Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Carol giggled. “Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

  Frank’s face was a thundercloud. “You still want to go inside?” he grumbled.

  “Of course! More than ever.”

  “Well, all right. But he’d better be gone!”

  Stepping through the doors into me hotel was like entering a grand French drawing room. Velvet drapes hushed the noise from outside. A grand piano played softly in the background, mingling its chords with the soft strains from Carol’s phantom harp. She almost expected to see ladies in period costumes come gliding down the broad sweep of the stairway.

  “The ballroom’s up that way,” Frank directed.

  Carol drifted up the stairs, still not quite herself. In spite of Cami’s earlier insistence that she meant to marry Black Vic, Carol could tell the young woman secretly feared what loving him might bring. She ached for Camille, aware now of her doubts and her total naivete about what it would mean to be kept by a man.

  Carol’s gaze took in the vivid colors of the portraits on the walls above the staircase, but no distinct features impressed themselves on her consciousness. Not until they entered the old ballroom did she feel totally aware of her surroundings once more.

  “Oh, Frank!” she cried. “How elegant!”

  She stood in the center of the room—a chamber much smaller than she had expected—staring up at the allegorical murals covering the ceiling. There was Neptune, surrounded by his bounty, the Old and New Worlds, the Muses, a soldier, and the banner of religion. Then she focused her gaze on the antique portraits around the walls. Fashionable ladies in their period gowns stared haughtily back.

  Suddenly, Carol gasped and gripped Frank’s arm. “It’s Cami!” she cried, hurrying toward one of the portraits. “Cami!”

  “Are you sure?” Frank asked, skeptically eyeing the lovely, sad-eyed young woman inside the ornate gold frame.

  “I know that face as well as I know my own.”

  Camille Mazaret was pictured seated at a golden harp, her dark tresses caught up in a cascade of curls in back. Her indigo eyes seemed alive in her perfect but unsmiling face. She wore a shimmering gown of violet brocade. And around her neck hung the gold doubloon.

  As Carol stood staring at the portrait, transfixed, it almost seemed she could see Cami’s delicately shaped fingers move on the strings. The harp music swelled until Carol could feel its vibrations in her heart. Unbidden tears spilled over her lashes.

  “What’s wrong, darlin’?” Frank asked gently.

  “It’s Cami. She’s so sad. So terribly, irreparably heartbroken. Oh, Frank, I can feel her pain, her hopelessness.” Carol was gasping suddenly. “Frank, I can’t breathe!”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Without giving Carol a chance to argue, Frank took her hand and hurried back to the stairs. By the time they reached the lobby, she was sobbing. People turned to stare.

  Out in the sunshine again, Frank put his arms around Carol, trying to comfort her.

  “I’ll be all right in a minute,” she murmured tearfully. “For a moment in there I was Cami. I must have been. Otherwise, how could I have felt her pain so sharply?” She gazed up at Frank through thick, wet lashes. “Oh, Frank, if we don’t go back and help her, Cami is going to lead such a miserable life. She wants Black Vic. She needs him so desperately. Yet I have the feeling that she’s terrified of him, too.”

  “With good cause, I’d say. My guess is it’s Black Vic who put that sad expression on her face.”

  “I don’t think Vic would ever cause Cami pain on purpose,” Carol countered.

  “I don’t like this, Carol. I don’t like what it’s doing to you. If I’d known the mess I was getting you into, I’d never have called for your help.”

  Carol reached up and pulled Frank’s cheek down to her own damp face. “Don’t say that. Can’t you see that I was meant to come here? And you were meant to bring me to New Orleans. If you hadn’t called, Frank, then we might never have met… in this life.”

  He stared into her eyes, his own dark and somber. “You really believe that, don’t you? That we’re doing all this again.”

  “And better, I hope, than before.”

  Frank glanced about, nervous suddenly. “I wish we knew more about Victoine Navar. Carol, there’s somewhere I need to go, if you’re willing to come with me. I’m not brave enough to go back there alone.”

