Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Well, Captain Longpre, did someone refer you to me or not?”

  “Do you know a Jesse Calhoun in Atlanta?” her caller asked.

  “Yes, I’ve worked with Jesse on three cases.” Her anger began to cool; Jesse Calhoun was a close friend.

  “Yeah, Jesse told me—a missing woman who wandered away from a nursing home, some paintings stolen from a museum, and the murders of all those little children around Atlanta a few years back.”

  “Then you know Jesse, too.” She felt reassured.

  “Sure do, ma’am. He and I attended The Citadel together. Wasn’t a finer cadet on the place than ole Jesse. We were talking on the phone awhile back and I mentioned this case and the brick wall I was buttin’ my head up against. He gave me your number, sang your praises to the skies, and said I should call you if I wanted some help. I have to admit I was right skeptical at the time.”

  Carol laughed softly. “Why not admit that you still are, Captain?”

  “Okay, ma’am, I’ll give you that. But if you know a way of solving this one so I can sleep nights, I’ll be forever beholden to you. Actually, as I said, the case is pretty much closed, officially. Still, it just keeps gnawing at me. I’d like some answers before I let it go, so I’m taking a couple of weeks off to do some investigating on my own. With your help, I hope.”

  Silence on Carol’s end of the line was Frank Longpre’s only response.

  “Listen, Miz Marlowe, if you want to call Jesse, check me out, and get back to me, I’ll understand.”

  The harp was playing its sad song again, louder than ever. “No, Captain, I’ll take your word for it. Actually, I guess I knew you were going to call.”

  “How’d you figure that, ma’am?”

  “I’ve been getting signals since right after Christmas, and I just wound up one in a long series of horrendous nightmares starring your Cajun fisherman and his gruesome find. I usually start seeing things right before I receive a call for help. I’ll need to come to New Orleans, of course. I can’t do this long distance. I’ll have to see her.”

  “I understand that.” He sounded vastly relieved. “Let’s see… this is Wednesday the twenty-sixth. How about I book you on a flight out of Charlotte tomorrow, if that’s not too soon for you? We’ll put you up at a hotel in the French Quarter. I think you’ll like this place. You’ll be coming at the best time, too.”

  “How’s that?” Carol asked, distracted by the crying child who was now calling for someone named “Cami.”

  “Mardi Gras falls on the third of March this year,” he answered. “Carnival’s in full swing. Of course, it won’t be quite the same with all the City Council ruckus over discrimination and Momus and Comus pulling their floats out of the parades. But, shoot, Mardi Gras is still the best free show on Earth. I have an invitation to one of the balls, too, if that sort of thing appeals to you.”

  Mardi Gras was the furthest thing from Carol’s mind right now. However, when the detective mentioned the ball, she got a fleeting glimpse of a woman dancing in the arms of a tall, handsome man. Both of them wore glittering masks, yet Carol could clearly see the look of love in his black eyes. He obviously adored the woman, but Carol sensed, too, that a dark shadow hung over them.

  “That would be nice, Captain Longpre. I’ve never been to Mardi Gras. In fact, this will be my first trip to New Orleans.”

  “Well, ma’am, you have quite an experience in store. I’ll have the airline call you about your flight, and I’ll pick you up at the airport myself. It’s been good talking to you, and, Miz Marlowe, I sure appreciate your help.”

  “Hold the thanks until I’ve done something to deserve it,” she answered.

  “You will be able to, won’t you?”

  The music and the crying child were now making such a racket in Carol’s brain that she could hardly hear what he was saying. “I think so, Captain. I’ll certainly do my best.”

  “Then I’ll see you in New Orleans tomorrow, ma’am. ’Bye now.”

  “Goodbye, Captain Longpre.”

  The moment Carol hung up the phone, the clamor in her head ceased—a sure sign that these phenomena were linked to the New Orleans case. She sighed with relief, welcoming both the silence and the proof that she wasn’t about to set off on a wild goose chase.

