Authors: Daniel Hecht
She slid open the first drawer, aware that she had truly started down a one-way street. The drawer she'd levered was gashed and broken, bristling with splinters of oak. Sooner or later, Ronald or Charmian would come in here and see that the cabinet had been broken into. There was no going back now, no way to hide the fact that she knew enough to go this far. She had better find what she needed here.
She used both hands to sort through the files crammed into the top drawer. The first few were not what she had expected: folder after folder about Charmian's tennis activities, photos and clippings from a fairly successful amateur career. Bradford, too. One newspaper clipping featured photos of both of them in their whites, winning some minor event: "Teen Tennis Twins Terrorize Tournament Foes," the headline ran. There were more Lambert family materials toward the back of the drawer, featuring Charmian's mother and father and particularly her brother Bradford. Brad had indeed been a handsome devil, Cree admitted. He grinned from the backs of thoroughbred horses, frowned studiously as he worked on a tennis stroke. Here was Brad at some high school ball or prom, teeth as white as his starched collar, with some dark-haired teen lovely wearing the wretched Mamie Eisenhower hairstyle of the 1950s. Brad with fishing gear, sometimes with Richard, showing off the fish they'd caught. Brad with Lila and Ronald at some Christmas gone by.
She came to the end of the drawer without finding any Mardi Gras materials.
But the second drawer was different, and it drew a drumbeat from Cree's pulse. "Epicurus 1954," one file tab read. These were miscellaneous materials indeed: photos of parties, of floats being prepared, of parades. Notes of minutes of krewe meetings, financial statements. Invitation lists for Carnival balls. Glossy eight-by-tens and photos clipped from newspapers, showing costumed partyers, some with masks and some without. A newspaper photo of Brad atop a streetlight post in the Quarter, shirtless, strings of beads around his neck, arms raised exultantly to the sky. Another showed Charmian as Marie Antoinette raising a glass high to toast her masked Louis, presumably Richard.
Greek themes were prominent in Epicurus costuming, no doubt in observance of its namesake, the philosopher. Aside from the identification of his name with the pursuit of pleasure and the refinement of taste, Cree didn't know anything about Epicurus, and she suspected that most krewe members didn't either. But it gave license for lots of togas, beards, and dusty wigs. Here was a photo of Bradford wearing a toga and a crown of laurel, looking more Roman than Greek as he tipped his head to drink lustily from a flagon.
She moved on to the next file, "Epicurus 1955." This held more of the same and even included a small, sequined face mask pressed flat among the papers. Her fingers skipped through, piece by piece, impatient for the revelation that had to be here.
For the parades, all participants wore costumes appropriate to whatever theme had been chosen for the year, but for the private parties and balls leading up to Fat Tuesday, individuals wore widely diverse costumes. In the early sixties, the styles of Epicurus seemed to evolve: 1962 showed a preference for decadent movement figures like Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley. Later still, maybe as sixties trends caught up with the krewe, the costumes became more widely varied. There were a few hedonistic-looking psychedelic rock stars. Brad settled into a few years as a pirate, maybe Jean Laffite. Ron entered the scene as a ghastly child Nero, with toga and fiddle. Richard spent two years in the early sixties as some fat chef: a face mask with ballooning red cheeks, a towering mushroom hat, white clothes stuffed with pillows - presumably some icon of the pleasure principle.
From the materials here, she could see it was just as Paul had explained: A krewe was little more than a party club. You got together every year at Carnival to have parties and balls and parades, culminating in the extravagances of Fat Tuesday. Each year the krewe's activities were presided over by a king, chosen by the membership; from the records, Cree could see that Richard had been king of Epicurus several times. To be chosen krewe king was a mixed blessing, apparently, because along with the honor came the obligation to pay for everything: The files for years when Richard had been king included ledgers for the money he spent on lavish feasts, the best booze, exotic entertainments, and ostentatious decorations. One newspaper article suggested that though Rex and Comus were still the most prestigious krewes, Epicurus was the most expensive to belong to - due, apparently to the obligations of providing a truly epicurean standard of feasting and entertainment.
Cree came to the end of the second drawer and went on to the third. She leafed through 1967 and 1968, and then came up short. The back of the drawer was empty. The files from 1969 onward were missing.
Of course!
she realized. Charmian would have taken them away before Lila moved back into the house. Cree knuckled her head, furious at her own stupidity. This had all been a waste of time. Of course Charmian would have been several steps ahead.
