by G A Chase
She disappeared for a moment into the back room. When she returned, she hardly gave them a second glance, preferring instead to greet a new prospect who had just walked in.
A man with grizzled gray hair, glasses, and a leather apron emerged a minute later with the piece of paper. “I don’t see the Boudreaux jeweler’s mark often. Your rendering looks like an older version, but I’d know the enlarged lower loop anywhere. I don’t typically work on his pieces, out of professional courtesy, but if you’ve got a piece that needs something minor, I can have a look.”
Myles tried to keep calm. “Are you saying they’re still in business?”
“That would be overstating it. Henri only putters around the shop these days as a means of staying busy. He’s kind of a curmudgeon, but not many of us know more about working precious metals than he does. I’ll give you his address. If he proves too difficult to deal with or even locate, feel free to bring the piece to me, and I’ll see what I can do. Work from Boudreaux’s was always very high quality. Whatever you’ve got, I’ll wager it’s worth holding onto.”
* * *
They walked past the arched carriage entrance of the creole townhouse three times before Myles realized there was something else beyond the gaudy paintings that hung on the alleyway’s brick walls. He hadn’t even known that the small jewelry shop tucked into the nook of the courtyard on Chartres existed. Walking through an artist’s domain often meant interacting with the person, especially when what passed for a gallery wasn’t even as wide as a driveway. Getting from the street to the back courtyard meant at least offering a brief word of encouragement to the hippie-looking woman behind the sunflower-yellow counter.
They passed through the long entrance that led to the intimate oasis bathed in early afternoon light. From the faded sign for Boudreaux’s Fine Jewelry and the weathered wood, rippled-glass door, and dust that caked the front windows, the small shop looked to have been in business for generations. Though based on the appearance of the elderly gentleman who lounged half-asleep behind the workbench, the establishment might not survive to see another heir.
The sole proprietor roused himself as the antique bell that hung next to the door announced Myles and Kendell’s entrance. Myles took only a passing glance at the displays filled with antique and custom-made rings and necklaces. Everything looked well crafted and expensive. The man must know his stuff. “I’m hoping you can help us. We ran across this pipe tool. From the mark near the inscription, we thought it might have come from this shop.”
For a man probably in his seventies, the jeweler had a lot of dexterity. He used his fingers like finely tuned instruments of precision as he turned the pipe tool under the large magnifying lens. “You’re correct. That mark does refer to this shop. That version of our family’s insignia is very old. It dates back when we owned this whole building. Now all that’s left is this little workshop. From the workmanship and fine detail of the engraving, I’d guess this piece to be from the 1850s. My forefather would have had to be in his early thirties to have the skills but also retain the eyesight needed to work with this level of precision.”
Kendell seemed far more interested in what the jeweler was inspecting than the expensive necklaces that sparkled all around her. “Can you make out the writing? Myles says he can read it, but I’m not convinced.”
The artist-craftsman dabbed a cotton swab into a small jar and wiped the liquid across the old gold. “To My Father. Love, Serephine. Humph.”
Myles didn’t remember that last word from his dream. “What did we miss?”
The man looked up over the half lenses of his glasses. “I’ve done thousands of inscriptions and seen a lot more from my predecessors. This one is cold, formal. They used a stiff address as if enforcing the subtle message of personal separation more than family attachment. But then, I have a lot of time on my hands. Sometimes I read more into an inscription than is intended. There’s also a family crest next to the engraving. I believe it refers to Baron Malveaux. He was the city’s primary banker before the War Between the States—though the other items I’ve seen with that calligraphy M were much larger and more expensive. It you can leave the tool with me, I might have more information for you in a day or two.”
Myles had a momentarily irrational hesitation about leaving the item with the jeweler. “Do you really need to keep the piece?”
The old man’s dry chuckle seemed as at home in the small shop as the ancient metalworking tools. “Are you afraid I’ll steal it or die on you?”
Kendell took Myles’s hand. “It’s a gift for my father. We just wanted a little backstory to go with the antique.”
Mr. Boudreaux quickly sketched the family crest, an M written in elegant calligraphy with skulls at the corners. Myles admired the ability of the old hands to so fluidly render the image. “Leave me your address, and I’ll send over what I find.”
Myles felt a twinge of anxiety as Kendell scrawled her information on a scrap of paper.
* * *
Kendell understood Myles’s concerns about returning to the gun shop. After all, an item had tried to impale his foot. But to her, the place had a familiarity she found difficult to identify. They found the place in a flurry of activity and only received a passing “hello” as the clerk unscrewed a wooden crate behind the counter. In the back room, another box already had its lid removed. A man in jeans and dress shirt was gingerly removing the packing straw. He took out a long rifle with an elegantly carved silver stock.
Kendell inspected a dagger that had been left on the counter. “This must be the Napoleonic delivery.”
Every sword, gun, and article of clothing looked too nice to have been used in battle.
The man in the back room looked up in surprise at having customers. “I’m afraid we get pretty consumed with curiosity when we get a new delivery. It’s kind of like Christmas morning for us. What can I do for you?”