  She poured a cup of coffee—last night’s dregs—and took a sip, her mind racing with seemingly disjointed details. She felt tense and eager to get under way with this case. Somehow, it seemed that something was different this time, more urgent than ever before. She felt almost as if she had some personal stake in this mystery. But that was nonsense, of course. She had no ties to Louisiana; she’d never even been there.

  For a time she stood with her back to the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and staring out the window at the bleak but beautiful winter landscape. A light snow was falling, drifting down over the distant mountains. Somehow this morning the view from her windows didn’t look quite real. Carol felt removed from the scene, as if she were already far away in Louisiana. She realized she was trembling. Hurrying over to throw a log on last night’s embers, she poked the fire up to a roaring blaze.

  “That’s better,” she said, clutching her robe more closely about her and allowing herself an exaggerated, warming shiver.

  Thinking back over her conversation with Captain Longpre, Carol decided to call Atlanta, just to be on the safe side and to get some background information on the detective with the sexy voice. She reached for her address book and looked up Jesse Calhoun’s number, then dialed it quickly. She was delighted to find him at his desk on the first try. Usually he was a tough man to catch.

  “Hey, Carol! How you doin’, girl?” Jesse had a voice as southern as a pool of melted butter floating on a cloud of hot grits. He was your standard “good ole boy”—beer-belly, open smile, and a ready if sometimes off-color wit.

  “Fine, Jesse. I just got a call from a friend of yours in New Orleans.” She was doodling “Elysian Fields” again, wondering what it meant.

  “So, ole Frank finally screwed up the nerve to phone you, eh?”

  “Reluctantly, I could tell,” Carol answered.

  “You gonna help him?”

  “If I can. It sounds like a strange case, though.”

  “Downright weird is more like it, honey. I’d have pure nightmares if I turned up a mummified corpse.”

  Carol laughed in spite of the grisly topic. She couldn’t imagine Jesse having nightmares over anything. He was the toughest, most unemotional cop she had ever run across—the kind who could eat jelly doughnuts while observing at an autopsy.

  “I’m flying to New Orleans tomorrow to have a look around. I’ve been picking up vibes already, so I may be able to provide some sort of break in the case.”

  “Damn right!” Jesse answered. “If you can’t, nobody can, Carol. You’ve got a mind I don’t even believe. Shoot, if you ever do get married, your husband better sho’nuff watch his P’s and Q’s. ’Cause there won’t be no way for that poor bastard to keep any secrets from you.”

  As if to corroborate his left-handed compliment and change the subject, Carol asked suddenly, “Jesse Calhoun, is that your third jelly doughnut this morning? For shame! And after your doctor told you to watch the cholesterol.”

  “Thunderation!” Jesse bellowed into the phone. “And just when I was about to sink my teeth into the last of my breakfast. Raspberry, too! My favorite! How’d you do that?”

  Carol laughed. “It didn’t take any special powers, Jesse. I worked with you long enough to know your morning habits. It’s almost ten o’clock, so you’ve already polished off two of those sweet horrors. And I could have guessed the next one’s flavor. You always get one strawberry, one lemon, and your favorite, raspberry, which you save for last. I’m not only psychic, I’m very observant, ole buddy.”

  “Shit! That ain’t fair!” Jesse fussed. “You jokin’ around and gettin’ me all crawly-fleshed, thinkin’ you’re readin’ my mind or somethin’.”


  Carol chuckled. “I don’t waste my powers on your cholesterol count, my friend. I’ve got more important ways to use them. But you had better lay off the sweets!”

  “Nag! Nag! Nag!” Jesse replied, but Carol could read his true thoughts: Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! After last year’s Anita Hill-Clarence Thomas hearings, Jesse had abruptly cleaned up his act, too wary of being accused of sexual harassment to use his favorite phrase aloud any longer. At least something constructive had come out of that fiasco, Carol mused.

  “So, Jesse, tell me about your friend Frank Longpre. His voice intrigued me.”

  “Finest cadet ever to graduate from The Citadel.”

  “He said the same of you.”

  “Well, hell, who am I to dispute the word of such a sterling fellow? I guess ole Frank must have been second best, in that case.”

  “He’s your age?”

