Landry pushed on. “If he’s dead, then who showed up at the hypnosis session yesterday saying he was Empyrion Richard, the owner of the building?”
“What did he look like?”
“Very tall, eloquent African American. Well-dressed too. Three-piece suit, hat, walking stick, the whole nine yards.”
Another pause, this one longer, as if he was debating how much more to say. “I can’t help you, Mr. Drake. Empyrion Richard is dead. There were no heirs — no one to carry on his name. You’re mistaken. Goodbye.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
As they left Café du Monde, Phil said, “You guys have fun in Edgard today.”
“What makes you think we’re going there?” Landry said.
“Come on. I’ve worked with you long enough to see when your wheels are spinning. The less information you know about something, the more interested you are. I want to hear all about it when you get back.”
They drove up I-10 past the airport, took 310 south and crossed the Mississippi on the cable bridge at Destrehan. Less than an hour after leaving New Orleans, they were at the historical society in Edgard. The same lady who’d spoken with Jack was excited to see Landry walk in.
“My, my, to what do we owe this surprise visit?” She laughed. “Is something spooky going on in our little town?”
Jack introduced himself as the person who had spoken with her yesterday, and said they were looking for information on a man named Empyrion Richard, perhaps a relative of Charles Richard. “Other than what you gave me about Charles yesterday, can you tell us anything about either of them?” he asked, and she turned to her computer and started typing.
“Empyrion. That’s an odd name and one I would remember. There’s nothing about him. As for Charles, I told you he lived in the big house on the plantation. I’ve heard stories that he was one of the LaPieres’ servants. We know some about that family, since they were landowners here. They’re also buried in this parish.”
Landry interrupted. “Where?”
“On the property. There’s a family plot out there. Charles Richard’s grave is there too. That’s the only parish record in his name I could find.”
Jack took notes as Landry asked her to continue.
“Lucas and Prosperine LaPiere would come up the Mississippi on a steamboat that docked at Caire’s Landing. They would go by carriage to the house, and a wagon behind carried supplies and their servants. I have a picture of them.” She turned the monitor toward them. A grainy, faded sepia photograph showed several people standing on a dock in front of a sternwheeler boat. There was a white man and woman and several African Americans, one of whom was much taller than the others.
“See that one — the tall black man?” Landry said, pointing. “Who was he?”
“There’s no telling. This picture was taken in 1824, two years after they built the house. They brought servants with them every time they came up here, and it’s sad that no one recorded their names.”
“Could he be Charles Richard?”
The woman smiled. “He could be anyone, Mr. Drake. There’s no way to know.”
She gave them directions to the old mansion along with a warning. “It’s private property although I doubt there’s anyone to stop you from going there. I wouldn’t try to go in the house, though. After being abandoned for more than a hundred years, it’s bound to be in terrible shape. A person could get hurt.”
“Who owns the property now?”
“Prosperine LaPiere. She’s long-since dead and buried, but last time I checked, nobody has ever filed a deed to transfer ownership.”
“Who pays the taxes?” Jack asked, and the woman didn’t know. Back in the car, Jack called his friend at the court clerk’s office and got his answer. “The tax bill goes to a law firm in New Orleans named Godchaux and Hart.”
Landry nodded. “Same firm that oversees the Toulouse Street building. They’ve handled the family’s affairs since the Civil War.”
They turned off Highway 3127 toward Bayou Lasseigne. When the road ended, Landry watched for a pair of ancient brick columns and took the dirt road that ran between them. A broad field of tallgrass flowed like water toward the tree line on both sides, and some distance down the lane they could see an old two-story house.
“Look,” Jack said, pointing. “The cemetery’s over there in the trees. Let’s go take a look.”
The graveyard was in a copse of tall leafy oaks that kept it in perpetual half-light. An ancient iron fence defined its boundaries. Grass and weeds grew waist-high between the markers, although it was less overgrown than Landry would have thought, considering the lady’s claim that the place was abandoned.
