Few places are better backdrops for Gothic mystery than Louisiana, and what could be more Gothic than a haunted mental facility formerly known as the Louisiana Hospital for the Insane? When crime boss Frankie Castellano learns he has a half-black sister who was a patient at Pinebridge Mental Hospital, he hires French Quarter P.I. Wyatt Thomas to find her. When Wyatt travels to the bucolic central Louisiana town of Pinebridge to investigate, he begins losing his grip on reality. He soon realizes there's a thin line between truth and illusion. Krewe of Illusion is available for presale on Amazon and will be released in June. Here are the first three chapters of Krewe of Illusion. Hope you love it.
Krewe of Illusion
A novel by
Eric Wilder
Chapter 1
glorious spring had arrived in New Orleans.
Jazz Fest had just concluded as I sat at the bar of Bertram Picou’s mostly
empty drinking establishment on Chartres Street in the French Quarter. Someone
entered the bar that I recognized. Seeing me, he smiled and walked over. It was
Frankie Castellano, looking wealthy in thousand-dollar shoes and a suit worth
more than most people make in a year.
Frankie was one of the most
powerful mob bosses in the South and was often referred to as ‘Don of the
Bayou.’ He had dark hair and eyes and a receding hairline. His bulldog-like
face made him look angry even when he was smiling.
“How you doing, Wyatt?”
“I’m good, Frankie. How
about you?”
“Me too,” Frankie said.
“May I join you?”
“Pull up a stool,” I said.
Frankie sat and said,
“Where’s Bertram?”
He laughed when I said,
“Probably on his way to the bank since he made so much money during Jazz Fest.”
“Me, Adele, and Toni just
caught the last act of Jazz Fest.”
“Are they with you?” I
asked.
“Over on Royal Street
window shopping.”
I ducked under the bar and
said, “Then you probably need a drink. Scotch?”
When Frankie saw the bottle
I poured from, he said. “Good memory. Monkey Shoulder is my favorite brand.”
I handed him the scotch and
said, “You’re here for more than a drink and to test my memory. How can I help
you?”
“A little problem I need
someone to look into.”
“Glad to help, though you
usually call Tony on such matters,” I said.
Former N.O.P.D. homicide
detective Tony Nicosia had retired from the force under duress and was now,
like me, a private investigator. I’d worked for Frankie in the past, though
always alongside Tony Nicosia.
“Tony and Lil are on
vacation in Italy,” he said.
“I just finished my last
case a few hours ago, and my dance card is open,” I said. “Tell me how I can
help?”
“Locate a missing person.”
“I can do that. Who do you
want me to find?”
“My sister.”
“I’ve known you for a long
time, Frankie. I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“Neither did I until a few
days ago.”
“Maybe you’d better
explain,” I said.
“This past Mardi Gras, I
was king of the Krewe of Illusion. You familiar with it?”
The Krewe of Illusion was
one of the oldest and most exclusive carnival clubs in New Orleans. It was
rumored that only the city's richest and most powerful men ever ruled as King
of Illusion, and then only after donating a cool million bucks. Frankie’s question
made me smile.
“Of course. My grandfather
was King of Illusion once.”
It was Frankie’s turn to
smile. “I keep forgetting your granddad was governor and the most powerful man
in Louisiana.”
“Unfortunately, none of it
rubbed off on me.”
“It sometimes doesn’t pay
to keep a high profile,” Frankie said.
I understood what Frankie
was insinuating. My grandfather was indeed powerful and had paid for his power
by being assassinated in the capitol rotunda. I skipped over Frankie’s
reference.
“Sorry I interrupted.
Please continue your story,” I said.
“The Krewe has specific
rules, and having Adele as my queen wasn’t an option. The committee chose
Harper Devereaux to serve as queen. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“Me and everyone else in
New Orleans,” I said.
Harper Devereaux was a
quintessential New Orleans socialite, a young woman as gorgeous as she was
wealthy. The Devereaux family was among the wealthiest and most powerful
families in New Orleans.
“Trust me when I tell you
the amount of time Harper and I had to spend together didn’t endear me with
Adele.”
“I can imagine.” When
Frankie killed his scotch, I said, “Another?”
“Please.”
I stood across from him on
the other side of the bar and refilled his glass straight from the bottle.
“Was Miss Devereaux the one
who informed you about your sister?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Please explain how she
knew about her.”
“Harper is a philanthropist
who does extensive charity work and is on the Louisiana Office of Behavioral
Health board. One of the mental health facilities is the Pinebridge Mental
Hospital. Heard of it?”
“I had an aunt who spent
some time there,” I said.
“And?”
I poured Frankie more
scotch. “The hospital doesn’t have a stellar reputation,” I said. “Maybe things
have changed, but patients were once treated like inmates. Beatings, mental
deprivation, and maybe even torture occurred. Want to hear more?”