  “Yep!” A pause, then a long sigh. “We’ll both be hittin’ the big four-oh pretty soon.”

  “Let me guess,” Carol broke in. “Frank married his beautiful Charleston-belle sweetheart right out of college and took her back to Louisiana where they’ve raised a passel of pretty little Creoles.”

  Jesse’s bantering tone changed abruptly. “Your psychic powers are slippin’, Carol. Frank put in his time in the Army before he married. He said he didn’t want his wife to have to move all over Kingdom Come. The minute he got out, though, he and Eileen tied the knot. I was best man at their weddin’.”

  “What happened to Eileen?” Something in Jesse’s tone told Carol that the marriage was no longer intact.

  Jesse hesitated and Carol heard a long, slow sigh before he answered her question. “She vanished! Like a goddamn puff of smoke! One reason this present case is probably buggin’ the bejesus out of Frank is on account of Eileen’s disappearance. It happened just about a year after they married. Never a trace—no body, no murder scene, no ransom demand, no farewell note. She was pregnant at the time, too. Frank’s never gotten over it. That was back in 1980, but he’s still searchin’. Hell, he’s never even had her declared legally dead.”

  Carol shivered. “How sad! Thanks for telling me, Jesse,” she said quietly. “You probably saved Frank some pain and me one of my big-mouthed blunders. God, what a bummer! How has he lived with that all these years?”

  “Not well,” Jesse answered. “He drank pretty heavy for a while, just didn’t seem to care about anythin’ once he realized Eileen was actually gone for good. Then one day, he got out of bed, showered, shaved, and went back to work. Since then, the department’s been his whole life. He does tend to get overly wrapped up in his cases, but better that than wrappin’ himself around a bottle again.”

  Carol was receiving new images—all blurred and confused. These had nothing to do with the body from the swamp, she was sure, but centered on Frank and Eileen instead. Nothing clear came through, however. She shook her head sadly, wishing she could give Frank Longpre some clue to his wife’s whereabouts.

  “I can see why this case has him so unstrung,” she said. “Unknown female, dead for a long time, no clues. He must be thinking that it could be his wife.”

  “Maybe subconsciously,” Jesse answered. “But on a conscious level, I’m sure he gave up on findin’ any trace of Eileen a long time ago. Don’t mention her unless he brings the subject up. Okay?”

  “Hey, Jesse, what if I come up with something that could help solve this case, too? Should I tell Frank?”

  After a silent pause, she heard Jesse pull in a long breath, then let it out slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that. It could happen, couldn’t it?”

  “I think so,” Carol answered. “Just now, when you mentioned Eileen’s name, I got a couple of blurred flashes.”

  “This is a tough call,” Jesse said. “We’d all like to know what happened to her, but you’ve got to understand Frank’s state of mind. He’s been beatin’ himself to death over his wife’s disappearance for all these years, feeling guilty as hell. What I’m scared of is you findin’ out somethin’ real bad and ugly. I don’t think Frank could stand that, Carol. He’s been right on the edge ever since it happened. I really believe that if he ever found out that Eileen was not only dead, but that she’d suffered before she died, it would finish him off.”

  Carol felt a cold chill course through her. She sensed that Jesse was right. “That bad, is it?”

  “Last time I talked to him, that’s the way he seemed. He covers it well with strangers, but I’ve known him too long…”

  “So, if I do find out anything, I should keep it to myself?”

  “No. Call me. I’ll handle it.”

  “Thanks, Jesse. That takes a load off my mind. I sure don’t want to screw things up worse for him.”

  “Just watch yourself around Frank. Don’t ask him any questions about Eileen. And don’t even mention her name unless he brings her up.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice. What do you take me for, Jesse?” Carol snapped, her eyes going green again.

  “Sorry. I should have known that you, of all people, would never say anythin’ to hurt a nice guy like Frank.” Jesse paused and Carol could almost hear the wheels in his mind clicking. “Say, you two might really hit it off, Carol. You’re footloose and fancy free now that you broke up with that guy you were engaged to. Ted somethin’, wasn’t it?”

