by Cynthia Lott
“Hello, Detectives. Come in. Amazing how the weather won’t let up lately. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve had a glass of brandy. It’s been a long day. Would you like one?” She slurred her words. “The last time I remembered being this tipsy was at Paula DeFrancis’s Christmas party last year. I drank three glasses of wine, ate four petit fours and passed out by her pool table when the sugar rush caught me off guard. Silly me. It was all rather embarrassing.”
Roy and I looked at one another and walked into Gwendolyn’s living room. I noticed the addition of photos depicting David throughout his life, from a baby to an adult, several of which were displayed near her husband’s shrine on the small wood table. Two rosaries completed the memorial alongside a small baby Jesus that looked like it had been absconded from a nativity scene.
“We’re technically on the job, so we shouldn’t have a drink but thanks for the offer. Detective Shapira and I are here to ask you a few questions if that’s all right.” Roy sat down next to me on the sofa. Gwendolyn sat across from us again, her long blonde hair draping across her shoulders. A new silver necklace with a jewel-encrusted cross, hung around her neck.
“And what would those questions be? I’ve been asking myself questions too lately like, ‘Gwendolyn, why on earth have you been alone for so damn long?’ I mean…I’m an attractive woman, aren’t I detective Agnew?”
Oh, Dear God.
We looked at one another wondering how to best handle the situation.
“You know, detectives, I feel guilty sometimes…it’s something I’ve carried for years now. You know…when James died, he was on his way to visit his ex-wife…yeah, the one he was married to for a short time. He would go over there and do odds and ends to her house after all of these years and I warned him. I said, ‘James, you keep going over there and one day you’re going to die doing it.’ And sure enough, he did. On his way over there. Strange how that happened, isn’t it?” She took a large sip of brandy, letting out a small sigh and looking at the glass with a half-smile, letting the warmth overtake her.
“I’m sure your warning had nothing to do with his death, Mrs. Savoy. Pure coincidence, I imagine.” I was unsure of how to respond to such a confession.
“You’re probably right, detective. One just hopes they didn’t enchant some sort of spell or anything. I was happy when I married, don’t misunderstand. I was happy the way most brides are, excited about the ceremony but not about the event. I married someone I cared deeply about and that was pretty much it. But you know, as you get older it all bleeds together. You forget the real reasons why you even married in the first place.” She chewed a cuticle on her right ring finger.
“I wouldn’t know anything about marriage.” I was on the verge of asking for my own glass of brandy.
“Ah, well, no harm done.” She took another long sip of her drink.
“Speaking of James, do you happen to have any antiques handed down to you by your grandfather or perhaps your husband’s grandfather? We understand this may be a strange question but if you bear with us, we’ll try to explain.” Roy looked uncomfortable but remained calm and collected as he attempted a segue way into another conversation.
“Antiques? You mean like heirlooms or something that they gave us? That’s a rather odd request. Oh, I don’t know…whatever I have is probably up in the attic. As you can see by the look of my home I’m not one for a lot of decoration…I’m more into the modern and minimal but, yes, I have a few antiques here and there. Whatever I have, I was going to pass them on to David. Some good that did me!” She gave a drunken guffaw.
Roy leaned in closer to Gwendolyn across the coffee table. Tilting his head a little to the right, he gave off an air of flirtation.
“Mrs. Savoy, we would like to see what you have. We would be more than grateful to be able to look through some of it if you are willing to let us.”
“Of course, Detective. I’m not sure why all of that stuff is of importance to you, but you’re welcome to climb up in the attic if you like. That’s where I stored it all. I would help you, but I never go up there. Do you mind telling me what you think you might find?” She blushed and tucked hair behind her ears.
Roy glanced at me as he raised one eyebrow, waiting for my response.
“We’re not sure yet. We think there may be something of your or your husband’s family that connects Carpenter to you…why your son was murdered. If we could find something, it may prove an invaluable clue.” Gwendolyn’s shoulders relaxed, her green eyes filmy with a glaze of light intoxication.
“Take as long as you like, Detectives. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Shall we take a look?” Roy helped me up from the sofa.
“Yes. Mrs. Savoy, we will be up in the attic for a little while. Feel free to do whatever you need to do in your home. We won’t take long.”
“Fine. Fine.”
Gwendolyn stood up and made her way towards the kitchen to pour herself another drink.
We walked towards the long hallway that resided underneath her attic. Roy pulled on the long string as the attic stairs unfolded from the ceiling like a deck of cards.
“My God, she’s fucked up.” Roy glanced back towards the living room.
“Can you blame her?”
“Under the circumstances? No. Want to go first? I have no idea what we’re looking for but hopefully there’s something up there.” He let me step in front of him and ascend the thin, narrow wood steps. I stepped into the rather small space and reached for a long string that extended from a light bulb, lighting up the attic in a bright blaze of light. The room smelled like mothballs and cedar and from the lack of footprints in the sawdust lining the floor, it looked like no one had been up there in quite some time.
