French Quarter Clues

by Eva Pohler

  “We were living paycheck to paycheck, like most of our neighbors,” Maria said.

  “Ain’t that right, sister,” Beatrice said. “And when the city decided to halt reconstruction until the people came back, well, that was a death sentence for the lower ninth.”

  “What do you mean?” Sue asked.

  “People don’t want to go back to a place that’s got no electricity,” Maria said.

  “It was like a catch twenty-two,” Beatrice explained. “Having no electricity kept the people away, and when the people stayed away, the city put its limited resources elsewhere.”

  “It felt like the government wanted to keep the poor and the black people out,” Maria added.

  Maria went on to say that it took nearly a year for them to get back to their property, and another year to go through the debris, salvage what they could, and organize it in the old shed that had somehow held up when their house had not.

  Maria said that she checked on the property every so often to make sure her shed was still there. Anything small enough to take with her, she did—some of the kids’ trophies from school, statues of her favorite saints, and a few framed family photos, all of which she dug out from the mud and debris. But larger things, like Cornelius’s old bicycle, Jamar’s lawnmower, her grandmother’s rocking chair, and a few other things, she stored in the shed.

  “They’re all I have left,” she explained. “I can’t let them go. I refuse to sell my lot. It would be like selling part of my soul.”

  “I can understand,” Ellen said.

  “And when we did come back, we found the schools were closed,” Maria said. “When they finally opened the schools, they fired most of the teachers and staff and hired new people—outsiders.”

  “I was lucky,” Beatrice said. “I was one of the few to get hired back.”

  “Does that make any sense to you?” Maria asked Ellen and her friends. “To take jobs away from a community that was already devastated?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Tanya said.

  “That’s how I ended up here, in this FEMA trailer, all these years,” Maria said. “Even getting on as a sub is hard. I take what I can get, but it’s not enough. I don’t have a car, so I’m limited in where I can go for work. If it weren’t for my daughter helping me, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “Cecilia is a good girl,” Beatrice said.

  Ellen sucked in her lips, fighting tears. When she could, she said, “My friends and I are going to do everything we can to help your son find peace. As soon as we can get the house on Chartres, we will search every square inch for that diary.”

  “We promise,” Sue added.

  Tanya nodded. “You have our word.”

  Then Tanya did something strange. She stood up, leaned over Maria Nunnery, put her arms around her neck, and wept.

  “Cornelius?” Maria asked through quivering lips.

  Tanya stood upright and wiped her eyes. “What was I saying?”

  Chapter Nine: The New Orleans Profiteer

  The cab met Ellen, Sue, and Tanya in front of the FEMA trailer. Hank climbed out to give Maria and Beatrice a hug. He told Maria that he’d known Cornelius, and he asked about Cecilia. Maria’s face brightened as she talked about the days when her children were still in high school, before Katrina. Beatrice asked how Hank and his family were doing, and he said fine. Then they said their goodbyes, and Ellen and her friends followed Hank to the van.

  During the ride back to the Inn on Ursulines, Ellen and her friends seemed to be thinking the same ideas. Some of the most devasted areas of New Orleans still needed help recovering from Katrina thirteen years later.

  “What can we do?” Ellen wondered out loud.

  “Maybe we could donate to Brad Pitt’s Make It Right foundation,” Tanya suggested.

  “That’s a good idea,” Sue agreed.

  They hadn’t been in their hotel room long when Sue received a call from Lionel, the realtor. She put him on speaker, so he could deliver the devastating news that the seller had rejected their offer.

  “Did he say why?” Sue asked.

  “We received a similar offer as I was drawing up your paperwork,” Lionel said.

  “What?” Ellen cried. “Oh, no.”

  “That can’t be,” Tanya said.

  “It’s not over yet, ladies. The seller rejected both offers,” Lionel said.

  “What a relief,” Ellen said with a sigh.

  “He’s asked that you put your best and final offer forward by the end of the day today. Then tomorrow, he will make a decision.”

  “Can you tell us anything about the competition?” Sue asked.

  Lionel was silent for a few moments before they heard him clear his throat and say, “Are you ladies available to meet with me in person sometime this evening?”

  “We have reservations at Antoine’s,” Sue said.

  “We do?” Ellen wrinkled her brow. She would have liked to have been consulted.

  “Would you like to join us?” Sue asked, ignoring Ellen.

  “That’s my favorite restaurant,” Lionel said with a laugh. “I’d love to.”

  “Great,” Sue said. “I’ll call and add one more to our reservation. We’ll meet you there at seven.”

  White linens and fine china dressed each table at Antoine’s. The patrons were also nicely dressed. There were no t-shirts or flip-flops or blue jeans. It was all elegance and glamor.

  Ellen was a little worried when the foul odor followed them inside. She’d thought it was coming from the street, but she now realized it was Tanya.

  Lionel met them at the front counter before they were taken to a table in the back of the restaurant.

  Despite being a millionaire for nearly six months, Ellen gawked at the highly-priced menu. She would always be a penny-pincher at heart, she supposed, and opted to have the gumbo.