  In control of her emotions once more, Carol looked at Frank with concern. Certainly he was as brave a man as ever lived. She couldn’t imagine anything that would shake his courage.

  “Lead the way, Frank,” Carol whispered. “I’m with you.”

  “Aren’t you even curious about where I’m going to take you?”

  “Of course, I am. Tell me…”

  Chapter Twelve

  Frank rubbed a hand over his mouth, embarrassed by his own idea. He shied away from Carol’s curious gaze.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t seem to get Ivory’s place out of my mind. I swear, Carol, it looked familiar. I remember that Black Vic said he knew the place. But it’s not his memory that’s bugging me. I think that house is still standing on Dumaine Street.”

  He glanced at Carol to see how she had reacted to his mention of Ivory. They’d had such a pleasant breakfast, he didn’t want to get her riled again. He realized now that he shouldn’t have teased her so much. To Frank’s relief, the only emotion Carol’s face belied was one of glowing curiosity.

  “Let’s go see if we can find it! Imagine, if it’s still there…” She rubbed her arms suddenly. “It gives me goosebumps thinking about it.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’m as eager as you to find this place. But if I don’t go, I’ll keep wondering about it.”

  “You shouldn’t be nervous about seeing it again, Frank. I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either,” he admitted. “It’s hard to explain. I guess I haven’t quite convinced myself that all this is real. If we walk over to Dumaine and find Ivory’s house still standing, then I’ll have to admit that I really did travel back in time and that I’ll probably be forced to go back again.”

  “Was it such a terrible experience?”

  He laughed and winked. “Only the part when you gave me hell for letting Ivory give me a hickey.”

  “Oh, you! Come on. Let’s find it. I’ve never been in a house if ill repute.” She cast Frank a playful glance. “Not in this life, anyway.”

  He scowled.

  The going was slow since they had to fight their way through the crowds on Orleans and Royal Streets. But once they reached Dumaine, the battle was won in the blink of an eye. Ivory’s house was easy to pick out from the others crowding the banquette. It was a different style of architecture—what was called a “raised colonial cottage.” Frank immediately recognized the place by its West Indies flavor—the shuttered French doors, living quarters above the elevated basement level, and wide overhanging roof topped by twin dormers.

  “Well, there it is, almost exactly as I remember it.” Frank sighed, obviously regretting that he’d ever suggested this search.

  “What a quaint place!” Carol exclaimed. She pointed to a small sign in the window. “And look, it’s a museum now. Let’s go in.”

  Carol headed straight for the stairs, but Frank hung back.

  “What’s wrong? Come on,” she urged.

  “I don’t know if I want to go back in there, Carol. It gives me the willies just looking at it from out here. What if I step inside and nothing’s changed and I’m suddenly Black Vic again?”

  “Oh, Frank, don’t be silly! It doesn’t happen that way,” Carol assured him. “I want to see where this fabulous Ivory lived. And you need to see if it’s the way you remember.”

  Finally, resigned if not happy, Frank followed Carol up the stairs. Everything he’d seen and done here before flashed through his memory. He half-expected Ivory herself to answer their knock.

  Instead, a frail woman in period costu
me met them when they entered. Her white hair hung down about her shoulders, reminding Frank of Ivory’s pale tresses. Her ice-blue eyes seemed familiar as well. Frank did a double take, then realized there was no way she could be Ivory as an old lady. He was merely allowing his imagination to run wild.

  “Welcome,” the elderly curator said. “I am so pleased to have guests this morning.”

  At the same time that she called them “guests,” her eyes shifted to a basket on the marble-topped hall table with its small calligraphy sign indicating that “donations” were six dollars per person. Frank quickly fished out his wallet and deposited the required number of bills.

  “My name is Madame Yvette. Welcome to my home,” the woman said politely. “Would you like me to tell you the history of my little cottage or would you prefer to look about for yourselves?”

  “Oh, please, tell us the history,” Carol begged.

  Yvette smiled at her. Frank was nervous and fidgety. The present mistress of Ivory’s house seemed set on ignoring his seeming disinterest.

