gautreaux take it from here.”

A ripple of gasps runs through the audience. I catch Tandy Higginbottom staring at me from across the room. I motion with my head for her to come over to me. The chief’s statement was definitive. DNA must have come back.

Chief Duplantis steps aside, and a short woman in a tailored skirt and blazer approaches the mic. Her short brown hair is tuckedbehind her ears and her brown eyes tell me this woman is not to be underestimated.

“Good morning,” she says. “I’m lead detective Lane Gautreaux with the Criminal Investigations Division for Natchitoches Police Department.”

Tandy comes to my side, and I lean close to her ear. “If she takes questions, I need for you to ask one for me.”

“What?”