The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  At a dull green door, Marie looked right, left, then slipped inside.

  Reneaux was standing watch. He didn’t turn around. “What kept you?”

  “Church.”

  Reneaux nodded. Only in New Orleans would it be credible to be possessed, then attend Mass. Sun streamed through the blinds. Reneaux’s cross earring glinted.

  “The station is sending over a guard.”

  “Your Chief believed you?”

  “Not much. Only that there’s a killer on the loose.”

  Marie leaned over the bedrail. Chestnut hair fanned over the pillow. The girl’s skin was cool. Marie lifted her hand. There was no pulse, no discernible movement of her ribcage. She was pale like the moon.

  “Dead?”

  “I don’t know.” Marie lifted her eyelids. No dilation. She tapped her elbow, her kneecaps. No reflex. No expulsion of air. Or quiver of lungs.

  “DuLac was given hell for bringing her here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Fighting with the morgue. And Severs.”

  “Severs?”

  “One of the surgeons strenuously complained,” Reneaux drawled. “DuLac punched him out.”

  “Good for him.” She looked at the lovely girl. “Maybe not good for her.”

  “Guards are coming—”

  “I know. You’re doing everything you can, Reneaux.”

  He stretched his hand over the body; Marie clasped it.

  “You think you can help?”

  “I hope so.” She dropped Reneaux’s hand and lowered the top sheet. In the simple white cotton gown, the girl looked like an initiate. Her forehead had traces of dust.

  Reneaux flipped open his notepad. “No name, no clue to her identity. Just like the others. This makes four. Dressed in a ball gown. Even feathers in her hair.”

  “Found?”

  “Near the wharf. Two men trying to ditch the body. A steamboat was passing. Coast Guard saw a small boat too close. Almost in the ship’s path. They hailed the craft and the men dove overboard. She was left floating in the boat.”

  “Her body would’ve been mutilated. Churned in the steamship’s rollers.”

  “That’s right. Makes me think we weren’t supposed to find any of the girls. Someone’s been helping us from the inside.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. But I plan to find out. It also means we have no way of knowing how many. It could be eight, ten, twenty girls killed. Murdered.”

  “All of them somebody’s child.” Marie stroked the girl’s forehead, then placed her palms on her abdomen. It was flat and smooth.

  Her hands felt a quivering. “She’s pregnant. Still early.” The Guédé appeared in the corner like watchful mimes.

  “What’re you looking at?”

  “You don’t see them?”

  “No.”

  She realized she accepted the Guédé, the fiercely melancholic gentlemen. She felt their outrage that someone was intruding on their territory. Interfering with death.

  Reneaux was studying her.

  “When’s the guard coming?”

  “Soon. I’ll stay here ’til he comes.”

  Marie trembled. She stroked the girl’s fingertips. Delicate like a baby’s. Her breath quickened. “Don’t get emotional.” Solve the mystery.

  Why this girl, not some other? Why the fancy gowns? Dead, undead? And she was, too, though Marie didn’t know how she knew. The real crux was how to save her.

  “You can do this,” said Reneaux.

  “You think so?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ll be beside me?”

  “Always, if you want.”

  Marie didn’t answer. And Reneaux didn’t press; it was one of the things she liked about him. Neither of them moved, both focused on the girl.

  The Guédé peered through the rails at the edge of the bed. There was a soft buzz from the fluorescent lights.

  “Light-skinned,” murmured Marie, touching the unblemished skin. “All the others were, too.”

  Reneaux flipped open his notepad. “You’re right. In the old days, folks would’ve said mulattoes or quadroons.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Mixed race. Mulatto, half-black; quadroon girls, one-quarter black, used to be mistresses for French aristocrats. Even had octoroons—one-eighth black. Another kind of slavery. Ironically, the lighter the better.”

  “In the journal, there was Marianne, a quadroon. ‘So light she could pass for white.’”

  “Like Severs.”

  “Yes. But Marianne was raped repeatedly. Prison guards thought her color—or lack of it—made her a special prize. They did to her what they didn’t dare to do to a white woman.”