  Tanya seemed to be thinking similarly, as she ordered the same. Sue and Lionel, however, decided to share the Chateaubriand for two—the most expensive thing on the menu.

  As they waited for their food to arrive, they shared a bottle of expensive wine, which took the edge off the competing odors in the room. Ellen was anxious to hear why Lionel wanted to meet with them in person, so, after taking another sip of the wine, she asked, “So, why did you want to meet with us?”

  “There’s an unscrupulous profiteer who’s been buying up New Orleans,” Lionel began.

  “Unscrupulous? How?” Sue asked.

  “He isn’t breaking any laws, per se,” Lionel said, “but he and his real estate agent are known for taking advantage of natural disasters and other calamities by buying property out from under the victimized all over the country.”

  “How can they do that?” Tanya asked.

  “It’s easy, really,” Lionel said. “Think about it. The people who are most vulnerable to a natural disaster aren’t the wealthy, right? The wealthy usually have well-built homes in safe areas and have good insurance. Even if their houses are wiped out, their property taxes are high enough for them to secure decent loans for rebuilding. That’s not true for the poorer homeowners, whose houses are usually substandard in riskier areas. When their homes are wiped out, they can’t get a loan to cover the cost of rebuilding, because the area they live in doesn’t appraise for much. It would be easy for a developer to swoop in with an offer below market value, because the poor homeowner with no home and no resources to rebuild has no other viable option.”

  “But why would a developer want to buy land that doesn’t appraise for much?” Ellen asked.

  “If that developer improves the property with better drainage, better sewage, better amenities…if that developer builds several nice homes...well, suddenly the land becomes worth a lot more, you see? Especially if he plans to build short-term rentals for tourists. That’s where the big money is in New Orleans.”

  “Is that what he wants to do with the house on Chartres Street?” Tanya asked.

  “I’d bet my money on it,” Lionel
said. “There’s a local housing commission that’s been trying to get an ordinance passed for over four years to limit the number of short-term rental houses in the city.”

  “But isn’t tourism the biggest industry in New Orleans?” Sue asked. “I would think the city would want the rental properties.”

  “Many do,” Lionel said. “That’s why the ordinance hasn’t passed. But the short-term rental properties are making it hard for the people who live here. They shoot up our property taxes, making it too expensive for locals to live in their own city. And the people who own the rentals don’t really live here or contribute to the community in any way. They don’t care about the impact they have on the neighborhoods.”

  “I would think you would personally benefit,” Sue said to Lionel. “If property values go up, so does your commission.”

  “Except that I live here, too,” Lionel said. “It’s a wash for me financially, but the sense of community is lost, and that’s what I don’t like. The character of New Orleans is at stake.”

  Their food arrived, and they were quiet for a few minutes as they dived into their entrees.

  “This gumbo is amazing,” Ellen said.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Tanya agreed.

  “How’s your steak?” Ellen asked Sue.

  “Delicious, don’t you think, Lionel?”

  “Outstanding,” he said.

  After a few minutes of silence, save for the noises of smacking lips as they ate, Ellen turned to Lionel. “So, you’re obviously rooting for us, Lionel. What do you recommend we do?”

  “Keep in mind that I represent the seller,” the agent said. “And it would be in my best interest to sell you the property at the highest possible price.”

  “We understand,” Sue said. “What are you getting at?”

  “I just want you to know that even if I were a disinterested party…”

  “Which you aren’t,” Ellen said.

  “Which I’m not,” Lionel agreed. “I would still advise you the very same. Offer fair market value. The house was overpriced at 3.5. It’s severely underpriced at 1.5, which is what drew the attention of this unscrupulous fellow. I doubt he will offer market value, because he’s looking for a deal, not just an investment.”

  “What would you say is fair market value?” Sue asked.

  “I’d say 2.7,” Lionel said. “And I’d bet all my money that the other offer will be between two and 2.5.”

  “That’s over a million more than our original offer,” Tanya said.

  “I think we should take Lionel’s advice,” Sue said before taking another bite of her steak.

  Ellen sipped her wine. “We don’t have much of a choice. Don’t you agree, Tanya?”

  “I feel like this is my fault. That’s a lot of money.”

  “It’s definitely not your fault,” Ellen said.

  “How could it be?” Lionel asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Sue explained. “But just be assured that we’ll do it. Our final offer is 2.7, cash, no contingencies.”

  Lionel grinned and lifted his wine glass. “Cheers, ladies.”

  They clinked their glasses together, but it wouldn’t feel like a true victory to Ellen until the closing papers were signed.

  As they left Antoine’s, Ellen asked Lionel if they could view the house on Chartres again that evening. He agreed and even offered to drive them—perhaps because they had paid for his expensive meal and the bottle of wine.

  Ellen wondered if the others were feeling as toasty as she was from the wine, as they parked near the corner and then walked the rest of the way to the Creole-style mansion.

  When they neared the door, they found it ajar.

  “What the hell?” Lionel murmured as he cautiously entered the front room and flipped on the light.

  “Did you lock up after we left today?” Sue whispered to the agent.