“Your aunt?”
“She survived,” I said. “I
remember some of her stories. Was your sister at Pinebridge?”
Frankie nodded.
“Apparently,” he said.
“Was she a patient?” I
asked.
“My father wasn’t a very
savory person.”
“I understand,” I said.
“You just want to know the truth.”
Frankie nodded again. “Can
you help me?”
“Do you know your sister’s
name,” I asked.
“Bella Donna Castellano.”
“Any idea when she was
born?” I asked.
“No clue,” he said. “Right
now, you know as much about my sister as I do.”
I grabbed my cell phone and
said, “I’ll check my database.”
“You have a database?”
“We P.I.s can’t tap into
the database used by law enforcement. There are several extensive informational
databases available for the rest of us.”
After a minute, Frankie
said, “Well?”
“Your family has no birth
record of a female named Bella Donna Castellano,” I said.
“Impossible,” he said.
“What database are you accessing?”
“It’s called Tracker, a
comprehensive database for P.I.s,” I said.
Frankie smirked and said,
“Maybe you’d better trade it in for one that works.”
“Bella Donna is your
half-sister,” I said.
“That’s crazy,” Frankie
said. “My parents never divorced.”
“You and Bella Donna have
the same father but different mothers.”
“Let me see that,” he said.
When I handed him my phone,
showing him the birth certificate of Bella Donna Castellano, he stared at it.
“What’s this supposed to
mean?” he asked.
“Your dad had a mistress
named Hattie Depoy. She was black and lived in the Lower Ninth Ward. Bella
Donna was born in 1952. Your dad was only seventeen then and hadn’t married
your mother yet.”
“What happened to Bella
Donna?” Frankie asked.
“Hattie was from Arkansas
and moved back there, taking Bella Donna with her.”
“Then how did she end up in
the Pinebridge Mental Hospital?”
Frankie was agitated, and I
poured him more scotch.
“Don’t know,” I said.
“Is Bella Donna still
alive?” Frankie asked.
I shook my head and said,
“I can find no death certificate.”
Frankie downed his scotch
and said, “I want you to go to Pinebridge and find out what my half-sister was
doing there.”
“Because you think your
father is somehow involved?”
“Paco was a mean old
bastard,” Frankie said. “I know how bad he treated Mama and me.”
“Bella Donna could be
dead,” I said. “Pinebridge has a bad reputation. Many of their patients were
never accounted for, and some say they were buried in unmarked graves.”
I nodded when Frankie said,
“Pinebridge was that bad?”
“There are all sorts of
unconfirmed allegations of rape, bondage, torture, and even murder,” I said.
“How the hell did they get
away with that?” Frankie asked.
“Mental illness, until
recently, has been a taboo subject. Therapeutical treatments such as
full-frontal lobotomies were green-lighted because not even medical
professionals knew for sure what they were doing. Bad things were swept under
the rug, and no one wanted to take responsibility.”
“If Bella Donna is alive, I
want you to find her. She’s my sister, even if she is half-black.”
“I’d like to interview
Harper Devereaux. Can you arrange the meeting for me?”
“Why do you need to talk to
her?”
“She’s on the board of
directors and can give us access to the Pinebridge facility without questions.”
Frankie grabbed his cell
phone. After a short conversation, he said, “Harper will speak with you. Can
you go now?”
“Of course,” I said.
Frankie clutched my wrist.
“You’re a former lawyer, and I know this goes without saying. . .”
“Whatever I learn, I won’t
share it with anyone other than you. You have my word.”
“Thanks,” Frankie said. He
pulled out his checkbook, wrote me a check, and handed it to me. “This is only
a retainer. Feel free to bill me for any expenses you may incur.”
Frankie smiled when I said,
“I’ve worked for you before, and you’ve always been more than generous. Give me
Miss Devereaux’s address, and I’ll head her way.”
“Wonderful,” he said. “Can
you pour me one more scotch before you go?”
I sat the bottle of Monkey
Shoulder on the counter in front of him. “I’ll go you one better.”
***
The value of houses in the
Quarter ranges from expensive to don’t ask. Miss Devereaux’s domicile was, ‘You
won’t believe me if I tell you.’
I found Harper Devereaux’s
home near the corner of Ursulines Avenue and Royal Street. It was a stately
mansion with a stucco-over-brick façade the color of buttercream. Tall
shuttered windows opened onto a wrap-around balcony overlooking Ursulines.
I rang the doorbell, half
expecting a butler to answer. Instead, Harper Devereaux, dressed like a runway
model, appeared at the door, and I had to catch my breath.
“I’m Wyatt Thomas,” I said.
“Frankie Castellano just called about me.”
