Walk of the Spirits

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

“The building used to be a club. Like a private gentlemen’s club. Except upstairs, that’s where they’d meet their mistresses.”

  Parker smacked a hand to his forehead. “Hookers! Damn! And I took the courthouse!”

  “Not prostitutes.” Another offended look from Ashley. “Mistresses. It’s not just about sex, you know. There’s a very big difference.”

  “Is that the sad part?” Parker asked.

  Ashley continued, undaunted. "I found out there was a murder in one of those upstairs rooms. That when a very rich plantation owner wanted to end the relationship with his mistress, she stabbed him to death. In bed.”

  Calmly munching her popcorn, Roo gave a supportive thumbs-up.

  “And the drugstore next door to the museum? People who work there say they’ve heard moaning at night in one of those storage rooms on the second floor.”

  The boys traded glances.

  “And this moaning,” Parker said, straight-faced, “did it come before or after the guy was stabbed?”

  "Anyway,” Ashley concluded,” that’s what I’ve got so far.”

  Noting her sister’s outstretched hand, Roo obligingly relinquished the popcorn. “Did y’all know that furniture makers ran some of the first funeral homes? Because they were the ones who built the coffins?”

  “Fascinating.” Parker was all dignified solemnity. “And such a grave undertaking.” He ducked as Ashley’s popcorn sailed at his head.

  “I know embalming really got its start during the Civil War,” Gage spoke up. “With all those dead soldiers sent home to their families, the bodies had to be preserved.”

  Nodding, Roo stretched out her legs, frowned at her toes, then sat cross-legged again. “So my two buildings are the funeral parlor and the doctor’s house. But when I started finding stuff on Dr. Fuller, I started finding stuff about an epidemic, too. I mean, they called it an epidemic, but nobody knew what was causing it.”

  “And when was this?”

  “Around nineteen hundred. The statistics were unbelievable, so many people died. And lots of them were children.”

  Parker automatically grabbed a tissue off the nightstand and gave it to Ashley.

  “Did they ever figure it out?” Gage asked.

  “Not really. The research kept saying how Dr. Fuller was so dedicated, he had all those patients to take care of, he was trying to identify the epidemic, he was trying to find a cure. But so many patients kept dying, the funeral parlor could hardly keep up. There were funerals going on practically all the time.”

  “So did the doctor end up dying?” With a sad sigh, Ashley rested her head on Parker’s shoulder. “And did the undertaker end up dying? Whatever that disease was, it must have been really contagious.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But Dr. Fuller and Mr. McGrail lived to be very old men. Which leads me to a theory.” Roo paused, one eyebrow raised. “What if my buildings had this really sinister connection? Dr. Fuller poisoned his patients, Mr. McGrail did the funerals, then the two of them split the profits?”

  “I bet you’re right.” Ashley’s sadness gave way to indignation. “That totally creeps me out.”

  Roo looked mildly gratified. “So what about your voodoo, Boucher?”

  Arms folded over his chest, Etienne leaned lazily against the wall. “Mama, she had me go talk to my tante Bernadette—she’s my grand-mère’s sister. And she’s about a hundred years old.”

  “She’s great.” Gage laughed softly. “She tells the best stories.”

  “Yeah, well, she remembers some of that voodoo around here. In fact, she saw some of those wild parties going on back in the bayou. And that house on the west side of the Brickway, where the antique shop is now? There was a cook who worked there way back then—an old lady named Dominique, all heavy into voodoo. She had herself a secret place in the attic, and some pretty high-class clients sneaking over there to see her. My tante Bernadette, she says you never wanted to eat any of Dominique’s cooking—you never knew what kinda spell she might be putting on you.”

  “Oooh.” Ashley gave a delicious shiver. “This is going to be the best tour! Gage, you go next.”

  “No problems researching the church,” Gage replied. “They keep records of just about everything. There’s almost too much information—it’s hard to narrow it all down. But I’m sort of leaning toward these old manuscripts Father Paul told me about. They were handwritten by French monks and brought over here by some of the earliest missionaries. Could be some good stuff in those.”

