Brigitte's Cross (The Olivia Chronicles)

by Angelic Rodgers

  Liz was relieved that things weren’t weird between them. Lisa was still her flirty self. She briefly dated Alex long before Liz came on the scene and when Liz painted the first mural Lisa got a bit too close to hitting on her.

  “How is Gwen?” Lisa started dating Gwen just before Alex was murdered.

  “Oh, you know. Things just didn’t work out there. She and Ash didn’t get along, and I can’t go out with someone the kid doesn’t approve of and get along with.” Lisa patted Liz on the back. “She always did like you.”

  “I don’t date friends. Besides, I’ve sworn off the exes of Alex. You’re lucky I’m here at all.” She was teasing, and Lisa took it the right way.

  “Well, if you change your mind, just let me know.” She winked at her. Lisa would have made a great 1970s gigolo. If only she’d been born earlier and male, thought Liz, she would have it made.

  “Mom! We’re going to be late!” Lisa rolled her eyes.

  “I’m coming, kiddo.” She gave Liz a sideway hug. “I gotta go. You’ve got a key. Stay as long as you want. I’ve got to take her over to Ed’s, and then we’re all having a slumber party.” Ed was her ex-husband and Ashley’s father. They married before either of them came out, and the divorce was an amicable one. “Not every day you get to be the best woman at your ex-husband’s gay wedding.”

  Liz smiled. “Have a good time. I may stay here tonight, just to get a leg up on the work. I’ve not been painting and with the move back, the bar, and everything, staying here and getting some painting done sounds like a great Friday to me.” Deanie and Kirby were manning the bar; Kirby was having a blast being the bar owner and bartender, and it was nice to see the gay boys and lesbians hanging out together. She and Kirby theorized that the only way to have a successful gay bar in New Orleans that didn’t either fall into the “lesbian bar death trap” or the “gay boy bar in the front and orgy room in the back” category was to make it friendly to the whole community. Kirby jumped into the testing of that theory with a great deal of energy and he was working on rounding up various talent for themed nights. He was starting with drag queens and drag kings, auditioning during the day when things were slower. It was good to see him have a focus.

  At Lisa’s, Liz got to work pretty quickly. The mural was already blocked out, some faint lines on the wall setting up the major areas for her. To a non-painter, she was sure it didn’t remotely look like anything coherent, but she could see the finished project, almost so clearly that painting it would be like using a paint-by-numbers kit. As she heard Lisa and Ashley leave, she marveled at how Ashley was growing up so quickly and how it was a shame she and Gwen didn’t get along. Ashley was a great kid and Gwen seemed nice.

  Even though the job was fairly easy and the first steps didn’t involve much detail, Liz worked late into the night in getting the background started. Around 11, she decided to flake out in Ashley’s room. She had slept there before; in fact, she fell asleep there when working on the last mural and woken up in Ashley’s bed, naked, having dreamt of Olivia.

  She made a drink and read for a short while. She felt the warmth of the liquor sinking into her bones, leading her to sleep.

  In her dreams she smelled the scent of gardenias and heard her name whispered.

  Elizabeth. . . .

  The worn hardwood under her feet was smooth and cool. She walked to the window, parting the curtains. Through the darkness, she could see something move in front of the window. At first she thought it was a bird or a bat, but suddenly, she saw a flash of white, Olivia’s pale skin as the breeze shifted, moving the hair from her face. Moonlight enhanced the paleness, and Liz’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Olivia hover, as if she and the house were under water. Liz could hear her calling, but her mouth didn’t move. It was as if her voice were inside Liz’s brain somehow.

  She was unable to resist her. She slid the window up, and Olivia entered. The two women stood toe to toe, and Liz could feel Olivia’s breath move between them. She felt faint and wanted nothing more than to kiss Olivia, which she did. When she opened her eyes, she found they were no longer in Lisa’s house, but in the estate house she dreamt of before.

  “Daniela, I am so glad to have found you.” Olivia still held her. Liz pushed back from her gently, not wanting to break the contact, confused. She wanted to take in the details of the room and determine where she was. Olivia let her go.