  “White women were for procreation. Women of color were prized for their so-called baseness, bestial instincts, their inherent promiscuous nature. As if all Africans were nothing more than rutting animals.

  “But the aristos invented the craziest contradiction—wanting mistresses that looked like their wives, but with just enough color to make them feel uninhibited. To make them believe a young girl would welcome, even take pleasure in their advances. Another crazy thing—many of the mulatto and quadroon women thought they were superior to darker women.”

  “They all could be raped.”

  “Every mulatto or quadroon has in their family tree a darker mother who was raped. Sometimes the masters freed their light-skinned children, some passed. But here in New Orleans a whole society grew, free coloreds intermarrying to keep their skin light.”

  “One drop of black blood,” mused Marie.

  “Cain’s mark,” said Reneaux. “Still cursed. A whole race made black because of sin. A Christian invention.”

  “An excuse to own slaves.”

  The Guédé, sorrowful, placed their top hats over their hearts and bowed their heads.

  “Old Testament.”

  “What?”

  “New Testament changed everything. Wasn’t supposed to matter if you were a criminal or whore. Christian charity.” In her mind’s eyes, she could see the priest’s face. Like clamping and tying off a wound, she felt herself healing, not hurting.

  “Where’s her gown, Reneaux?”

  “In the closet.”

  Marie touched the silk gown. It was wet and bedraggled; a nurse had laid a towel on the closet floor. The dress had a low, sagging bodice, lace tucked in the corners. Peach flounces edged the hem and there was enough material to billow over a hoop slip. It was certainly old-fashioned. A gown fit for a debutante. Straight from a corrupt nineteenth century.

  “Quadroon Balls,” she murmured.

  “There haven’t been balls for over a hundred and fifty years.”

  “But what if someone was updating it? Selling girls to the highest bidder?”

  “Prostitution with a twist.” An ambulance siren whined. “The only person who can confirm your hunch is her. And she’s apparently dead.”

  “Then why murder her again? In the Mississippi? Fodder for a steamship.”

  “There are simpler ways to make a girl disappear.”

  “Not unless appearances are deceiving.” Marie punched the emergency button. Code Alert.

  A nurse rushed through the door, then hesitated. Another nurse pushing a cardiac cart abruptly stopped.

  “Who are you? This patient isn’t supposed to be here.”

  “Here or not, she needs help.”

  “You’re not authorized.”

  “I’m Doctor Levant. Off rotation. But a resident here.”

  “I don’t care who you are. You’re not authorized. This is the surgical ward.”

  “I am.” Reneaux flicked open his badge. “Authorized.”

  “As am I,” said DuLac, coming up from behind the two nurses. One, sturdy and authoritative; the other, young and wide-eyed, interested in the gossip she’d have to tell.

  “DuLac, I didn’t know this was your patient.”

  “Tell her what you need, Marie.”

/>   “Full Code.”

  The lead nurse lifted the patient’s wrist. “She’s dead.”

  DuLac smiled ruefully. “Is she, Marie?”

  “No,” she said, emphatic. “She’s not. It’s a Code.”

  The lead nurse hesitated.

  “Just do it,” said Marie. “Or I’ll have you up before the board. It’s a Code. I need a respirator. Fetal monitor, too.”

  “This patient isn’t scheduled for surgery. She shouldn’t be here.”

  “Do it,” said Marie, her voice quiet, but with an intensity that brooked no argument. The Guédé stood behind her, making violent gestures at the nurse.

  The nurse stepped back, panicked, sensing the unnatural ire.

  “Do it.”

  The nurse positioned the cart. “Stevens, call for a fetal monitor. Get Joe in to help.”

  Marie undid the gown. The girl’s chest was motionless, a light alabaster.

  “This is a waste,” muttered the nurse.

  “Hand me the defibrilators. Clear.”

  The body, shocked, lifted slightly off the bed.

  Marie lowered her head, listening for a breath, feeling the arm for a pulse. “Clear.”

  “That was three hundred. Higher?” asked DuLac.

  “I don’t dare.”

  Marie massaged the heart. Nurse Jane affixed adhesive connectors. DuLac inserted an IV drip while Stevens gelled a fetal monitor to her abdomen. Joe drew blood.