Harper Devereaux was
stunningly beautiful. I’d seen her pictures on society pages, but they did her
no justice. Long auburn hair draped her shapely shoulders and brown designer
low-cut sheath. Her smile told me she understood her appearance's effect on me.
“Come in, Mr. Thomas. We
can talk in the den.”
The parquet floors, wicker
furniture, and hanging ferns in the foyer were perfect. Harper Devereaux smiled
again when she saw me looking.
“Your house is beautiful,”
I said.
“Circa 1810 Creole
cottage,” she said. “I picked the property up for a song and did extensive
renovations.”
“I can see you have.
Impressive.”
I followed her to her den,
which looked out into a courtyard through a floor-to-ceiling picture window.
The door to the courtyard was ajar, and the babbling fountain filled the room
with soothing vibes.
“The den is my favorite
room,” she said. “It’s my haven from stress and life’s chaos.”
“I see why.”
A large white couch
dominated the room, and the white cat lying on it didn’t move when Harper
Devereaux sat beside it. I took a comfortable rocker near the couch.
“Now, Mr. Thomas, how can I
help you?”
“Please, call me Wyatt,” I
said.
“Absolutely, and you can
call me Harper. How do you know Frankie?”
“Frankie’s wife Adele and
her father Pancho owned an Italian restaurant in Metairie I frequented. I knew
Adele and Pancho before I met him.”
“I see,” she said. “Can I
get you a drink?”
“I’m an alcoholic,” I said.
Harper smiled when she
said, “A French Quarter P.I. who doesn’t drink? How tragic. Do you mind if I
mix something for myself?”
“Absolutely not.”
Harper was young, probably
in her late twenties or early thirties, though she moved across the room like
an A-list actress. She wheeled her antique liquor cart to the couch and mixed
us each a lime and soda water.
“Cheers,” she said.
“You have an eclectic
selection of liquor,” I said.
“Everyone in my family
drinks, and they all have expensive tastes. When they visit, I try to
accommodate their favorites. What was your favorite alcohol before you gave up
drinking?”
“I’d degenerated to the
stage that I would drink almost anything short of battery acid, but my favorite
alcohol was scotch.”
She showed me a bottle in
the cart. “Have you ever tried Monkey Shoulder?”
“Never did,” I said. “Is it
good?”
“I don’t drink scotch,” she
said. “You’re not here to talk about alcoholic beverages.”
“Frankie Castellano’s like
a bulldog when he wants something. You ignited his fuse when you told him he
has a sister he knew nothing about.”
“I probably should have
kept the information to myself,” Harper said.
“Frankie hired me to
investigate. He’ll never be happy until he knows.”
“Pinebridge is a medical
facility. I’m on the board, and there are HIPAA rules I have to follow.”
“Frankie’s family, and he
has a right to know,” I said.
“Probably so,” she said.
“Where do I begin?”
“His sister’s name, for
starters.”
“Bella Donna Castellano.”
“How did you learn Bella
Donna was a patient at Pinebridge?”
“The present administrator
of the facility is a close friend of mine. She told me.”
“What’s your friend’s
name?” I asked.
“Celeste Gauthier,” Harper
said.
“I’d like to interview
her,” I said. “Can you arrange it?”
“Pinebridge is a day’s
drive from here in Central Louisiana.”
“I’ve been there,” I said.
“My aunt was a patient there for a while.”
“Then you know the facility
has a bad reputation,” she said.
I nodded. “Mental illness
is a social stigma. At least we’ve advanced beyond referring to mental health
facilities as insane asylums.”
“Amen to that,” she said.
Chapter 2
t was mid-afternoon in the French Quarter,
the sound of a passing horse-drawn carriage rumbling outside on the street.
“I’ve been planning a trip
to Pinebridge. You can ride with me if you like.”
“Wonderful,” I said. Living
in the Quarter, I don’t need a car much.”
“When we get to Pinebridge,
I'll take you wherever you need. If you stay longer than me, you can rent a
car.”
“That’ll work,” I said.
“When did you want to go?”
she asked.
“Soon as possible. I’ll
need to pack and see to my cat.”
“You have a cat?”
She smiled when I said,
“Just like every intelligent person I know.”
“Bring her with you. She
and Silky will get along famously.”
“You sure?”
Harper put Silky into a cat
carrier and said, “My car’s parked in the back.”
“Aren’t you going to pack?”
I asked.
“I own a cottage in
Pinebridge,” she said. “I have clothes there.”
Harper’s car was a Range
Rover. It had all the expensive amenities, and I could only imagine how much
she had paid for the vehicle. I didn’t ask.
“Where to, Wyatt?” she
asked.
“Bertram’s bar on Chartres
Street. I have an apartment on the second floor.”
Bertram’s wasn’t far from
Harper’s house on Ursulines. When we arrived, she parked on the street outside
and exited the big SUV.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll
be towed?” I asked.
