Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn by Bill Hopkins Page A

say?”
    Ollie marched to a large oak tree, some twenty feet
away from the house. “Come here, damn it.”
    Rosswell followed. “What?”
    “He asked her if it was okay if we came in. You don’t
know how to handle this. Either keep your mouth shut or I’m leaving.”
    “You speak French?”
    “I know a few words. Now you behave.”
    Rosswell nodded. He and Ollie moved back to the door in
time to see Lazar slipping inside. They followed.
    Lazar took up his post by the open door, letting the
afternoon sunlight tumble in. Maman rocked back and forth in a handmade bentwood
rocking chair, posed in front of a huge fireplace. A tan mutt, his gray muzzle
speckled with dirt, lay at her feet, sleeping, occasionally farting and
snoring. Rosswell said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that there was no fire.
The temperature inside the house had to be eighty or eighty-five degrees. Maman’s
shriveled body surely couldn’t be cool, yet Rosswell found no traces of sweat
on her pale, translucent skin, the color of a corpse. Maybe she’s dehydrated. Maman
wore a pale blue kerchief on her head tied behind her neck, holding back her
silver hair. Her dress was a simple brown shift. An earthen smell worked its
way into Rosswell’s nose. It wasn’t the odor of spoiled dirt, but a smell of
clean ground.
    “ Bienvenue,
chasseurs. Vous cherchez le trésoir . ” The voice coming from the
crone rose up high and squeaky.
    Ollie said, “Anglais, s’il vous plait. Je ne parle pas
bien le français et mon copain ne comprend
rien.”
    “I speak your language for you but she’s a barbaric
tongue. English sounds like walnuts in a meat grinder, all clanking and
clinking, them.”
    She wore no shoes, her feet likely callused from years
of treading barefoot. A rough-hewn table dominated the middle of the room, a
glass pitcher filled with water and an empty coffee mug at one end. A bench on
one side of the table furnished the only other place to sit. No one asked
Rosswell and Ollie to take a load off. Rosswell stood quietly as possible,
watching the transaction.
    Ollie caught Rosswell’s attention before he said, “Yes,
Maman, we are hunters and yes, we seek treasure.” Rosswell silently thanked
Ollie for weaseling in a translation of the French conversation. “My French is
bad and my friend here doesn’t speak it at all.”
    “So you said. Your French is bad and his nowhere. You
miss much when you don’t have the tools to see.” She leaned down and scratched
the dog’s ears. The mutt’s breath flapped his jowls every time he exhaled.
    Ollie said, “What have you seen?”
    The dog stood and snuffled behind Maman’s chair until
he found a dry bone. He clamped onto his treasure, then trotted to a corner
where he dropped it. Exhausted from the excursion, he reclaimed his nap spot
and fell asleep.
    Maman scratched her palm. “I see nothing.”
    Ollie kicked Rosswell’s foot.
    “Oh. Right.” Rosswell handed the bag of silver coins
to Ollie, who passed it to Maman.
    Ollie said, “I’m sorry for the poor gift.”
    Poor gift? Rosswell was floored. Five hundred dollars was
a freaking great gift. What was he going to get for his money? Was Maman going
to peer into the future? Shouldn’t she have a crystal ball or tea leaves or
Tarot cards? Surely, she must be a psychic or something.
    Maman hefted the bag. “Good thing I not see much, me.”
The coins vanished. Rosswell gaped, amazed that the old woman could hide the
silver on her person so quickly. “Dina, I see.”
    “Tina,” Rosswell corrected.
    Maman growled. “Many stand by Dina. You heard what I
say. I say what I mean. You listen and keep your words behind your teeth. Don’t
hear. Listen, you, and watch for them.”
    Rosswell nodded his agreement, although he wasn’t clear
what he’d agreed to.
    Ollie knelt at Maman’s side. “What did you see?”
    “Cave of one eye have much treasure. Cave of blind eye,
she holds a treasure but not what you seek.” Maman let out a soft