  If someone wanted to shout she’s dead, he or she kept quiet. DuLac was an impressive figure. So, too, Detective Reneaux. But Marie looked both crazy and outraged, her arms and hands pushing hard against the chest, resting, then pushing hard again.

  The monitor seemed to pick up a beat—elongated, ever so slow and faint.

  “Malfunction?” asked the lead nurse.

  Marie glared and kept working, ten minutes, twenty, thirty minutes. One by one, the nurses, the technician, Joe, drifted away to other patients, other duties.

  The Guédé disappeared.

  Reneaux was sitting on the visitor’s chair, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed.

  “Marie, stop.”

  “She’s not dead.”

  “No, she’s not,” said DuLac, quietly. “But your treatment isn’t working. Plan B, Marie. We need a Plan B.”

  Marie slumped against the wall. Sounds mocked her: the respirator whooshing air, the occasional scratch, click, and whir from the monitors searching for signs of life. She could even hear the saline drip, racing through the girl’s veins.

  She could try chemical stimulants. But how would they react with unknown drugs? She risked heart failure. Or some other side effect—an irreversible coma, lung, kidney, or possible immune failure. She wasn’t in a lab dealing with test tubes, petri dishes, and disposable slides. Here was a young girl, a human being, a complex organism made more complex by an unknown drug.

  “Don’t get emotional.” Think, Marie, think.

  She opened her duffel bag, pulling out the journal. “It’s here.” She thumbed through pages. “The ingredients. Laveau asked how her husband Jacques became a zombie. Here. John’s answer: ‘The gills of a fish. Skull powder and grave dust. A simple spell. We sent all the way to Haiti.’ Do you remember, DuLac?”

  “Oui.”

  “It all means something,” Marie said, her voice straining, wiping away tears. “I can’t figure out what it all means.”

  “Quadroon Balls,” said Reneaux to DuLac. “We suspect old-time prostitution is being made new again.”

  “But the Quadroon Balls were meant to be more than that,” insisted DuLac. “More like long-term mistresses. Second families. The children formed their own society, free coloreds who became doctors, lawyers, artists, educated tradesmen.”

  “You really think anyone today cares about paternity?” asked Reneaux. “It’s murder without the family values.”

  “What about adoption?” asked Marie.

  “One drop of black blood is still problematic,” said Reneaux. “Catch-22. Who’d be the aristos of today? Rich white men. How many of them would want a bastard part-black child?”

  “It doesn’t make sense. Why not birth control?”

  “Virgins. Innocents,” said DuLac. “Men paid high prices for virgins. They wanted the deflowering. Wanted the girls finely reared like their white daughters. Wanted to educate them in carnal knowledge. Wanted to know that any child born was truly theirs. These were complex contractual agreements, ‘shadow marriages.’

  “The aristos had the luxury of a pretend marriage, children to be proud of, and if they weren’t proud of them or needed money, they could sell them into slavery like puppies. Or breed the boys to trades, the girls to become valuable mistress/whores like their mothers.”

  Marie held her patient’s hand. “She probably thought she was just going to a ball.”

  “An escort service.”

  “But one that lasted until you got pregnant.”

  “Dead, undead is the punishment. Disappear the body, but even if it’s discovered, no trace of murder.”

  “Technically, there is no murder,” said Marie.

  The three of them stood over the girl, mourning, as if at a wake.

  “A pedophile’s and rapist’s dream,” exhaled Reneaux. “Young girls playing dress-up. No notion of the terror to come.”

  Marie stroked the girl’s hair. “Ah, ma petite.”

  “But why fodder for a steamship? Marie’s right. Even though they appear dead, technically, there’s no murder. There must be some other reason for the drug. Why risk actual murder?”

  “Oui, Reneaux, why murder a girl off Riverwalk? Constant tourists. Casinos. Coast Guards. Lots of traffic in or near the Mississippi.”

  “Maybe she’s the dare. The challenge.”

  “For who?”

  “You, Marie. Maybe all along someone wanted you to find this girl? But it’s not our secret assistant. It’s the Devil, the perpetrator himself.”

