Murder in the Grand Manor

by Tom Hoke

  "So the mint wasn’t really robbed, but all the newly minted gold was exchanged legally for British gold sovereigns?" He asked, watching her move a strand of hair from her face.

  "And what did the Confederate States of America do with the gold?" He smiled the question at her.

  "My story is real, Mr. Smith. Believe it or not I think the money taken from the New Orleans Mint in 1861 was buried just outside Bay St.

  Louis, and I think the Confederate officer who buried the gold was an employee of the mint.

  Janet took another long pull on her drink, and then she added: "I also think he had a friend named Jeane Dupree.

  Chapter 12

  Jim might have arrived at the ancestors of Jerry Duprey with one question, but he was sure of one thing. Jeane Dupree had apparently inherited her land, so perhaps Janet was right on target and didn't even realize it.

  Chances were too Janet was going to take her own sweet time in telling the rest of the story.

  So far she had proved coincidence can exist.

  Suddenly Janet's voice trailed off, and then she looked into his eyes and said bluntly: "Smith, if you're an author, I'm the Statue of Liberty!"

  Her eyes had little lights snapping in them. "In the library I asked you about a book that has never been written by an author who never was. Before we go on with your history lesson, why don't you try answering my question.

  Who the hell are you?"

  Caught off guard, he thought it wise to keep his thoughts about her glib recital to himself.

  She was reeling it off far too well, and he needed more of the history lesson, but the only way he could keep it coming his way was to give her a good, believable answer: the truth.

  "My name is really Jim Smith," he said. "I come from Chicago. You are correct. I am not an author. As I told Mr. Reese awhile ago, I work for a firm of private investigators. Besides walking into one large hurricane, I tramped into a big fat mystery in the Grand Manor, while looking for the heir to said hotel."

  He gave her his most earnest look. "You would never believe how I got from Chicago to Bay St. Louis, unless I went into every sordid little detail. I will at length later, if you insist.

  All this is beside the point. Whatever goes on here is probably related to something you know, especially since you have researched the buried treasure legend. I could probably find out a lot more if I had time to ramble through a couple of dozen books, but I don't have the time and I do have you."

  Janet gave a questioning look, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with the truth. Then she said, "I understand Mrs. Benning who owned the hotel is dead." Jim moved his head in agreement.

  "She just plain died of old age?" Janet asked.

  He shook his head. "I would say she did not, but that's only supposition. You'll have to take my word for it. That's another reason I am trying to find out what has been going on here."

  "Mrs. Benning was one of my customers recently," Janet added factually. "She stopped by last week and asked if I had any books on United States coins. She checked out an edition of Coin Collector's Guide, but she never returned it. I was hoping to get it back from her before I heard she had died."

  Jim interrupted, "Your name is really Wharton?"

  She nodded. "My father was Sam Wharton.

  He came here from Boston in the early 1950s."

  Then she smiled. "He probably robbed a bank in Boston before he left. He was a crusty character with a will of his own."

  "I can believe that!" Jim announced, looking at her firm chin.

  Janet started to speak again, when suddenly Lena and Aunt Annie were at their side. Aunt Annie had fully recovered her faculties. She put her hand on his shoulder before he could get up. "Now, Charlie," she said, "There is no use in getting hysterical. In a few hours the hurricane will go north." Lena nodded her head. "Yes, in a few hours the hurricane will go north." Just like a parrot, except she emphasized the word north, as if she disliked the thought of anything going in that direction.

  But a parrot would hardly reach for the bottle and drink without batting an eye. This she did and passed the bottle to Aunt Annie who, it seemed, could drink straight whiskey as well as Camilles. Aunt Annie HAD recovered her faculties.

  Lena looked coyly at Janet and then at Jim.

  "My, my, hurricanes make strange friends.

  What on earth have you two been talking about?"

  He didn't have to answer because the front door blew in just as she finished the last word of her question.