“I’m a Devereaux,” she
said. “It will be here when we return.”
I drew a deep breath,
wondering how anyone could be so confident. Her money, I thought as we entered
Bertram’s. The establishment was rocking, and Bertram was mixing drinks at the
bar. When he saw Harper and me enter the front door, he motioned for us to join
him.
“Where you been?” he said.
“And who is this gorgeous woman with you?”
“Frankie hired me to do a
job for him. I must pack a few clothes because I will be out of town for a few
days.”
“Want me to take care of
that mangy cat of yours?”
“She’s going with us?”
“What did Frankie hire you
to do?” Bertram asked.
“Confidential, Mr. Nosy,” I
said.
“You can tell old Bertram.
It won’t get farther than this bar,” he said.
“Frankie swore me to
secrecy and would kill us both if he knew I’d told you anything.”
“Whoa! I don’t need to know
that bad.”
“Harper Devereaux, meet
Bertram Picou, the owner of the best bar in New Orleans.”
“Can I get you something to
drink, pretty lady?”
“Ginger ale,” she said.
“Wyatt and I have a lot of miles to cover, and I don’t drink and drive.”
“Can you put it in a
go-cup?” I asked. “It’s getting late, and I need to pack.”
Bertram poured Harper a
ginger ale and a lemonade for me.
“How long you going to be
gone?” he asked.
“Until I solve Frankie’s
mystery,” I said.
I nodded when he said,
“Then keep me posted.”
Harper followed me upstairs
to my apartment on the second floor. Compared to her stately mansion, mine was
little more than one room comprising a bedroom and a kitchenette. My cat Kisses
was asleep on the bed.
“Oh, what a beautiful cat,”
Harper said. “What’s her name?”
“Kisses.”
“What happened to her
tail?” she asked.
“Born that way. Guess she’s
probably part-Manx.”
“Love your little
apartment,” she said.
“It’s comfortable and all I
need. Kisses loves the balcony and so do I.”
“Don’t apologize,” she
said. “People would kill to live in the heart of the French Quarter and have a
view like you do.”
Cars passed on the street
below, rowdy college students shouting obscenities at the pigeons.
“Thanks,” I said. “How far
is it to Pinebridge?”
“Two hundred miles, about
three hours of driving time for most people, less than that for me.”
“Should I increase my
insurance before we go?”
“You’ll be fine,” she said
with a grin. “I’m a good driver.”
“Then I’d better hurry.
Fast or slow, it’ll be dark when we get there.”
When Harper and I descended
the stairs with my suitcase and cat carrier, Bertram’s bar was filled with new
customers.
Bertram waved and nodded
when I said, “See you when I see you.”
Harper’s expensive Range
Rover was waiting for us in one piece, an N.O.P.D. cop standing beside it on
the sidewalk making sure of it. He smiled, saluted, and opened the door for
her.
“I’m impressed,” I said.
After loading my bag and
the carrier with Kisses, she drove away and headed for I-10. We were soon on
our way to Baton Rouge, the swampy lowlands characterizing the Bonnet Carre
Spillway prevalent on both sides of the highway.
“We’ll head north after
reaching Opelousas,” she said. “Relax. We’re a long way from there.”
Relaxing wasn’t difficult
in Harper’s opulent Range Rover. Cats that don’t know each other are often
standoffish, if not outright hostile. Silky and Kisses were exceptions and took
to each other quickly.
I had questions for Harper,
though I refrained from asking her. Frankie didn’t want me to discuss the case
with anyone, and I thought I knew why. Despite Harper and Frankie's forty-year
age difference, I had a hunch they’d had an affair, maybe even an ongoing
affair. It would explain the bottle of Monkey Shoulders Harper kept in her den.
Affairs are very personal
and most often secretive for apparent reasons. It seemed to me Harper had
shared her affair with Frankie with Celeste Gauthier, the administrator of the
Pinebridge Mental Hospital. If not, how did Ms. Gauthier even know about Frankie
Castellano to the extent she told Harper about her discovery?
The reason might have been
that Harper and Frankie had been the king and queen of the Krewe of Illusion.
Maybe. I decided to ask her when the time was right.
My thoughts were shattered
when Harper asked, “Don’t you ever talk?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Years of
single living ruined me for small talk.”
“How did you become a
private investigator?”
“I was a French Quarter
lawyer, though years of alcohol abuse ended my marriage and legal practice. I
was disbarred. When Bertram finally fished me out of the gutter, dried me out,
and gave me a place to stay, I needed a job. P.I. work came easy for me.”
“You never tried to get
your license back?”
“I think about it from time
to time,” I said.
“And?”
I smiled and said,
“Thinking about it is all it has ever come to. What about you?”
“What about me?” she said.
“You seem happy living
alone. Have you ever been married?”
