“That’s more like it. This all he was carryin’?” Comeaux stared at Blasey as if he could spot a lie.
“These is all I found.”
“Now, Mr. Blasey, you didn’t steal nothin’ did you? If I find out you did, I’m gonna have to pay you another visit and it won’t be as cordial next time.”
“Oh, no. I ain’t stole nothin.’
Comeaux fit the duffel bag under his beefy arm, freeing his hand to snatch the guitar case handle. “You did yourself a favor, Mr. Blasey. Since you did the right thing, I’m gonna do right by you and keep my mouth shut. You do the same. Okay?” Comeaux cordially touched the brim of his police cap before leaving.
Chapter Twenty
Tulane
Holding Billy Joe’s hand-drawn map, I located the old gym on Freret Street where Gable was scheduled to speak. Cars lined the route and I was forced to poke along behind others looking for a parking spot. I’d asked Angela to save me a place, but since I didn’t see her I figured she was probably caught up in the excitement of riding with the Vice President and had forgotten about me.
In despair, I headed toward a handicapped spot but an elderly man beat me to it and I’d almost decided to take my chances and double park when I saw my daughter, waving her arms near an orange traffic cone. The parallel space where she stood looked smaller than my van. I struggled to maneuver in, a difficult task. I’d flunked parallel parking twenty-two years ago, and still harbored the insecurity of that failure.
Angela was huffing impatiently as we rushed inside the gymnasium to find McIntoch. He had reserved two seats on the bleachers a few feet away from the speaker’s podium. Angela said she couldn’t sit down before she went to the bathroom. I told her to go ahead, I didn’t need to go, and she scurried off, giving me time alone to read Duffy’s journal. Until then, I’d only glanced at it.
The journal contained very precise sketches. The first few pages looked like scenes from a murder, beginning with a young man pointing a gun at an older man, followed by what appeared to be a fatal shot and a sketch of an older man with a bullet wound through his head. When I fanned the pages the scenes became animated, real.
Another series of sketches began with a tranquil landscape, a large body of water near an oak tree. The tree’s roots concealed a hole leading to a cave. In the cave was a safe. A hand turned the numbered combination, three rounds to the right, stopping at thirty-six; left, two rounds, landing on twelve; back to the right, resting on nineteen; and left to five. The picture of the opened safe revealed a small book inside, entitled, Murder Diary.
I closed the journal as Angela squeezed next to me. “It’s terrible when you have to wait in line for a free stall, damned uncomfortable.” She waved at McIntoch.
“He likes you,” I said.
“It’s not what you think, Mother. Kern is gay.”
“You mean in the time it took to ride over in the limo, he shared this information with you.”
“He didn’t actually say he’s gay.”
“How can you be sure, then? He doesn’t act it.”
“Gay guys don’t necessarily act gay. That’s a stereotype. You should know that.”
“Well, if he didn’t tell you he’s gay how do you know?”
“Instinct. Also, I noticed his pants. They’re tightly fitted in the crotch to show off his package,” Angela blatantly pointed to her own crotch.
I grabbed her hand and looked around, hoping she hadn’t offended anyone. “Angela, watch what you say and do.”
“Well, it’s true, Mother.”
I whispered, “Whether he’s gay or not is irrelevant.”
“You’re right. He’s a sweet guy, even invited you and me to a costume party Saturday night. At first, I told him we couldn’t go because I’d already made plans with Javier, Fernando and Melissa. Then he said they could come too. Isn’t that cool?”
“So, you made plans without asking me?”
“This is the first chance I’ve had to tell you.” Angela stared at me mischievously.
“Speaking of making plans, we’ve been invited to dinner at Jay Cascio’s house in La Place, Friday night.”
“Who the hell is Jay Cascio?” Angela glowered.
I told her about meeting Jay at the Green Door and explained, “He and Dan Duffy are best friends.”
“Mama, Friday night is out. I told Javier I’d go to a movie.”
“Oh?” I arched an eyebrow. “Can I trust this Javier?”
The question remained unanswered when Tulane’s President Dr. Joyce Armstrong Vickers introduced the Vice President.
