Saturday, September 01, 2018

City of Spirits - an excerpt

In City of Spirits my second book in the French Quarter Mystery Series, N.O.P.D. homicide detective Tony Nicosia is dealing with Mardi Gras, an escaped killer and an affair he's having with a woman young enough to be his daughter. When he seeks the assistance of his friend voodoo mambo Mama Mulate, she agrees to help him. First, though, he must help her with the problem that she has: the intervention of her friend who is a serial bird hoarder.

City of Spirits - Chapter 27

Morning sun peeked over the Superdome as Tony left Venus’ apartment and hailed a cab. Too late—or too early, whichever your perspective—to go home, he decided to pay Mama Mulate a visit instead. He’d met Mama during a murder investigation. Voodoo had been involved.
Being a voodoo mambo, Mama had provided valuable information that had helped stop the murderer. Along the way, they had become close friends. Right now, he needed a friend, someone to consult with about his ever-encompassing relationship with Venus Hernandez.
The taxi driver dropped him off in front of Mama’s old two-story house, purple, gold, and yellow pansies blooming in the flower garden around her front porch. His visit sat a dog to barking across the street. Mama, checking on the commotion, came to the door before he had a chance to knock.
She was tall, not quite six feet although slender enough to pass for it. Her skin was the color of cafe au lait, with extra lait stirred in. She had dark eyes perfectly highlighted by subtle cheekbones. Her long hair, usually tied up in back to match the persona of the Tulane University professor she was, flowed down her graceful shoulders in curly waves. Morning mist rose up from the lawn as she opened the front door, still wearing her cotton robe.
“Why Lieutenant Nicosia, to what do I owe the pleasure, this early in the day?”
Tony smiled, getting a whiff of the aroma wafting through the open door. “I need your sage advice, but whatever you’re cooking has my stomach growling.”
“Well come in this house,” she said. “First, give me a hug.”
After embracing, Tony said, “How you doing, Mama?”
“If I felt any better, I’d start to worry. You’ve—”
“Gained a little weight?”
It was Mama’s turn to smile. “Did you run out of Mama’s diet pills and come for more?”
“Awhile back, but that’s not why I’m here.”
Mama put her arm around his waist and led him down the hallway. “I’ve got hot Creole coffee on the stove and sticky muffins just coming from the oven. You look as if you could use both.”
When Tony started to take a chair at the kitchen table, Mama shook her hand and pointed to the door leading to her back porch.
“Let’s go outside. It’s so pleasant today we can listen to the birds singing. If crowd noises and marching bands don’t drown them out, that is.”
“Mardi Gras,” Tony said. “I used to love it.”
“Uh oh! You must have a problem. Grab a chair. I’ll get the coffee and muffins, and join you.”
Mama’s covered porch wrapped around the back and sides of her house, overlooking her yard that featured raised vegetable gardens, flowerbeds with lots of multicolored flowers, gargoyle fountains, and koi ponds. Ferns and flowering baskets hung from the porch ceiling as sounds of a distant Mardi Gras parade failed to drown out songs of robins, redbirds, and blue jays in the backyard.
When Mama appeared with coffee and muffins, her old robe was gone, replaced by jeans, and a form-fitting gold and purple tee shirt that highlighted her busty body. When Tony whistled Mama grinned as if expecting nothing less.
“If it wasn’t for Lil and my new girlfriend, I’d have to make a play for you, Mama.”
“Girlfriend?” she said, placing muffins and carafe on the table. “Maybe I should lace your coffee with Jack Daniel’s, so I can get the whole story here.”
Mama filled Tony’s cup with strong, chicory-laced, Creole coffee. He took a drink before replying to her comment.
“I got a problem, and I don’t need whiskey to help me tell you about it.”
“Then tell Mama,” she said, resting her chin in her palms and leaning toward him.
“I met this girl—”
“Girl?” Mama said, interrupting him.
“Someone young enough to be my daughter. Worse yet, she’s the daughter of one of my oldest friends.”
“Does Lil know?”
“I’m sure she suspects something. I don’t think she knows the whole story. At least as yet.”
“Do you want her to know?”
Tony frowned, sat the coffee cup on Mama’s white tablecloth, and slowly tilted his head. A dauber buzzed overhead. Tony watched until it landed on its red clay nest in a corner of the ceiling.
