Authors: Daniel Hecht
She didn't wait for a reply but headed down the hall. Tarika stood at the open front door, waiting to help her to the van.
Cree caught up with Joyce at the Williams Research Center on Chartres Street, in the heart of the French Quarter. She had arranged to meet Lila at three-thirty, leaving just enough time for a few other errands, and then had called Joyce's cell phone number. Joyce told her she'd already had a productive day and that she'd be glad for a quick conference.
The Williams occupied a splendidly restored building that, according to an informational plaque, had once been a fire station. Cree rang the bell and was buzzed inside to a cool, spacious marble lobby, where a receptionist asked her to register and directed her to the main reading room on the second floor. This proved to be a two-story chamber with balconies on two sides, lit by huge hemisphencal chandeliers and ceiling-height windows topped by gracious fanlights. Bookshelves lined both levels, and microfiche carrels lined a darkened alcove. Here and there, other researchers sat singly or conferred quietly together.
Cree recognized a familiar pair of big sunglasses on one of the bent heads and went over to the table where Joyce sat.
"Hey," Cree whispered.
"Aha." Joyce patted the chair next to her and slid a stack of photocopies toward Cree. "I'm about to hit the microfilm on Richard Beauforte. But I did get you some goods on that murdered servant. Take a look."
Cree sat and looked over the papers, which reproduced short articles from newspapers of August 1882. The first, from the
Times-Picayune's
daily "Crimes and Casualties" feature, gave the basic information; a follow-up article filled in the details in the florid, opinionated journalistic style of the day. Lionel Daniels, a former slave who was now houseman for the Beaufortes, had responded violently when his employer - the papers still referred to John Frederick Beauforte as his "master" - accused him of stealing two silver candlesticks. In self-defense, John Frederick had "seized the fireplace poker that stood nearby and administered several blows to the negro's head and torso." Still, "a negro of intemperate disposition and imposing physical stature," Lionel wouldn't desist, so John Frederick had beaten him further, inflicting a fatal wound. The Metropolitan Police found the downstairs library of Beauforte House "in a state of utter disarray that bespoke the vehemence of the servant's temper." "Court officers agreed that a clearer case of self defense could hardly be imagined and expressed hope that the incident will provide a corrective example for others tempted by larcenous inclinations."
"There's your beating motion," Joyce whispered. "In the library, too."
Cree thought about that. It was possible, but the idea that the ghosts were John Frederick or Lionel created as many questions as it answered. For starters, she would expect to experience the scene from the perspective of Lionel, not that of John Frederick, who died during a business trip to Vicksburg many years afterward. And why would either ghost manifest now? And what explained Lila's susceptibility - what was the link to the Beaufortes of today? Not to mention the problems suggested by the boar-headed man, the wolf, the smoke snake.
She took out her own notebook and pen and was about to jot some notes when Joyce hissed,
"Put that away!
Jesus, Cree, no pens in here! Really, seriously, pencils only." Eyes wide with alarm, she tipped her chin toward the staff desk, where one of the archivists had stood up and was shaking her head at Cree. Joyce put her lips to Cree's ear: "She's very sweet and helpful, unless you use a pen. Then she turns into, I don't know, Helga the She-Wolf of the SS or something. They're fanatics about not getting ink on archival materials here."
Cree put her pen away and took the pencil Joyce offered.
"Obviously the articles reveal a certain . . . bias," Joyce went on. "So I went a little deeper. This place has a great collection of personal correspondence from members of prominent New Orleans families, nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The Beaufortes are well represented. I was able to find one from John Frederick to a cousin of his, from the period right after the incident."
This was a photocopy of an elegantly handwritten letter that had faded with age, harder to read. John Frederick confided that he had grown impatient with Lionel for his "reluctance" to do some of his chores as instructed, and that he had resolved to "take a firm hand" with him. From the letter's tone, Cree inferred that while the beating was certainly intentional, Lionel's death was not. Still, John Frederick boasted that the episode had greatly improved discipline among the other servants.
Cree turned the pages facedown, feeling a little sick. "Joyce, I wanted to tell you - "
"And,"
Joyce whispered excitedly, "I got your architectural plans. Went to Tulane and nagged 'em." She handed Cree a key with a number tag attached. "They're in a big tube. Had to check it into a locker downstairs, but you can pick it up on your way out. We can do the spatiotemp tonight, if you like."
