The Meriwether Murder

by Malcolm Shuman

  I didn’t say anything.

  “He didn’t mean it, though. Nicholas never cared about Désirée. All he sees is money. He’d sell it to the first buyer.” She looked past us into a world that didn’t exist any longer. “You have to understand: The diary is all I have.”

  “Sure.” I gave her hand a pat. “Take care, Miss Ouida. Thanks.”

  I glanced over at Pepper and she nodded. It was time to go. Then, unexpectedly, she bent down and gave the old lady’s cheek a quick kiss. She looked away when she saw my eyes on her.

  “Let’s go,” she said under her breath.

  We turned and started out, but we only made it a few steps before Miss Ouida’s voice caught us.

  “Wait.”

  We turned around.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I asked.

  “Call the girl and tell her I need to go to my room for something. You can have the books.”

  TWO

  I took Pepper to her apartment on Delgado, in University Acres. She sat in my vehicle with the door open for a long time.

  “I knew Nicholas was a sleaze,” she said. “That old lady isn’t any more incompetent than I am.”

  “No,” I said.

  “So why are you staring at me?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said, smiling.

  “What, I’m not supposed to have feelings just because I’m a Yankee?”

  “I never said that.”

  “No.” She nodded at the brown paper parcel on the seat between us. “Well, at least we got the diary.”

  “Yep.”

  “Call me tomorrow,” she said. “Tell me what you think after you’ve read it.”

  I watched her walk down the driveway to the garage apartment that once had been a source of embarrassment to her. The defensiveness of last year had all but disappeared. If only I were ten years younger … Nah, it would never work.

  I drove back through the Louisiana State University campus, quiet now on a Thursday evening. I’d gone to school here a long time ago, studied, dated, taken long walks under the moss-dripped oaks. The students looked younger these days and there were more buildings crowded into what had once been tree-shaded space. Sometimes I felt very old, but on days like this one, in the early fall, with the first hint of crispness in the air, my spirit roused itself. I loved this time of year.

  And besides, I had something to look forward to: the diary.

  I went through the north gates into the war zone called Tiger Town. In the daytime students frequent the restaurants, stores, and bars, but at night the hoodlums come out. Freaks, muggers, psychos—this part of town has them all. Contract archaeologists, too. This is where our office is located.

  I pulled into the parking lot behind the big frame two-story that we rented in a cul-de-sac off State Street, in the heart of the ghetto. It was after five and the place was deserted. Not even any winos sleeping on the back porch. I went up the steps with the paper bag in one hand, avoided the weak floorboard, and unlocked the door. Once inside, I punched my private number into the keypad and saw the indicator light go green.

  The big central room that served as a lab seemed cavernous. Two long tables in the middle held neatly sorted piles of potsherds, lithic flakes, and bits of glass from one of our excavations, and the filing cabinets along one wall contained site records and contract data. The place smelled of dirt—hardly strange considering that most of the material on the tables had lain in the earth for hundreds of years.

  I went into my office, an erstwhile bedroom that had been divided by drywall and paneled with oak veneer. Two walls were covered by bookcases salvaged from yard sales and the window behind me framed a shell parking lot that had once been a backyard. I flipped on the light and regarded the stack of papers on my desk.

  A couple of draft reports to be read over prior to submission, a note from my associate, David Goldman, telling me he and his crew would be leaving early to go to the Atchafalaya Basin to start a Corps project, and a message from Rosemary Amadie, the president of the local archaeological society.

  I groaned as I read it. A teacher who lived with her old father, Rose Amadie was the kind of amateur who could take all my time through sheer enthusiasm, if I let her. Still, she meant well and I’d just have to see what she wanted.

  Then I spotted the folder with Marilyn’s printouts of our latest balance sheet. I stuck the folder in my desk drawer to get it out of sight, because just knowing it was there was depressing. There was a note pinned to it reminding me to hassle a dermatologist who’d gotten fifteen grand’s worth of work out of us for a subdivision he was developing and who, four months later, was still stalling on payment, because the Corps was slow in issuing his wetlands permit.