  “What is this place?”

  “You are remembering a time much earlier than the one you know now. A time when you were called Daniela. You met me then for the first time, in this room.” Olivia made no move from where she was standing. Liz moved toward the shelves of books. They were in the library she’d seen in earlier dreams. The leather-bound volumes showed that great care was taken in their preservation. The shelves were dust free, and as she ran her hand along spines of books, she could see they were all well-read from the wear on the covers.

  “I don’t understand. Why am I here?”

  Olivia laughed softly. “You aren’t truly here; you are dreaming. But, what you are dreaming did happen. I want you to remember who you are. Only once you realize that can we move forward.” She walked over to Liz, placing her arm around her tenderly. “Once you remember the love we shared, you will come to me willingly—I have no doubt of that.”

  She turned toward Olivia, meeting her gaze. She looked down at her mouth, the corners upturned into a small grin. Knowing this was a dream, she felt no guilt in kissing her. She pressed her lips to Olivia’s and first felt a coldness, a sharpness that turned to tingling, almost a tickle. She opened her eyes and found she stood alone in the library, the scent of gardenias fading. She could hear laughter, just barely at first, then it grew louder. Suddenly, Olivia walked through the doorway, but it was as if she hadn’t just been in the room with her, and she was dressed differently—in a gown with her hair pinned up. She seemed relieved and surprised to have found her.

  “There you are! I want to read to you tonight. Father is busy with business, and I know he’d love it if we were to become fast friends. I think he is quite smitten, but I’m far more interested in having you as my sister than as my step-mother.” Olivia hooked her arm through Daniela’s. Daniela could feel the tickle of the sleeve hem, the rustle of their skirts. “Come on, I’ll read to you from Camilla. You’ll no doubt enjoy it.” Olivia grabbed her hand, leading her out of the room and up the stairs to her bedroom.

  As she read, Daniela couldn’t help but watch Olivia’s mouth as she read the words and her hands on the book as she turned the pages; she was consumed with wishing the lips and fingers were on her, everywhere. The reading made it worse, as the tale was about the seduction of a girl named Laura by her cousin Carmilla. As a distraction, Daniela took her cigarette case out of its customary hiding spot in the small bag she carried. She walked to the window and opened it. Olivia noticed her and stopped reading. Daniela lit the cigarette and smoked in silence for a bit before she realized that Olivia had stopped and was staring at her.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t smoke here, but the story really is too much for me.” She took another drag. She felt she might cry, she was so overwhelmed.

  Olivia reached for the cigarette, fascinated. “I’ve never known a woman to smoke. Of course, I spend so much time with my father and with the staff here; none of our female servants could ever afford the time and money such a luxury would cost them. May I?”

  Daniela watched her take the cigarette and press it between her lips, saw the hot glow of the ember as she drew in the smoke. The tendrils escaping from her lips as she drew the cigarette away teased Daniela, making her want to kiss Olivia all the more. It was obvious that Olivia had smoked before, as she was quite practiced at it. “Such a worldly influence you are, Daniela. Perhaps you are my Carmilla? I am, after all, a young impressionable girl without a mother’s guidance.” She laughed as she said it, but Daniela could only think of how she would love to seduce her. She leaned in to kiss her, and just as their
lips touched, she could hear the sound of someone whistling.

  Liz woke to the smell of sandalwood and the clammy feeling of the cold morning dew. She sat up, finding herself in the grass at Coliseum Square Park. Looking at her watch, she could see it was 3:30 in the morning. She looked around, halfway expecting to see Christophe. Instead, she saw a large dog sitting about fifteen feet from her, his back to her. She was cold and it was no wonder, as she was wearing only her underwear and an undershirt. As she tried to compose herself, the dog turned to look at her. She hesitated, worried that it might attack her. She thought it looked familiar, almost like the dog that she saw once when she woke up in Washington Square Park, after a similar sleep walking experience. That dog had attacked muggers and allowed her to get out of the park unseen. Surely this was not the same animal.