When Harper answered my
question, I could tell by the tone of her voice she hadn't taken offense.
“The right person has never
come along,” she said. “Besides, I have Silky, and we’re happy.”
“What prompted Celeste to
tell you about Frankie’s sister?”
My question surprised
Harper, and I could tell she was displeased that I had put her on the spot.
“Celeste knew that Frankie
and I had been king and Queen of Illusion. She thought I would be interested. I
was.”
“Mardi Gras ended in
February. You and Frankie are still friends?”
“Frankie’s the most
powerful man I’ve ever met,” she said. “He’s an extraordinary human being, and
it’s an honor for me to call him a friend.”
Harper smiled when I said,
“Frankie told me his wife was jealous of you.”
“Did he now? I can see why.
We spent lots of time together, sometimes until late at night.”
“Did you and Frankie have
an affair?” I asked.
“Inappropriate question,”
Harper said.
I decided not to pursue the
subject. “What’s Pinebridge like?”
“Hilly with lots of pine
trees. There's not much there except for the hospital and the college. The
parish was dry until a year ago. Now, they have a café in the square called
Raven’s Roost that Celeste and I like. It has a bar and shaded seating on the patio.”
“Then you and Celeste are
more than just business associates.”
“You called Bertram nosy.
That’s like the pot calling the kettle black,” she said.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s a
P.I.’s lot in life to ask questions.”
“It’s okay. Celeste cares
for the cottage I own in Pinebridge. She lives there, and we’re roommates when
I visit.”
I had fallen asleep
sometime after we’d turned north at Opelousas. I opened my eyes when Harper
awakened me with a shake of my knee. It was dark.
“Wake up, sleepy head.
We’re here,” she said.
“Sorry I fell asleep on
you,” I said.
“No problem. There are
motels ahead. Name your poison.”
“Is there someplace closer
to the center of town? I like to walk when I can.”
“There’s an old two-storied
hotel downtown near the hospital and the college,” Harper said. “It’s
family-owned and anything but modern.”
“Sounds like it’s right up
my alley,” I said.
“I’ll drop you at the front
door and wait until you check in, and then we can visit the hospital,” she
said.
She laughed when I said,
“Celeste works this late?”
“She’s a workaholic.”
Dark streets typical of a
small Louisiana town marked the outskirts of Pinebridge. On our way to the town
center, we passed motels, fast-food establishments, used car lots, and
appliance stores. The town square was different, with a historic courthouse near
its center. The little town was old and dominated mainly by two-story
buildings. Harper pulled the Range Rover into the entrance to the Pourteau
Hotel.
“Leave the cat carrier.
Kisses can stay at my house. I’ll wait in the car while you check in,” she
said.
Pourteau’s had a welcoming
waiting room and a smiling woman behind the counter when I entered.
“Help you?” she said.
“I need a room. I don’t
know for how long. Can I keep the check-out date open?”
“You bet,” she said.
“Seventy dollars a night. We have a complimentary breakfast beginning at six in
the morning.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
She handed me a key and
said, “Room 201 on the second floor. The best view in the hotel.”
“Great,” I said.
The room was small but
clean and serviceable. The single window looked out over the town square. I
closed the curtain, sat my suitcase on the bed, and went downstairs.
When I opened the door to
Harper’s Range Rover, she said, “How’s the room?”
“Good,” I said.
“I called Celeste. She’s
waiting for us at the hospital.”
“Great,” I said.
“Let’s stop by my house and
drop off the cats. Silky has spent lots of time there. They’ll have the run of
the place and will love it.”
Harper’s little house was
anything but. The single-story Louisiana ranch-style house stood alone on a
bluff overlooking the Red River.
She grinned when I said,
“Little?”
“I had a local architect
design it based on Louisiana delta homes,” Harper said. “You won’t believe the
deck that overlooks the river.”
Harper pulled the Range
Rover into the house’s three-car garage. When we took the cat carriers into the
den, Harper turned on the lights. Silky and Kisses exchanged nose rubs with
Celeste’s big Persian when we opened the doors to their carriers.
“Your house is awesome.
Kisses may want to stay forever,” I said.
Harper checked the water
and food in the bowls beside the oversized fireplace.
“They’ll be fine. Let’s go
to the hospital.”
The Pinebridge Mental
Hospital was nearby, and Harper parked in the lot in front. The modern façade
was an addition to what I could see, even in the dark, was a much older
facility. The person at the front desk recognized Harper, smiled, and gave us
the high sign. I followed her down a darkened hallway to Celeste’s office. When
we opened the door without knocking, Celeste got out of her chair and embraced
Harper.
Celeste proved as
attractive as Harper, only older. Her long hair was darker and I guessed her
age at forty-something. She was dressed in faded jeans and a pale blue sweater.
From the duration of the embrace, I was aware the two women truly liked one another.