Kendell kept the gold cylinder in the pocket of her jacket. “We were in last week. We purchased a small pipe tool. We were hoping you might have some information about who sold you the piece.”
The shop owner smiled like a fisherman who’d just gotten a bite on the line. “That’s the way this passion starts. Antiques are as much about the story as the object. People always want to know were something came from. For the bigger items, like this collection we’re unpacking, we get all we can from the seller. Partly, that’s to ensure the items are real and not reproductions, but also, the knowledge helps us answer customers’ questions.”
Myles kept his hands in his pockets. “We were told the pipe tool came in with a Civil War collection.”
“We get people walking in all the time with boxes of junk. Seems like every time a house changes hands, the new owner thinks they have discovered some archeological relic hiding in the attic that no one had ever noticed before. Most have no clue what they’ve got but are certain it’s all worth a fortune. Sometimes junk really is just junk.”
The clerk in the back turned away from the crate he was working on. “They’re talking about those cardboard boxes that came in early this month. You remember? I think the stuff came from an architect’s office in the Garden District.”
The owner turned to the back room. “Right. I do remember.” He shuffled through some papers in a beat-up metal desk. “Here it is—Laurette and Associates. I’m afraid I don’t have much more than the name and address. I guess it’ll be up to you to discover the piece’s provenance. Just be careful. Collecting antiques can become addictive. Once you have one item, others seem to find you like you’re holding a magnet to history.”
Kendell looked around the shop. “Could you point out the other things that came in with the pipe tool?”
The owner nodded toward an old armoire. “There wasn’t much worth displaying. My guess would be one of the founding members of the architectural firm might have fought for the South. Confederate memorabilia often ended up stashed away in closets or attics. I’ll give you the address, but don�
�t get your hopes up. By the time stuff like this surfaces, anyone who might remember the history is usually long gone.”
The Confederate uniform was so moth-eaten that only the a of the officer’s name was still identifiable. She searched along the dress sword for any distinguishing marks. From the overall condition of the collection, she suspected the storeowner was correct. The items hadn’t been discarded, but clearly, no member of the family wanted to be reminded of their ancestor’s ignoble past.
* * *
Myles imagined that riding down Saint Charles Avenue in the vintage streetcar would instill New Orleans history into anyone with even a passing ability to detect human energy. Though countless people routinely used that form of public transportation for work, an even greater number used it for heading to the Quarter for fun or going home after an exhausting adventure.
He only ventured into the Garden District when visitors were in town. People liked to see the huge old mansions. Walking along the streets and reading the plaques that recounted meaningless history designed to increase the value of the high-maintenance structures was only fun the first time. Usually, he felt like some dumb tourist gawking through the windows at old people who’d rather be left alone.
Kendell compared the note to the address carved above the gate. “This is it.”
“I thought the guy at the antique store said it was a place of business. This mansion looks like something that should be torn down.” The home’s problem wasn’t unique. Every house that took up a quarter of a city block was either perfectly maintained, restored, or in complete shambles. Taking a mansion down to the studs and rebuilding it to period-correct glory was often more expensive than starting from scratch. The one they’d stopped at would make one badass haunted house, though.
“I see a car. Maybe there’s someone we could talk to.”
Yeah. Dracula. But Myles kept his sarcasm to himself. Vines held tight to the wrought-iron gate. The squealing racket the rusty hinges made as he leaned against the worn ornate metal should have been notification enough that the house had visitors. But no one rushed out to greet them or shoo them away. “You know, just once I’d like someone to tell us to go to some nice restaurant or modern friendly-looking home to find an answer.”
“You’re the archeologist.” She pounded on the most structurally sound plank of the front door. The etched glass window that distorted the view of the interior rattled ominously.
Myles heard the footsteps from upstairs. The longer it took for the person to get to the front door, the worse he felt about intruding. No wonder people who lived in these places had servants. Just greeting guests would have been a task.
A woman with long blond hair, wearing dusty jeans and a Maroon 5 T-shirt, yanked open the warped door. “Unless you’ve got a bulldozer to help clean this mess up, I’m probably not interested in anything you’re selling.”
Kendell pulled out the pipe tool. “Actually, we’re looking for a little information on something that may have come out of your cleaning efforts. We recently bought this in the Quarter, and the shop owner referred us to you.”
The woman smudged her forehead as she wiped the hair away from her face. “I don’t know what I could tell you. I found it stuffed into a wall of the attic. I’m just trying to declutter so I can figure out what to do with this dump.”
The smell of rodent droppings and rotting wood wafted out toward Myles. “Do you know anything about the previous owners?”
“Not much. They were my grandparents. Please, come in if you can stand the smell. I’m afraid it only gets worse the deeper you go into this architectural ruin.”
The floor creaked so loudly that Myles wondered if they might have been safer talking out on the porch. The den off the front foyer must have been something before the squares of rippled glass broke out of the windows. Vines crept up the walls from the openings. Wallpaper of red and gold curled down from the fifteen-foot-tall ceiling. The remains of drapes hung from pitted iron rods. He wouldn’t have trusted his luck to the furniture, but since their hostess took a seat, he thought it’d be rude not to do likewise. It took a little adjusting to keep the couch spring from jabbing through his jeans.
