Buford placed a mug before August and offered another to Destiny.
“Thank you, baby. Mmm, that’s good. I’m warming up now.”
As Destiny unwound the woolly scarf from her neck, a necklace was revealed. It had a distinctive design, being formed from penne pasta lacquered in black.
August gasped.
“That necklace, where did you get it?”
“Do you like it?” Destiny looked down and fingered the jewelry. “It’s an original Belladonna Malveau, you know. It wasn’t cheap.”
“Where did you buy it?” repeated August.
“From this dreary little place in town. Galerie Macabre. Isn’t it irresistibly depressing?”
The cabin windows were filled with late-morning light and the Sea Hag was rising and falling, tossed on choppy waves. They were clearly on a more exposed stretch of the river.
August pushed himself into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. Claudette was patiently waiting beyond his feet on the banquette. The other zombies were lined along a bench on the other side of the saloon.
“They’ve been like that all night,” said Buford from the galley, turning something out of a cast-iron pan. “They’re pretty low-maintenance, huh?”
August became aware of a mouthwatering smell, sweet and buttery.
“Unless,” the boy muttered, swinging his feet to the floor, “they’re stuck to you like flies to honey, twenty-four seven.”
A disheveled Destiny emerged from a small door in the bow, and August glimpsed a rumpled double berth tucked into the space beneath the foredeck.
“Morning,” she mumbled sleepily, brushing dreadlocks from her face. “Golly, it is much warmer today, isn’t it? Mmm. Do I smell pecan waffles?”
She did.
“Here you go,” said Buford, placing an overloaded plate and syrup jug on the table, and squeezing himself with some difficulty into the banquette.
“We’re halfway back to town,” the huge man explained, spearing a waffle and plopping it onto his plate. “Just stopped for a bite, but we should have you back to the Old Quarter in an hour or two. Save you that long walk.”
August, mouth already full of sweet, syrup-smothered goodness, offered a muffled, “Thank you.”
He turned to Destiny, swallowing. “Do you happen to have a mirror?” He glanced at Claudette. “I need a reflective surface to try something out.”
Destiny shook her head.
“Sorry, fragile things don’t last long”—she smiled at Buford—“when you have a giant on board.”
Buford threw his girlfriend an embarrassed grimace.
“But I do,” said Destiny, “have something else for you.”
She fished a business card from her robe pocket and pushed it across the table.
“Here’s that address you wanted.”
“ ‘Galerie Macabre,’ ” read August. “Belladonna thought the name was something like Gallery Macaroni or Macramé. Galerie Macabre; this has to be the place.”
* * *
* * *
“I don’t understand,” said August. “This isn’t an art gallery.”
He gazed up at an imposing building of flaking gray stone whose lofty windows and slender Greek pillars occupied the entire city block. A grand, covered entrance protruded over the sidewalk, almost to the curb. Each of its hefty posts bore a vertical crimson-and-gold banner emblazoned with theatrical signage that read “Saint-Cyr’s Wax Museum: the famous and infamous, large as life in wonderful wax!”
August pointed to an oval ceramic plaque set into the masonry, high on the building’s façade.
“Look!” he said. “This is the old Theatre Français. Here’s Funeral Street on the corner.” He checked the business card that Destiny had given him. “We have the right address. Where is Galerie Macabre?”
August shepherded the zombies beneath the portico and approached a heavily carved, dark wooden booth set between two sets of stairs ascending into the building. Behind the box office glass, a rosy-cheeked cashier awaited with an expectant grin.
“We meet again!” cried Cyril Saint-Cyr with delight. “All ready for the Grand Parade, I see. Oh, it’s you!” he chided Sad Celeste with a waggling finger. “My, that was quite a stunt you pulled yesterday, young lady—frightened my tourists half out of their wits. Me too, I reckon. The flies were a dramatic touch. I might have guessed you were associated with this colorful group. Now, are you folks all members of an amateur theater society? You certainly commit to those costumes.”