A rusted gate lay askew on one hinge, and a span above it bore seven letters — a family’s name.
LaPiere.
Since only a few stones remained upright, it was impossible to know how many burials had taken place there. Most lay on their sides, hidden in the underbrush. Two massive marble crypts stood in the middle. One belonged to Lucas LaPiere, his death date forever memorializing the day his wife tossed him over the railing on February 2, 1832 at age fifty-seven. Landry presumed Lucas built the vaults long before his death, because Prosperine wouldn’t have spent money creating a monument to her cheating husband.
The next enigma arose from the identical crypt next to Lucas’s. There lay Prosperine, resting for eternity next to the man she killed. She’d lived until 1865, dying at age eighty-seven.
Landry thought, A ripe old age. Too bad your husband didn’t get to finish his.
On the other side of Prosperine’s crypt among some brambles stood a plain marble rectangle. Landry moved aside the brush, read the inscription and called Jack over.
Charles Richard. 1802–1878.
It seemed the situation got more puzzling with each discovery. “Look at this,” Landry said. “Someone in the family cared enough to bury him right next to the LaPieres, but he died a long time after Prosperine. Maybe he picked this plot for himself. So who was he? The guy at the building — Empyrion — is black. If he’s Charles’s descendant, then was Charles a servant? If he was, why did Prosperine entrust him to oversee her New Orleans property? In the eighteen hundreds that would have been an unusual thing to bestow on a servant.”
Jack agreed and asked how they could find out what role the Richards played.
“Let’s look at the house. Maybe we can find some answers there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Row after row of azaleas and bougainvillea ran along the front of the house. They would have provided a colorful welcome long ago. Untended and wild today, they grew aimlessly in every direction.
This mansion was smaller than many antebellum homes Landry had seen. It was a two-story with stacked porches that ran the length of the house. The old place was in sad shape — broken windowpanes, rotting porch floorboards, and support posts for the second-floor veranda that were on the verge of collapse.
Avoiding three rotten steps, they walked onto a porch covered with hundreds of vines that crept along the floor and up the walls. Although thick tendrils interlaced across the front door, someone had hacked away just enough to allow access. When Landry pushed on it, the door swung open with a heavy groan. They stepped into a gloomy hallway that ran the length of the house. Although warped and twisted in places, the floor appeared to be sturdy.
Landry went into what appeared to be a parlor. Rotting curtains were drawn tight, keeping the room dark even on this sunny day. Jack was surprised that everything was still in place, considering the house was abandoned in 1878. Landry agreed; the thick layer of dust and grime everywhere was the only clue the house wasn’t occupied. There were chairs covered by heavy drop cloths, end tables where framed photographs still stood, rows of books in shelves on either side of the fireplace and other bric-a-brac one might expect to see in a late nineteenth-century home.
Hanging above the mantel was a large painting of a handsome black man in resplendent dress — a dark three-pie
ce suit, a shirt with ruffled collar and sleeves, and a top hat. A watch chain ran from one vest pocket to the other. He wore tall boots, and one arm rested on the neck of a beautiful horse. The man looked as if he were ready to go on a fox hunt.
Landry said, “He looks like Empyrion. I’ll bet it’s Charles Richard and that they’re related. This just adds to the mystery. This was the LaPiere home. Charles fits into the puzzle somehow, but I can’t imagine they commissioned a portrait of a servant and then hung it in a place of honor above the fireplace. What if this picture is Lucas LaPiere? I’ve assumed all this time he was white, but do we know that?”
“The woman at the historical society showed us their picture. They’re white. This guy isn’t Lucas.”
“You seem to be full of questions today,” came a voice from behind them. Empyrion Richard stood in the doorway with an angry scowl on his face. He wore white slacks, a seersucker jacket, a bow tie and a straw hat. Landry wondered if he owned any clothing from this or even the last century.