On the off chance there was something more to discover here, she retrieved the fireplace tools and went to work on the second cabinet. The locking mechanism of this one was more stubborn, and eventually she just broke away half of the top drawer. She ripped away the oak slab and shined her flashlight inside. It was empty. Knowing it was pointless, she reached inside anyway and managed to release the lower drawers. They were empty, too.
That the crucial years were missing half proved her guess, but half wasn't good enough.
In frustration, she almost pitched the poker across the room. Clearly she wasn't going to find records for the year she was really interested in. It would have been 1971, maybe 1972, she figured, when Lila had been raped by someone wearing a boar-head mask.
I
T WAS CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT
by the time she turned off the lights and locked the storage room door. She headed down the hall, trying to loosen joints that had grown stiff with immobility and tension. The adrenaline high she'd maintained since her epiphany on Decatur Street had kept her tense enough to scream for more than three hours.
She'd made it all the way to the kitchen before she realized there was a sound in the house.
A voice, whimpering. Not weeping, but beyond weeping: the convulsive, involuntary utterances of an injured person. A woman's voice.
Lila!
Cree ran down the dark central hall, following the sound, and stopped to listen again from the entry hail. It was clearer there, the sound of devastation. From upstairs.
Cree took the steps two at a time, turned at the landing, and came into the central room.
"Lila?" she called. She groped until she found the light switch and flipped it. The big room filled with the dull yellow of the chandelier, the doorways dark rectangles all around. "Lila, it's Cree. You shouldn't have come here. This isn't safe. We've got to get you out of here."
There was no answer, just the continuing squelched exclamations of misery. It was a wet sound of breathy exhalations and throaty vocalizations, ragged grunts and sobs, arrhythmic, constricted, forced. Hard to tell where it was coming from. Cree stopped to listen, and suddenly the awful quality of the whimpering suddenly made sense. Not an injured person. A person
being
injured, right now.
A woman being raped.
"Lila, where are you?" Cree shouted. She moved to the head of the hallway and thought the sound was louder here. Lila had to be in one of the rooms down the hall, the master bedroom or maybe the room she'd occupied as a child.
She ran down to the master bedroom, turned into it, slapped the light switch. No one. Now the whimpering seemed to come from behind: the other bedroom! She raced across the hall, flung open the door, and looked in. Nothing. No one.
The noise stopped.
Cree stood still again just outside the room, looking up and down the hall, confused. "Lila?"
The ceiling light in the central room went out, leaving it a cavern at the end of the hall.
"Lila?" she called toward the dark rectangle.
(<
Lila?"
an echo came back.
The voice sickened her. It was a parody of her voice, a man's voice straining to reach a woman's range. It was mocking her fear and concern, ridiculing her, taunting her.
At the end of the hall, thirty feet away, just where the lighted corridor met the shadow of the big room, down on the floor: two brown shoe tips.
Suddenly Cree felt him, all around, the gnarled malevolent affect lit with manic glee and lust. His mental weather closed around her suddenly and completely, suffocatingly close. It was a trap, she knew instantly, a reprise of a long-ago game of predation and terror. Without knowing it, she'd fallen into Lila's role.
And the anguished, injured whimpering - that had been a ghastly parody, too, the monster mimicking and belittling the sounds of his victim's suffering.
(<
Lila?"
the parody voice jeered again.
u
Lila?"
Taunting her, savoring her terror.
Still frozen with horror, Cree could see now that there was something above the shoe tips: yes, the edge of coarse fabric, rising and falling with his breathing. And above that, at head height, something else. Glistening skin beneath coarse bristles. The side of his face.
The awful cheek moved.
(<
Lila?"
The voice had changed subtly, not so much a sadistic parody any more.
"Lila?"
Now he seemed to be just calling the name of his victim, twisting the nuance so the implicit threat was clear.
Cree heard the name as if it were her own, and maybe it was, maybe she had become Lila to a sufficient degree that she could draw him as Lila did.
The bristles moved as he turned his head. And there was the snout, just visible around the corner, and then the snout inched forward until the mouth and then the eyes came around. The mouth was wet and red, and the eyes were bright and small and gleeful as they fixed her. The nostrils hissed with his excited breathing.