  The part of my job I hated.

  Well, it would wait. I hadn’t gotten into archaeology to read balance sheets. I’d gotten into it to have fun and because a certain part of me felt more comfortable with the dilemmas of history than with the trials of real life.

  I unwrapped the parcel Miss Ouida had given me and looked down at what was inside.

  There were three of them, leather-bound daybooks of the kind popular in the last century. Each consisted of a set of pages bound between two covers and used for journals and ledgers.

  I sat down behind my desk and opened the first one. On the top of the first page I saw the name John Clay Hardin in a flowing, black script, and below it the date December 12, 1825. The ink was faded and the pages yellowing, but the cursive was easy enough to make out, even with the misspellings.

  I read the first entry:

  December 12, 1825. This day my father, Dr. Charles Franklin Hardin, was taken from us at the age of 55 years. Now I become the master of Désirée, may God help me. I will miss you, Father, but the pain is made less by knowing you are with my dear Mother.

  December 14, 1825. Father was buryed today, on top of the mound. I comanded Tom and Dickens to dig the grave but a strange thing hapened. Louis, who seems particularly afected, insisted on digging the grave himself so I let him, though it is not white man’s work and I would not want the negroes to think the wrong thing. Later, after the service, I talked to Louis & he told me no man had been kinder to him than Father, who took him up out of the river after the tremors fourteen years ago. I was much afected myself by this. I wish I knew more about Louis, who he was and his people, but he says he does not remember anything before coming here. He may have fallen from a fiat boat, but Father always said he had the air of a gentleman. Poor Louis. Poor all of us.

  I sat back, trying to remember. I’d heard about the 1811 New Madrid quake. It had been the most destructive in U.S. history. It wouldn’t have been good to be on the river when it hit.

  I leafed through the pages, curious now to learn more about the strange man called Louis whose grave I’d visited a few hours before.

  But the better part of the ledger entries were mundane.

  March 4, 1826. Day cold, fog heavy untill 10:00. Planting corn.

  March 5, 1826. Still cold. Edward’s little Amelia ill. Dont know if she will survive. Ploughing for cotton. Saw a bear in the back field & shot but missed.

  March 10, 1826. Miss Mason and Miss Fournet in evening. Dr Sparks came by to treat old Abe, who was thrown by mule.

  And then, on July 14:

  Ainsworth elected to legislature. We will see how he turns out. The man has always acted above himself & mistreets his negroes something terible. News reached us yesterday of the death of Pres Jefferson on July 4th. Information had a strange effect on old Louis, who imediately asked how he had died and for all information, etc, etc. He left his work (He is reparing a gin at Cotters place) and I saw him walking by the river. Seemed more melancholy than usual. Asked him if he had a special affection for Mr Jeffsn & he said only that the man had often been in his dreams. Lost a good dog to snake bite today.

  I reread the entry and silently cursed John Clay Hardin for his brevity. Why would an amnesic drifter be particularly affected by the death of an ex-presiden
t? But then, why should the man be amnesic to begin with? Might that not in itself point to some mental problem? And didn’t people with severe mental problems experience distorted thinking? Who knew what connection Louis might have imagined he shared with Thomas Jefferson? I skipped through several more entries. Louis appeared only one more time before the end of the year.

  December 4, 1826. Tomorrow to be happiest day of my Life, when I wed Miss Judalon Fournet. Wish Mother & Father could be here. Louis insists on giving her horse he has worked with since a colt. I have noticed a strange look in his eyes lately, as maybe he is thinking what his life might have been. Have talked to him many times over years, but his life before coming here is unknown to him. Most of time seems happy in his little cabin near overseers place, with little garden and fixing things. Excelent gun smith and knows more about natural history than any man I ever met & is versed in remedies for cholic, fever, etc. But other times seems excessively melancholy. Sometimes when his door is locked I think he is taking spirits but he has never appeared outside in a disorderly state. Wonders if he has a family somewhere, etc. Last year, when he had ague I went with Dr Sparks to his cabin. Poor Louis was lying on the floor, on his bed of animal skins—He never has acustomed himself to a reglar bed. He was deranged & talking about making sure boat didnt sink, was iron, too heavy. Have never heerd of iron boats & Dr S said it is most likely his indisposition talking. When he came to himself he said he couldnt remember anything. From scar on his head I wonder if he was shot once.

