The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1)

by Carolyn Haines

  “Why is talk of seeing spirits a sign of mental illness?” Brett asked. The reasonable tone of his voice told me Carlton had fallen into his trap. Uncle Brett had set the lawyer up. He was eager for a debate of the topic. “Those who practice religion believe the soul lives on. Why is it so unreasonable to think that perhaps some spirits remain earthbound?”

  “And why would they?” Carlton countered. He’d entered into the discussion with enthusiasm. I finally understood that this was part of their relationship—one of the things that made them such fast friends. They enjoyed the art of argument. Isabelle confirmed this.

  “They’ll be at this for hours,” she said, stifling a yawn to show her boredom.

  Uncle Brett gave her a smile and whispered loud enough for all of us to hear, “Bear with me, my dear. Carlton has taken a losing position, and I’ll best him in a few sentences.” He returned his full attention to the lawyer. “Because in the instance of Eva Whitehead, she has something to tell me.”

  “And what might that be?” Carlton asked, his tone definitely patronizing.

  “She’s going to show me something,” Brett said. “Something important. Something that’s remained hidden at Caoin House for decades.”

  “I know—it’s the silver, tucked away from the Union forces who came to raid the home. Seems to me it would have been a smarter move to give up the silver and jewels and retain her life,” Carlton said.

  “I don’t know what she’ll tell me, but I’m hoping the medium brings me a message that I can understand. I’ve discovered that ghosts talk in riddles, and so far I’m not up to interpreting.”

  Carlton’s assurance wavered. “You’re winding me up—aren’t you, Brett?”

  My uncle only smiled. “We’ll find out soon enough, Carlton. Soon enough. Now, I believe we’re at the station.”

  As we stepped out onto the still, humid New Orleans train platform, I felt as if I’d entered a world where strange was the norm, and all I’d grown up with was trapped in a different time.

  A small Negro band played music to greet travelers to the City That Care Forgot. The Dixieland rhythm worked on my feet, inviting them to cut a rug right in public, but I held myself in check. Isabelle, too, looked enchanted by our destination. The pallor of her near accident had been replaced with a healthy flush, and she held on to my uncle’s arm with affection and pleasure. Carlton offered me his left arm as a porter picked up our bags and took them to the taxi stand.

  “Is it too far to walk to the hotel?” I asked Carlton.

  “Let’s ride, stow our bags, and I’ll take you for a walk in the French Quarter.”

  I hadn’t researched New Orleans, but I knew some of the history—the region’s reputation for free and easy living, eccentric residents, drunken tourists, and foreigners from the boats that delivered goods and passengers to one of the nation’s busiest ports. New Orleans was an exotic blend of history, decay, modern attitude, large churches, and an easy familiarity with sin. The very air seemed charged with a sexual tension far different from anything I’d found in Savannah or Mobile. New Orleans was a naughty femme fatale who cleverly revealed a glimpse of a breast or the feel of a firm thigh.

  As we passed through the narrow streets of the French Quarter, I caught the intoxicating odor of freedom. Sexual, racial, gender, musical, even freedom of thought. On a street corner a young boy tap-danced for a crowd of tourists, and I took note of his honey-colored skin, which looked as if the glow of the afternoon sun was trapped just beneath the surface of his cheeks. The races had been mixing in New Orleans for decades, and the city accommodated the golden children with ease. Things were very different in Mobile, where the color line was rigid, and “pure” pedigrees were highly regarded. A hint of Negro blood, proven or not, would shunt a person into a subclass. Children from liaisons between plantation owners and slaves had still been slaves and were treated as such, often sold and never acknowledged.

  In New Orleans, the color line shifted and blurred, and I found that I liked it. My parents, like Uncle Brett, had loathed the cruel treatment of colored people and held organizations like the Ku Klux Klan in contempt. But New Orleans wasn’t the place, nor was this the time, to worry overmuch about things I couldn’t change. I’d come for fun and adventure after too much tragedy.