A wall-to-wall crowd cheered and applauded, many stood. From the podium, Gable smiled at Vickers who stared at him wide-eyed like a little girl with her first crush. “Following a Madame President has become second nature for me.”
Gable paused until the whistles and applause faded. “Today, it’s a great pleasure to speak in this historic structure that long ago housed the finest music in the world. From where I stand, jazz greats King Oliver, Kid Ory, Pap Celestin and Johnny Wiggs introduced their marvelous sounds to students of Tulane and Sophie Newcomb. Back in 1917, parents objected to what was called wild ‘script’ dancing. Over the years, jazz has become more popular than the big band sound and certainly no longer considered a musical insurrection.”
After his lead-in, Gable adapted the speech he’d given earlier to the collegiate audience. I tried to focus on his words but my mind wandered to Duffy’s letter from the White House listing Gable’s scheduled appearances in New Orleans. Obviously, Duffy was interested in the Vice President and his whereabouts.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Man, that was great.” Billy Joe said as we left Antoine’s restaurant and walked up St. Louis Street.
I couldn’t stop yawning. “I can’t believe we ate so much. Oysters Rockefeller, shrimp bisque, crawfish etoufee, grillades, calas, mirliton and potato puffs...”
“Red beans and rice,” Angela added.
My daughter looked as sleepy as I felt. “I could use a nap. What about you, Angela?”
She nodded and yawned.
“Y’all just need a little exercise,” Billy Joe looked at his watch. “Walk along with me. Save Our Cemeteries is giving a tour of St. Louis Number One, City of the Dead. Yours truly will be offering protection this afternoon as the policeman on duty.”
I laughed. “Protecting people from dead spirits?”
“Oh, no, girl, if I thought there’d be ghosts involved, Billy Joe would be finding somethin’ better to do. This cemetery is near the Iberville housing project and sits on what used to be the old Storyville District where bawdy houses were the main attraction. Nowadays, it’s considered a dangerous area but interesting. You might enjoy the tour.” We tried to keep up with Billy Joe, a fast walker. Angela commented on that fact as we approached the city of the dead, a fitting description. Many of the tombs resembled miniature high-rises. Sculpted stone statues appeared to be standing guard over buried remains. Several tombs were cracked and mildewed, unlike Sam’s shiny marble gravesite where I meticulously pulled up the weeds and put fresh flowers once a week.
A woman in a monk-like garb, wearing a large tear-shaped crystal around her neck, stepped out from behind a giant doll-house edifice. She stood in front of the small group waiting for the tour to begin.
“Good afternoon and welcome,” she said, smoothing her long black hair. It was pulled back in what look like a horse’s tail. No makeup covered her thin dark face, except for white powdered shadow applied over chestnut eyelids.
I felt a cold breeze and smelled the promise of rain.
“Never seen her before,” Billy Joe whispered.
“She looks like the heroine in Dracula’s Bride,” I whispered back.
“My name is Martha Daveau Chapman, a descendent of the woman who resides in the vault here.” Martha rested her slender hand on a three-tiered, white-washed structure inscribed, Marie Philomen Glapion dece’de’e le 11 juin 1897. “She was called the voodoo queen
of New Orleans. She practiced spiritual counseling as I do. Other descendants became funeral directors and politicians.” Martha smiled for the first time, revealing long white teeth. Her voice reminded me of a bassoon, announcing doom.
Martha led her graveyard tour with great dramatic flair, talking of invisible spirits floating through the air. She’d fling her arms above her head like some enraged maestro, describing ghostly auras only she could see.
As the tour ended, my aching legs needed a rest. I sat on one of the marble benches. Angela plopped down beside me as Martha did. A few feet away, Billy Joe talked to a member of our tour group.
Martha handed me a black business card with raised white lettering, then promptly closed her eyes, breathing rhythmically as if asleep. After several deep inhales, her eyelids popped open to reveal her unfocused stare. The bassoon-like voice became a droning hiss. “Your spirit is unsettled. You are on a dangerous journey. Death surrounds you.”
“Probably because I’m in a graveyard,” I said nervously lacing and unlacing my fingers.
