by Laura Childs
In the third gallery, Metcalf and Meador Fine Arts and Antiquities, Carmela had better luck. But mentioning Melody’s name brought a wave of sadness to Jack Meador, the proprietor.
“Oh my gosh,” he said, “can you believe what happened?” Meador was a tall, thin man, slightly ethereal with a long, hangdog face. He wore a tweed jacket with bagged-out pockets, as though he perpetually overstuffed them with keys, change, cell phone, whatever. In recalling Melody’s death, he looked even more hangdog.
Carmela wanted to tell him she surely could believe what happened to Melody, because she had been right there, Johnny-on-the-unfortunate-spot. Instead, she commiserated with Meador for a few minutes. But when he pulled out a white hanky, honked loudly into it, then finally said, “You know, Melody was in here not so long ago,” Carmela’s ears perked up.
“Shopping for antiques?” Carmela asked.
Meador’s narrow shoulders gave a slightly affirmative shrug. “I wouldn’t exactly call them antiques. The items Melody bought were mostly just old.”
“So not from your sales floor,” said Carmela. She glanced around and her eyes fell upon Sung dynasty vases, elegant oil paintings, a mahogany secretary with brass fittings, antique lamps, a pair of Chippendale chairs, and hundreds more tasty pieces. Underfoot were fine Oriental carpets, and at least a dozen glittering chandeliers hung from the high ceiling.
“Melody was shopping for that Medusa Manor place of hers,” said Meador. “So she was more interested in character than quality. She pretty much confined her shopping to the back room and the basement.”
“You probably don’t know this,” said Carmela, “but I’m taking over that project for Melody.”
Meador brightened slightly. “You are? Say, she put a few things on hold. Think you might still be interested in them?”
“They’re here?” asked Carmela.
Meador nodded. “Back room.”
“Let’s take a look.”
They wove their way past dining room sets, highboys, and a pair of towering brass vases, then pushed through a Chinese red velvet curtain into the back room. Meador pointed out the items Melody had perused.
“That dining table over there, those two paintings. Not great pieces, but not terrible, either.”
“We could still use those things,” Carmela told him. “It’s a big place to fill.”
“Yeah?” said Meador. “I have some other stuff Melody looked at. An old round-top trunk, a lamp, more paintings. Fact is, I purchased a rather large lot of things at auction up in Baton Rouge. I did okay, cherry-picked the best stuff for the front of my shop. But there was an awful lot of junk, too. Not the antique quality I’ve built my reputation on, and certainly not the kind of items knowledgeable collectors would want in their homes.”
They tromped down narrow wooden stairs into a musty basement that was lit by four bare bulbs.
“See what I mean?” said Meador.
Staring at a high, round-topped trunk, Carmela could visualize a ghoulish body popping out of it. “That trunk would work really well,” she told Meador. “So would that twisty-looking lamp.”
“Tell you what,” said Meador, “I’ll give you a good price on the lot. The stuff we looked at upstairs plus these two pieces.” He pulled a calculator from his baggy jacket pocket, poked in a few numbers, and showed it to Carmela.
She ran the numbers in her head, then nodded. “Okay.”
“I’ll even be happy to deliver everything. Just let me know when I can get in there.”
They trooped back upstairs and exchanged business cards.
Meador picked up one of the flyers Carmela had given him earlier and studied it. “This event Saturday and Sunday is a good thing, you know? It’s been tough sledding these past few years. We need something like this to give a boost to the galleries and restaurants. Sure, there’s been music and jazz festivals, but mostly those just benefit the bars.”
“It’s going to be a good time,” said Carmela.
Jack Meador crinkled his eyes at her. “I think you’re right.”
Chapter 13
“HOLY cats!” exclaimed Ava, as she lifted her smoked sunglasses to stare at the four-story, redbrick monstrosity that loomed in front of them on the hill. “You didn’t tell me we were going to visit Dracula’s castle.”
“It’s an old insane asylum,” said Carmela, turning her car into the overgrown drive. “I told you that.”