  “Hey, don’t remind me! That was too close a call. And, frankly, my friend, I’m not anxious to go through that again anytime soon. I’m sure your Captain Longpre is a ‘sterling fellow,’ as you say, but before I fall for another guy, he’s going to have to be solid, twenty-four karat gold. I plan to go to New Orleans, do what I can to help, then come right back home to my safe, comfortable, solitary mountaintop.”

  “Whatever you say, honey. Still, some unlucky guy somewhere is really missin’ out on a good deal by not haulin’ you off to the altar.”

  Carol had to laugh. For all his rough talk and tough-guy façade, Jesse Calhoun had the pure and gentle heart of a true romantic.

  “I’d better go, Jesse,” Carol said reluctantly. She always enjoyed talking to him. “Give my love to Millie and the kids.”

  “Good luck, honey!”

  “Thanks. Sounds like I may need it.”

  Within the hour, the airline called. Carol would take off from Charlotte the next morning at eleven-fifteen, compliments of the New Orleans Police Department.

  “Now, to pack,” she told herself.

  She didn’t know exactly what to take for this time of year in New Orleans. A ball gown, of course, for Mardi Gras. The only problem was she didn’t own one.

  She brightened. “Yes, I do!”

  Suddenly remembering the box of vintage clothes she’d bought for her antiques shop from a Tennessee dealer who’d come through a few weeks ago, Carol went to her closet. Most of it had been pretty shabby fare, with the exception of an elegant green satin ball gown trimmed in gold braid and ribbons. She’d tried it on and found it a perfect fit. Never dreaming she’d have a chance to wear it this soon, she had, nevertheless, kept it in her closet.

  “Yes! This should be perfect,” she said, holding the gown up in front of her mirror.

  Quickly, she chose the rest of her clothes—an assortment of slacks, sweaters, business suits, and one black-sequinned cocktail dress, just in case of emergency. All packed except for the last-minute items like her toothbrush and deodorant, she was left with nothing to do all afternoon but think about the trip and the case and the deep-voiced detective who—she admitted—had aroused more than her curiosity. There was something in that husky, drawling voice that hinted of vulnerability lurking just beneath the surface. Jesse’s story of the tragedy in Frank Longpre’s life confirmed her initial impression.

  Finding herself pacing the cabin, Carol realized the fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach was pure nerves. She always got the jitters at the outset of one of these unsolved mysteries. But that feeling would soon pass. She loved traveling, meeting new people, and confron
ting difficult problems. Besides, she felt a tug at her heart every time she heard the phantom harp strings. Whoever this unidentified woman was, Carol felt sure she held the key to unlock the mysteries of the long-lost lady’s life and death.

  For a time, Carol drifted aimlessly about the cabin, tidying up and checking to make sure she’d packed everything. She glanced out the window and spied a deer nosing around the kitchen door.

  “Hey, Bubba!” she called softly.

  The buck’s head came up and his velvety ears twitched. He knew her voice from many previous visits to the cabin.

  Carol went to the door, a coffee can filled with corn in one hand. She scattered some around for her “pets,” as she called them. She hadn’t owned a dog or cat in years, so she’d adopted the wild things that shared her mountain—deer, rabbits, raccoons. She watched the buck eat for a while, then she went back to the living room and threw another log on the fire.

  Restless, she switched on the television, not to watch, but to have some background noise. She felt very alone suddenly. Although she made an effort to concentrate on the movie, it was no use. Her mind wandered. She wished she hadn’t thought about pets because that topic soon connected to another, less pleasant subject in her mind. The accident and the beginning of her psychic powers. She was twenty-eight years old, but the painful memories were still as fresh as if that long-ago tragedy had happened only days before.

  Carol closed her eyes, not wanting to think about it, but knowing that she couldn’t stop herself.

  She was once again twelve years old, sleeping in the back seat of the family’s roomy Lincoln while her father drove through the night from Palm Beach to his mother’s home in Cassadaga to spend Christmas.

  “John, don’t drive so fast.” Carol heard her mother’s pleading voice, then a sharp yip from their toy poodle, Truffle, who was nestled in Helen Marlowe’s lap.