  The rattan furniture took off into the dining room, and the table and cards followed. Jim yelled, "Get into the bar, all of you", and grabbed the lantern before it took flight with the furniture. The lobby was empty before the words were out of his mouth. Hurricanes not only make strange friends, but they put wings on feet.

  All very well for everyone except him. Much as he disliked the man, he had to deal with Mr.

  Leddon. Dodging a chaise lounge, he ducked behind the desk, which seemed firmly anchored to the floor. Keeping the lantern reasonably upright, he looked into the little room back of the desk, expecting to have to carry Leddon out. Leddon was nowhere in sight. Probably out the back door at the back of his room. Jim didn't blame him. The room looked like a cell. A sagging cot and a chair were the only furniture.

  He gave up on Leddon for two reasons: he couldn't chase the man down, and he didn’t have suicidal traits. Jim raced across the lobby toward the bar and somebody's hunk of tin roofing sailed through the front door of the hotel just behind him. If he had been a second later, half of him would be gone one way and half the other. Bertha won his total respect at that particular moment. She'd been close before.

  The Tribbles and the bride and groom probably were safer in their bedrooms, separated from the bar by one hurricane. The Tribbles had each other. The bride and groom had each other. Jim had the whole goofy crew, except for the elusive Beau Mitchell, Jerry Duprey, and Leddon. At the moment he could get along very well without them.

  East of the bar was what used to be called a sun porch. It had windows on the south, but the east wall was solid which formed protection for the bar. The bar, he hoped wouldn't get the pilings and branches, or a boat that might have been left on the beach.

  There was a door between the sun porch and the lobby. He yelled at his crew, and it took all of them to close it. Then everybody trooped silently into the bar. He followed and looked them over.

  He had a captive audience. They were all standing there acting like he was going to lead them in Onward Christian Soldiers or Nearer My God to Thee just before the ship was sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Even George didn't look too tough. He was blowing and going from pushing shut the door.

  Instead of bursting into song, Jim waved at the table laden with bread, beans, and cheese.

  "Eat, drink, and…" he started to say, and changed his mind. It didn't seem tactful.

  "Drinks are on the house," he announced pleasantly. "We have some waiting to do. At the moment I would say we are relatively safe." He wasn't so sure about that, but it sounded good.

  His crew relaxed. Apparently they trusted him. Aunt Annie sighed. Lena echoed her sigh, you could hear them both over the wind.

  The drunk on the bench had raised his head when they came in. Now he flopped back and went to sleep, happily unaware of Bertha's rising anger. Jim envied him. But, somehow he was comparing bucking a hurricane with getting used to driving a nitroglycerin truck.

  You could get used to a hurricane the same way.

  Anyway, he did have something on his mind beside Bertha. He had been listening avidly to all the fancy history of the Gulf Coast, and admiring Janet Wharton's eyelashes. She had said, "But…but…" about the time Aunt Annie and Lena moved in on them and the whole lobby took off. He wanted to know where she was going from there, but that wasn't all. Her recital was very well done, too well done for him.

  He found Janet Wharton sitting in a corner by herself. Just the way he wanted her. He set the
lantern on the bar, walked over to Janet, leaned over, and whispered in her ear, "Think up a good answer, Sis, in about twenty seconds!

  That's while I get us a drink. You had it all down pat. Why?" She gave him a half scared look and he relented. "I just want the rest of it, o.k.?"

  Everybody in the room seemed to have finally resigned themselves to waiting out the storm.

  Aunt Annie curled up on the bench across from the long, tall drunk. Lena sat next to her, staring into space. Jim carried two glasses over to the corner where Janet sat. For some reason she seemed amused. She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look, and then had the grace to look away.

  "Now" he said, plunking himself down beside her. "Give me the poop, Lady. I know there must be something you haven't told me yet. I can feel it in my private investigator bones.

  Let's stop playing games. Maybe the waves were lapping at your feet. Maybe they weren't.