Ava didn’t look particularly happy about their destination. “Isn’t that a rather politically incorrect term these days?”
“It wasn’t back then,” said Carmela, “when this old place was still in business.” She slowed her car, gazing at the Gothic letters that spelled out Mendelssohn Asylum in the twisted, wrought-iron archway.
“Place doesn’t exactly look welcoming,” said Ava as they bumped up the drive. “Look . . . the windows are either broken or boarded up, and rusted chains are stretched across all the doors.”
“This is the kind of place the Restless Spirit Society lives for,” said Carmela. “An abandoned building that might be haunted.” And it really was abandoned, Carmela noted. Located some ten miles out of town, right on the edge of a vast bayou. As for the haunted part, well, that remained to be seen.
Ava pulled a tube of bright red lipstick from her bag and applied it to her generous lips. “When you told me it was a tour, cher, I was imagining something a little more refined. With refreshments included. Champagne, perhaps, and some nice cheese and crackers.” She flipped the visor mirror down and smiled at herself. “Last art studio tour I went on, that’s what they had.”
“We’ll be lucky to find a chunk of stale bread,” Carmela chuckled. Then she crunched across gravel and pulled in next to the half-dozen cars that were already parked there.
“Oh man,” said Ava, “this place makes Medusa Manor look like a cute little storybook cottage.”
Gigantic columns paraded across the front of the building that had once housed the psychotics, alcoholics, and eccentrics of New Orleans. Two balconies, one on top of another, protruded over the front yard. Carmela could imagine administrators lining up there in past days, scrutinizing visitors as they arrived, wondering which ones would stay, which ones would attempt a daring escape.
“At least we’re not the only ones here,” grumped Ava as they climbed from the car. The evening’s cool air and the bayou’s humidity immediately wrapped around them like a wet blanket as streaks of lightning flashed in the sky. “Hopefully that thunderstorm won’t hit until we’re back home.”
“I wouldn’t want to get caught here without lights,” agreed Carmela.
Ava frowned. “Lights. They do have lights in there, don’t they?”
“Probably not, but I brought my trusty flashlight,” said Carmela, hoisting her Fendi tote bag. “Even remembered to put in fresh batteries. I didn’t want to come unprepared.”
“Carmela, you’re such a little Girl Scout. What’s the motto? Be prepared?”
“I think that’s the Boy Scout motto.”
“Huh,” laughed Ava. “In my experience, boys and men are always prepared.” She reached a hand down the front of her red silk blouse and pulled out a thin chain with a silver medal. “See. I knew there was a reason I wore my Michael the Archangel medal! Guaranteed to protect us from negativity and evil spirits!”
“Car-a-mello?” A perky blond cheerleader type suddenly popped up in front of them.
“Carmela,” said Carmela. She tapped an index finger to her chest. “I’m Carmela. And this is my friend, Ava.”
“Mindy Deerfield,” said the woman in a thick Southern drawl as she shook hands eagerly. “Membership secretary for the Restless Spirit Society. Glad you gals could join us tonight.”
“Thanks for letting us participate,” said Carmela.
“Consider us thrilled,” said Ava, deadpan.
“Love to hear that,” giggled Mindy. “You gals got much experience with urban exploring?”
“Mostly in bou
tiques and bars,” said Ava. “And the occasional upscale hotel.” She put a hand on one shapely hip. “So . . . you look like you know your way around this place. You gonna be our guide?”
Mindy favored them with a gleaming, toothy smile. “There’s actually going to be three guides tonight for the asylum tour.” Mindy turned quickly and started up the front steps, fluttering a hand for them to follow. “So come on along and meet our group.”
“Okay,” said Carmela, thinking, That’s why we’re here.
Inside, Mendelssohn Asylum was cool, dark, and creepy. High ceilings lent a cathedral look to the reception area. Chipped marble floors, institutional green paint peeling from the walls, and bars on the front windows and across the far end of the reception area gave a distinctly prisonlike feel.
“So nice and homey,” remarked Ava, looking around with curiosity. “But without that overdone decorator look.”