“I don’t know what I want. Venus is giving me the best sex I’ve ever had. That’s not the main reason I’m attracted to her.”
“Then what is?”
“She treats me special, like a hero, and not some chump, beat cop.”
“You are special, Tony,” Mama said, clutching his hand. “You know that.”
“I’ve served on the force long enough to retire, and Lil’s nagging me to do it.”
“How do you feel about retirement?” she asked.
“Except for a summer of minor league baseball, police work is all I’ve ever done. I think I’d rather ride horse patrol in the Iberville Project.”
“Tell me about Venus.”
“She’s young, gorgeous, and smart, though not quite as smart as you are, Mama.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere. Meantime, we’re talking about Venus.”
“I met her while my new partner and me were investigating a murder at the Golden Bough Casino. She’s the daughter of my old friend, Mo Hernandez. He and I broke out in the force together, and he later moved to Baton Rouge. Venus is the director of security on the Golden Bough. She carries a gun and has a degree in criminal justice from u.n.o.”
“Did you instigate the affair?”
Tony grinned and sipped his coffee. “Let’s just say I didn’t resist very strongly. Marlon says some women like older men.”
“Marlon?”
“Marlon Bando, my new partner. I don’t know if you heard. Tommy took a knife in the gut while we were staking out a Carnival parade.”
“Oh my God! I didn’t know. Is he okay?”
“I hope so. Meantime, I got this pasty-faced, college-educated nerd-ball that’s about to drive me crazy.”
“Lil’s a smart woman. Are you sure she doesn’t know about your little fling?”
“What I’m sure of is she suspects something’s going on. I don’t think she’s figured it all out quite yet.”
Mama topped up their cups from the metal pot and pushed a muffin toward Tony. “Do you want a divorce?”
“Why hell no! Lil and I’ve been together so long I don’t know what I’d do without her, not to mention our girls would kill me.”
The steady bass of a distant tuba echoed off the walls, momentarily silencing songbirds in Mama’s yard.
“So you want to break it off with Venus, but don’t know exactly how?”
Tony smiled and nodded, took a quick bite of one of the muffins and followed it with a sip of coffee.
“Something like that. Now tell me how to do it without breaking the poor girl’s heart and I’ll be forever in your debt.”
A hummingbird hovered near a feeder filled with red nectar. Mama glanced at it and then back at Tony.
“I can help you, Lieutenant, but I’ll need a favor in return.”
“Lieutenant? What happened to Tony?”
Mama laughed, put her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Because when you hear what I want you to do, you may tell me to go to hell.”
Tony felt like hell, his stomach churning, and the pounding in his temples threatening to turn into an all-out migraine. When Mama slowed for an intersection, glanced at him and saw his eyes closing, she pulled her fully restored 1964, British racing green, Bugeye Sprite to the side of the road.
“You didn’t tell me how much you drank last night. I have something that will help.”
Reaching for her purse, she retrieved an ornate, metal container filled with brownish powder. After dumping some into her palm, she bent over the stick shift and blew it up his nose. The hit caused his eyes to open widely. When he took a deep breath and popped his neck, she handed him two aspirins and a silver flask. After downing the aspirins, he took a deep swig from the flask.
“Old Billy Goat,” she said when his eyes crossed.
Mama continued watching him until a smile appeared on his face.
“I swear, Mama, you got the best hangover remedies in New Orleans.”
“In the world,” she said with a grin. “Are you going to make it now?”
“Hell, I feel so good all of a sudden maybe I should take a cab back to Venus’ and go another round.”
“You’re already in enough trouble as it is. Even Mama’s going to have a difficult time extricating you from this little problem.”
Mama had the top down on the Sprite, glimmers of bright sunlight warming their necks. Despite the sun, it was chilly as they tooled toward City Park, Mama detouring through the recreational area on her way to Pontchartrain’s Lakeshore Drive.
“Wow!” Tony said. “The place looks beautiful.”
“Hard to imagine it was underwater for weeks following Katrina.”
The large park teemed with visitors enjoying gardens, lakes, and oak trees draped with Spanish moss. A flock of snowy egrets rose up from a lagoon, their wings driving them skyward as the Sprite tooled past.
“Maybe you need to tell me exactly what we’re about to do,” Tony said.
“A close friend of mine has a problem.”