  Roo took the potato chip bag from Miranda and passed it on. “Okay, Parker. Enrapture us once again with your dullness.”

  “You mean, my evil courthouse.” Giving a mock shudder, Parker lounged comfortably back on the bed. “Evil judge. Unfair convictions. Botched hangings. Judge swings from rafters and dies a slow, painful death. Judge gets exactly what he deserves. Nothing we don’t already know.”

  Ashley was clearly annoyed. “That’s it?”

  “What else do you want?”

  “Some historical facts would be nice.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, tell us something about the prisoners. What kinds of crimes did they commit?”

  “I don’t know anything about the prisoners. Why would I need to know that?”

  “Parker!”

  “Come on, crime is crime. You got murder. Stealing. Murder. Treason. Murder. Oh, and did I mention murder?”

  “That’s incredibly historical.” Roo’s stare was bland. “And incredibly descriptive. Wow. I feel like I was there.”

  Parker grimaced. “Okay, fine. Let me run through the prisoners for you. Murderers. Thieves. Murderers. Spies. Murderers. Oh, and did I happen to mention killers, too?”

  Frowning, Ashley shook her finger at him. “I will say this one more time. If you mess up our project—”

  “Miranda!” Parker broke in quickly. “Update us on your dashing, see-through soldier!”

  “Parker Wilmington, shame on you. Don’t call him that. And Miranda has enough on her shoulders right now without you being so insensitive.”

  “I’m not being insensitive. All I said was—”

  “Actually,” Miranda interrupted, “I have been thinking about Nathan. And I’ve had some ideas.”

  She was the sole focus of attention now. As the room grew expectantly quiet, she tried to organize all the thoughts scrambling in her brain.

  “I keep thinking about what he said.” Miranda addressed the five rapt faces. ’"No, you’re wrong’ and ‘I swear to you, for the love of God’ and ‘I’m the one you want, only me.’ Like he was really trying to convince someone. Like he really wanted someone to believe him.”

  “You!” Ashley exclaimed. “He wanted you to believe him!”

  “No, I don’t think so. It wasn’t like in the park—I knew he was talking to me then. But those other times, he was definitely talking to someone else—and I was only hearing his side of the conversation.”

  “So what does that have to do with what happened in the park?”

  “That’s my point. I think it has everything to do with what happened in the park.”

  In possession of her popcorn once more, Roo dug absentmindedly through the bag. “Sounds to me like he’s confessing.”

  “Or defending someone?” A frown settled between Miranda’s brows.

  “More than that,” Etienne offered. “Protecting somebody.”

  “And maybe taking the blame for something he didn’t really do.”

  Shrugging, Gage slowly swept his hair back from his forehead. “Sacrificing himself?”

  Roo nodded. “Yeah. To defend and protect and save somebody else.”

  “He was suffering,” Miranda recalled, while Parker promptly rolled his eyes.

  “Not such a stretch, O Psychic One. The guy did have a bullet hole in him.”

  Miranda disregarded the comment. “No . . . before that, I mean. Some kind of punishment. His throat was raw, and his lips were all cracked. He
could taste his own blood. And he really needed water.”

  “Bar fight and hangover. Mystery solved.”

  “I think he was being tortured.”

  “By who?” As Ashley gasped in horror, Etienne began pacing the length of the room.

  “Prisoner of war?” he mumbled. “Makes sense.”

  “It does,” Miranda agreed. “Maybe he had important information the Yankees wanted. And he wouldn’t talk—he wouldn’t betray the Confederacy.”

  “The Union army did take St. Yvette,” Gage reasoned. “And there’s documented accounts of how bad some prisoners were treated.”

  For a brief moment, Miranda looked down and clenched her pillow tighter. Yes . . . yes . . . I’ve heard how they were treated . . . I’ve heard their cries, their screams . . .

  “Oh, poor Nathan.” Ashley’s voice caught. “I can’t stand to think of people being mean to him.”

  Parker clutched his head with both hands. “For Christ’s sake, Ashley. You’re doing it again. You’re talking about that imaginary guy like he’s real.”