“Mr. Saint-Cyr,” August interrupted, pushing the business card through the gap in the window, “we’re looking for this gallery.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Saint-Cyr returned the card. “Galerie Macabre is the name of our very own museum gift store. It’s inside! As you might imagine it would be.”
“Oh! Good. I mean…how much are tickets?” August fished around in his pockets. “I’m not sure I have enough for all of us.”
“Phftt!” Saint-Cyr checked his watch. “We’re closing early for the Grand Parade today, in twenty minutes or so.” He waved his hand toward the staircase left of the booth. “Come in, come in. It’s on the house. And you, feather girl: leave my tourists alone!”
* * *
* * *
The airy foyer, with its fluted columns, ornate moldings, and fancy carpet, reminded August of a palace throne room.
The elegant space, once bustling with gentlefolk in evening wear, stood empty but for two completely circular settees of embroidered fabric that used to be blue. From the center of each towered an oversized vase brimming with porcelain flowers, many of them chipped or broken.
Perched on one of these seating arrangements, an academic-looking gentleman with a cat on a leash was reading a book. When August and company ascended the staircase, he emitted a guttural grunt of disgust and removed himself to the obscured side of the settee.
On the far side of the foyer lay three curtained doorways. Only one pair of draperies, however, stood open, and gesturing into the space beyond was an old-fashioned footman in a powdered wig. The man’s glass eyes did not blink. His cheeks and forehead had a dull, lifeless sheen, like that of a candle. His ingratiating smile was forever frozen…in wonderful wax.
Beyond the drapes lay the soaring space of an auditorium, now home to the Saint-Cyr wax museum. Both had seen better days.
Far above, the gods and cherubs who peered down from a frescoed ceiling were defaced by a mess of gaping cracks and blank plaster patches. The four grand balconies, stacked like layers of a cake, lay in darkness, gathering cobwebs. The stiff replicas of historical figures, athletes, and movie stars were faded and dull, their costumes moth-eaten, the entirety covered with years’ worth of dust.
The waxworks were grouped within a series of compact sets, the partitions arranged in such a manner that the visitor was forced to follow a predesigned route through history’s most sensational and grisly incidents.
A wild-eyed Emperor Nero strummed a stringed instrument while the ancient city of Rome burned behind him. Mary, Queen of Scots, bared her slender neck for a hooded ax man. A tidal wave of molasses loomed over the scrambling townsfolk of Boston.
They passed into a section entitled “Local Lore,” where the displays depicted the more grisly folktales of Croissant City. Jacques LeSalt was there, standing before a noose on the gallows, surrounded by jeering townsfolk. There was even an effigy of Orfeo DuPont, brandishing his wand in a mock-up of the salon in 591 Funeral Street, or, as it was described in the signage, “The Zombie House.”
A few feet farther on, August cried, “Hey, look! There’s the small prince.”
A lavish scene depicting an exotic bed chamber draped in silks and strewn with donut-shaped cushions contained a dramatic and disturbing tableau. A figure lay awkwardly upon the Persian rug
, clearly having toppled from a nearby ottoman. His little silk-shod feet stuck straight into the air. His little hands were clasped against his ribs. His little face, although bug-eyed, beet-red, and frozen in a clownish expression of extreme glee, was clearly a likeness of August’s smallest sidekick.
“Good Lord,” said August. “What’s going on here?” He leaned in toward the corresponding informative placard.
“The grandest house on Dolphin Street has long been called the Prince’s Palace after its most famous tenant. The visiting dignitary was rich but small, earning him the local nickname of Little Prince Itty-Bitty.” August glanced at the pint-sized royal, who confirmed this information with a vague, lopsided smile.
“Upon his arrival to the city,” August continued, “with a retinue of servants, musicians, and an elephant, Little Prince Itty-Bitty and his luxurious lifestyle fueled much Croissant City gossip. It was widely known that the prince had a fondness for jokes, especially his own. But this seemingly harmless quirk would prove to be the young person’s undoing. Tragedy struck when the prince, attempting to deliver a joke of his own creation, was overcome by a fit of laughter so violent and extended that he promptly dropped to the floor, quite dead. Eyewitnesses lamented that they never even heard the punchline.”