“Gentlemen, what a surprise,” he snapped, his trademark smile absent. “Have I forgotten our appointment? Or perhaps it was you who forgot to make one?”
“My apologies,” Landry said. “I had no way to contact you.”
“So you came here and entered my house without an invitation. Now I wonder why you would have done that.” He took a match and lit two gas-fed lamps, pulled the cover from a couch beside the fireplace, told them to sit, and chose an overstuffed chair opposite them.
“Milton,” he cried. “Milton, fetch us some tea!”
There was no response, and Landry glanced at Jack. He hadn’t seen or heard anyone in the house since they arrived.
“He must be off at the market,” Empyrion muttered. “I’ll just do it myself.”
“I don’t drink tea,” Jack said when he was out of the room.
“Neither do I, but we’ll fake it.” He slapped the cushion with his hand, and a cloud of dust arose. “Nobody’s sat on this couch in ages.”
Jack whispered, “You know there’s no Milton, right? It’s just the three of us. It’s like we’re in a time warp. I’m expecting Rhett and Scarlett to come sweeping down the stairs any minute.”
“How old do you figure Empyrion is?” Landry asked, trying to come up with some reasonable explanation of what was happening here. Jack reckoned mid-fifties.
“What business is it of yours how old I am?”
He stood behind them, with a tea service on a silver tray that he placed on a nearby table. Even in the semidarkness Landry could see how tarnished it was, and more dust flew up as he put down the tray.
“Just curious. You said this is your home. How long have you lived here?”
Ignoring the question, he poured tea and served each of them. After they had taken milk and sugar, he prepared his own cup and took his seat.
“Why did you come here unannounced? Were you not taught manners and civility?”
Empyrion’s formal demeanor was almost laughable, but this was no time to provoke him. Landry came for answers. He wanted to know who this strange man was and what he’d said to salvage the hypnosis session yesterday.
Jack sputtered as he took a sip of tea and struggled to swallow the rancid milk in it. He placed his cup on an end table next to him and glanced at Landry, who took the cue and did the same.
Landry had arrived full of questions, but after only a few minutes on the property, he had many more. This was the LaPiere mansion, abandoned for more than a hundred years. No one lived here — that much was clear — so how could it be his home?
Who was Charles Richard, and how were he and the family connected? And what, if anything, did this house, its ancient furnishings, and the LaPiere cemetery have to do with the building on Toulouse Street?
Landry said, “I told you I was sorry, sir. I came because I want answers about what happened yesterday. Like I did today, you appeared unannounced and uninvited, the building’s trustee doesn’t know who you are, there are no public records in your name, and you brought Tiffany out of her trance while an experienced professional couldn’t. Those are just starting questions. I have a lot more. How about some answers?”
“You’re a paranormal investigator, Mr. Drake. I’d like to hear your opinion on what you experienced yesterday.” He smiled for the first time.
“This isn’t about me —"
“I beg your pardon. It’s only about you. Without an invitation you trespass in my cemetery and come into my home. You have a great number of questions, which are the stock in trade for an investigator like yourself. I hope I don’t disappoint you, but I will ask the questions and you will answer them, or else you will leave here empty-handed. Why do you think my building scares that woman? And this man with you — why did his words make the lady scream in terror? What’s happening, Mr. Drake? In your professional opinion, that is.” He crossed his arms smugly.
Forcing himself to remain calm, Landry chose his words. “New Orleans has a colorful and unique history. Some say it’s the most haunted city in America, and I believe the title’s well deserved. Those old French Quarter buildings have seen plagues, fires and unspeakable tragedies. That one has a lengthy history of paranormal activity, and I happened to be present on the night Tiffany Bertrand learned she had an unexplainable connection with it.”
He gestured to Jack. “My friend here has a connection too. Neither of us knows what it is yet, but it’s something I want to learn about. The building calls to you, right, Jack?”
“Yes. The building tries to lure me in.”