“Love the grayish-green paint,” whispered Carmela. “What would you call that color? I mean, if you went to Home Depot and were asking for a paint swatch?”
“Mouse poop?” said Ava, as they joined the group of two dozen or so would-be explorers.
“Okay, everyone listen up,” said a tall, rangy man with shoulder-length blond hair. “We’re going to go over all the preliminaries for tonight.”
“That’s Elmer Coltrane,” Mindy told them in a stage whisper. “He’s club president.”
“We’ve got a couple of newbies joining us tonight . . .” Elmer Coltrane glanced at Carmela and Ava and nodded politely. “So we’re going to talk a little bit about safety, equipment, and who’ll be functioning as guides.”
Feet shifted, shoulders hunched forward expectantly, and an excited hum rose from the group gathered there. Most of the explorers wore black mesh multipocketed vests, khaki slacks, boots, and helmets, so it was hard to distinguish men from women and what the age spread might be. But Carmela had the impression that most of the group was in their twenties and thirties, with far more men than women. Two men who were diligently fiddling with strange-looking equipment looked to be in their forties.
“As we move through the asylum,” said Coltrane, “remember that apparitions don’t necessarily assume a human form. And that all your senses can be used to detect the ectoplasmic residue left behind by a spirit.”
“Huh?” said Ava.
“What I mean,” said Coltrane, “is that even clairambience, your ability to taste a spirit’s message, could come into play.”
“Yuck,” whispered Ava.
“Most of you already know Mindy Deerfield and Jimmy Fletcher,” continued Coltrane. “The three of us will guide you in separate groups to hopefully maximize your personal urban adventure experience. In a few minutes we’ll pass out safety helmets for those of you who don’t have your own, as well as helmet cams for those who are interested and electromagnetic field detectors and infrared motion sensors for those who want to focus on spirit auras. Of course, safety is always our number one concern. We’ve secured permission to explore most of Mendelssohn Asylum, but as you might imagine, a few areas are off-limits because of structural damage. Other areas may be contaminated with spores or bird droppings, so wearing a mask is going to be critical.”
Mindy, ever helpful, held up a green surgical mask, the type that was commonplace in most hospitals.
“Spores,” muttered Ava. “What kind of spores?”
“I’m not sure we want to know,” said Carmela, accepting a mask and safety helmet from Mindy.
“You want to wear one of the helmet cams?” Mindy asked Ava.
Ava nodded eagerly, suddenly won over. “Really? Sure!” Then she turned to Carmela. “I get to wear a helmet cam, how cool is that?”
“See?” said Carmela. “This tour might redeem itself after all.”
“I think you might be right,” said Ava, buckling the safety strap under her chin.
“Oh, you’re gonna love it,” Mindy assured them, giving an excited shudder. “I mean, it’s all so exciting. Can’t you just feel the energy and vibrations? Even in this old reception area where poor tortured souls were turned over to the care of professionals.”
“I think Mindy grew up here, don’t you?” said Ava in a whispered aside to Carmela. Carmela nodded, barely holding in her laughter.
Once the helmets, cameras, flashlights, electromagnetic detectors, and recording devices had been distributed, turned on, and tested, Elmer Coltrane led them down a long hallway and into an old chapel. Pews and kneelers had long since been stripped out, but medieval-looking light fixtures, obviously nonfunctioning, dangled overhead, and a rough wooden crucifix tilted on one wall.
The club president cleared his throat. “Before we go any farther, I’d like you all to gather in a circle.” Everyone slowly complied as Mindy scurried about, handing out tiny white vigil lights. “As you all know,” continued Coltrane, “Melody Mayfeldt was a dearly loved member of the Restless Spirit Society. She was a true believer in the great beyond, and we honor her now, with the firm belief that Melody has gone on before us to pierce that veil of mystery we can only hope to fleetingly glimpse.” He bowed his head. “She is our fallen comrade.”
Boots grated on cement as throats were cleared and candles lit.
He continued. “For those of you who would like to attend Melody’s funeral, it will be held tomorrow morning in Lafayette Cemetery. I can’t think of a more fitting or beautiful place to be laid to rest. And now . . . a moment of silence.”