  He nodded and quickly put his fingers to his lips. The sound of a thud carried from one of the other rooms—perhaps the library.

  The thud came again.

  “What is that?” Tanya whispered.

  “I’ll call 9-1-1,” Sue whispered, taking out her phone. “Great. My phone’s dead.”

  “Mine is, too,” Tanya whispered.

  “I still have a charge,” Ellen said, fingering the gris-gris bag around her neck. Maybe the thud was coming from something supernatural.

  The agent shook his head and lifted his hand. “Wait by the door.”

  Ellen picked up a loose brick from the fireplace hearth. “I’m going with you.”

  Sue and Tanya waited by the door as Ellen followed Lionel through the front room toward the library.

  Light poured into the hallway as another thud echoed through the house. Lionel peered inside and stopped short.

  “Curtis, what the hell are you doing?” Lionel asked.

  “Hello, Lionel.”

  Ellen followed Lionel into the room. “You know each other?”

  “This is Curtis James,” Lionel said. “He’s the agent representing the other interested buyer.”

  He was shorter and thinner than Lionel and completely bald. Calculating blue eyes narrowed at Ellen through black-rimmed spectacles before glancing at her friends, who had hurried in to join them.

  “I see,” Ellen said, noticing the books he’d been dropping onto the floor. “I hope you weren’t planning on removing those.”

  “Of course not,” Curtis said, taking offense. “I’m merely assessing their value before I call Lionel with our final offer.”

  “Do you think they’re worth anything?” Sue asked.

  “Probably not,” Curtis said as he dropped another with a thud.

  Tanya picked up one of the books and turned it over. “I would imagine they are. Some of these are over two centuries old.”

  “Do the books come with the house?” Ellen asked Lionel.

  “Everything stays,” Lionel said. “The furniture, the drapes, the fixtures, and the books.”

  Curtis dropped another book onto the floor with a thud.

  “Why are you doing that?” Ellen said without hiding her frustration.

  “They’re full of dust,” Curtis explained. “I’m just bouncing the dust out before I examine them, so I don’t die of an asthma attack when I open them.” He laughed.

  “I think you ought to treat them more carefully,” Sue said. “After all, they aren’t your client’s property, yet.”

  “Yet being the operative word,” Curtis sang merrily before dropping another book.

  Sue put her hand on her hip, warrior ready. “Sir, if you don’t stop, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the police.”

  “Fine,” Curtis said. He gathered up the books he’d dropped. “Don’t you folks have someplace to be?”

  “We’ll talk later,” Lionel said as he left the room.

  Ellen followed, glancing back at Curtis with disdain. She was afraid to leave the building lest he carry some of the rare books out in the dark of night.

  Back in the parlor, Sue asked, “Do you think we could have a quick look at the upstairs if we promise not to disturb anything?”

  Lionel shrugged. “I’m not allowed to show it to you, but what you do on your own is your business.”

  Ellen smiled at her friends, returned the loose brick to the hearth, and followed Sue past the crime scene tape and up the stairs, with Tanya on her heels.

  They glanced into the other rooms—two unremarkable bedrooms and a bath—before they returned to the scene of the “crime,” where the body had been found.

  Ellen was shocked to see that some of the floorboards beneath the empty tub and been pulled from the subfloor, exposing rotten plywood.

  “Someone else is looking for the diary,” Sue cried.

  “Oh, no,” Tanya said. “Do you think they found it?”

  “Who else would have known that it was hidden here?” Ellen wondered aloud. “Priestess Isabel?”

  “She wouldn’t!” Sue said angrily. “Would she?”<
br />
  Tanya covered her heart with her hand. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Are you okay?” Ellen asked.

  “I think so. I just need to sit down.”

  Sue wagged a finger. “Unless Marie Laveau has spoken to someone else about it, Isabel is the only person I can think of, but what would her motive be? Revenge on Marie Laveau for killing the snake?”

  “Maybe she wants to find the devil child first,” Tanya offered.

  Ellen kicked around a few of the boards, afraid to get her fingerprints on anything. “We don’t even know if the diary was found.”

  “I think we should pay the priestess a visit,” Sue said.

  Before heading downstairs to rejoin Lionel, Ellen and her friends heard voices down below—more than just those of the two real estate agents.

  “I wonder what’s going on?” Sue mumbled as she gripped the railing and made her way down, with Ellen and Tanya following.

  When they reached the parlor, they found two police officers in uniform questioning Lionel and Curtis, who were explaining their presence.

  One of the officers—a heavy-set black man with a wiry beard—noticed the three friends as they neared the landing and asked, “You do know that you just contaminated a crime scene, don’t you?”

  “It was contaminated way before we got here,” Sue said. “Someone vandalized one of the bathrooms.”

  The other police officer—a short black woman with a single French braid that fell to her waistline—said, “We need to close up the house and bring you all down to the station for questioning.”

  Chapter Ten: Interrogations

  Ellen sat alone at a table in an interrogation room at the police station for half an hour before the female officer with the long braid entered and sat across from her. The officer opened a manila folder and pulled out a photograph of the man Ellen had seen in the bathtub at the Chartres house while he was still alive.