* * *
* * *
“First Jacques LeSalt,” observed August as the group mounted a short staircase onto the old stage. “Then Sad Celeste. Now we have Little Prince Itty-Bitty.”
He regarded the well-dressed half-faced lady.
“So, who, I wonder, are you?”
The zombie’s exposed jawbone quivered, causing her teeth to chatter. But if there was a response in there somewhere, it was not one that the boy could comprehend.
Up on the stage, the exhibits were given over to a horror theme. Beyond the clusters of wax vampires, mummies, and cauldron-stirring witches, a distinct space had been defined with three freestanding walls. High up at the back, a wide purple sign with black letters in a creepy font read “Galerie Macabre.”
“No wonder,” muttered August, “Aunt Orchid and all her private detectives couldn’t find this place.”
The gift store’s shelves and stands were sparsely stocked with a thin selection of morbid merchandise: Saint-Cyr’s Wax Museum T-shirts with lettering dripping in blood, skeleton bobbleheads playing jazz instruments, and books about Croissant City’s ghastly, ghost-riddled history.
At the center of it all stood a glass counter, inside which was displayed a collection of jewelry, all fashioned from pasta and lacquered in black.
August nudged Claudette and pointed to a closed door deep within the shadows of the wings at stage left.
“That,” he said in hushed tones, “must be the prop room, where we found these guys, Orfeo’s zombies.” He scanned the gift store shelves. “If the Zombie Stone is here, it must have been close enough to bring them back to life.”
The boy’s gaze suddenly stopped short. It had fallen not upon the coveted jewel, but upon a reflection—a reflection of Claudette DuPont.
Upon the counter stood a small oval mirror. It was hinged, so that any face, no matter its height, might determine if it was suited to Belladonna Malveau jewelry. From the glass gazed the girl that August knew from an old mantel photograph in Locust Hole, the girl from the Pelican Wharf puddle.
But, undistorted by ripples and rusting metal, her pressed garments, healthy complexion, and shining eyes were crystal clear. The collar of her dress and wisps of her hair wafted upward, as if she were underwater, or standing above a subway grate.
“Claudette!” breathed August, in wonder. “You…you’re so…”
Gently, he pulled the small zombie closer to the mirror, so that her reflection grew larger. He could see tiny freckles on her nose. He smiled. Mirror Claudette smiled back.
Beside him, zombie Claudette gurgled and groaned.
Before him, simultaneously, mirror Claudette spoke.
“Say it again,” urged August. “Louder.”
And this time, there was no mistaking it.
“Pearls,” said mirror Claudette, with a slight echo, but clear as day.
“Pearls? Are you upset that I sold your necklace?” August glanced at the zombie, then back to the mirror. The young girl was obviously trying to communicate, and August desperately wanted to understand.
“Was it a gift from your brother Orfeo? I can try and get it…”
“Ah,” cried a voice, causing August to start and turn. “The Belladonna Malveau collection; you have good taste I see.”
From behind a balding werewolf, Cyril Saint-Cyr had suddenly emerged, and at August’s startled expression, he explained reassuringly, “Oh, I’ve closed up the ticket booth. I’m all yours.”
He glanced again at his watch.
“But we must proceed swiftly, my friends; the Grand Parade begins in just over an hour. Would the young lady care to try something on? Is it not all just so irresistibly depressing?”
August glanced regretfully at the mirror, wishing he had more time to quiz Claudette’s reflection.
“No, thank you, Mr. Saint-Cyr. We’re actually looking for a sculpture that was sold to you in error.”
“In error,” cried Saint-Cyr. “Oh, how dreadful!”
