by G A Chase
“You must have guessed it wasn’t an accident,” Kendell said.
“Lady, I don’t get paid to think. If my patron wanted to tip me twenty percent, I’m not going to ask questions. Not that there was anyone to ask. I figured they wanted their generosity to be understood. Those of us on the forum rate a successful transaction. You can bet anyone who’s heard the story is scouring every old jewelry box they can find, looking for that M. Now that we’ve had an example of what it looks like, I’d imagine a few are even buying engraving tools.”
Kendell shook her head. “I’m confused about something. If a person was willing to spend that much money on the pipe tool that isn’t worth very much, why not just offer to buy it? Seems like that would have been a hell of a lot simpler and cheaper.”
“You two really are quite the pair. If a post shows up on the forum, we all know secrecy is important. Whoever wants an object stolen doesn’t want people to know when they have the item.”
Nothing the young thug said improved Myles’s impression of him, but at least he didn’t sound dangerous. “What about the tractor tire? The police believe it was just worn out.”
“Never go into crime, okay? You’d suck at it. The contract I accepted was to steal the item and leave it with the parade costumes. If I’d gotten paid to sabotage the float, I’d end up knowing too much about the accident. As far as I’m concerned, knowing what I know, it was just an unfortunate incident and nothing else. You can go looking for the person who performed the tractor’s maintenance, but like me, you’re probably not going to learn much about who hired them. Hell, I can come up with half a dozen ways an old tire could end up on a work tractor. Now, if I’ve answered your questions, I really need to get back to work.”
Myles didn’t expect to see the two-bit thief again, but he saw no harm in reinforcing the point. “We don’t mean you any trouble, but we do know who you are, where you work, and your father-in-law. We also know about the theft. Not that I suspect the police would care about a fifty-dollar item. I would hope you’re smart enough to leave us alone.”
Link stood and smoothed out his overalls. “If I never see you or that demonic dog again for the rest of my life, that’d be just fine with me.”
Kendell quickly pulled out the notepad she always had with her. “Just one last thing. I’d like to have the web address of that thieves’ forum. I promise I won’t interfere with your business.”
Link stared at her for a moment then pulled out a scrap of paper of his own. “It doesn’t work that way. Someone from the forum has to vouch for you. But I’ve put you through a lot, and for that I’m sorry. I owe you. Give me your email, and I’ll set you up. Just be careful what you say over there, and don’t go giving out personal information if you know what’s good for you.”
Kendell was strangely quiet as they left Float World. At first, Myles thought she was trying to see their next move, but such topics she usually processed out loud. “What’s up with you? I thought you’d be happy knowing that guy won’t be lurking around your apartment. You and Cheesecake can sleep a little easier.”
“It’s not that. I am relieved to know Link was the abductor and I won’t have to worry about him any longer. My mother is coming to town.”
She seldom spoke about her family. He didn’t want to overstep their friendship. “Are you going to ask her about your family’s genealogy?”
She looked out across the river. “In spite of what Dad said about not bringing up the name Malveaux, I think I have to. I’m haunted by what the professor and Madam de Galpion said—and didn’t say. If I have a family connection to this cursed item, I think I want to know.”
“Do you think she’ll have any answers?”
Kendell stopped to watch a cruise ship leave port and make its way downriver toward the gulf. “Dad says she has a wandering spirit like a tumbleweed with no roots. Even though they’re divorced, they do still talk. I think that’s why she’s making a visit. He probably told her I’d been asking about my lineage. I know she doesn’t like talking about her side of the family.”
Myles seldom met his girlfriends’ families, and Kendell wasn’t even a romantic partner. Introducing him to her mother would imply that they might be more than just friends. “Do you want me to come with you?”
She turned to him and smiled. “Would it be too weird?”
“We’re partners in this strange mystery. I don’t know what kind of a relationship you have with her. My being there might make it harder for her to open up, or it might help you stay on track and ask your questions. I’ll go if my presence helps, but I won’t be offended if you think I shouldn’t.”
She thrust her hands deep into her coat pockets. “I should go alone. Maybe we can get together with her for dinner or something if she stays long enough. I do want you to meet her.”
Kendell’s blush reminded him that though the two of them were just friends, with all they’d been through, that term didn’t cover their connection—partners would be closer. If he had trouble defining their relationship, he imagined she was just as confused. Women often liked second opinions when it came to their emotions.
14
Kendell had never before bothered crossing the river to the small residential community that faced the French Quarter. Everything she wanted could be found a few blocks from her apartment. She never saw the appeal of a middle-class neighborhood with few restaurants and no shopping. The ferry crossing, however, provided a nice view of the Quarter. From out on the river, she used her phone to take a handful of snapshots of Saint Louis Cathedral. The hard pounding of the old steel boat against the wooden dock shook her back to her task.