"Great. It'd be best to have one of the Beaufortes with us," Cree told her. "Probably Ron - if he'll stoop, Can you call and ask him to accompany us? I think he's a little angry with me right now — "
"The guy who came to our office? The handsome one? Great idea."
Cree sighed and put the key into her purse. "Joyce, I've got a favor to ask."
"Sure."
Still chipper, Joyce waited expectantly. But suddenly Cree couldn't name the favor. It had to do with what Cree was doing, the radical balance she had to find. But there was no way to describe that. And no way, really, to know what form it might take.
"I think I'll probably need to go a little crazy," Cree said at last. "To get to the bottom of this."
Joyce sobered. "I got news - you're already a little crazy."
"A lot crazy, then. And I need you to trust me when I do." Cree was shocked to hear an echo of Lila's voice in the plea:
Stay with me.
"I'm not sure I - "
"Just that I've realized I have to take this case very personally if I'm going to make any progress. But I don't want you to worry too much. Don't . . . overreact or something."
"Don't worry? Don't
worry?
I'm worrying already! What does Ed think about all this?"
"I haven't talked to him. And if you do, tell him I'm fine, I'm doing great. No need to get him all —
"I don't know what you're asking me to agree to, Cree. But I don't like the sound of it." Joyce's voice had risen, drawing the archivist's disapproving gaze.
Cree stood up and gathered up the papers and folded them into her purse. "Gotta go. This is great work. I'll see you tonight, okay? We'll look for some Cajun food. I promise."
The promise didn't seem to make Joyce any happier.
C
HARMIAN COULD REMEMBER WHEN
she'd actually enjoyed these outings. It had once given her pleasure to visit the marvelous formal gardens in and around New Orleans and Baton Rouge, to trade tips on planting and pruning, or where to buy the best bulbs or slips. It was an opportunity to get out of the house and see some countryside while you shared complaints about your servants and your grandchildren and your husband, if you still had one. Which most of the Garden Society did not, any longer: The van was full of puffs of blue-white hair.
My "geriatric buddies,"
Charmian thought sourly.
But over the last couple of years the outings had become nearly intolerable. She went along only out of a sense of obligation as their chairwoman. The rides were tedious, the van claustrophobic, the gossip savage and as small-minded as it was hugely irrelevant. The blue-haired blue-bloods looked refined, but Charmian knew
that
for what it was: a veneer of delicacy over a hard, ruthless core. They were vicious social carnivores only too eager to use their money and position against the less privileged or each other. After two decades of rising crime in New Orleans, most of them had even started carrying pistols in their purses Charmian herself had succumbed to the fashion. The little ladies' guns were supposedly for self-defense against the criminal underclasses, but looking at the busy blue heads now she suspected it was only a matter of time before their disagreements about how to fertilize an oleander, or what dish to order at Antoine's, brought the guns out.
It was an uncharitable perspective, she knew, one sharpened by the knowledge that it applied to herself as much as the others. But now even the gardens had lost their appeal. Especially since the events of the last few months.
Still, this time she'd been actually relieved when the van had come, grateful that Tarika had interrupted her talk with Cree Black. An excuse to escape, to have time to think. She'd felt some of her resolve slipping, indecision stealing in as the woman probed her.
Inconceivable: Charmian Celeste Lambert Beauforte beating a retreat from someone of Cree Black's class and background!
Being undecided was an invitation to the world to wreak its worst upon you. Decisiveness was the foundation of strength. Even if you made the wrong decision, making any at all allowed you to act with authority, the certainty born of resolve. And that was always better than vacillating, hesitating, allowing the world to act upon you rather than you upon it. And you
never
retreated.
"You heard about Billie? Isn't it just too
terrible?"
Lydia Lanier whispered loudly.
Lydia was a plump, shapeless old thing with excruciatingly bad taste in expensive clothes, and her face showed that however terrible Billie's misfortune might be, Lydia was loving every minute of it. When Lydia had clumped aboard the van, Charmian had prayed that she wouldn't choose the empty seat next to her. There
were
other seats — only eleven members had opted for this tour. But she had, obviously because she was burning to tell Charmian this little tidbit. And she was a big woman, overflowing the seat next to Charmian, crowding her with upper arms the size of hams and thighs like sofa cushions.
"Terrible," Charmian agreed. Whatever it was. She turned her face to the window to signal her desire to be left alone with her thoughts. The van headed north through the city toward the Ponchartrain causeway.