“Celeste, this is Wyatt
Thomas. He’s a private investigator from New Orleans.”
When Celeste shook my hand,
I said, “Pleased to meet you.”
Celeste’s office seemed
more like that of a corporate bigwig than a Louisiana public servant. She sat
behind her big oak desk as Harper, and I took seats in two of the spacious
office's expensive chairs.
“I’m so glad you made it in
one piece,” Celeste said. “I worry every time Harper is on the road.”
“You’re not my mother,”
Harper said. “I’m a great driver.”
“I can attest to that,” I
said. “This facility is awesome, and my spine tingled when we walked down the
hall. I hope you don’t have to spend much time here after dark.”
“It comes with the
territory,” she said. “I’m used to the ghosts.”
Celeste’s words had barely
died away when we heard an unearthly wail through the cracked window in her
office.
“More than ghosts,” I said.
“That sounded like a big cat.”
Chapter 3
eleste hurried to the window and slammed it
shut with more force than was probably necessary.
“We aren’t far from the
Kisatchie National Forest. Swamps and woodlands thick with pines surround
Pinebridge. Some people call it the pine curtain. If you let yourself get
caught up in the sounds of the night, it’ll drive you nuts.”
“This place is noticeably
old,” I said. “Can you fill in its history for me?”
“The facility, originally
called the Louisiana Hospital of the Insane, has a sordid history. Suffering
people were sent here because there was nowhere else to put them. Medical
treatments were either non-existent or bordering on the medieval.”
“We’ve come a long way,”
Harper said.
“Thank God for that,”
Celeste said. “This facility has less than a hundred patients and is a mere
shadow of its former self. During its heyday, it had hundreds of patients from
every part of the state. It was self-sufficient with a dairy, a hundred-sixty-acre
farm, a cathedral, and a cemetery.”
“Can you arrange a tour for
me?” I asked.
“Of course,” Celeste said.
“Most old outbuildings are no longer in use and in disarray. It isn’t a place
you want to visit after dark.”
Before I could reply,
someone began banging on the door. Sensing something neither Harper nor I did,
Celeste hurried to the door and flung it open. A dark-haired young man dressed
in jeans and a tee shirt stood in the doorway, obviously shaken from his distressed
expression.
“Billy, what’s the matter?”
Celeste said.
“Trouble,” the young man
said.
Celeste stood six inches
taller than Billy. Grabbing his shoulders, she shook him until he stopped
stammering.
“It’s okay. What’s wrong?”
“Mr. Marshal,” Billy said.
“He’s bleeding.”
“What happened?” Celeste
asked.
“Something terrible,” Billy
said.
“Where is he?”
“The cemetery,” Billy said.
Billy became even more
nervous when Celeste asked, “What were you doing in the cemetery?”
“Noises,” he said.
“You mean like the noises
our patients make at night?”
Billy shook his head. “More
like the scream of a woman.”
“Take me to him,” Celeste
said. “Harper, there’s a flashlight on my desk.”
Harper grabbed the
flashlight and we followed Celeste and Billy out of the door. We’d gone no more
than ten feet when Celeste halted.
“We’re taking a shortcut
through the psych ward, and you need to be warned. In this confined space, even
the faintest sounds echo off the walls. Haunting noises punctuate the silence,
each more unnerving than the last. Sometimes, it’s enough to scare the hell out
of you.”
When Celeste entered a
combination on a keypad to open a heavy metal door, it took less than a minute
to understand the reason for her ominous warning. Even in the dimly lit
corridor, it was impossible not to see the faces of the tormented souls peering
from behind the tiny barred windows of their padded cells.
The plaintive cries of
patients lost in the labyrinth of their minds wailed a heart-wrenching chorus
of anguish reverberating off sterile walls, a chorus that lingered like a
mournful lament. Some voices were barely more than whispers, fragile echoes of fractured
souls, their pain palpable. Harper clutched my hand and squeezed.
“I hate the sounds they
make,” she said. “I don’t know how Celeste tolerates it.”
Frenzied screams shattered
the uneasy calm, signaling a moment of crisis. Footsteps echoed down another
hallway and the metallic clinking of restraints and the rhythmic thud of heavy
doors being locked. Whispers of fragmented conversations and delusional
laughter, devoid of joy, were a chilling reminder of the thin line between
sanity and madness.
Harper released my hand
when Celeste used the keypad to open the psych ward’s exit door. I could still
hear the cacophony of the tortured souls even after the metal door shut behind
us with a dull thud.
As Celeste, Billy, Harper,
and I emerged from the dilapidated rear of the old mental institution, the air
hung heavy with the oppressive weight of the night. The moon, obscured by thick
clouds, cast an eerie glow upon the desolate landscape, cloaking the abandoned
outbuildings and gnarled pine trees in shadow.