Martha untied the black ribbon holding the crystal around her neck, then dangled the large stone in front of me like a pendulum. “Wear this. If it helps, you may pass it on to another troubled soul.”
I drew back as if warding off some unseen demon. “I can’t take your necklace.”
“It’s most unusual,” Angela said. “Maybe Mother could buy it.”
Ignoring my protests, Martha tied the black velvet ribbon with the crystal around my neck. “True spiritual gifts are not for sale. This is an aurora crystal from Vienna, the finest in the world. You will find that it is a universe unto itself, a gift from the Gods, anointed water frozen into stone. If you wear it, it can protect you with the sun’s power and ward off evil spirits.”
Martha began to breathe deeply again. “The diary is under the ground in a tomb, a vault. A friend can tell you where. Read it and you will learn a pestilent secret. Find it before four days pass.” Martha stood quickly, then stepped behind a nearby tomb, disappearing from view.
“Weird, totally weird.” Angela said, touching the amulet.
I examined the stone. At that moment, it gave off a beautiful violet glow, reminding me of the Hope Diamond, a forty-five carat stone displayed at the Smithsonian.
When I mentioned the resemblance Angela smiled, but Billy Joe grimaced like someone sucking on a lemon. “Speaking of hope, you better hope she didn’t get a lock of your hair.”
“I’ll call this my Mardi Gravestone,” I said.
“Clever, Mama.”
Billy Joe’s frown deepened. “Hocus-pocus, if you ask me.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Columbus, Georgia
“Hold on, let me catch him ‘fore he leaves in the wrecker,” the cashier at Curtis’ Auto Repair said.
Barry Blasey rubbed his eyes and waited for his younger brother, Curtis, to pick up the telephone.
Oil-stained, mechanic’s hands gripped the receiver. “Make it quick.”
“How’s my favorite brother?” Barry listened to a few seconds of silence from Curtis.
“I’m your only brother. You want somethin’?”
“Naw. I got time off, thought I’d head on out your way.”
“I ain’t got no idea what time off feels like.”
Barry knew his brother was thinking they were as different as Cain and Able. Barry wanted to tell Curtis to enjoy life and not work himself to death, but he didn’t want to aggravate his brother any more than he was already aggravated.
“When you plannin’ on coming?” Curtis barked.
“In a day or two.”
“Guess Gloria and I can put up with you for a few days. I’ll work your ass off. You ain’t drinkin’ are you? Gloria ain’t gonna put up with no drinkin’ in the house.”
“Naw. I ain’t been drinkin’ in a while,” Barry lied.
“Awright. See you when I see you.” Curtis slammed down the receiver.
Barry’s mouth watered, thinking about the Southern Comfort chilling in the refrigerator. He figured one last bottle wouldn’t kill him but first he needed to call Ms. Viella, tell her his only brother had a heart attack. That way she wouldn’t get pissed off when he left. Barry’s hands shook as he dialed the number. He wished he didn’t have to drive to Columbus where he wasn’t welcome, but he didn’t know what else to do. That Sanderford woman had screwed up things royally by being on his tail. Just his luck. He was like that country song: If it weren’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all.
Chapter Twenty-three
Charity Hospital
Angela huffed like a quackless duck. “Let’s get out of here. I hate hospitals.”
I scribbled a note to Duffy, then handed it to the dark-haired nurse. “Would you please see that Mr. Duffy gets this. It’s very important.”
The nurse folded the note before tucking it into her pocket. “He’s still critical, you know.”
I glanced at Duffy from behind the glass of his ICU room. His handsome, corpse-like face was swollen and bruised. Tubes invaded his nose and mouth.
From the looks of Duffy, it was hard to accept Natasha’s optimistic prognosis. “Do you see any improvement in his condition?”
The nurse squinted at him as if trying to see a change. “He has moments when his body jumps. Sometimes, when I talk to him, he grunts, but I don’t understand what he’s trying to say.”
“Do you have any idea how long he’ll be in the hospital?” I asked.
“I don’t think anyone knows.”