As she exited the boat, she saw her mother standing at the top of the gangway. The woman had toned down her hippie attire from the last time they’d met. Even so, the flowing skirt, sandals, and billowy blouse looked too light for the cool spring afternoon. At least she’s not wearing tie-dye. Their embrace was loving but short. “Aren’t you freezing?”
Her mother pulled up the hem of her skirt to display colorful leggings. “Some of us don’t live in peacoats, my darling daughter. You have such a lovely figure. I don’t know why you insist on hiding it.”
“I only bundle up when it’s cold.” But her mother had a point. The heavy garment needed a good dry cleaning after its extensive use over the last few months.
“I thought we’d get a coffee at a small café I know. But first maybe a private walk along the levee? Your father tells me you have some questions about my side of the family.”
As they walked along the man-made berm to the bike path, Kendell marveled at the old homes. “I didn’t realize this neighborhood was so historic. All I’d ever heard about the Westbank was that it was as close to suburbia as one could get and still be in New Orleans.”
Her mother stopped in front of the old brick courthouse. “I had you meet me here for a reason. All this used to be our family’s property.”
She pointed down at a brass plaque embedded in the path. “Broussard Plantation 1802–1860.” Kendell quickly read the historical description of the property. Other than the name and dates, she didn’t see anything useful. “That was a long time ago.”
“How much do you know about New Orleans before the War Between the States?”
“I seem to be learning more about it every day.”
Her mother sat on a metal bench next to the path. “Sit with me while I try to untangle what I remember. I grew up in an amazingly boring family. At every big event, all the old folks would do is talk about the past. I swore if I ever had kids I’d never subject them to those hours of sitting around the dining room table listening to stories about dead people while the remains of the meal solidified on the fine china. My sister and I once calculated that every fifteen minutes of mind-numbing conversation resulted in half an hour of increased scrubbing to get the hardened food off the plates.”
Kendell smiled at the thought of her bohemian mother and respectable aunt being young girls force
d to sit at the family table and just listen without having anything to contribute. “Is that why you’ve never talked about our family history?”
Her mother wrapped an arm around Kendell’s shoulder. “Maybe partly. My grandfather and granduncle used to get into arguments about what they’d heard growing up. As they were the oldest two members of the family, no one contradicted them or bothered to shut either of them up. Most of what I know is oral history. I’d really hoped to let the story die with me, but you have a right to know it if you want.”
Kendell couldn’t remember her mother ever opening that mental locker of her personal history. “I don’t want to worry you, but I’m involved in an investigation. Dad said I shouldn’t ask, but what do you know about the baron Archibald Baptiste Malveaux?”
Her mother let out a long, slow sigh. “Let me tell you about your ancestor first. The last one who owned land on this side of the river. Louis Broussard inherited the plantation from his father, who bought it after the slave trade moved across the river. Unfortunately, Louis was no farmer. Instead of focusing on what he could grow right here on this high ground, he wanted to develop the lowlands around the bend in the river. He was trying to develop a method of draining the bayou that covered most of the area downriver. But his experiments weren’t cheap. Every year, he had to go across the river and borrow more money from the bank. And each year when he couldn’t pay it back, he deeded more of this area to the banker.”
“Don’t tell me—the baron Malveaux?”
Her mother nodded. “This is where some grounding in antebellum history helps. During the war, the Yankee soldiers had a cruel practice when it came to the genteel ladies of the South. Any woman who insulted one of the curs was treated like a lady of the streets, a prostitute. What isn’t written about in those history books, though, is the practice didn’t arrive with the northerners. According to my grandfather and his brother, the baron Malveaux believed in diversifying his empire. Unsatisfied with simply making loans to developers, he built himself a series of brothels. In the days before the Storyville District, such establishments could be found in nearly every neighborhood. Blacks, Quadroons—whores who were one-quarter black but looked white—and even white prostitutes could be had if the customer had enough money. But the elite gentlemen of New Orleans, being wealthy and perverted, truly desired women of their own class.”
Kendell looked out over the river, trying to envision her beloved city as being even more bawdy and less restricted. “Why would an upper-class woman allow herself to become a prostitute? I can see how it would happen during the war, but how did it happen before the war?”
Her mother hugged her close. “This is where the baron and our ancestor cross paths. By 1860, Louis had run out of useable land. This is also the point in the story where my grandfather and his brother had their most heated arguments. One believed Louis had been a complete fool for giving up the best land first, while the other argued he had no choice. Not that it mattered, then or now. The bottom line is the day came when Louis was out of options. He took the deed to the last remaining acres and headed to the bank to pay off his remaining debt. He’d be broke, but his plan was to pack up his family and leave New Orleans for good. No one knows what happened to him. But the next day, the baron showed up and forced Louis’s wife and children—two girls and a boy—into indentured servitude. That was his little trick, you see. He’d get someone of breeding under his thumb then slowly whittle away at their savings until he could take their family in the socially acceptable version of slavery. The baron’s upper-class gentlemen clients could then have the wives or children of adversaries as they pleased. Louis’s wife and daughters were forced into prostitution, and his son was sent to work on the docks.”
