“This is all too good,” I say, hoping Elijah doesn’t catch the excitement in my voice. “So, what do we do now? It must be connected. The accident, the cover-up and what’s going on now.”
“Maybe. I don’t know if the state’s involved or not but Matt definitely is.”
“How did the state get the property?”
Elijah explains over coffee and dessert — yes, I ate a good bit of each without hesitation — that when World War II rolled around and the Louisiana Maneuvers started, Brock Parker disappeared when military men used the hot springs and insisted on everything being on the up and up.
“There were camps all over Central Louisiana,” Elijah says. “Hundreds of thousands of men being trained here so the military was strict about those things. According to Old Man Frederick….”
I hold up a hand. “Why do you keep calling him that?”
Elijah laughs. “Wait until you meet him. Anyway, he claims that one of Brock’s heirs saw promise in the site and updated the hotel, built a new pool. It did well for a while but the attraction of hot springs diminished over time and when they built the interstate away from the lake, it fell into disarray again.”
“That’s when the state came in?”
“They thought the springs might drive tourism, since they had built the dam next door and the ‘reservoir’” — Elijah uses his fingers to indicate quotes — “would complement it and people would love the double attraction. Once again, it failed to bring in people so they capped the well and the old hotel and restaurant was deserted. The last I heard they tore down one of the buildings because it was condemned.”
I put down my coffee cup. I’ve had two and am starting to feel the buzz and I’d hate to have to pee at the truck stop halfway between here and home.
“So why is the springs smelling bad, why is the water polluted, and why are there ghosts running around town?”
Judy arrives with the check and Elijah pays. I offer to assist but he waves me off. “Are you kidding?” he asks.
He remains silent until he walks me to my car. We pause at my Toyota and once again check the street, which is deserted except for a lone pickup truck.
“The state built the dam to cover up the accident. It gave them an excuse for what happened, more than likely friends in government helping out a company that made a mistake. But the land where the accident happened, just beyond the springs, always stayed in the Parker family.”
“But I thought….”
“Follow the money.”
I smile because it’s the line in All the President’s Men I loved the most, a film about Watergate that inspired me to go to journalism school.
“Old Man Frederick will help, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“What about Sirona.”
Elijah looks at his feet. “Possibly.”
“What does that mean?”
He meets my eyes and sighs. “She’s not a reliable source.”
Now, it’s my turn to sigh. “Elijah, I can’t help you without getting paid. Honestly, I’m broke.”
He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out an envelope. I glance inside and see several hundred dollar bills and gasp. “What?”
Elijah searches the street one more time, then leans in close. “We’re desperate Ms. Valentine. So much so that the folks of Fontus Springs raided their savings after the City Council pulled the funds.”
“I didn’t mean for you all to pay this much.”
“Please, you’ve got to help us.”
It’s spoken with so much passion and fear that I simply nod.
“Follow the money,” Elijah says before leaving me. “And drive a different car.”
Chapter Ten
After my meeting with Elijah I visit the Rapides Parish Courthouse and do a title search on Fontus Springs. The paper trail shows a Louis Frederick selling the property to Jessie Parker, then Brock Parker inheriting the springs after Jessie’s death. After that, the property falls to Brock Parker’s heirs, a collective group, when Brock Parker passes away.
Here and there papers are missing. On one deed, pages three and four are absent. I think to inquire but don’t want anyone asking for my name.
Two things I know for sure: the title trail is one heck of a mess and the state of Louisiana doesn’t own an inch of this land.
I pop into the Alexandria main library and head toward the Louisiana section, looking up information on the Lorelei dam project, which began in 1933. Miss Bessie had said the accident occurred one fall night in 1932, although she also claimed the state blamed it on a drought. I then researched weather patterns for that year, and although the country experienced drought in several areas, Louisiana wasn’t one of them.
“Do you need some help, darling?” the nice librarian asks me.
On a lark, I request information on Lorelei Lake and Fontus Springs, hoping no one’s around to hear me and break another window. Or worse. The librarian pulls out several folders and hands them to me.
“You want the ghost ones, too?”
I’m about to head to a quiet corner but I stop cold — so does my heart. “Ghosts?”
She smiles and heads back to the file cabinets. “I’ll get you that one, too.”
I stand there like an idiot, mouth hanging open, thinking I need to go straight to the history folder and focus. Every town in Louisiana has ghosts, I command myself, and this may be another folder full of myths and teenage pranks. But I wait patiently like a schoolgirl, palms up while she places a folder there marked “Lorelei legends and ghost tales.”
I find a nice, quiet corner in the back where I have a good view of the door and there’s no one around. I gulp hard and open the folder, finding a series of articles written since the turn of the century. Apparently, ghosts have haunted Fontus Springs for years. Residents had reported eerie activities when the resort was functioning, mostly staff members recalling strange incidents and refusing to work there again. Another article details the unusual lake noises, repeating what Elijah had told me at lunch. “What the…?” I speak out loud, reading about how residents heard singing at night coming from the lake.