Fear seared her. She broke and ran down the hallway toward the back stairs. Her body fled instinctively, by simple animal reflex, but her thoughts persisted, trying to find reasons, explanations, precedent, anything that would give her the slightest control. But she'd never experienced anything like this: the
intentionality,
the malevolent interactivity. His physical solidity. His one-dimensionality: no conscience, no dying man's regrets to appeal to. She heard heavy footsteps charging behind her as she plunged into the smaller back stairwell and flung herself down into the pitch dark. But before she reached the landing, he was there, in front of her, boiling up out of the stairwell. His shape congealed out of darkness: two legs, two arms, a man's torso with a boar's humped, muscular shoulders, an impossibly thick neck, bristled jowls, and pointed ears.
"Lila?"
he sneered.
Cree stumbled and grabbed the bannister, almost pitching onto him as she stopped her downward tumble. He lunged at her, and she could smell the rank stink of him, male sweat and something chemical.
She hurtled up the stairs again, tripped, heard him right behind her, felt his hands flail at her heels as she got her footing and leapt upward. She broke out into the upstairs hall, dimly realized that the lights had gone out here, too, and began to run down the dark hallway, to the front stairs and down. But just ahead of her, at the doorway to the master bedroom, she saw his shoulder and snout emerge, his arms reach to grapple her. She twisted as she burst past him, felt his clawing fingers scrape her stomach and rip her jacket.
Into the central room. He was so close behind her she couldn't slow down to turn into the stairway. But through the doorways ahead, the windows of the front rooms were rectangles of streetlight glow and foliage shadow, and they struck her as beautiful, salvation, proof there was an outer world, a normal world, and she wanted to fling herself at them and through them, anything to get away from the tangled evil of the boar-headed man. But a shape broke from the shadows of the room on the left, the mirror-tunnel room, and darted at her, and without thinking she shied the other way, a reflexive action so strong it was as if some force field had repelled her. The thick-necked silhouette lunged and her legs kicked her backward. Her thigh hit the railing at the top of the stairs, and she pitched out into the open black chasm of the stairwell.
Something broke loudly, and her arms flailed in midair, hands grasping at nothing. In the instant of fear and vertigo she felt a tiny explosion of gladness, that she'd fall and die and not have to endure what the shadowed thing rushing to the railing intended for her.
J
OYCE CALLED CREE'S ROOM
again and got the voice mail for the third time. Where was she? Maybe she'd gotten her priorities straight for once and had gone to see the psychiatrist.
Joyce was feeling edgy after the day's events, almost enough to call the guy, Fitzpatrick, just to check up on Cree. But then she realized, no way, if that was where Cree had taken off to, no interruptions would be desirable. Ten o'clock was not late.
It would have been nice to go out for some drinks and some music, but no, here she was sitting on the hotel bed with the television exploding in bursts of canned laughter for jokes she was too distracted to appreciate. Surely Cree would return at any moment. She was eager to tell her the results of her architectural comparison, but she also couldn't wait to unburden herself about what had happened with Ronald Beauforte.
She had driven over to Beauforte House to find him pacing in the foyer, dressed in charcoal slacks and matching turtleneck. Definitely a good-looking guy, who definitely gave her a bit of the appreciative once-over and probably caught her doing the same.
She apologized for Cree's absence - unnecessarily, because he was obviously glad she wasn't there - and then told him, "We really appreciate your making time for this. Your knowledge about the history of the house will really help us out."
"How else was I gonna keep an eye on what you all're doing?" he grumped. "Let's just see the damn plans." She got the sense that his surliness was mostly an act, just doing what was expected of him.
He led her into a huge room to the right, the front parlor, where she got her first real sense of the house. The place was big as a barn, about half furnished, all of it old stuff that was no doubt valuable but struck her as a little ragtag, especially the carpets - apparently the ambience of faded splendor was the thing in New Orleans. And the closed-in, musty smell and the dim light from the chandelier didn't exactly help matters.
They made space on a table and unrolled the plans, holding the corners down with an antique inkpot and paperweights.
"There's nothing different. I didn't change a thing," Ron told her, tracing the kitchen floor plan with a well-manicured finger. "Had the walls painted and new tile put on the floor, but I wasn't gonna change the layout of the whole damn kitchen."
Joyce explained that they were not particularly interested in the kitchen, and that so far they had no reason to think Lila's ghosts had any connection to the Chase murder. She thought he looked surprised and maybe a little pleased at first, then a little disappointed. Cree would read his responses better, she knew, and wondered again what she was doing tonight.