“Such as?”
“She’s a bird hoarder.”
Tony gave her a sharp look. “A what?”
“Valerie is a veterinarian specializing in rare and exotic birds. The rich often buy expensive parrots and cockatoos, realizing once the novelty wears off they don’t like the hassle and noise the birds create. Some only see what a mistake they’ve made when they try to return them to the pet store where they bought them, or attempt to give them away. Valerie started taking in these avian rejects years ago. Now she has hundreds of birds.”
“Hundreds?”
“I’m not exaggerating. They’re all over her house, not to mention numerous cats and dogs their owners took to her clinic to have her put down.”
“Oh my God! I think I’m getting sick again.”
As Mama turned on Lakeshore Drive, the scenic route that followed the banks of Lake Pontchartrain, she reached over and touched his wrist.
“You have to help me, Tony. Valerie is eccentric as hell, but she has the proverbial heart of gold.”
“What can I do?”
“I’ve thought this all through, and I have a plan. I want you to pretend to arrest her.”
Tony grimaced as he stroked the morning stubble on his cheek and gazed at a sailboat wafting in the breeze, far out on the lake.
“Sounds to me like a job for animal control.”
“That would kill her. You have to promise you won’t take her in.”
“You just said you want me to arrest her.”
Mama’s bouffant hair whipped in the breeze when she shook her head. “That isn’t what I said. I only want you to pretend to arrest her.”
“Okay, tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do the best I can.”
When Mama reached Lakeshore Drive, she headed east to the entrance of an exclusive subdivision. Like City Park, Katrina had flooded many of the ultra-expensive homes. Because of their desirable location, most, but not all, had been restored. Others remained as empty shells, even years after the killer hurricane. Valerie lived in the biggest house on the block, surrounded by empty houses. Mama parked on the street.
“Won’t seeing your car make her suspicious?”
Mama laughed. “Though Valerie’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, she doesn’t have a lick of common sense. She’ll never put any of this together.”
“And you have somewhere to go with the birds and animals?”
“They’re all placed, either with the zoo, bird sanctuaries, or bird and animal lovers. They’ll all be well cared for. My psychiatrist friend and I will keep Valerie sedated until we convince her this is all for the best.”
“She’s not gonna commit suicide, or something I’m going to feel guilty about for the rest of my life, is she?”
“Trust me, Tony.”
Mama smiled when he said, “Last time I did I became the star performer in a voodoo sex extravaganza.”
“Not this time,” she said.
“Okay, what else?”
“You have handcuffs?”
“No.”
“Then take these,” she said, handing him a pair.
“I’m not even gonna ask where you got these.”
Mama grinned. “You don’t need to know. Just cuff her and bring her out. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“That’s it?”
“Not exactly. I want you to scare her.”
Tony shook his head, got out of the car and headed for the front door, knocking instead of using the doorbell. A young woman answered on the third knock, her dark eyes looking at him suspiciously as she peeked through a gap in the door.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Water department. I need to check your pipes,” he said
“There’s nothing wrong with my pipes,” she said.
“Look, ma’am, I’m here on official business, and I don’t have time to argue with you. Now let me in.”
When she opened the door for him, the jarring din of birds, many birds, accosted his ears. The large room he entered was empty except for several long perches that hung from the ceiling. The room resonated with chirps, squawks, and screeches. A large cockatoo landed on his shoulder.
“I think he likes me.”
Valerie didn’t reply, grabbing the bird and scolding it severely before lofting it back to the perch from where it came.
“That’s Brutus,” she said, talking loudly, so he could hear her above the dissonance. “He’s a mean one. You could have lost an ear.”
Tony’s hand went to his ear in an involuntary response.
“He’s a mean one!” the parrots began repeating.
Valerie shook her head. “Don’t say anything around here you don’t want repeated.”
As Tony listened, he started hearing everything from Polly want a cracker, to the most vulgar profanity.
“Are they always like this?” he asked, almost in a shout.
She nodded. “Sometimes much worse.”
Birds were flying around the room. Macaws and parrots, seemingly every color of the rainbow; cockatoos and other rare birds Tony didn’t recognize; parakeets, canaries, and exotics.