We traversed an old cobbled
path, our footsteps muffled by the damp earth and shrouded in a mist that
seemed to rise from the very soul of the forsaken grounds. A chorus of chirping
crickets and the flickering dance of lightning bugs provided the only semblance
of life amid the graveyard silence.
With each step, the sense
of foreboding deepened, amplified by the whispered legends of the institution's
tormented past that echoed through the wind-swept corridors of memory.
We followed Billy through
the murky darkness, our nerves taut, every rustle of leaves, and the distant
howl of a nocturnal creature sending shivers down our spines.
We reached an old cemetery,
a somber testament to the forgotten souls who had once wandered these hallowed
grounds in search of sanctuary. Amongst the weathered headstones, a chilling
sight awaited us: a man's lifeless body slumped against a moss-covered
monument, the jagged wounds upon his flesh a grotesque tableau of savage
brutality.
The moon broke free from
its cloud-shrouded prison, casting its pallid light upon the scene,
illuminating the man's twisted visage in stark relief. His eyes, frozen in a
silent scream, bore witness to the horrors he had endured in his final moments,
while the zigzag lacerations that marred his skin spoke of a violence born from
the depths of primal instinct.
As we stood there,
transfixed by the grisly spectacle, a sense of dread enveloped us like a
suffocating cloak. At that moment, amid the desolation of the abandoned
cemetery, I realized that we weren’t alone. The darkness held secrets far more
sinister than I dared to imagine.
I touched the man’s carotid
artery.
“There’s nothing we can do
for him,” I said. “He’s dead.”
Celeste’s hand went to her
mouth. “Oh, my God! Are you sure?”
She embraced Billy and they
both began to cry when I nodded and said, “I’m sorry.”
What killed him?” Harper
asked.
“Don’t know,” I said. “Call
the police.”
Within ten minutes of
Harper’s 9-1-1 call, we heard the sirens.
“What now?” she said.
“This is a crime scene,” I
said. “Don’t touch anything.”
We waited in the darkness,
none of us speaking until the lights of police cars stopped in the parking lot
of the old cemetery. Officers with flashlights soon appeared through the mist
that continued to rise from the ground.
When a man in blue pants, a
khaki shirt, and a dark blue windbreaker with a Rapides Parish Sheriff’s office
insignia approached us, he said, “I’m Detective Willoughby. Where’s the body?”
Celeste pointed the
flashlight to the headstone the body was propped against. As police officers
began spreading out, a black woman dressed the same as Detective Willoughby
motioned us to follow her. We stopped when we reached her white SUV police
vehicle with the flashing lights.
“I’m Detective Goodwine,”
she said. “Give me your names and tell me what happened here.”
The name sewn on the
windbreaker read Det. Maya Goodwine. Her short hair was swept back enough to
reveal blue zircon earrings and a diamond ear piercing at the top of her ear.
Except for her watch, the earrings and the piercing were the only jewelry she wore.
Detective Goodwine took notes when we told her who we were.
“Do you know the victim’s
name?” she asked.
“Oliver Marshal,” Celeste
said. “He was the hospital’s janitor.”
“How long had he worked for
the hospital?” Detective Goodwine asked.
“Probably more than thirty
years,” Celeste said. “He was working here when I became Administrator.”
“Who discovered the body?”
she asked.
“Billy came to my office
about thirty minutes ago and told us about finding Mr. Marshall’s body,”
Celeste said.
Billy was even more
anxious, shaking when Celeste nudged him toward Detective Goodwine.
“What were you doing in the
cemetery?” she asked.
Billy stuttered when he
said, “I heard a noise. I went to see what it was.”
“Billy is the hospital's
caretaker. He lives in one of the unused hospital rooms outside the main
building,” Celeste said.
“I was outside my door
smoking a cigarette,” Billy said.
“Did you know the
deceased?”
Billy nodded and said, “We
were friends.”
Detective Willoughby
appeared through the darkness and motioned Detective Goodwine to join him.
Following a brief conversation, they returned to the SUV.
“What killed Mr. Marshal?”
Celeste asked.
“We’ll know more after the
coroner has time to examine the body,” Willoughby said. “You are free to go,
though Detective Goodwine and I may have more questions for you later.” When we
started to leave, he said, “Not you, Mr. Thomas.”
“We’ll wait for you in
Celeste’s office,” Harper said.
When they were gone,
Willoughby said, “You’re not from around here.”
I showed him my P.I. badge
and license, and he donned reading glasses for a better view.
“I’m here on assignment,” I
said.
“Mind telling us what for?”
Detective Goodwine said.
“I’m looking for a missing
person who may have been a patient here years ago,” I said.
Willoughby handed my badge
and license back to me. “I don’t know how far along on your assignment you are,
but don’t leave the area without checking first with us.”