  But, how come you arrived at the hotel? The Civil Defense guys said they were moving the diehards to the schoolhouse. And don't tell me you were just coming after your library book."

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with his hand over her mouth.

  "Before you fill me in, I want you to know your speech sounded like it had been recently recited. It sounded like it came out of the local history book or newspaper. Could it be possible somebody else provided your story??

  She stared at him. "How did you know?"

  Then she said, "All this didn't come out of a history book. A lot of it came from my father.

  He was my source for legends. "

  "What about the waves lapping at your feet?"

  "They WERE lapping at my feet, really. The men with Civil Defense were quite annoyed.

  They suggested I look for shelter elsewhere. So I did. But I came here because I am naturally curious. You gave me that author routine. I could hardly swallow that." She looked around the room. "Also, this is supposed to be the highest spot for miles. Everyone knows this place survived hurricanes before." She sounded dubious about the present.

  She hadn't answered entirely, but he knew she would get to the point eventually. "Did you know Mrs. Benning personally, other than just as a library visitor?" She shook her head.

  "Before I spoke of him, did you ever hear of Jerry Duprey?" Again, she shook her head, but a light flickered in her eyes.

  "I guess I should have said Jerome Duprey, because I assume that is his name. Of course he is the rightful heir to this charming establishment, or what's left of it. You started to tell me something when Bertha took over the lobby. There must be more to your story, something is missing." He looked at her intensely.

  She had been holding out on him. She replied quickly, "My father was a newspaperman. He worked as a stringer for the Times Picayune. It was my father who did all the original research about the New Orleans Mint. It was also my father who spent literally years putting the story together. And it was my father who had his story entitled How the Mint Was Robbed published in the newspaper.

  Janet paused, and then dropping her eyes toward the floor, she added: "He was also the reporter who interviewed the old Choctaw Indian who had witnessed two killings in 1861.

  My father knew both stories were linked. He knew the mint was robbed, and he also knew where the money was buried. He only published the first story. The other he kept for me!"

  Chapter 13

  At last they were getting somewhere. But, instead of introducing the graveyard, Jim explained, "In the Hancock County Courthouse I discovered the last grantee to a piece of land to the west of here was Mrs. Benning. To put everything into perspective, I also found out the piece of land she inherited was originally granted to Jeane Dupree. “

  "An employee of the mint, buried the gold and silver coins on Mrs. Benning's property?" An understanding smile spread across Janet's attractive face. Apparently she was well aware of where Mrs. Benning's property was located.

  There was a long moment while they listened to a great thumping on the roof. Then she said conversationally, "You are thinking along the same track as I am. Maybe Mrs. Benning found the site where the mint money was buried, and someone killed her trying to find out."

  "What did Mrs. Benning look like?" he asked, knowing Janet had seen her recently, and she obviously kept a detailed photographic image of everyone.

  "She was short, and she didn't need to dye her hair. It was coal black," she commented.

  "Did Edith Benning have any Choctaw blood in her?" Jim asked.

  "Sure she did, but if you must know Mr. Jim Charlie Smith, I happen to have Indian blood in me too. So what's the matter with that?"

  "Look," he responded hastily, "there's nothing the matter with that. For all I know I'm an eighth Cherokee. Who cares? But my stomach says eat. I'm going to gather up some food.

  You gun up on the Choctaws, Janet, while I forage for food."

  By this time George had abandoned his bar tendering. He and the short salesman and the man in the shorts were slumped in chairs around a table. Lena had stretched out and joined Aunt Annie in slumber. Mr. Reese sat patiently at another table alone with his hands folded. He had no expression on his face and no glass in front of him. He did not crave the company of anyone.