  “Of course he’s real. Miranda saw him. And we all saw the braid he gave her.”

  “So he was tortured and then killed?” Still pacing, Etienne glanced at Miranda. She’d sunk deep into thought, unaware the room had grown quiet. “Miranda?”

  Something . . . something . . . not quite right . . . As Miranda slowly raised her eyes to Etienne’s, he came to a stop. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

  “What about?”

  “The way we’re putting it together.”

  “Well, Miss Ellena has to come in there somewhere.” Gage tried to be helpful. “We know she and Nathan had some kind of connection. And he did want you to get a message to her—”

  “But I still feel like we’re missing something.”

  Parker’s scowl swept the faces around him. “Yeah, your minds. Your sanity. Should I go on?”

  “Yes, go on,” Roo said dryly. “Go right on out that door.”

  “Actually, we should all be going out that door.” Checking his watch, Gage immediately stood up. “It’s getting late. And tomorrow . . .”

  None of them mentioned the funeral. Even after everyone had left, Miranda tried not to think about what the next day might bring.

  Something more . . . something I’m not quite getting . . .

  But it was there. She knew it was there, so close, just beyond her grasp.

  Something important . . .

  Something unexpected . . .

  A tragic secret only she could discover.

  22

  THE NEXT MORNING COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE DREARY.

  The sky was overcast, the air thick with the promise of rain. A hot, restless wind scattered broken leaves and crushed petals around the casket. Thunder growled low in the distance, and the mourners looked as wilted as the flowers.

  Perfect, Miranda thought glumly as she and Mom and Aunt Teeta sat beneath the canopy beside the gravesite. Perfect weather for a funeral.

  But her new friends had come, just as they’d promised. She spotted them standing respectfully toward the back of the huge crowd, and she wondered why she suddenly felt sentimental, watching them. She’d known them only a few days, yet it seemed a lifetime. Already—for so many reasons—she felt closer to them than she ever had to Marge and Joanie.

  With the service ending and people drifting away, she longed to escape—with Parker and Ashley, Roo and Gage and Etienne— back to school, back to noise and laughter and chaos. As the group approached, she was overcome with emotions. When Etienne laid a flower on her grandfather’s casket, she nearly broke down.

  “Hey,” Gage whispered, wrapping her in a hug. His eyes were so gentle, so compassionate. He slid his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face toward his. “It’ll all be okay. You’ll see.”

  She knew the others were watching. Embarrassed, she lowered her head, but Gage’s arm was still around her, keeping her close. Even Etienne’s face had a certain tenderness about it; he seemed glad that Gage was consoling her.

  It struck her, then, the irony of her grandfather’s passing. The end of one chapter, the start of another. Jonas Hayes had fulfilled his legacy; now he’d passed the torch on to her. And Miranda’s new life was not merely with the living now...but with the dead, as well.

  “We’ll see you later,” Gage whispered. Releasing her, he stepped away and smiled, showing a dimple in one cheek.

  Miranda smiled back. “Thanks so much, you guys. Thanks for helping me get through this.”

  “Always,” Ashley replied, and waved to her while they headed for Parker’s car.

  Miranda was exhausted by afternoon.

  She’d hoped that after the funeral, the constant flow of visitors might stop—but it seemed to get only worse. More food kept arriving, and more people filled the house, spilling out onto the veranda, the front and back lawns. But Miranda had had her fill of death. All she wanted now was to get away from everyone and everything, and with so many distractions, she figured no one would miss her.

  Slipping up to her room, she closed the door, changed her clothes, and stretched out across the bed. She hadn’t planned on falling asleep, but when she lifted her head from the pillows, it was almost six o’clock.

  Their company had gone. When Miranda went to the living room, she found Aunt Teeta snoring in the recliner and Mom asleep on the couch, the TV shut off. Why don’t you sleep in a bed anymore, Mom? Do these walls and closed doors scare you? Old, dark memories of this house? But the past is over; you and Aunt Teeta and I are together. Things will be better for you now.