~ * ~
Driving back to the Belle, I admired the crystal necklace through the mirror of my sun visor. The stone appeared alive, reflecting my floral vest, pink, purple and green.
Maybe Billy Joe was right, hocus pocus, plain and simple, though I knew there was nothing plain and simple about Martha Chapman.
She’s definitely psychic, no question about that. She obviously knew about the diary in Duffy’s journal without ever having seen it, but her warning about finding the diary in four days was too melodramatic, and I doubted she could accurately predict the future.
Totally weird, as Angela would say. If only I could piece it all together. Maybe I should first determine why the owner of a suitcase filled with money was on his way to see the Vice President of the United States.
Thunder claps released a flash flood from smoky-gray clouds. I switched on the windshield wipers full blast. Several cars pulled off the highway and waited for the storm to pass, but I continued on, trying to see the road as best I could.
U.S. 61 mimicked a small river. Water coursed over the road into the bayou. Angela slept peacefully in the passenger seat unaware of the downpour or the turmoil of my mind.
As I pulled into the Belle’s graveled driveway and cut the ignition Angela’s eyes popped open with a startled stare. “Oh, Lord, God, Mama, those poor slaves. They’ll be drowning again.”
“You sound like Billy Joe.”
“I hope not. I think ghosts are cool, and he thinks they’re evil spirits. He even thinks snakes are evil. When I told him about Wormy, he couldn’t understand why anyone would want a snake for a pet. To hear him talk, you’d think Wormy was the devil incarnate.”
“He accepts the Bible’s literal interpretation. For him, every snake, even the little green ones, are like serpents in the garden of Eden,” I explained.
“I know. He claims that’s why they’re symbols of black magic, and he said he may be black but he doesn’t want any black magic anywhere around him.”
Angela and I laughed together, thinking of Billy Joe, a Goliath of a man, intimidated by snakes and ghosts. We savored the secure feeling of being sheltered in our van as rain poured over the windshield.
“Don’t think it’s gonna let up, Mama. Let’s make a run for it.”
I decided not to grab Duffy’s suitcase, thinking it was probably safer lodged under the middle back seat than inside the Belle. If it were stolen, then too bad. I simply didn’t want the re
sponsibility of anything else that night. Angela crouched between the front bucket seats, then grabbed our small cases, preparing for a quick exit.
“Mama, didn’t you forget?” She tapped the luggage with her foot. “You said you were gonna leave this at the hospital?”
“I wasn’t thinking.” I grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment. Seeing my gun, I decided to stuff it inside my purse as well.
“You carry everything but the kitchen sink,” Angela patted my purse. “Name the junk, you tote it.”
I shoved the gun deeper inside the bag, under the lipsticks, pens and film cans. “Be glad, Little Missy. Many times you’ve needed my junk.”
“Ready?” Angela slid the side door open as I snatched my computer case from the back seat and followed her lead. We were soaked through and through as we climbed the three levels of steps to the main floor where we found the front door unlocked.
Inside the hallway, Grecian Statues looked accusingly from their marble platforms as we dripped water on the cypress floor. A lard-oil chandelier burned brightly and emitted a musk-like odor.
Angela led me through a reddish, zebra-wood doorway into what was obviously a girl’s room. A scarlet and green spread, pillow shams and chintz curtains were offset by burgundy walls. The bed was regally draped in fine mosquito net as if waiting for Cleopatra.
Angela smiled impishly. “I’ll crash here, pretend I’m a princess.”
“You are a princess,” I said, heading toward the next room, painted a warm golden color contrasting the blue draperies and bedspread. The sleigh bed was big enough for me, but I thought it was a bit too small for the large, seemingly vacant room that held only a reclining chair, wardrobe and wash-stand.
“I’ll sleep here, but first I have some work to do.” I deposited my purse, computer and cosmetic case on the Velvet Brussels carpet, then slipped out of my wet clothing. From the wardrobe cabinet, I removed four hangers and arranged my damp clothes.
A bit cold, I decided to wear my flannel nightgown. Sam never liked it. He preferred teddies, but his preference didn’t matter now, because I didn’t have him to please. If only I did.
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