  Jim walked around the bar and picked off four packs of potato chips, grabbed a plate of cheese from the table, and took his goodies to where Janet Wharton was sitting cross-legged. It occurred to him the wind was losing strength, or maybe he was just getting used to it. He walked to the door to the lobby and looked through the small window at the top. The wind spun the spokes of the ceiling fan round and round over nothing. Even the well anchored desk was gone. As he looked, a piling came through the front door. It slammed against something which must have been the rear wall of the dining room. If the back of the hotel was still around, it was a barricade of desks and chairs. He hoped it was.

  He returned to Janet Wharton who had pulled open a sack of potato chips and was making a meal of them. She pointed to her glass. "Can I have a little water for a change, Jim?" she asked softly. He found a pitcher back of the bar.

  Janet licked her fingers. She had stopped looking haughty. Instead she verged on sarcasm. "You do know Indians inhabited this land before the white man came here. I mean the whole United States?"

  Indians! What did he know about Indians.

  His association with them was connected with a picture of Custer's last stand at the Battle of the Little Bighorn in a history book. He grinned at her. "Yes, you might say I do know that much." Apparently she needed the water.

  "The Indians did not refer to themselves as Indians." She was giving the first grade treatment. "They were the Shawnee, the Navajo, and so on. In the West Florida States there were a number of tribes, but in what is now known as Mississippi and Alabama, there were a great number of the Choctaw Tribe."

  She pointed a finger at me. "And, of all of them, the Choctaw's were probably the most superstitious. For your information, most of the descendants of the people who settled in this area have a smidgen of Choctaw blood in them." She helped herself to a piece of cheese.

  "Maybe that's why I'm superstitious." She shrugged. "Oh, I don't go for the whole bit…not enough Choctaw, I guess."

  "Superstitious? I suppose you won't walk under a ladder, and a black cat scares you to death?" Jim suggested.

  "Pooh! Those fancy superstitions must have come over on the Mayflower. Have you ever heard of sheep jumping out of the ground, or sudden wild winds that spring from nowhere to protect Choctaw hallowed ground?"

  "No!" he said without proper respect for her remarks on superstition. Then he yelled "NO!" so loud it should have brought everybody to their feet, if it hadn't been for the wind. He got his voice down. "And what did the Choctaws regard as hallowed ground?"

  "Burying grounds…cemeteries…for one," she said. "I know you won't believe it, but a bunch of us went into an Indian cemetery when I was in high school. This was up near Picayune.

  There was a s
udden wild wind that sprang up from nowhere. It scared us half to death. We got out of there in a hurry, and we didn't go back."

  He looked to see if she smiled when she said it.

  She was in deadly earnest.

  Jim's mind went back to following Jerry Duprey to an abandoned graveyard on property belonging to his aunt. He had remarked to himself at the time Duprey took off from that spot almost in terror. For Jim there was no wild wind, but for a Choctaw, the superstition might be so embedded, imagination might have played tricks with his mind, as it had with Janet's. Jim supposed, under the circumstances, it must have taken more courage than he had ever thought to go out to a cemetery in the middle of the night.

  He looked at Janet. "Let's go back to a question that needs answering. Who recently got your curiosity up concerning the Dupree family, Janet. Come now, you didn't have it on the tip of your tongue, not all of it. Some of it, yes, but the whole thing, no! Who has been gracing your library with questions about the Dupree land?"

  She gave a mischievous smile. "Which one do you want me to start with, Jim?" She twirled a lock of her hair. Her eyes watched his face.

  He looked at her in exasperation. "Oh, just start off wherever you want. I'll follow."

  She frowned. "Lately, a tall thin man, who started skipping through the history books about like you did."

  "And you, of course, immediately gave him the fascinating history of Mississippi and your legends?"

  She ignored his sarcasm. "No. He didn't ask about the mint being robbed. He seemed to know about that." She rested her chin in the palm of her hand. " He was looking for a map."

  "What did he look like, besides being tall and thin? And how did he find out about the mint being robbed, and what map was he trying to find?"

  Janet put her hands across her brows.