  I inhaled the scent of fresh baked bread and reveled in the tantalizing spices of cooking gumbo. When we came to the Hotel Monteleone, I sighed with pleasure.

  The hotel reminded me of photographs of French palaces. My room was appointed with lovely antiques, and I put my clothes away in the chifforobe, leaving out the new dress I’d bought for the séance. A wiser woman would have taken a nap so as to be refreshed for the evening, but I couldn’t resist a walk with Carlton. He’d visited the city many times and would be an able guide.

  A knock at the door let me know he’d come for me, and I hurried into the afternoon, eager for fun and adventure. Our destination was Jackson Square.

  The square, which contained a statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback, was a shady park surrounded by fascinating shops. Against the wrought iron railing of the park, artists had set up their easels to paint while tourists gawked. We lingered, watching the paintings take shape in pastels, watercolors, and oils. The smell of caramel, made with sugar harvested from the nearby cane fields, came thick and sweet from a praline shop. Carlton split one of the delicious candies with me.

  “Perhaps one day, one of these artists will be famous. Just think—if you bought a painting here for a song, only to discover in thirty years that you’d purchased an early work of a master, you’d be considered a great judge of art.”

  “I’d be far more apt to pick a literary success than an artist,” I said. “I love watching them work, but I’m no judge of painting or charcoal.”

  “Brett has a grand eye. We’ve frequently come to New Orleans and visited art galleries where he’d tell me which painting to buy. Invariably, the artwork has dramatically increased in value. He never buys because Caoin House came complete with so many wonderful paintings. The portraits are amazing.”

  “Yes, especially Eva.” I hesitated but then continued. “Uncle Brett is strange, very private, about that portrait. I’m surprised he wasn’t upset that you used it for one of the scavenger clues.”

  “He wasn’t thrilled.”

  And Carlton’s attitude told me he wasn’t apologetic about upsetting Uncle Brett. “He should relocate that canvas to one of the front parlors. The trees, the gown, it’s as if she might step out of the frame.”

  “Apparently, if your uncle is to be believed, she has done just that.” He looked at me closely. “Brett’s a great one to tease, so I don’t know whether to take him seriously about the ghost or not.”

  Carlton was hitting too close to a subject I didn’t feel free to discuss. I pointed to a watercolorist. “That looks exactly like Saint Louis Cathedral with all of the crowds passing by.” I didn’t want to talk about ghosts. I had my own vision, and I wasn’t ready to share the fact that Eli Whitehead had presented to me.

  “Dodging the question, Raissa?”

  “Attempting to be discreet. Not something I’m accused of very often. Let my uncle tell you what he wants you to know.” I took his arm and strolled along the square. “I love watching the painters work, but I’m drawn to the fortune-tellers.”

  A number of Gypsies, real or pretend, had set up small tables covered with brightly colored scarves. Some wore large earrings and head coverings. Signs declaring a reader as a real Gypsy or Irish traveler were propped beside various fortune-tellers. Some read palms, and others offered to read my aura.

  “It’s a waste of your money,” Carlton said.

  “No, it’s a waste of Uncle Brett’s money,” I corrected with a grin. “And as you noted, he has plenty, so he won’t miss a quarter.” I selected a dark-haired woman in her middle years who wore a scarlet scarf tied below her right ear. Her golden-brown eyes assessed me as I walked to her table and asked if she would give
me a card reading.

  “You will learn,” she said, “but your companion is a skeptic. His lessons come hard.”

  “I’m Raissa James, and this is Carlton McKay. He’s a lawyer,” I said. “All lessons come hard to a man of the law.”

  She stared at Carlton longer than was polite before she agreed to take my money and lay out the cards. “I would prefer to read for you in private,” she said.

  Carlton gave her a stiff little bow. “I’ll retreat to the speakeasy on the corner,” he said to me. “Retrieve me when you have need of me again.”

  “Carlton—” I almost went after him, but I didn’t.

  “He won’t go far,” the Gypsy said. “He’s interested in you, though he hides it well enough.”

  “We’re friends.”

  “And he hopes for more than friendship.”