Everyone bowed their head.
Carmela, finding the bobbing of the headlamps and the tiny white candles slightly disconcerting, peered out from beneath her helmet at the Restless Spirit membership. Melody may have been a beloved member, she decided, but was there someone in this group who hadn’t found her quite so beloved? Someone who’d been jealous of Melody’s role in the organization? Someone who’d made a pass at Melody and been angered at her rebuff? Someone who was young, reckless, and disreputable and found out Melody had owned a fancy French Quarter jewelry store?
Carmela knew there were as many possibilities as there were people here. The thing she had to do was watch, listen, and maybe ask a few questions. Just like any good investigator would.
After a few minutes, candles were snuffed out and a ripple of excitement ran through the ghost hunters.
“Whose group do you want to be in?” Carmela whispered to Ava.
Ava rolled her eyes. “I’d rather not pair up with the cheerleader.”
“So maybe . . . Jimmy Fletcher’s group?” said Carmela. She grabbed Ava by the elbow and edged over toward him.
“He looks like a college professor,” said Ava. “So maybe we’ll learn something.”
Fletcher did look like a professor, Carmela decided, even with the gray T-shirt that proclaimed Ghost Hunter. He was in his midforties and slightly balding, but he possessed sparkling eyes and a pleasant smile.
“I guess we’re with you,” Ava told Fletcher, batting her eyelashes in a not-so-subtle manner.
Fletcher just smiled knowingly and handed her a small digital voice recorder with a directional microphone, which she promptly passed on to Carmela.
And then they were off, their group heading down a long, dark corridor with just flashes of light from their helmets to show the way.
Fletcher wasn’t a bad guide. He’d obviously read up on the history of Mendelssohn Asylum and was able to talk knowingly and with authority. He led them into small, shabby rooms and individual monastic cells that inmates had once called home. A few remnants of padded mattresses still clung to these walls and exuded a pungent, unpleasant smell. The occasional skittering of mice made Carmela wish she’d worn boots so she could tuck in her jeans.
“Here we find the stone staircase that takes us down to the basement hydrotherapy rooms,” said Fletcher. “The individual treatment rooms, which are also located down here, will probably look more like torture chambers to today’s more sympathetic eye.”
Rough stone steps spiral
ed down into the ground. Even though the building was cool, dampness clung to their bodies and seemed to soak into their clothing.
“As you can see,” said Fletcher, “two different pools were located down here. Water therapy was often used in an attempt to shock patients back into their right mind. Obviously, images of Chinese water torture or witch dunking at Salem come to mind, since most poor souls were unable to complain or refuse treatment.”
Carmela and Ava edged their way past a long-empty pool and down a hallway, then followed the group into one of the private treatment rooms. A metal table stood in the center. Four-inch straps of rotting leather were bolted to the top, middle, and bottom. These were straps used to hold the head, arms, and legs of the patient. In the eerie white light from the helmets, the table looked cold and violent. A pile of rotting sheets lay at one end.
“Anyone want to try out the table?” Fletcher asked.
The group took a collective step back.
He chuckled. “I thought not.”
Carmela glanced around. Dripping water seemed to add to the atmosphere of dread and helplessness. A heavy pressure seemed to surround them. Maybe . . . maybe there really was something to this restless spirit thing?
“It’s been said,” began Fletcher, “that many people feel like they’re being buried alive as they walk these halls. Some say it’s departed souls who are trying to warn visitors to flee.”
“I’m ready to cut and run to the nearest bar,” said Ava in a stage whisper.
There were a few nervous giggles, and then Jimmy Fletcher held up an index finger. “At this juncture, might I suggest we split into groups of two and utilize our various devices and electromagnetic detectors? This is the time and probably the place to try to determine if any spirits are present.”
Carmela raised a hand. “What exactly is an electromagnetic detector?”
“Exactly what its name implies,” said Fletcher. “It detects magnetic fields. And if it registers strong, erratic pulses, we know there’s definite activity.”
“What kind of activity?” asked Ava.