They started with the library. Ronald switched on the light, and Joyce set up her tools and spread the plans on a table near the door. It was a big room furnished in antiques and lined with bookshelves, its dark woods and prehistoric carpets and book spines soaking up the insufficient light from the ceiling chandelier. Joyce tried to sense whatever it was that Cree felt here, and couldn't. It was just a mildew-scented, deluxe-type old-fashioned library room that looked like it could use a makeover.
Still, she felt obligated to flatter the place. "Such a nice room. Very . . . um, masculine decor." Somehow, being alone in the big house with a man she didn't know at all, that sounded more flirtatious than she'd intended, one of those door openers you had to be careful with. Especially since there did seem to be a little buzz going.
"Yeah. Mainly it was my daddy's room. Used the desk there as his home office. Also where he and his gentlemen friends would repair after dinner for brandy and cigars. To discuss politics, business, and women in the time-honored fashion." He looked around as if remembering, and then his face made that sourpuss grin again.
"Looks like you've got a few memories here," she prodded. "What was that one?" She had the sonic measure, but under the circumstances her instincts told her it would be good to keep Ron's hands occupied. So she gave him one end of the hundred-foot tape and with a gesture commanded him to take it to the far wall.
The long steel band sang as Ron started across the room with it. "Something I don't usually tell with ladies present."
"Relax. It'd be a bit of a stretch to consider me a lady," Joyce reassured him. And then realized how
that
sounded.
Ronald turned to face her appreciatively. "My daddy and Uncle Brad and me. They took me in here, shut the door, and told me about the birds and bees. Kind of tag-teamed me. Daddy soberly gave me the biological facts and lectured me about the sacred responsibilities of marriage while Uncle Brad enthusiastically filled in the more explicitly, shall I say, 'romantic' side of it. Needless to say, the latter was vastly more appealing. They also gave me my first drink of whiskey to acknowledge my initiation into the secret knowledge of manhood. I was eleven. They must have done a good job all the way around, because I've had an enduring appreciation for both subjects ever since."
He looked at Joyce to check her reaction and continued to the back corner with the tape. "How the heck is measuring this old place going to help you?" he called over his shoulder.
Joyce jotted down the length and then explained some of the nuances of spatiotemporal divergence as they lifted the tape and carried it to the opposite wall. "Has to do with figuring out which world the ghost thinks it's in. For example, a ghost seen emerging from a wall suggests the wall didn't exist when the ghost was alive. And the converse is true - if a ghost's movements reflect the current configuration of the site, and we discover that there have been alterations, we can reasonably conclude that the ghost lived since those alterations were made. And the more Cree knows about
when
the ghost was alive, the easier it is for her to determine
who
the ghost is. And once she knows who it is, she can better figure out why it's here. In this case, we're particularly wondering about any changes since 1882, when John Frederick Beauforte killed the servant in this room."
"You know about that? We're going that far back for this?" Returning with the end of the tape, Ronald looked around, eyebrows high and lower lip thrust out, as if seeing the room in a new light. Again, she got the sense he was pleased or relieved.
They measured the four walls of the room, then began taking distances between its significant features: the fireplace, the windows, the door. Ron
was
cute, Joyce decided as he crouched to hold the end against the edge of the fireplace coping. His slacks pulled taut against nice buns, and though he had a just bit of a gut it was more than compensated for by the good shoulders and hunky back.
"Ro-Ro," Joyce said. "How did you get afflicted with that one?"
He gave her that grin, just a little sharklike, sarcastic but cute. "My uncle Brad. Seems I had a bit of a stutter when I was two years old. 'What's your name?' he'd ask. 'Ro-Ro-Ronnie,' I'd answer. He started teasing me with it, and it stuck - Ro-Ro."
When they were done with the horizontals, Joyce took a moment to jot some notes. Ron came to the table where she stood and leaned across her to reach over and switch on the table lamp. It was only partly a courteous gesture, more of a flirtation, Joyce decided. The extra light was nice, but afterward he half sat against the table edge, too close, looking at her. She was acutely aware of how near he was, how big he was, how alone they were in the cavernous, dark house. And from this close, she didn't really like everything she saw in his eyes. Something calculating, and selfish, and indulgent. Something else, too . . . a little
afraid,
maybe, as if somewhere in him was a scared boy putting on an act. The combination frightened her, and she decided maybe it was time to cool the boy-girl games.
"So you really believe all this stuff?" he asked. "This psychotherapy for ghosts?" His expression made it clear it was intended as a good-natured, skeptical jibe.
"Of course."
He shook his head, amazed. "And your boss, she really
sees
ghosts?"