  Carlton was my uncle’s confidant. He was at least a dozen years older, and while he was handsome, charming, and interesting, I’d not allowed my thoughts to shift toward a romantic interest.

  “Cut the cards,” she instructed. When I did, she began to lay them out on the purple scarf that covered her table. The cards were strangely beautiful, but I had no understanding of what they meant. I’d never before seen a tarot deck.

  When ten cards had been put out in a complex spread, she sat quietly, staring at them. “You have a gift, Miss James. You’re an artist.”

  “A writer. Or at least I hope to be.”

  “Success will come to you.” She tapped a card that showed two dogs baying at the moon. “You see things that others do not. Sometimes disturbing things.” She pointed to a card at the top of the spread. The wicked-looking image of a man’s body topped with a horned goat head made me shift in my chair.

  “Diablo,” she said. “The devil. There is danger around you. And loss. You have lost many dear ones. I fear there will be another loss. The past is more alive than it should be.” She turned over two more cards. “The solution lies in revealing the past.”

  “How?”

  The question was barely out of my mouth when a huge black dog crashed into the table, lunging for the Gypsy’s throat. Cards and saliva from the beast’s mouth flew into the air. The Gypsy screamed and fell back, the snapping jaws missing her by inches.

  “Brutus! Brutus!” a woman cried somewhere behind him.

  I grabbed the dog’s collar and tugged against his ninety pounds. I didn’t divert him, but I knocked him off balance long enough for the Gypsy to scrabble backward. The dog quickly regained his footing and lunged for the Gypsy’s throat again.

  My grip on his collar failed, and he surged forward, knocking the table away. Out of nowhere an umbrella thwacked down harshly on the dog’s snout.

  “Back!” the gentleman brandishing the umbrella yelled. He struck the dog again, and it dropped to all fours, suddenly calm and wagging his tail. At the same time his owner arrived and snapped a leash to his collar.

  “Are you okay?” she asked us. “I’m so sorry. He got away from me. Are you okay?”

  I helped the gypsy to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

  She didn’t answer. She threw a terrified glance at me. “Diablo!” she said and crossed herself before she fled into the crowd.

  I pivoted and hurried across the square to the speakeasy into which Carlton had disappeared. As soon as I found him, I asked to return to the hotel.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  By the time we joined Uncle Brett in the hotel lobby, I had mostly recovered from the strange attack by the dog, which I didn’t mention to Carlton. The Gypsy was unharmed, and the dog’s owner had hustled away before the police could be called. I’d been left with a pounding heart, a warning, and a word. Diablo. The devil. I determined to put the incident out of my head. If I intended to write ghost stories, I couldn’t run around like a scared ninny. Carlton took my arm, and we walked the few blocks to our destination.

  The séance was held in the Benoit house, a three-story Victorian that blazed with light as we arrived. A butler showed us into a parlor where a round table had been placed with nine chairs. We would be joined by four people we didn’t know for the session.

  Madam entered the room on the arm of the most handsome man I’d ever seen. He wore a tuxedo cut to emphasize his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and lean build, though he was far from slight. Sophistication seemed to be his signature, and while he wasn’t comic, he put me in mind of the French comedian Max Linder. His well-groomed hair caught the light from the chandelier, and I thought of the glossy feathers of a raven. His neat moustache offset lips that were thin and sensual. My guess was European. None of the American men I knew cut such a polished figure.

  “What a pretty boy,” Carlton said under his breath.

  I didn’t understand his sarcastic remark or snide attitude. “He is very handsome,” I said. “The reports I read are true. And he can communicate with spirits.”

  Uncle Brett chuckled, and Isabelle raised her eyebrows in question. She shook her head, indicating she was as much at a loss as I was. In a moment the butler served a fruity red wine and showed us to our seats. The four additional guests were three women in their fifties and one young teenage boy. They were all either friends or relatives, but I couldn’t figure out the connection exactly.