Kendell chose to lean against the fireplace mantel. “I’m Kendell, and this is Myles. Thanks for taking the time to talk to us.”
“Anything to get out of those upstairs closets. I’m Samantha Laurette. There was a time when the name Laurette meant something down here in New Orleans. I’m afraid now it just means sucker who inherited a dump.”
“How long did your grandparents live here?” Kendell asked.
“The house has been in my family for generations.”
“But you didn’t grow up here?”
Samantha looked around the weathered room. “I never lived here. And I’m not about to move in now. My father escaped to Atlanta as a college student and never looked back. He recently died of cancer, so I ended up having to deal with this nightmare. You can’t imagine what the city of New Orleans considers a historic residence or what they will and won’t let you do to it.”
“You must have visited your grandparents when you were a kid, though,” Kendell said. “I’ll bet this place was really something in its day.”
“I only remember it as looking dated even when it wasn’t falling down. I think the last time they had it remodeled was in the 1970s. The kitchen’s all done in avocado and brown. Even back then, it wasn’t really an appetizing place for a meal if you know what I mean.”
Myles took the pipe tool from Kendell. “There’s a family insignia on here. Have you ever heard the name Malveaux?”
For just the briefest of moments, he thought the woman squinted at him, but it could have just been a trick of the light. “Can’t say that I have. I’ve only just started digging through the boxes. The Civil War memorabilia looked like it might be valuable, so I tested the waters and went to the antique dealers with it. The more room I can make in the attic, the more space I’ll have for organizing. Most of the cardboard boxes up there are so water damaged and chewed on by rodents that they’re not salvageable. Somewhere in this maze of family history is a genealogical chart my grandfather was working on. Though with the overall condition of everything I’ve found so far, I’m not optimistic. I’m sorry I can’t help you, but I really need to get back to work.”
* * *
Sitting with Kendell in the outdoor beer garden on Magazine Street, Myles turned the small golden tube in his hand. He still couldn’t identify what had made him ill at ease with the jeweler. The old man wouldn’t have anything to gain from taking the pipe tool. Why was he being so paranoid about something so meaningless? And why had mentioning the name Malveaux resulted in Miss Laurette showing them the door?
Kendell put down her lager. “You’re getting a little obsessed with that thing.”
“I just had a creepy feeling of something bad happening if we left it with the jeweler.”
“He seemed pretty harmless to me,” she said.
It wasn’t the man himself. That much Myles knew. “I’m not that adept at reading energy yet. I’m still learning. But there’s something else about this piece beyond the story I told you. I can’t identify what I’m experiencing. It’s like I’m watching a horror-mystery movie and knowing the main character is about to do something stupid.”
“Are you sure you’re not just projecting our visit to the Laurette house onto your memories? It was just a run-down building. I’m surprised the place has stood as long as it has without proper maintenance. Poor Samantha. I don’t know what I’d do if I was in her shoes. How would you even begin to sift through that much family history?”
“Typically, people ask for help.” Myles remembered a lecture about historic items being passed down for generations until only one person remained. Most of the time, that individual had no interest in being the family’s repository of junk. The savvy historian or shady antique dealer was always on the lookout for such opportunities. Samantha Laurette was too attract
ive and outgoing to not have friends who would drop everything to come help clean out a mansion in the Garden District. For most people, the adventure would prove enticement enough. So what was she doing in that old place all alone?
“At least we’re a little closer to knowing who Serephine was than we were this morning. We know her last name was Malveaux. We know something of her father. I’m not sure the visit to the Laurette mansion told us anything, but there must be some connection between the two families. I wonder if Samantha ran across any old family diaries during her cleaning. Maybe we should try the museum achieves for any old news articles. You’d think the death of a famous banker’s daughter would make it into the papers. Maybe not the front page, but it must have been mentioned somewhere.”
Between running around town and the energy that he could still feel from the tool, all Myles wanted was some sleep. “There’s still no proof I didn’t imagine the whole story. Even the marks on the tool I could have seen and not realized until I was semiconscious. We don’t know anything. All this running around is giving me a headache.”
Myles could feel Kendell’s eyes on him as he toyed with the cylinder and drank his dark porter. From the moment the jeweler had mentioned leaving the item in his shop, Myles hadn’t been able to take his mind from the object.
A fear emanated from it, but it wasn’t the emotion of the young child. He didn’t remember feeling that apprehension in the morning. His anxiety had only started when they left the small workshop. The feeling grew more intense once they’d entered the Laurette house. He should have held the tool while they’d talked to Miss Laurette. She knew something, and he suspected the tool had responded to her. But with it resting in Kendell’s hand, there had been no way of knowing.
Kendell dropped her spoon into her gumbo with such force some of it splashed out of the bowl. “Give that to me. It’s affecting you somehow. I’ll keep it safe tonight. We can pick this investigation up in the morning. You need to get some rest.”