Empyrion Richard smiled and shook his head. “A building calls to you? I could understand a ghost, a spirit or a banshee calling to you, but a building? It’s an inanimate object, made of stone and mortar and wood. It hasn’t the capacity to beckon or lure you in.”
Landry said, “It’s your turn now. How did you bring Tiffany out of her trance?”
“I spoke soothing words to her. I have some experience with hypnosis, it having once been an interest of mine. Nothing like the background of that good doctor you hired, I’m sure. I’m pleased to have been of assistance.”
“Specifically, Mr. Richard. What were the words you used?”
“Specifically? Let’s see. I said, ‘Hush, child. Your secrets went to the grave with you.’”
“What does that mean? Why did those words bring her back?”
The tall man stood and said, “I hope you’ve learned that calling on someone without an invitation often leads to a fruitless visit. Good day, gentlemen.”
“Tiffany told us there are three bodies buried under flagstones in the courtyard. I think they’re still there today. It would validate the legend. You’re not the building’s trustee, and the man who is claims not to know you. It would seem I don’t need your permission, but I’ll ask it anyway since you say the building belongs to you. May we dig there?”
Without a word Empyrion rose, grabbed Landry by the arm, ushered him through the front door and onto the porch. At that point and with nothing to lose, Landry pushed harder.
“This was the LaPieres’ country home, correct? This was the place they came when they wanted to get away from New Orleans and the atrocities they committed there. Tell me how you ended up living here, Mr. Richard, and how your ancestor Charles Richard ended up with his portrait hanging above the fireplace. If he was a servant, how did he assume such a place of honor and privilege in the family? I will find the answers, sir. I’ll find them with your help or without, but I will find them. And I will expose whatever you’re hiding when I do.”
Those words broke the mold at last. The remaining vestiges of civility fell away in an instant.
“Get out! Get off my property at once!”
They complied, and as they reached the Jeep, he shouted, “You’re in dangerous territory, Mr. Drake. I brought your friend back to the twenty-first century. She would have been trapped had I not. I suggest you leave things alone while it’s still possible.” He stepped into the house
through the network of vines and slammed the door.
As they drove away, Landry said, “A person can never be completely anonymous. They can change a name, falsify a social security number or join the Witness Protection Program, but the person still exists. Find out about him, Jack. Keep looking and prying, but be careful. We have a full-fledged mystery here and I need every investigative ability you can muster.”
Jack wrote notes to himself all the way back to New Orleans. When they arrived at the station, he took off, saying he’d check in when he had something to report.
“Take care of yourself,” Landry cautioned.
“We have a full-fledged mystery here,” he replied with a smile. “I don’t have time to get into trouble.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Landry called Cate to check on Tiffany. They were fine but bored, and she asked how his visit went.
"Let's just say he wasn't his usual cheerful self. I'll tell you everything when I see you later on. And can you ask your dad to give me a buzz when he has a minute for a question?"
Doc called just as Landry was leaving. It was great timing because Landry had things to say without Tiffany nearby. There was no need to cloud her mind with ideas that might not work.
Landry talked about what had happened at the session, how Jack made Tiffany scream and how Empyrion saved the day. It was all a mystery, and he needed Doc's help.
"I’d like you to ask Dr. Little if he’ll hypnotize Jack. Tiffany too, but only taking her back to her last session. I’d like to know what Jack and Empyrion whispered to her."
"You’re on to something with Jack, but I disagree about Tiffany. I talked to Fred after the session. He was concerned that she might not come out of her trance. I doubt he will risk it again, nor do I blame him."
"Putting her in harm's way is the last thing I want either, but this wouldn't be past life regression. She'd only go back a week. Last time she was fine even back in her childhood. A few days shouldn't be a problem."
Doc said he would ask, but he doubted the man would do it. He said, “Fred and I have been delving into the human mind for years. It’s a fascinating and complex place. There's much we don't understand even today, and I think in Tiffany’s case, the risk outweighs anything you might learn.”
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