  The ledger ended with the year 1830. As time passed, John Clay Hardin had become less conscientious about his diary: After 1829 he seemed to have lost the energy to make daily entries, saving his pen for what he considered important events: the birth of a child, the death of a family member or slave, an economic, political, or social occasion of note. I wondered if it had something to do with the death of his firstborn, Adam, whom he buried in 1829, at age eleven months.

  I went to the next book, which covered the years 1831 to 1855. As with the last year of the first book, the entries in this ledger were sparse. I read complaints about Jacksonian politics, including a lengthy diatribe against the state constitution of 1845, which he felt slighted the planters, and apparent satisfaction with the pro-Whig constitution of 1852, which replaced it. He mentioned the births and deaths of two more children, the sales of crops, and the status of his slaves. The writing was less disciplined now, more of a scrawl, and the entries briefer, as if a weariness had leached the joy from his soul. There were only occasional references to Louis.

  I closed the book, moved it to the side, and stared down at the scuffed leather cover of the final volume.

  We were wasting our time, I told myself: Bombast only wanted a report, with the usual boilerplate and a dry recitation of the pertinent facts. That was, after all, what contract archaeology was all about. You were paid to assist your client, whether private or public, to obtain an environmental clearance, and the two things that counted most were price and speed. Only academics were given the luxury of following the twists and turns of a line of data simply out of interest.

  Well, the hell with Bombast, I thought, and slowly opened the cover of the last volume.

  There were few entries for 1856 through 1860. But thereafter, as the secession crisis deepened, there were more comments of a political nature.

  January 1, 1861. Day cool, clear. Negroes working on back field. Mr Chambers came to visit. News is secession likely & welcome. Mr C feels they will let us go in peace, Lincoln weak reed, etc. I am less hopefull, depends on England, cotton market, etc. Mr C said “God willing.” I said I wish I could be sure the Almighty was involved.

  And three weeks later:

  Spoke with old Louis. Very feebel now, must be almost ninety years, maybe more. Still plants his little garden behind house, wont let the negroes fool with it. Complaining his eyes bad, cant see to gather herbs. Getting silly I think. Talked about dreams of prairies and rivers, going there, almost like the negroes talking about heaven. I went to his cabin yesterday, saw him looking at his little steel box. Asked him what he kept in it & he said only a few old papers, but seemed not willing for me to see them, so left him alone. I remember Father said he had papers in an oilskin when he was found by the river & how he looked at them & made no sense, so left them & afterwards the papers disapered. He figered Louis had buryed them, because he was so protecting about it when they found him, etc. Maybe this is whatever he keeps in the box. Asked him what he thought about secession & he said hoped it wouldnt hapen, etc. Not sure he understands much these days, though.

  A few months later:

  April 15, 1861. It is War though what kind of war no one knows. Talked to old Louis about it but dont think he understood. Was busy in his garden, though dont know what he expects to grow there. Old fellow hasnt much longer I fear. Bay mare gave birth to colt this evening & all well.