  “The original house was begun around 1730, but not finished for nearly fifty years,” the woman began. “It is believed that a Spanish pirate from Barataria by the name of Zeringue contracted with a famous architect to build a beautiful cottage for his bride. Unfortunately, as the legend has been handed down, she died of a fever on the very eve of their marriage. Her fiancé went mad with grief. First, he tried to burn the house down, but heavy rains put out the blaze so that it was only partially destroyed. Tormented, the man, who had sworn to give up his wild life once he married went on a rampage after his lover’s death, murdering twenty innocent people before he was finally captured and hanged.”

  Carol shuddered. “How terrible! I hope the next occupant had a happier life.”

  The elderly lady patted Carol’s hand sympathetically. “If you want happy tales, my dear, I’m afraid Maison d’Ivoire is not the place you should have come.”

  “The House of Ivory,” Frank translated. For the first time, their tour guide seemed to have captured his undivided attention.

  “Yes.” Madame Yvette flashed a grateful smile. “The name of Ivory has been linked with this house for many years. She was a great lady, so they say. But, I get ahead of the story.”

  “What happened to Ivory?” Frank queried.

  “Please, sir,” the woman said reproachfully. “The story must be told chronologically. I will tell you of Ivory, all in good time.”

  “Do go on,” Carol insisted, with a warning glance at Frank.

  “Let’s see. Where was I? Oh, yes. After the fire, the house was thought to be haunted. Some believed that the ghost of the pirate’s bride roamed the unfinished corridors on stormy nights. Others said the pirate himself returned, searching for the woman he loved. People heard things here—moaning, crying—and saw lights at the windows on dark nights. Whoever the ghosts were, everyone agreed that this house was cursed with restless, unhappy spirits.” She leaned closer to them, glanced about, then whispered. “As well it may be, my dears. There was at least one murder within these very walls.”

  Frank felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. They were still standing in the entryway, but just down the hall on the left was the room where Hector Lazano had died.

  “Are you sure it was murder?” Frank asked in a rather surly tone. “Maybe the guy fell on his own knife.”

  The old woman sniffed indignantly at being interrupted and at having her facts disputed. “On what authority do you base this assumption, sir?”

  Frank was about to say that he’d been there and witnessed the whole thing and the bastard deserved to die anyway, when Carol nudged him in the ribs. Although he was anxious to carry the argument further, he kept quiet.

  “But again, I’m getting ahead of the tale,” said Yvette. “The ruined cottage was at last purchased by a French sea captain, Jean Claude Blanchet, in 1779. He had the place completely rebuilt, adding many of his own distinctive touches—the marble fireplaces, the crystal chandelier in the front parlor, the twin mirrors you see on either side of the hall, all brought from Europe aboard his own ship.”

  “And this captain, he lived happily with his wife and family here for many years?” Carol asked hopefully.

  The woman’s smile rapidly faded. She shook her head. “Alas, no, my dear. The captain drowned at sea in a storm. His wife and six children all died in a yellow fever epidemic.”

  Carol sighed, but Frank leaned closer, all attention now. Surely the woman was about to arrive at Ivory and her story.

  “The house stood vacant until 1835. No one wanted to live here, afraid the very walls still carried the taint of Bronze John—what they called the fever in the old days, you know.”

  “Then Ivory… she bought it. Right?” Frank stammered excitedly.

  “Yes.” Yvette uttered a sigh and inclined her head toward Frank. “You are partially correct, sir. But Ivory herself did not purchase the property. She arrived in New Orleans penniless, alone, and with child.” Madame whispered the last two words, and when she spoke of that long-ago shame, bright spots of color appeared on her wrinkled cheeks. “With nowhere to go, no one to turn to, Ivory was at the mercy of fate.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Carol murmured to herself.

  “How’d she get the house, then?” Frank asked impatiently.

  “Please, sir!” their guide replied. “Any tale worth the telling deserves to be told properly.”

  “By all means, continue, ma’am,” Frank replied with forced courtesy.