There’s way too much to read in one sitting and, being a weekday, the library announces it’s closing soon. I make copies of everything and head toward the interstate. I’m at a traffic light and the signs point in two directions, north and south. I could head back to Lafayette and digest everything I’ve found at the library or sneak back toward Fontus Springs and do a little snooping.
Against my better judgment, I head north.
The sun’s beginning to dip in the west when I hit the turnoff to Fontus Springs and the glare blasts me in the face. I slip on my sunglasses, as much for a disguise as for comfort. I glance down every road I pass, constantly checking my rear-view mirror and letting every car go first when I hit the stop signs. Before my lunch with Elijah I might have thought I was being overly paranoid, even with a broken window. But his last comment about driving a different car — which I’m not doing — has my heart thumping in my chest.
I come to the four-way stop outside of town and in front of me are three dump trucks hauling something beneath tarps. The man waves to me to go first and I’m assuming they are part of a caravan. I wave back, and he doesn’t move, so I wave again, this time more dramatically and hold up my cell phone as if I’m on a call. Finally, the first truck turns toward town and the rest follow. I give them a few minutes headway, then follow.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I mutter to myself but I trail them anyway.
The three trucks slow down at the gravel road Elijah took me by during my first visit. I slow to give them time to turn without noticing me in their rearview mirror and slowly move ahead. There’s a large cloud of dust on the deserted road to my right so I’ve lost sight of the trucks, but I pull off the road beneath a strand of trees and check one of the old maps Elijah had included in his box. Sure enough, the road leads to the springs but there’s another road a few hundre
d feet away that parallels the property, so I drive on.
The parallel road listed on the map is nothing but a dirt trail with no trespassing signs and potholes the size of my head. I pause, wondering if I will need to replace more than my brakes after this gig — not to mention another window — but I drive down anyway. It feels like no one has traveled this way in decades as my car rolls over dips and bumps so on one hand, that bodes well for me not getting shot, but on the other hand, who knows who lives back here which means I might be killed anyway. I check my cell phone and sure enough, no service. I gulp hard and keep going.
I gaze through the thick woods to my right to try and spot the trucks but all I manage to see is that dust cloud they spewed behind. I spot something significant through the trees — a building perhaps? — so I slow the car and lean toward the passenger window to get a better look. I lean over, squint through the thick underbrush and notice something white and tall. I’m thinking the corner of a concrete block building, so I lean further over to get a better look.
That’s when I hear a man yell. It startles me so much I slam on the brakes and nearly fall to the floorboards. There, in front of my hood, is a grizzly looking man in camouflage clothing with a shotgun aimed right at my face. I raise my hands as he approaches and I understand why Elijah gave the man his name. Old Man Frederick looks like he was rode hard and put up wet, as my Aunt Mimi likes to say, with a face completely devoid of smoothness and wild, white hair peeking out everywhere from beneath a ragged John Deere cap.
“Get out of your car,” he demands.
I do as I’m told, my hands still raised high. “Are you Mister Hilderbrand?”
“If you’re from Hobart Industries you’d best get that car in reverse fast before I shoot your ass.”
I shake my head. “I’m Viola Valentine. Elijah Fontenot hired me.”
Old Man Frederick grunts and his eyes narrow but that gun never moves.
“I’m trying to find out what’s going on at the springs,” I continue. “You can call Elijah. He’ll vouch for me.”
He says nothing, keeps staring behind that shotgun.
“Please put down the gun,” I mutter.
“Hired you for what?”
I swallow, because I have no idea how he will take what I’m going to say next. “The ghosts.”
Amazingly, Old Man Frederick lowers his shotgun, but that suspecting gaze never falters. “And just how are you going to do that, young lady?”
I shrug. “No idea.”
He steps closer and takes me in from head to foot, even walks around and checks me out from every angle, perhaps to see if I have a pistol tucked in my waist. And yes, my hands are still reaching for the heavens.
His shoulders relax and the gun points downward, then Old Man Frederick starts walking down the road. “Come on, then,” he says to me without looking around.
I lower my hands, run to the car and retrieve my keys and purse, and lock up, then follow like an obedient puppy. We travel about one hundred feet and turn left into a dense thicket, almost crawling through several bushes before I spot the house. There’s a lovely clearing before the home, with flowers, blooming crape myrtle trees, and a vegetable garden off to the side. The home itself is in immaculate condition, a soft brown Craftsman cottage from the 1920s with a broad porch in front and one of those cute rounded doors with a circular window in the center. It’s off the ground, built that way to provide good air circulation, and I spot a few chickens underneath.
“Expecting a double wide?” Old Man Frederick asks.
“No, sir.”
I really need to stop calling him that, even if it’s only in my head, as I follow him into the house which is filled with antique furnishings, what looks like original artwork, and lots and lots of plants, all neatly trimmed and flourishing. Photos, articles and books are piled everywhere, and I get the impression Frederick loves both gardening and history.
“Sit down,” he orders me as he heads to the kitchen, so I follow and sit at the small kitchen table off to the right. “Coffee?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“I hope you’re not expecting some of that fancy stuff Bessie serves. Around here it’s plain ole Community Coffee dark roast.”