  The last entry concerning Louis appeared on July 10, 1861:

  The end came for old Louis this morning just after 6 oclock. Last night he sank into a sleep from which he awoke just before dawn, when my wife called me saying he wished me there. When I arrived he was awake, eyes clear, etc, & he took my hand with a force I didnt expect & told me I was to bring his box to the president if anything hapened to him & I was to promise to do that on my honor as I had saved him, etc, etc & I was to give it to the Presdt personaly, etc. He said the Presdt would know about the artichokes, which must refer to his garden, tho I never knew artichokes were planted there. Clear he thought I was Father & seeing he was close to the end I gave my word and he sank back with a look of peace good to see and half an hr later stoped breathing intirely & went to his Maker. Have his will, poor old fellow, which he wrote some time ago, gave to me for safe keeping, but not much to bequeeth, but will file it as requested, etc. Thus ended a strange life We will probably never know the all of & have given orders he is to be buryed in the family plot near Father as he was truely a friend & member of the family even though we do not know even his last name, which only the Maker of all of us knows. Cannot explain the weight I feel on me as if everything is ending.

  Searched for the lock box later & could not find it. May have been taken by a negro. Will search in quarters for it though cannot believe any of mine have done such a thing.

  Thus the strange Louis vanished from the journal of John Clay Hardin. The journal itself lasted only two more years. I read news of the war, falling cotton prices, the Union occupation of Baton Rouge, and the unsuccessful Rebel effort to retake the city in August 1862, all leavened with an increasing cynicism. And then, at the end of November 1864, the journal stopped. I checked my notebook. John Clay Hardin had died in March 1865, at the age of sixty-one. I didn’t know the cause of his demise, but I knew that during the Civil War many plantation owners had succumbed to the combinations of stress and the usual diseases of the day.

  I rubbed my eyes and reread the section detailing Louis’s last hours: He said the Presdt would know about the artichokes … How was I supposed to interpret that? Was there some logic to it, or was it the raving of a dying man? John Clay Hardin had described the old man as awake, with clear eyes. But Hardin was no physician: Clearly Louis had been seeing something that happened long before, and if that was the case, who was to say his memory wasn’t the invention of a tortured mind?

  Now I knew why Pepper had insisted I read the journals. The story of Louis was an intriguing problem. It might never be solved, but it was still worth looking into, if for no other reason than our own intellectual satisfaction.

  I rewrapped the journals and locked them in my desk drawer. Then I went to the bookshelf in the lab room and looked for a reference on West Baton Rouge Parish. There was the Louisiana Almanac, which gave general information, and a slim, privately published history of famous plantations along the river, by one Adrian Prescott. I thumbed through it, found a reference to Désirée, and put the book in my pocket for background reading at home. Then I drove back to the old hous
e on Park Boulevard. I had grown up there and inherited it when my parents had died. Now it was still filled with what, for want of a better term, could be called memorabilia. I put the journals in my study, fed my mixed shepherd, Digger, who tried to climb into my lap (all seventy-five pounds of him), and checked my answering machine. Nothing.

  I changed into running shorts. I couldn’t do anything about my age (mid-forties) or slightly receding brown hair, but I could duke it out with the extra ten pounds that kept creeping up on me. After a couple of miles around the lakes, I came back, showered, changed, and, feeling virtuous, went down to the Country Corner on Perkins and got a few links of boudin. So much for resolve. When I’d eaten, I drove out to the university library and looked up some sources on antebellum plantation life. I read until ten and drove back home, watched a tape of The Caine Mutiny, and went to bed. In my dreams I kept seeing the strange old man called Louis, waiting on the banks of the river like a lost soul; waiting for the boat that would take him home.

  The image was still hovering in my mind the next morning when I wandered into the office, turned on my computer, and found out somebody didn’t want me to learn more.

  THREE

  It was the only E-mail message waiting for me and it was to the point:

  DO NOT GO BACK TO DESIREE. IF YOU DO, WHAT HAPPENS WILL BE ON YOUR HEAD.

  I stared at it and then at the gobbledygook of letters at the top that stood for an address. I walked into the lab. A couple of workers were sorting potsherds at one of the long tables and a thin young man with thick glasses sat at a desk in the corner, inputting data into a computer. L. Franklin Hill was the lab supervisor as well as our resident computer guru. I caught his eye and he got up and followed me into my office. I motioned him around the desk and pointed to the computer screen.

  “Thing crashed again?” he asked, frowning. “I thought I fixed that.”