“There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot up here, Roy. Why don’t you take a look over there and I’ll start in this corner.” I inspected a stack of boxes under a dormer window while Roy walked across the attic, bending down to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. He sorted through several boxes near a rocking horse and old sewing machine. Gwendolyn moved around downstairs below us, her footsteps ending in the living room.
I threw boxes to the side, unconcerned with the mess I was creating. Roy, on the other hand, carefully placed one box on top of another, making sure he was tracing his steps, his movements across Gwendolyn’s attic. He glanced over at me in action, my hands frantically moving through the contents of each box, my fingers gliding across pieces of paper and items once cherished by James or Gwendolyn.
“Roy, take a look at this picture of them when they were young. He was handsome.” I handed him the framed photo of Gwendolyn and James as he walked over, standing next to me.
“Is that her on the back of his motorcycle? Damn, she looks…fun.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t throw him out of bed either.”
I sorted through more photos: baby pictures of David, a head replete with curly blonde hair, another of him sitting on the lap of a man disguised as an Easter Bunny and one of James holding a four-year-old David, his lips planted on the small boy’s forehead. As I reached again into the box, my hands felt a smooth, thin book at the bottom.
“Oh, good Lord, Roy. I found something. I’m not sure if this is it but it’s worth a look.” I fell back on my ankles, my feet giving way underneath me.
Roy knelt down.
“It’s a book of poetry, written in Italian. But look at the note on the first page.”
For my Dearest Elsie Coupout on her twentieth birthday. May you enjoy these words of Giacomo Leopardi as much as I savor your beauty, companionship and brilliance…as alive as these words themselves, complex like the human heart. Love, Thomas M. Carpenter. PS: Alas, you shall need an interpreter. I am honored to provide the service. September 20th, 1878.
“Wait…let me read this.” Roy took the book from my hand, reading over the first page.
“Are we reading a note from our Thomas Carpenter’s great-grandfather?”
“The handwriti
ng looks identical to the inscriptions on the furniture and masks. Look at the second page…here…it has another name written at the top: Alain B. Savoy, 1878. This must be James’s grandfather. How did this end up in Alain’s possession and not this woman, Elsie’s?”
“I can’t imagine Thomas killing someone’s descendant over a stolen poetry book that belonged to a relative. This explains some sort of connection, though. Gwendolyn is in no state to deal with this and she probably won’t even know anything about it…there’s no telling how long it’s been sitting up here in this box.” Roy slid the book inside his jacket.
As I bent down to place the other items back into the box, I noticed another book among the rest of the various contents. It, too, was nestled at the bottom.
“Roy…I found something else.”
I opened to a random page of what appeared to be a diary.
“A journal? What grown man keeps a journal?” Roy took the book from my hands.
“Many people, including men, kept journals during the 19th century. Contrary to popular belief, I’m sure some men still keep them today.”
“I don’t.” He read out loud one of the passages.
“September 25, 1878 Alain B. Savoy It’s autumn and it’s still strong in the air. All around us. This fever. It has killed so many people in such a short amount of time – like the black plague in Europe. It does not distinguish race, class or age…anyone can become its victim. They say we usually know within three days whether it will kill us or not. Some people survive it, miraculously, and never contract it again. Others are not so fortunate. Our city is plagued with the dead. I saw my four-year-old cousin die, his skin turn the color of saffron, his delirium too hard to witness. He died alone…my aunt unable to comfort him into death. There is no answer to it and one can only pray and stay away from those that are ill, as cruel as that may sound or appear. Desperate situations require unorthodox remedies. It leaves us with no other choice.”
“The yellow fever epidemic. He apparently survived it. I don’t think Gwendolyn will be missing this one either.” Roy added the journal to the inside of his jacket.
As we descended the stairs, Gwendolyn was in another world, perhaps revisiting her memories: the first time she met her husband at a corn maze organized by friends; her first ride on his motorcycle; his wedding proposal in the garden of her parent’s home; the birth of her son; the three of them together; and now this. Sitting drunk on the couch while detectives rummaged around her attic looking for clues to her son’s murder.
“Mrs. Savoy.” Roy gently waked her.
“Yes, Detective. Did you find anything of interest?”
“No, we didn’t. Thank you for letting us into your home again and taking up your time. We’re going to go now but should you need anything – anything at all – please call one of us. Is there anyone I can call for you before we leave? Someone who can come over and spend some time here? We hate to leave you alone.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Agnew, but don’t worry. I have a friend coming over later. She is bringing dinner, so there is no reason for you to go the extra mile. I’ll sober up before then.”
“Are you sure? All right. We’ll see ourselves out so no need for you to get up.” Roy gave her a smile and pulled a plaid blanket over her body.
“Thank you.” She pulled it close to her chin, welcoming his fatherly gesture, as we closed the front door behind us and returned to our car.
“Bless her, Brenda.”