I was raised on Community, a Louisiana coffee company out of Baton Rouge, but with added chicory that’s popular among New Orleanians. I’ve learned not to mention that in Cajun Country, where dark roast reigns. Cajuns get testy about the habits of New Orleans residents, living in the more popular Louisiana city to the east. No chicory in Cajun coffee, thank you, and there dang well better not be any tomatoes in their gumbo.
Being that we’re above the what we call in Louisiana the French line, I doubt Frederick cares.
“Community sounds wonderful,” I offer.
While Fred makes coffee, I decide to be bold and get answers.
“Why is your house so secluded back here?” I look out the back window and spot a gorgeous view of the lake and add, “Oh my goodness. That’s beautiful.”
Fred turns and his look is as inhospitable as it was at the car. “I don’t need to show off anything. I’m not like you young people who have to prove to the world you got something.”
“I wasn’t saying….”
“This land has been in my family for generations and it’s staying that way. And I don’t need anybody telling me how beautiful my view of the lake is.”
My brain bypasses the insult and focuses on his first comment. “I thought that Jessie Parker bought the Hilderbrand land.”
Fred slams the coffee cups down hard on the counter and it’s amazing that they haven’t shattered. “Don’t mention that name or his sorry son in this house.”
I’m so stunned by his reaction that all I can say is “Yes, sir.”
Neither of us speaks while the coffee maker gurgles and Fred puts sugar, cream and those indestructible cups on the table. Finally, when the coffee’s brewed, he brings the pot over and sits down, fills both cups.
“My dad took him to court when he pulled this land out from under us,” Fred begins and I can only assume he’s talking about Jesse Parker. “They transferred the land when my father was out west working on the railroad. When he got back, the springs was gone, but he managed to wrestle back this here property.” His face distorts, making all those wrinkles double in intensity. “Nice of them, huh? Allow us to live on our own land. Of course, we had to buy it from him.”
I sip my coffee in silence, thinking of how this man spent his life watching his family’s once beautiful resort being turned into a crime-filled business, then falling into disrepair. Now, god only knows what’s going on inside those woods. I gaze into that weather-worn face and imagine every wrinkle born of frustration and despair.
“Does Bayou State Transport own the property?” I finally ask. “I did a title search at the Rapides Parish Courthouse but there’s lots of information missing and I couldn’t find anything about the company on the Internet.”
Fred gives me that suspicious look again. “I thought you were here about the ghosts.”
“I am.”
I feel a tickle on my leg and look down to find a fat and happy calico.
“That’s Tootsie.”
“Hey Tootsie.”
I reach down and give the feline a scratch to the back of her neck. Old Man Frederick can’t be that bad if he owns a cat named Tootsie, so I relax and decide to come clean. I explain how I spent a few years working the cops beat in Saint Bernard Parish until Katrina took my newspaper job and home away. Even though I’m in the ghost business now, in addition to travel writing, my journalism curiosity caused me to investigate the Department of Water Quality when I heard Fred had made a formal complaint around Easter. I tell him what TB and I found in the department archives, thanks to my press card, and how my car window was broken shortly afterwards. I mention the lunch with Elijah and my visit with Miss Bessie, but I have a feeling he knew about the latter.
“Miss Bessie knows mor
e than she’s letting on,” Fred says. “But then she has a right to be wary.”
“Because of her son having to leave town?” Fred’s suspicious look returns, so I quickly add, “Elijah told me.”
Fred takes a long drink from his coffee, then sits back in his chair. “Did he tell you about Sirona?”
I’m getting sick of these goosebumps. This round gives me the hard shivers and I shake it off with a frown.
“You cold?”
I ignore his question and get to the point. “What about Sirona?”
Fred picks up the pot and refills our cups. I’m thinking again of that nasty truck stop on the way back to Lafayette but I don’t want to be rude so I let him pour me another.
“You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
“And the ghosts? Have you seen them too?”
Fred smirks and his almost smile nearly makes me spit my coffee. “Of course, I’ve seen them. Everyone has seen them.”
“Everyone? Men, too?”
“The ones man enough to admit it.”
“Since Easter?”
“Since Easter and that awful smell coming from the springs.”
“Do you have any idea why these ghosts are here all of a sudden?”
Fred leans forward and looks me dead in the face. “Ask Sirona.”
He rises abruptly and gathers up our cups — mine still half full — and heads to the kitchen. I realize that’s the end of the conversation so I change the subject once again.
“Do you think it’s Hobart or whomever — Bayou State Transport maybe — dumping stuff back there? As far as I know, the state doesn’t own that property.”
“Who said anything about the state?” Fred asks at the sink, not turning around.
“Until today, I thought they owned the property.”
Those cups clatter in the sink and I once again wonder how they don’t break. “That’s what Matt Wilson wants us to believe.” Fred turns and shakes a finger at me. “Don’t believe a word that lying skunk says.”
I shake my head. “Don’t worry, I don’t. And if I ever see him again, I may return that water meter. To his head.”
Ghost Town Page 15