The thing to do was to regain composure, take the initiative. Pull back to a different line of defense and consolidate it. Clearly, from what she'd seen and what Paul Fitzpatrick had told her, she'd underestimated Cree Black. The woman was not the persuasive charlatan she'd hoped would spread some palliative balm on Lila's problem, calm her down, help her past this crisis. She had some freakish talents of insight or perception, and she had a quality of. . . what? Not idealism, because she had clearly seen and experienced too much to be naively optimistic about the human condition. Charmian tried various words, and none
of
them quite fit Cree Black, that quality that made her so dangerous. Maybe
commitment
was the word: She had a deeply held philosophical belief that you had to get to the bottom of things, that doing so was always the best path, always the best foundation of healing.
So maybe she was naive after all.
"Not that we all couldn't see it coming," Lydia Lanier went on nastily.
Charmian turned to look at her, affronted at her intrusion, and gave her a gaze that would have withered a vase of zinnias. But Lydia was either too stupid to notice the look or too arrogant to acknowledge it. Charmian almost said something sharp, but there was no point: It'd only get passed around and cause a ruckus, get all the busy hens squawking.
"Tell me what you've heard," she whispered conspiratorially.
Lydia tipped her big head toward Charmian, lowered her voice, and told the tale. Charmian tried to look appropriately scandalized and tuned her out.
The van took them up the ramp onto Route 10, and the city dropped away beneath them. In few moments, the huge cemetery complex opened on both sides of the highway, the innumerable crypts mottled gray after the rain, squalid looking. The sight gave Charmian a charge of energy. A little memento mori.
Okay, so Cree Black was determined to get to the bottom of this. And with her abilities, there was some chance she just might.
What made Lila
hate herselfso much she breaks mirrors? -
that was too close for comfort. But she could be obstructed. Better, she could be channeled, directed down paths that led only to partial, manageable truths. Charmian would need to decide the most secure line of defense and stick to it. Paul could help there.
She had thought it through so long ago, had done her best to figure all the probabilities and angles, had made decisions, and it had more or less worked. True, Lila had become the weak little thing she was, and in carving away the rotten places in her memory she had left big holes in her life; but she had managed to marry, to have kids, to have a halfway decent house. And Charmian had come to believe it was done, closed, that all the guilts and ghosts had been permanently sealed away.
Until Josephine had reappeared and changed everything! Who would have thought the woman would live that long? She was older than Charmian, eighty at least by the time she'd appeared at Charmian's door, two years ago: tall, broad-shouldered, her hair a cloud of frizzled gray, her long, sinewy arms as tight and creased as hard salamis, her dark face drawn long with that tiresome excess of piety, sobriety, contrition. InteDectually, Charmian had long since forgiven her, but still the unexpected sight of her awakened a surge of rage that she had barely repressed.
The recollection made the area around Charmian's breastbone tighten, and for a few seconds she had a hard time breathing. She deliberately mustered a full, slow breath, hoping that Lydia wouldn't notice.
After Josephine's sudden reappearance and that one afternoon of confession and accusation, she'd disappeared again without a trace. Once Charmian had sorted through the implications of her visit, she had even discreetly hired Crescent City Confidential Services, a highly recommended private detective firm, to locate her. But they'd come up dry. And then Temp Chase got himself murdered, and it had seemed best to just let Josephine fade away again.
Cree Black had zeroed in on everything, every question she'd asked had been relevant. And she'd been in New Orleans for only five days! She really was a sort of medium. She'd seen two ghosts; soon she would learn who they were. She'd pinned down the dates. She'd asked about Josephine.
Josephine! The tension gripped Charmian's chest hard. Surely Cree couldn't find Josephine, not if Crescent City Confidential couldn't!
Or could she?
How to stop or deflect her? According to Ron, Lila had now hired Cree herself, slapped down a check for her retainer; there was no way to fire her. Maybe they needed to consider more strenuous means to be rid of the woman — something to consider there. Ron might have some ideas on that score. He certainly knew enough lowlifes who might be willing to take on an odd job.
Charmian inventoried the ways Cree might penetrate to the truth. One was certainly the photos. They were not at the house; they had not been there when Charmian had looked for them after Lila had announced her desire to move back in. But Charmian knew who must have taken them, the only person who could have, and Cree Black would no doubt find her way there eventually. Had he destroyed them, as would have made sense, or preserved them for some devious future use? Hard to say.