  When everyone had gathered in the parlor, Madam said, “I’d like to introduce my protégé. This is Reginald Proctor. He’s a talented medium in his own right who’s come to study with me. Tonight he’ll be my assistant.”

  I wondered what the duties of an assistant to a medium might entail, but I didn’t ask. It seemed he made sure of Madam’s comfort, supplying her with things before she even had to ask. Perhaps he was psychic. The thought made me smile.

  Reginald took that as an invitation to join me at the sideboard, where an array of light snacks and iced tea had been set out. “You must be Raissa James, the woman whose interest in spirit communication brought you and your friends on a journey to New Orleans,” he said.

  “How did you know that?” I was thrilled. “Are you psychic? Did a spirit tell you?” I didn’t say it aloud, but I desperately wanted it to be Alex.

  Amusement made him even more handsome. “I studied the guest list so I could provide Madam with biographical information if she needs it. But I will seek psychic information.” He touched his forehead and closed his eyes as if he were receiving a message from the Great Beyond. “You’re a schoolteacher visiting your uncle in the wilds of Alabama. And you’re an aspiring writer.”

  “You discerned all of that by talking to a spirit?”

  “But of course.”

  “Don’t hand me that line.” He was too charming for his own good. And such fun.

  “You injure me, madam.” He put his hand over his heart.

  “How did you find out I wanted to write?” I so wanted it to be Alex telling my secrets; it would mean Alex was near, and that I might one day speak with him myself if I learned how.

  Reginald’s easy charm slipped away with his smile. “You’re hoping I obtained the information from a departed person who knows you. One you miss.”

  The tears collected in my eyes, and I fought for self-control.

  “There was nothing supernatural involved—I swear to you. I asked some questions of Mr. McKay when he booked the tickets. That’s all. A little snooping and snitching. Nothing supernatural. I’m sorry. I’ve opened a wound.”

  I felt like a total fool, and I struggled to regain control. “So you are Madam’s Watson.” I picked up a dainty cucumber sandwich and took a bite. It tasted like paste.

  “The answer is yes. I perform the duties of Watson as I study her methods.”

  “If Sherlock had been able to communicate with the dead, he would be able to solve any mystery. Perhaps you should sell your skills as a snitch.”

  “One day I hope to be Sherlock and have my own Watson. Part of any séance, if the medium is a serious professional, is a bit of background on those attending. It focuses the energies in the room
and provides Madam with a framework for each individual event. Spirits communicate in symbols most often. It helps to know something about the attendees so Madam can interpret the meaning of what she sees and hears.”

  “Can you show me how to communicate with the dead?”

  “You have to be a sensitive. It isn’t—”

  “I’ve seen a ghost at Caoin House, and so has my uncle.”

  “You have?”

  “A Confederate soldier and the most beautiful woman in the South.”

  He brushed the right corner of his mustache. “I’d love to visit Caoin House, then. Explore the spirits there. Tell me about your writing.” Heavier fare was also available, and Reginald chose a ham slice on rye bread. He took a bite, showing strong, white teeth.

  “An aspirer,” I said. “But I am young and have years to practice my skills.”

  “You don’t strike me as someone who takes years to find success at whatever you aim at. I expect to see your name on the spine of a book shortly.” The awkward, emotional moment had passed.

  “Your confidence in me is extraordinary, and totally unsupported.” He was overflowing with flattery, but I liked him.

  “I’d wager a month’s wages that you’ll publish a short story within the next few months.”

  “Now that would be an accomplishment since I haven’t finished writing one.”

  He laughed out loud and drew the curious gazes of everyone else in the room. My uncle and Carlton were pouring glasses of tea with unhappy faces—of course they preferred bourbon, but with the exception of the first glass of wine, alcohol wasn’t allowed until the conclusion of the séance. Isabelle caught my eye and pretended to drink and stagger, making me laugh.

  Reginald ignored everyone else, his attention totally on me. “By Wednesday you’ll have a story in the mail to the Saturday Evening Post. I’ll be telling my friends, ‘Oh, that beautiful young female writer Raissa James. I had drinks with her in New Orleans.’”