We drove towards the public library and I opened the journal again, reading out loud its contents.
“October 13, 1878
A few weeks have passed since that night. Nothing has changed. Not in the way we thought it would. I’ve watched my aunt vomit until death took her…on the last day, she was alone in her bed, the walls splattered with her blood and excrement. It is as if hell hath visited us and laid a fever on us for whatever reason: science or religion, I don’t know. There is nothing to correct what was done and I only pray that God forgive us for our choice and welcome those into heaven that have passed due to this terrible illness. Those lives that we have lost. Even the life of Thomas Carpenter.”
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
At the New Orleans Public Library, I perused through various morbid titles: The Misunderstood Fever: Death in the South, An Epidemic of Mass Proportion: The Yellow Fever, and New Orleans Fever: The Silent Yellow Death. I pulled the books from the shelves and thanked a librarian for her assistance. She was in her forties, and wore a ruffled blue blouse and knee length brown skirt. Reddish hair feathered around her thin, pale face.
“Doing some research for a paper?” She re-shelved a couple of books, looking at me over the top of her glasses.
“Yeah, something like that. Thanks again.”
“Any time, honey.” She disappeared behind another long row of books, the sound of her footsteps growing fainter behind the stacks. I carried the titles with me to a small study carrel where Roy waited, his hand writing down notes in a blue spiral notebook. I placed the books down on the desk next to Alain’s journal.
“Listen to this, Roy. ‘If a person survived the yellow fever, they were immune to the virus for the rest of their life. This proved beneficial as it allowed those with immunity to become immediate caretakers of the ill and dying. Between the years 1817 and 1905, more than 41,000 people died of the yellow fever in New Orleans; 4,046 in 1878 alone.’ I think this was the kind of situation that brought out the best or worst in people. You either stuck around and helped out others, risking your own life, or you ran away because you feared that you would catch it from anyone and everyone.”
“What a massive outbreak. God only knows how anyone would react to something like that.” Roy opened Alain’s journal.
“It was tragic. You were lucky if you survived it, but if you didn’t, you died a terrible death that put you first in a delirious feverish state, your skin turning the color of saffron. Your organs would shut down followed by a stage of vomiting blood until you died. Can you imagine? Not pleasant. There were so many deaths that the Board of Health couldn’t even record them correctly. They simply weren’t able to keep up.” I couldn’t help but grimace and was starting to make myself ill.
Roy’s countenance shared in my disgust.
“What did you find out while I was gone?”
“So I read all of Alain’s journal. It starts in the middle of 1877 but it’s not consistent…dates are missing and for some entries, there is scant information. But…from what I’ve read, he’s mentioning both Nigel Latham Watkins and Marcel Sartain. It definitely appears that the three were friends. Now if you look here, in the beginning of the journal before September 25th, he’s also mentioning this Thomas Carpenter. They also seem to be friends….actually the four of them. There’s a mention of two other men but never their names. I’m assuming because these remaining two were Carpenter’s friends and not Alain’s…perhaps he had only recently met them via Carpenter. Listen to this:
“January 30th, 1878
Attended a play at the St. Charles Theatre last night with Thomas, Marcel and Nigel – a rather odious show despite the gorgeous surroundings. We all had a wonderful laugh about the performances afterwards. Thomas brought along two of his friends…lovely men who bought us all a round at Napoleon House. They are the same age as us…twenty-two. We found ourselves drinking into the late hours, enjoying the evening without anyone having us by the short hairs. I have a good sense that the six of us will become quite close.”
“There are some additional entries which clearly show that the six of them did spend more time together but he never mentions their names…only ‘we’ did this or ‘we’ did that. But all of that ends around mid-August when things seem to turn a little…chilly. Listen to this:
“August 15th, 1878
Things have changed. And I won’t completely say it’s all a burden due to Elsie. But Thomas has changed and it happened within the last two months. This fev
er…this terrible fever knows no boundaries and I honestly shiver to think of what effect it will have on our city. Should I correlate the two: Thomas’s meeting of her with the sudden onslaught of death? It could merely be coincidence but it has had an impact on our friendship and his connection to our group of friends…the closeness has lessened as of late due to her arrival into his life.”
Roy closed the journal and looked at me.
“That’s a lot to digest. So what I’m gathering from this is that there were six friends…this Thomas Carpenter being one of them. They were all close for around eight months until Thomas meets Elsie. The woman that he bought the poetry book for that she never received. And it ends up in the hands of Alain. What about after September when he wrote his name on the poetry book? The entries?” I grew anxious, knowing it was near the library’s closing time. The whole place had grown quieter than usual except for the humming of overhead lights.
“That’s the thing. Alain never mentions him after that…he talks about Marcel and Nigel but never speaks of Thomas Carpenter again nor does he speak about the two friends that he met through Thomas back in that January entry. The only thing he says is in that September entry: It leaves us with no other choice. What choice, Brenda? Because in October he stated that a few weeks have passed since that night. What happened that night?”