  “Poor Ivory!” Madame Yvette sighed dramatically. “Cast out by her own family, deserted by the man she thought to wed, alone in a strange and wicked city. Can we blame her for what she did?”

  “What did she do, dammit?”

  “Frank!” Carol hissed, gripping his arm. “Just listen, won’t you?”

  Their thoroughly annoyed guide shot Frank a hostile glance, then said to Carol, “Thank you, my dear. Now, if I may continue?” She stared at Frank pointedly.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled.

  “Ivory met a man!” The woman emphasized each word. “Of course, he knew that she was to give birth to another’s child imminently. Still, he placed her under his questionable protection. He purchased this cottage, sent one of his own servants to care for her…”

  “Yes, Tessa.” Once again, Frank interrupted and was forced to endure glares from both Carol and the storyteller, but this time Madame Yvette’s stern look was mingled with curiosity.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked.

  Frank cleared his throat. “Yes, but it was quite a while ago.”

  “Well, I hope I’m not boring you, sir.”

  “Not at all,” he said eagerly. “Please, continue.”

  “Ivory’s daughter was born a short time after she moved in. I’m sure she was relieved and happy to have her baby and a roof over its little head. Truly, life must have seemed nearly perfect for Ivory on the day she gave birth. But happiness was ever a fleeting emotion for poor Ivory. You see, the moment the infant was born, she was taken from her mother’s arms by the man who had promised to take care of them both. He placed the child with nuns to be raised. Ivory was allowed to visit her daughter, but they could never be together for more than a few hours at a time. It was a sad arrangement for both of them. Still, the child was well cared for and grew up to be a beautiful girl.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” Frank said hesitantly. “But you were telling us about Ivory. We must hear the tale chronologically. Remember?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Of course. Ivory. Poor, dear Ivory! The man who had seemed so kind when they first met, used her cruelly after the child was born. He allowed her to stay on in the cottage, but only as long as she would entertain for him.”

  Carol frowned. Madame Yvette was obviously trying to treat a disturbing topic with delicacy. But she was being delicate to the point of becoming obtuse. “Entertain? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Come
on, Carol,” Frank groaned. “The guy was a pimp!”

  “One might say that,” Yvette answered, raising a delicately arched brow. “This man visited Ivory regularly to collect any monies she had received for her… ah, entertaining.”

  “And this man’s name was Hector Lazano, right?” Frank blurted.

  Yvette stared at him blankly. “Why, no! I’ve never heard of anyone named Lazano in Ivory’s story. Legends tell us that her pimp, as you so blatantly put it, sir, was a scoundrel called Black Vic, who had a heart as dark as his name.”

  “That’s a lie!” Frank all but yelled the words at poor Madame.

  Carol dug her fingers into Frank’s arm to shut him up. In a minute, he’d be revealing everything about Vic and Cami and Ivory and Choctaw. Madame Yvette would no doubt call the authorities and Frank would end up in a rubber room somewhere.

  “Frank, please!” Carol urged in a whisper.

  “Well, it’s not true and I can prove it.”.

  “Would you like to tell me how?” Carol demanded, still whispering. “You had better watch what you say.”

  Madame Yvette, obviously hard of hearing anyway, tilted her head to try and catch some of the whispered discussion between her two customers. But the look of consternation on the old woman’s face told Carol that Yvette hadn’t heard enough to make any sense of their conversation.

  “If you will please follow me now,” their guide urged.

  Madame Yvette went as far as the doorway to the parlor and stopped abruptly. She pointed one arthritic finger down at the floor. “There!” she said in a deep, dramatic voice. “That dark stain on the floorboards is the very spot where the murder victim fell. His blood seeped into the wood to mark the place forevermore.”

  “You’re right about the spot,” Frank blurted out, “but dead wrong about it being murder.”

  Yvette turned and glared at him, sniffing indignantly as she raised her chin higher. “And would you like to tell me, sir, exactly how you know that?”

  “Ouch! Because I’m a police detective,” he said in reply as Carol pinched his arm.