I nodded and started to
leave when Detective Goodwine said, “One more thing, Mr. Thomas. You’re an
experienced investigator. Did you see or hear anything else that might be of
interest?”
“We were in Ms. Gauthier’s
office. The window was open, and we heard what sounded like a large cat.”
“A tom cat?” Willoughby
said.
“Bigger. More like a
panther,” I said. “I only got a brief look at the body, but it seemed to me
like a big animal, possibly a cougar or some other large predator, attacked and
killed him.”
Detectives Goodwine and
Willoughby exchanged glances and then handed me their business cards.
“We’ll be in touch,”
Willoughby said.
The back door to the
hospital was locked, so I took a long walk back to the front door. Celeste and
Harper were waiting for me in the lobby.
“Celeste and I are going to
the Raven’s Roost in town for dinner and drinks. Come with us. When we finish
eating, I’ll take you to your room.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
Celeste unlocked the door
to a black BMW and said, “Meet you there.”
I climbed into the
passenger seat of Harper’s Range Rover, neither of us speaking until she pulled
into the parking lot of the little café.
“You won’t have to take me
to my hotel,” I said. “It’s just across the street, and I can walk.”
She grinned and said, “You
may need me to hold your hand.”
“Maybe,” I said.
The Raven’s Roost was an
old building renovated into a modern café and bar. A pretty young waitress
greeted us at the door.
“I’m Kayla,” she said.
“I’ll be waiting on you.”
Kayla led us to a corner
table where hanging ferns and large potted plants blocked our view from the
rest of the establishment. The bistro was ominously dark. When Kayla seated us,
I learned why.
“Most of our clientele are
college students,” she said. “Pinebridge University is a Baptist college, and
the administration doesn’t allow drinking hard liquor.”
“How shortsighted of them.”
Harper and Celeste ordered
martinis. I requested a glass of lemonade.
“Wus,” Harper said.
“Sorry,” I said. “I have no
tolerance for alcohol. I’d be dancing naked in the streets.”
“I’d pay to see that
happen,” Harper said. “Celeste and I will take care of you.”
“Until the police show up
and throw us all in jail,” I said.
“Do you have an opinion
about who or what caused Mr. Marshal’s death,” Celeste said.
Kayla, our pretty waitress,
appeared at our table without drinks before I could answer.
“Are we eating tonight?”
“Yes,” Celeste said.
“What’s your special?”
“Chicken strips and cream
gravy,” Kayla said.
“Not me,” Harper said.
“What else do you have?”
“Our catfish platter,”
Kayla said.
“That’s what I’ll have,”
Harper said.
“Me too,” Celeste said.
“All the way around,” I
said.
“And another round of
martinis,” Harper said.
When our dinners arrived,
Harper was on her third martini. I was starved and ate with relish, as did
Celeste. Harper seemed more interested in getting a buzz on and not losing it
by eating. Having been guilty of the same thing when I was overindulging in
alcohol, I recognized the syndrome. She left most of her dinner on the plate
and ordered another martini when Kayla arrived to clear the table.
Harper’s words were slurred
when she said, “This town is fucked up.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Everyone is so uptight and
afraid they will shame themselves or their families if they follow their
hearts.”
“A different ideology,”
Celeste said. “Every place in Louisiana can’t be the same as New Orleans.”
“Right about that,” Harper
said. “Downtown Pinebridge isn’t exactly Bourbon Street.”
In an attempt to change the
topic of discussion, Celeste looked at me and said, “You haven’t told us what
you think of the death.”
“If I didn’t know better,
I’d have thought a big cat killed him,” I said.
“Crazy talk,” Celeste said.
“Don’t say that,” Harper
said. Wyatt is an experienced investigator, and he’s so cute.”
Harper spilled her martini
on me when she crawled into my lap. I glanced at Celeste and saw her staring a
hole through me. Getting out of her chair, she grabbed Harper’s hand and pulled
her out of my lap.
“I’m taking you home,” she
said. “You can get your car tomorrow.
Kayla was at the table when
Celeste led Harper out the door.
“Another lemonade?” she
said.
“Please,” I said.
When she brought my
lemonade, she said, “Those two are here a lot. They argue like an old married
couple.”
She nodded when I said, “Is
that what they are?”
“Why are you in town, Mr.
Thomas?”
“It’s Wyatt,” I said. I’m a
private investigator looking for someone who spent time in the Pinebridge
Mental Hospital. I’m looking for answers.”
“Celeste is the
administrator. “She’ll know.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“You think she’s covering
something up?” Kayla asked.
“The thought crossed my
mind,” I said.
“My mom is the chief
librarian at Pinebridge University. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about
what’s going on in Pinebridge.”
“I’d like to meet her,” I
said.
“How about dinner tomorrow
night?”
###
Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.
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