  She sat still.

  The dog got up from where it sat and did not approach her but turned in the direction of Lisa’s house. She got to her feet and started walking; the dog simply stood as she walked past. As she looked back, she saw the dog following her at a distance.

  When she woke up the next day and took her coffee on the porch, the dog was asleep. It woke up as she opened the door and stepped outside. She stopped, coffee in hand, unsure of what to do. The dog simply walked over and stood in front of her. It didn’t growl or show any signs of aggression, and when she talked to it softly, its only reaction was to lean into her. It was a large dog, not a German Shepherd or Husky, but something similar. Its weight was substantial. She patted it on the head tentatively. “Oh, come on, it’s ok. Let’s have a sit and drink some coffee.” The dog sat and waited until she got settled in a chair, then slid down, lying down at her feet.

  He was a beautiful animal. Liz gently slid her foot along his side, and he rolled on his back, submissively exposing his belly for rubbing. He wore no collar and was not neutered, but he looked well taken care of and was groomed well. “You must belong to someone, buddy. I bet you got out and found your way to your park, didn’t you?”

  The dog rolled over on his stomach and put his head in her lap. His fur was thick and soft. His eyes were amber with flecks of green and gold.

  She bent over as she pet him to grab her coffee cup. As she did, she could smell him. He smelled of sandalwood.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ai ran two tours a day on Saturdays and Sundays; with school starting back up, she’d cut the weekday tours. The weekends were more lucrative anyway, and she needed her study time during the week.

  Liz decided to join her for the early tour on Saturday; she was afraid that if she put it off until the afternoon that she would chicken out. Mike agreed to go with her, and Kirby was working at the bar. Saturday mornings were always pretty slow, and Kirby enjoyed drinking coffee and doing crosswords with the jukebox blaring.

  The tour started at 10:00 am and everyone was instructed to meet at Washington Square Park. Liz and Mike stopped and got coffees to go at Rose Nicaud on the way to the park. Ai assured Liz that she would be discreet and not identify her or act as if she knew her. She had made sure to provide Liz with two tickets ahead of time so that there wouldn’t have to be an exchange of money when the tour started. By the time they got to the park, Ai was already talking to other clients, asking them where they were from, and if they were in New Orleans for business or pleasure, as well as asking them if they needed any recommendations of things to do other than her tour.

  Once the group gathered together, Ai looked at her watch and announced it was time to get started.

  “Just follow me, folks. Our first stop is a local house in Faubourg Marigny. “Faubourg simply means ‘neighborhood’ or ‘suburb.’ This area was, as you might guess, established by a man named Marigny; Bernard Marigny was a Creole developer with a gambling problem. The part of the Marigny nearer the river is the older section, which was originally part of the family plantation. The upper section is known as the New Marigny and is where many Creole gentlemen provided cottages for their mulatto mistresses. I’m sure most of you know that the Marigny was recently the site of one of the strangest and most violent crimes in the city; that’s where we’ll go first.”

  Liz winced. Ai certainly didn’t hesitate on trotting it right out there. She and Mike hung back toward the end of the group. Mike grabbed Liz’s hand, and they looked like a happy couple as they strolled down the street.

  Ai was chattering about options in the Marigny for the tourists to check out later, promising to point out the best places along Frenchmen street as they came back toward the Quarter. When she got to Liz’s house, she stopped on the sidewalk outside and waited for everyone to form a little semicircle in front of her.

  “Just a few months ago, the murder of Alexandria James happened here. Wren Anderson, Alexandria’s former lover, apparently was having delusions that she was a vampire. In her frenzied state, she attacked Alexandria and slit her throat, draining her of most of her blood. When Alexandria’s partner found them, Ms. James was already dead and Ms. Anderson was covered in blood, weeping over the body of her former lover.”

  Liz squeezed Mike’s hand. It was bad enough to hear the story, but no one called Alex “Alexandria” except for her stepmother Lila. Alex hated being called by her full name.