"She sees them and communicates with them, yes."
"Can I ask you something?" Ron leaned in confidingly. "What's her problem, anyway? She's got this . . . shall we say,
chilly
side to her. Has she got . . . relationship problems? A problem with men?"
Joyce took a small step sideways. "You know, Ron, I don't think "
He held up his hands. "I know, I know. Sorry. I know she's your boss, you're loyal. No insult intended, honest to God - I think the world of that woman. I do. I was just going to point out that
you,
by contrast, most definitely do
not
seem to possess that, uh, particular problem." He paused to observe her response, grinning at whatever he thought he saw in her face. Before she could reply, he pushed himself away from the table and dusted his hands together. "Well. What's next, milady? I am at your service - what dimensions or proportions would you like to measure next?"
They took the vertical dimensions, plumbs, and levels. By the time they were finished, it was clear that the library had not changed in the one hundred and fifty years since it had been built. And given that the built-in shelves, the fireplace, and the windows and door largely determined the placement of furniture, the patterns of human activity would probably be unchanged as well.
Joyce felt a flash of disappointment: The physical room could tell them nothing about the ghost Cree had seen there.
They moved upstairs. Ronald switched on the lights in the central room and cleared a space on a table for the second-floor schematics. Joyce took a moment to study them and get her bearings, trying to ignore how close he stood as he looked over her shoulder. She didn't look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her body, as if his gaze traced an uncomfortable heat. She wondered what had possessed her to wear this dress tonight. From this close, his scent surrounded her, and she was dismayed at how attractive she found it.
She didn't tell him the details, but Cree was particularly interested in the juncture of hallway and central room, where Lila had first seen the shoe tips, and where Cree herself had seen them. The owner of the shoes had clearly been standing just around that corner, as if pressing himself against the wall.
It took only one measurement to find a deviation: The distance from the corner to the first doorway down the hall was eighteen inches longer than the plan's specifications. The central room proved to be the same amount shorter.
"Oh, hell, of course!" Ronald said. Frowning at himself, he walked along the wall, rapping it with his knuckles. The wall at the corner gave forth a hollower sound, and Ron nodded as if he'd found what he expected. "Heating and air-conditioning ducts. Daddy put in the furnace in the old larder, that's almost directly below us. This's where the main air duct comes up for the second floor, they'd've needed more room than the thickness of the old wall. So they'd've built out the whole wall another foot or so. See the vents there, and over there? Air-conditioning uses the same ducts." He gestured toward louvered grates on two of the walls. "Did a good job of matching the cornice and ceiling paneling, that's why it's not more obvious. Kept the historical appearance."
Joyce noted the measurements. When they moved on down the hall, they found another deviation immediately: The door to Lila's old bedroom had been moved about two feet to the right, apparently to allow space for ducts between the door and a load-bearing member in the wall. There was no question, from what Lila had described, that the boar-headed man used that corner and these doorways - in exactly their current location - to conceal himself.
The library ghost's period of origination might still be unclear, but this ghost had to be from after 1949. Or else it was a very, very unusual critter of some kind.
"Looks like this tells you something important," Ron prodded.
"Maybe."
"So, what - Lila saw something here? What the hell did she see, anyway? Or was it Miz Doctor Black who saw something?"
"Actually, I don't know," Joyce lied. "Cree keeps those details confidential. Sorry."
"You're really not gonna tell me
anything?
After the yeoman's service I've rendered tonight? Surely I get some little reward!"
Joyce just rolled her eyes and went about setting up the laser level for the second-floor work.
They spent another half hour at it, but she knew they'd gotten what they'd come here for. She was dying to get back to the hotel and tell Cree. Also, the ambivalence she felt about Ron's attention was growing, and it would be nice to get out of here before one of them did or said something awkward. She was glad when she was finally able to put the tools away and roll up the plans again.
Eleven o'clock and still no sign of Cree. Wouldn't she have called if she were going to spend the night at Paul Fitzpatrick's house? How much simpler this would be if Cree would just carry a cell phone. But no, she avoided using them because after listening to Ed yammer about electromagnetic frequencies she was afraid habitual use would affect her brain and impair her sensitivities. Natch. Of course. Leaving her friends and associates with dilemmas like the current one.
Joyce lay propped on the pillows of her bed, surfing through the TV channels. She skipped over innumerable true crime, unsolved mysteries, and autopsy shows and settled for an old Peter Sellers movie. She found an emery board in her purse and began doing her nails.