Kendell pulled her coat tight around her arms. “That’s horrible.”
Her mom removed her arm from around Kendell’s shoulder and clasped her hands in her lap. “I wish I could tell you our story ends there. Not long after our ancestors found themselves beholden to the baron, he started having problems of his own. Not financial, unfortunately, but emotional. My grandfather didn’t know the specifics, but apparently, the baron lost his family. There might have been a death—my family story was pretty vague. What was known, however, was that his wife left him and his son disappeared into the war. All the baron was left with was his riches.”
Kendell tried to remember what she’d read about him after the death of Serephine. “So he became a recluse?”
“Unfortunately for us, no. He lost himself to his whorehouses. My great-grandfather was the product of Lilianna Broussard—daughter of Louis—and the baron Malveaux. Because it was an illegitimate union, the name Broussard was kept for the child. But the family legend is very clear that the baron is part of our lineage.”
Kendell found it hard to breathe. She knew in her gut the story had to be true. For the cursed pipe tool to be safe in her possession, she would have to be descended from both the one who commissioned the curse and the one who had originally owned the piece. The baron’s energy would have permeated the object. He’d kept it with him at all times. If just the curse energy was at play, she’d experience a desire similar to the tool’s. She thought about her reactions to Samantha Laurette. As a direct descendent of the baron, that sweet woman would be in danger from the pipe tool. Kendell felt no such hatred. Inside her jacket, she squeezed the wretched metal cylinder, wishing she could crush the evil out of it. “And no one knows what happened to Louis? The family must have had some ideas.”
“Just the speculation of old men. Some nights they would say he got drunk and the deed was stolen. Other tellings of the story had him falling off the ferry and drowning. I don’t think anyone really knows.”
Kendell looked past the restored houses to the empty military complex that bordered the neighborhood. She made a mental note to check the city’s property records. If no one had claimed the property, she wasn’t hopeful. With the confusion of land rights following the war, it was hard to know who property had really belonged to. “If it’s just a silly old story, why do you avoid coming back?”
Her mother stared out across the river. “I wanted something different for my life than living with people I’d known since childhood. New Orleans looks like such a big city, but it isn’t—not really. So many families here can trace their roots back hundreds of years that family trees end up looking more like twisted, intermingled wisteria vines. Cousins, second cousins, distant cousins, aunts, granduncles—you can’t imagine how boring it all becomes. I once dated a boy in high school only to find out we used to play naked together as children in his grandparents’ yard. His mother showed me pictures. The relationship didn’t last long after that revelation.”
In spite of the distance in their relationship, it never took long for Kendell to feel the bond with her mother. “I’ve been working with someone. We’re not dating, but I think we’re more than friends. He helped me out of a tough situation.”
“Do you love him?”
With anyone else, even her father, Kendell would have laughed off the question, but her mother had a way of seeing past the trappings of everyday life. “He’s not like the guys I usually date. I haven’t seen a single tattoo on him. He can’t carry a tune for shit. Watching him dance is kind of like watching a cross between the Paralympics and interpretive dance. His wardrobe is practically conservative.”
“What does Cheesecake think?”
As a young girl, Kendell hadn’t made any secret of her trust in her dog’s instincts, even if her parents thought she was just projecting her impressions onto the animal. “She trusts him more than any boy she’s met.”
“That’s saying a lot. Your father fell in love with me for my free spirit, but in the end, I failed his trust. There was never any infidelity. I simply couldn’t be there for him like he needed.”
Kendell felt the cell phone in her pocket. One press of a button, and Myles would drop everything to be at her side. Maybe he wasn’t the exciting rebel lookin
g to challenge the status quo or the musician who always understood her passion, but he gave her a feeling of safety she’d never known, not even as a little girl. “I’d like you to meet him.”
15
Myles rubbed his temples. “Wait a minute. You now not only believe this thing is cursed, but you also believe you’re descended from the baron who owned the pipe tool?”
Kendell had been pacing her apartment for the entire time it had taken for her to recount her afternoon with her mother. “That’s not all of it. I think Louis Broussard is the one who commissioned the curse.”
“You know I’m on your side, but you have to see how crazy that sounds.” He got off the couch to take her by her shoulders. All her pacing was making him dizzy. He hoped the physical contact might settle her down. “We still don’t have anybody other than us saying anything about a curse. There is something strange about the pipe tool. I’ll give you that. But if there was a voodoo priestess performing curses—even if that was something that was only real in the past—don’t you think someone would have mentioned it? Professor Yates or that strange Madam de Galpion—hell, even Lieutenant Cazenave would have at least hinted that such things were real. Each time one of them gets close to saying something about that topic, it’s in a dismissive tone. You are an educated woman. Doesn’t that mind of yours rebel against the idea of superstitious nonsense?”
He’d hurt her. He could see it in her eyes, which started to glisten. “I thought you believed in me.”