  “Or herself,” said Marie.

  “Or both,” said DuLac. “Male and female. They both sin. Voodoo and Catholicism agree.”

  Harsh hallway light flooded the room.

  “What’re you doing here, Reneaux? Helping your friend DuLac bury himself in waste? That’s what you’re doing here—wasting facilities, supplies, equipment.” Severs, well dressed in a coat and tie, lacked his usual confidence. His hands fluttered like disoriented birds. He stuffed them in his suit pockets, looked at the girl cocooned in white sheets. “Looks dead to me.”

  “Are you a doctor?” Marie challenged.

  “No. But neither are you. Not yet anyway.”

  “I am.”

  “Not for long, DuLac. Your alcoholism is plenty cause to fire you. Rescind your medical license.”

  “This is police business.”

  Severs flinched. “Trustee Allez is on his way over.”

  “How’d he hear?” asked Reneaux.

  “This is media disaster. The trustees have been informed. Wasting money on a dead girl. Not even anyone important.”

  “How do you know that?” shouted Marie. “How do you know?” She was furious. “All girls are important.”

  “Not this one.”

  “You know who she is,” said Reneaux, stepping forward. “‘Media disaster’ is a ruse.”

  “No,” said Severs. “She’s a type. Girls like her get in trouble. All the time. You can tell by looking at her.”

  “That’s a nasty thought,” said Reneaux. “I think you’re lying.”

  “What do you mean by ‘in trouble’?” demanded Marie. “‘In trouble’ because she’s dead? Or ‘in trouble’ because she’s pregnant?”

  “Did someone tell you she was pregnant?” asked Reneaux.

  Severs glared. His brow gleamed with sweat.

  “You’re lying,” said Reneaux.

  “Twenty-four hours,” answered Severs. “Then, the morgue. I’ll get a court order, if I have to.”

  “And I’ll resign,”
said Marie.

  “I’m not the one breaking the law.”

  “You sure?” asked Reneaux.

  Severs puffed himself up, then flung open the door, his exit spoiled by the lack of sound. Rubber on the wall muted the contact between wood and metal.

  “He’s involved,” said Reneaux, making a note on his pad. “I used to think he was harmless. My mistake.”

  Wearily, DuLac rubbed his eyes. “I need to get back downstairs.”

  “I’ll stay,” said Marie. “If ER can spare me.”

  “Oui. Take care of her.”

  “I will,” Marie shouted after a dispirited DuLac.

  “You want coffee?”

  “Please. Black, Reneaux.”

  “Like me?” He kissed her hand. “I’m honest, unlike Severs.”

  “I like honest black men.”

  Reneaux grinned. “Great news, Doc. I mean, Doctor Levant.”

  “Just Marie.”

  “Okay, ‘just Marie.’ But you know you’re more than that. You’re not ‘just’ anything.”

  He gathered her in his arms, his hands rubbing her back, his mouth covering hers. Marie leaned into his embrace, letting herself take strength from his caress.

  “I’ll get you coffee, then I’m off. Want to get a background check on Severs.”

  “You promise to be careful?”

  “Promise. Nothing will happen to me. I’ll call Toxiology. Tell them about a paralyzing fish. I’ll visit Breezy’s, too. I think our insider is there.”

  “Jacques died there. He was dead, wasn’t he?”

  “You know he was.”

  “Strange. To think I’d rather he be dead, than be like her.” She gestured toward the bed.

  “It’s not at all the same. You’re going to save her. No one else will be buried alive.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  The door swung open, then closed. The room was dull again. Marie mourning for the girl.

  Why did she feel so profoundly sad? For all she knew people were buried alive every day. Or shredded in a steamboat’s wheel.

  She’d been trained to accept grief. Every day people were eaten up by cancers; odd tumors bulged and grew. Epileptics fell to the ground with seizures. Cords bulged around an infant’s throat. An immune system could attack rather than defend. A mosquito bite would itch one person, kill some other. Science didn’t seem any more rational than the possibility of a hex or spell. Add in psychology, the power of suggestion, and anything could happen.