  Starting upstairs again, she suddenly remembered the attic. This was a perfect time to look through some more of her grandpa’s things, to see if she could find any information on St. Yvette or that old photograph of the Gray Soldier. After a brief search, she located the attic door and made her way up a narrow flight of steps to a landing.

  It opened onto a large, low-ceilinged space—the very kind Ashley would love. Stale and musty and swelteringly hot. Mysterious beneath deep shadows and heavy layers of dust. Bathed in a jaundiced glow from the old, yellowed shades at the windows. There was even a dressmaker’s dummy.

  Miranda picked her way cautiously through a maze of boxes, bags, trunks, and suitcases; piles of outdated magazines and newspapers; rusty file cabinets; wooden crates; claw-legged furniture draped with dirty sheets; paintings and portraits shoved back into corners. But Mrs. Wilmington had been right about one thing—nearly every item was labeled with a concise, handwritten description. Intrigued, Miranda raised a window shade, pulled one of the cartons into a shaft of dim light, and sat down to explore its contents.

  Here was photo after photo of southerners posed in their best finery; plantations and gardens; quaint shops and markets and modest antebellum homes; an eclectic assortment of buildings. But there were many other pictures, as well—the grim realities of war. Maimed and mangled soldiers, ravaged by disease, wrapped in dirty bandages. Row after row of corpses—unknown, unidentified, unclaimed. Amputations, grim surgeons at work, field hospitals, embalmings. Stockades and armed guards; weary prisoners, sunken-eyed, emaciated skeletons in filthy, ragged clothes . . .

  Miranda frowned. It was getting hard to breathe with all this dust. Distractedly, she ran a hand back through her hair; cobwebs clung to her fingers, and she choked back a sneeze. Something . . . something . . . Shadows were beginning to lengthen through the uncovered window and around the grimy edges of the window shades. Damn—what is it? What’s missing? She didn’t want to be up here anymore, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever she was looking for was beckoning again, practically within reach. Here somewhere, hidden among all these old things. Why can’t I figure it out?

  Frustrated, she gathered up the photographs and crammed them back in the box. No pictures of Nathan. No pictures of Ellena Rose. No pictures of Hayes House the way it used to be. Just that nagging sense of being so close, so close, to some sort of
answer . . .

  Without warning, her whole body went rigid. She could swear she’d seen a movement just then, from the corner of her eye. An ever-so-subtle movement near one of the windows, where dust motes hovered in the air like waves of heat over a summer road. For a second she could even swear those ripples of dust had taken on human form . . .

  “It is you, isn’t it?” she murmured. “What do you want?”

  But he didn’t speak aloud this time. His mouth hung open in a silent plea, his stare was without hope. And as one empty hand reached out to her, she heard the anguished crying from his heart. “Take it . . . the rose . . . help me . . .”

  Miranda shut her eyes. Slowly, cautiously, she focused on his presence, his nearness, his tenuous reality. Pain flowed out from him in waves. She was aware of her own senses sharpening, just as they had at the gallery that day—curious, open, accepting. You know, don’t you? You know I’m trying to help you.

  A current passed between them.

  An understanding so powerful, it took her breath away.

  She opened her eyes to look at him again, but he was gone.

  You came to me in the park because that was your battlefield . . .

  Trembling, she set down the box of photographs. She leaned heavily against the wall and gazed at the spot where Nathan’s ghost had just disappeared, her thoughts still trying to follow him.

  But the first time I heard your voice, I was in the apartment over the garage. And then you came to me in my bedroom. And now here to the attic . . .

  Why here?

  Miranda got quickly to her feet. Images and emotions swept through her, and she welcomed them, invited them. In her mind she could see the photograph—the one from the museum— Nathan and his comrades posed in front of a much older and much different Hayes House.

  Hayes House . . .

  It was more than just having your picture taken, wasn’t it? There was something else that tied you to this house—a connection so much stronger than a photograph.

  Scarcely able to contain her excitement, she headed for the stairs.

  You spent time here. There were things you had to do: important things . . . hidden things . . . secret things . . .