“Dreadful. Yes. The model depicts a skeleton boy being carried off by a balloon, the balloon being formed by—”
“By a large amber marble?” interrupted Saint-Cyr.
“Why yes, sir. Yes, that’s it! You have it?”
“Why, this is most extraordinary, dear boy,” said Saint-Cyr with an air of wonder. “I purchased that sculpture down in Hurricane County last year. And while I found it dismally charming, I’m afraid it has gone entirely without remark or interest for several months. And yet, you are the second party to have inquired after the thing in as many days. Can you believe I sold it just yesterday afternoon?”
August clapped his hands to the sides of his helmet.
“Do you know who bought it?”
“Oh, dear boy.” Saint-Cyr’s concern seemed heartfelt. “You look like a close friend has just passed away. This sculpture must mean a great deal to you. But I’m afraid this is just a museum gift store. We don’t keep records. And it was a cash sale. All I can tell you is that the buyer was a lady, a rather sturdy one, but unremarkable.
“Well, other than her hat of course.
“It was an elaborate thing, so flowery, I recall, that it resembled an azalea bush!”
“Did you see her,” August asked Claudette, “down near the Pirate’s Sea Cargo warehouse? Near the train tracks? The lady in the car, with the hat? Looked like an azalea bush? I thought I maybe saw her again on the Pelican Wharf ramp. Weird coincidence, isn’t it?”
But Claudette was distracted by the discovery that she could scratch her back with her severed arm.
August and his zombies hovered in the late-afternoon shadows of Funeral Street. August was ducking his head this way and that, trying to observe the Malveau townhouse through a trickle of pedestrians headed in the same direction.
“Keep still,” said August, “here they come.”
The front door opened to release Orchid and Belladonna. Orchid was attempting to adjust Belladonna’s hair clip, but the girl swatted her mother’s hand away with irritation. They were closely followed by three boy-sized pirates. Beauregard and Langley were amusing themselves, poking the backside of a protesting Gaston with their swords.
“Okay, coast clear,” whispered August urgently as the Malveau party disappeared down the street. “Let’s get these guys back into the carriage house.” He patted a tube of bubbles protruding from his coat pocket. “While they’re distracted, we’ll lock them in and head to the parade.”
He shrugged with an air of hopelessness.
“Who knows? Everyone says that everyone g
oes to the Grand Parade. Maybe the azalea bush lady will too. The top of a float seems a better place than most to try and spot her.”
A pleasant thought—unusual—crossed August’s mind.
He smirked, nudging Claudette. “I can’t believe I’m going to meet the real Officer Claw.”
After herding the zombies across the street, August assembled them beneath the townhouse gallery. With the keys he had been given by Escargot, he unlocked one side of the large wooden gate, pushed it open, and then peeked into the passageway beyond.
Through the parlor’s side windows, he spied the toady butler heading up the staircase. Then he was gone. No movement.
“Now!” hissed August, grabbing Little Prince Itty-Bitty’s arm.
“August, sugar!” cried a voice. “You are running late!”
Champagne Fontaine was, as usual, trailed by her company of weepy widows.
“Riders,” she chided, “should be on the floats thirty minutes before the parade begins. My,” she gasped, dabbing at her neck with a handkerchief. “It is unseasonably warm—the reason, no doubt, for all these darn bugs.” She whisked her tiny hand at August’s butterflies.
“I…I’m…” August had been caught completely off guard. “I’m just dropping off my friends and then…”
“Dropping them off?” Champagne gave August a forceful little shove. “Why,” she cried, oblivious to Claudette’s cautionary growl, “I have never seen in my entire life a more forlorn and bedraggled group of characters. Who better to grace a sunken pirate ship? Your clammy friends must, I say they must, ride on the Weepy Widows’ float. Don’t you agree, widows?” She glanced over her shoulder. “They agree,” she added, before anyone could respond.
“Now come along, my dears.” She firmly locked arms with Jacques LeSalt and the half-faced lady. “Let’s get you into that parade!”
The Zombie Stone Page 12