  Ai continued. “I brought you here first to warn you of the dangers of taking things that I tell you today too lightly. The forces that I am going to tell you about on the tour still have sway in New Orleans. Wren Anderson is being held for trial in the murder. If she sought help before things got out of hand, the tragedy could have been avoided. The stories I will tell you today are all as serious as this one, just older.” She paused and scanned the crowd. “In other words, I take every story seriously here and will be happy to refund anyone’s money right now if they are looking for a less serious and academic tour.”

  Liz was still dubious. While Ai seemed sincere, this was certainly a way to get folks’ attention and put them on edge at the start of the tour. No one stepped up for a refund.

  “Ok, then. The theories about this case include that it was a regular love triangle, but to others that seems too simple. The high level of violence here indicates someone not stable, although it was clearly personal to Wren.” She paused for a second, looking squarely at Liz. “At the time of the murder, the victim was in a graduate course that focused on the theme of vampires. Some theorize that in her love-lorn state that Wren thought she was a vampire and was trying to turn Alex into one too so they could be together forever and Alex would be indebted to her.”

  After taking some questions that she fielded fairly well without over-sensationalizing the case, Ai decided it was time to move on.

  From the house, they walked back toward Chartres, headed to the Old Ursuline Convent. They stopped for a moment in front of Le Richelieu hotel to hear the story of executed Spanish soldiers who were supposedly still walking the grounds. They then moved on fairly quickly to the Convent.

  “This is the oldest building in the Mississippi valley. It dates back to 1752. It is a prime example of French Colonial architecture. This building is one that has been spared in fires like the one in 1788 that took down St. Louis Cathedral. The story goes that in the second great fire of 1794 that the nuns prayed to the patron saint of Rouen, their home town, and the fire was almost to the convent when a sudden change in wind changed its course.”

  “What is perhaps more interesting than the power of prayer here, though, is the story of the Casket Girls. One of the purposes of the Convent was to serve as a passage way for young girls from French convents. They would come here to help spread Christianity first through the work at the convent, but then later as good wives and mothers. They are called the Casket Girls because they each arrived with a small, coffin-shaped chest of their personal effects. As often happens with tourists, many of the girls found the city a bit too rough and some were raped while others wound up in prostitution. Legend says that when word reached France about how the girls were treated that they attempted to t
ake them back to France. Some took their chests back with them, but some apparently did not. The nuns did not open them, but instead stored them on the third floor. Today, it is said that the third floor is off limits with its door and windows nailed shut with nails blessed by the Pope himself.” She paused for a bit and let the story sink in a bit.

  “Of course, it is not hard to imagine how the connection between the casket-shaped chests and vampires started; some recent stories indicate that the girls would have looked quite frail after their long voyage, as well, adding to the rumors. The legend eventually grew to a fever pitch and the girls were identified as vampire ‘smugglers.’ There is even a story of two young girls interning with a group of ghost hunters at the Beauregard-Keyes house who were found dead after staying up late to watch for the vampires leaving the third floor through an open set of shutters,” as she said this she pointed across the street and upward toward the windows.

  “There’s nothing that substantiates the story, though, but it is quite sensational, as they are said to have been drained of their blood, their bodies left on the steps of St. Mary’s chapel on the grounds.”

  They continued to several other sites, first stopping at the Lalaurie Mansion on Royal, then, up Royal to Dumaine Street where she pointed out the Historic Voodoo Museum, past the House of Voodoo store on Bourbon, and finally up to St. Ann’s between Burgundy and North Rampart.

  “This is the spot where Marie Laveau’s home once stood. Specifically, this spot, 1020 St. Ann is where the Widow Paris, the original Marie Laveau died in 1881. Known as the Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau was born free in New Orleans, the daughter of a free Creole woman and a white plantation owner. This home was given to her in return for work she did to save a rich man’s son from prison. Some say the spot is haunted by the original Marie Laveau, even though the original clay and moss cottage that was here is long gone. The current cottage is a typical multi-family shotgun duplex.”