"You are in dreamland this morning!" Lydia said. "I hope this doesn't mean you forgot to take your little smart pills this morning, darlin'? You haven't been listenin' to a word I've said!" The fat face loomed at Charmian, and suddenly she knew she couldn't do this, couldn't spend the day in Baton Rouge with the Garden Society and pretend that there was nothing the matter, and put up with Lydia and whoever else wanted to pour trivialities into her ear. She couldn't do it. Not when there was so much to be done. Not when the family was in danger.
That thought gave her resolve. But she'd have to act fast. The van had left the highway and turned north on Causeway Boulevard, and if she didn't get out now they'd get onto twenty-eight hellish miles of bridge and from the middle of the lake there'd be no turning back, she'd have to go to Baton Rouge and a day would be lost. And Cree Black would make more connections.
"I need to get out of this seat," she told Lydia. "Now. Stand up and let me out."
Lydia's eyes widened in surprise but quickly narrowed shrewdly as she sensed Charmian's urgency. The woman had a radar that picked up other people's distress, which she positively
fed
upon. "Why, Charmian Beauforte, whatever is the matter?" she drawled, speaking as slowly as she could. "You look like - "
"Get out of my way, you prize sow!" Charmian hissed. "This instant!"
Lydia gasped audibly, and conversation in the nearest seats stopped as the gray and blue heads turned. Charmian shoved at Lydia until the pig hoisted her bulk, moved out of her seat, and stumbled back a step, too shocked to speak.
Charmian gathered her bag and got up and limped quickly to the front of the van. She took hold of the driver's shoulder and shook it. "Stop," she told him. "Pdght here. I need to get out of this vehicle."
The driver, a big black man in gray chauffeur's livery, tried to mask his surprise. "Uh, yes, ma'am. Uh, is there something I can help you with, Miz Beauforte?"
"Stop. Open the door. Now. I'm fine. I just remembered another appointment. Go on to Baton Rouge."
"Yes, ma'am."
He braked hard and pulled the door lever, and when it hissed open Charmian climbed down into the street. The whole van of Garden Society ladies looked at her out their windows, shocked, curious, calculating.
Enjoy it, ladies. Something really juicy to talk about,
Charmian thought savagely. The driver looked down at her briefly, hesitating, but at Charmian's imperious gesture shut the door and drove on.
Charmian straightened her clothes. She spotted a street sign and got her bearings, then took out her cell phone to call a cab.
Ronald's apartment was in a newer office and residential tower on the downtown side of Canal Street. Charmian paid the driver, got out, and went inside. It was not even noon, Ronald would probably still be regrouping from whatever excesses he'd indulged in last night. If she understood his schedule correctly, he'd expect to do some on-line work after lunch and maybe swing by his office by one-thirty, flirt with his secretaries and schmooze with a couple of clients. Well, today would have to be different. She hadn't called because she wanted to catch him by surprise, off balance, bowl him over and roll him right along, make him obey her before he had a chance to think about it. She'd tell him she knew he'd removed the photos, and what that implied, and she'd tell him that Cree Black was finding out everything, and that he'd better start believing in ghosts fast because they were about to come back and make his life hell.
She took the elevator up to the twenty-first floor and walked down to his apartment. She rang the bell insistently and for good measure slammed her bag against the door a couple of times. After a minute she heard the muffled noise of someone coming. The peephole eclipsed, and she heard him swearing inside as the locks rattled and the door opened.
"Goddamn it, Momma, what're you doing here? You know, I would greatly prefer it if you showed me the courtesy of
calling
before - "
"Let me in. We have some things to discuss."
Ronald didn't move. He had his pants on, at least, that was good, but he stood holding the half-open door in one hand and didn't budge. "Tell you the truth, Momma, this isn't the best time, thank you. I have company at the moment."
She jabbed at his chest with her knuckles, backing him up, and pushed past him. "Get rid of her. Now. And then get dressed and get your wits about you."
She strode ahead of him into his living room, a huge expanse of floor furnished and decorated in what she thought of as playboy-modern. It was complete with the obligatory scattering of liquor bottles and glasses on every horizontal surface, and even a couple of little mirrors, lying flat and faintly dusted with powder, that revealed the more exotic tastes of Ro-Ro and his friends. One wall was all glass, filling the space with a big view of the nearer downtown buildings and then the darker, uneven rooftops of the French Quarter.