“Why do you have so many?”
“I’m a vet. I specialize in rare birds. You’d be surprised how often their owners simply abandon them.”
Tony turned away briefly, so she wouldn’t see his smile.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“I know I have too many birds. You’re not going to report me, are you?”
Tony saw his opening. Pulling out his badge, he showed it to her. “I’m afraid I’m going to do more than that. I’m placing you under arrest. Stick out your hands.”
Valerie was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall with short, brown hair. When she extended her hands, Tony cuffed her. Her wrists and hands were so small she could have slipped out of them if she’d tried. She didn’t.
“I can’t go to jail. Who’ll care for my birds?”
“You need to worry about yourself, not the birds,” he said, pointing her toward the door.
“What’ll happen to me?”
“You’re going to do hard time, believe me. Maybe even Angola. This is as double-dog rotten as anything I’ve ever seen. The city can’t let you get away with it.”
“But I’m not hurting anyone.”
“That’s not for me to decide.”
Mama and another woman dressed in a pin-striped, business dress waited outside the door, giving Tony dirty looks when he pushed Valerie to hurry her up. Several cars and vans had lined up on the street behind the Bugeye Sprite. Mama grabbed the little woman and hugged her.
“Oh Val, are you all right?”
Valerie began to cry.
“I’ve been arrested. What’ll I do?”
“I called your dad and Chloe’s here to help. We’ll do whatever we can for you.”
The woman named Chloe, apparently Mama and Valerie’s psychiatrist friend, grabbed Valerie’s arm. After quickly administering a sedative, she gave Tony another dirty look and then hustled Valerie to an awaiting Mercedes limousine. When they reached the curb, a chauffeur opened the back door for them, returned to the driver’s seat and then hurried away, tires squealing.
More vans began arriving. As Mama and Tony watched, they immediately dispatched people dressed in work clothing and carrying nets to retrieve the birds and animals. As they passed on the sidewalk, Mama continued glaring at Tony.
“What?” he finally asked.
“You didn’t have to be so cruel to her. Couldn’t you see how frightened she was?”
Tony didn’t answer. Just shaking his head, he walked toward the Bugeye. After buckling her seatbelt, Mama patted his knee before driving away.
“I’m sorry, Tony. I didn’t mean to snap at you. You did a fantastic job. I’m just upset because this is all so stressful.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. If that was the worst shit I had to step in every day, then I’d be in heaven. What’s going to happen to Valerie?”
“That was her dad in the limo. He’s extremely well-heeled, and they have an estate on the lake not far from here. We’ll soon have her convinced all her birds are in excellent homes, and this is for the best. Bird hoarding isn’t incurable. Chloe will work with her until she’s better.”
Mama laughed when Tony said, “It was scary in there, and I’ll probably have bird nightmares the rest of my life.”
“Maybe Chloe can work with you too,” she said.
“I think I’d rather work out my own problems than deal with Chloe, thank you. She looked as if she could wrestle professionally.”
“Now that’s not very nice,” Mama said with a grin.
“Don’t be mad at me, Mama. I still need your help with Venus.”
“I’ve been thinking about this,” she said. “She’s apparently attached to you. We need to break the attachment and then present her with someone else to tie herself to.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
Mama pulled the Bugeye to the side of the road, retrieved a pair of scissors from her large purse and proceeded to snip a lock from Tony’s hair.
“What the hell!”
“Now, you need to bring me a lock of Venus’ hair, and a lock from someone you think might replace you when you’re gone. I’ll take care of the rest, though you’re going to have to deal with Lil on your own.”

###




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 is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his AmazonBarnes & NobleKobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Tuesday, July 03, 2018

Cities of the Dead-a New Orleans short story

INTRODUCTION

I’ve long been a fan of short stories and penned my first attempt at the genre when I was only ten. I continued writing short fiction during high school and college, though none of the stories managed to survive the years. I can’t remember when I wrote my first short story featuring French Quarter sleuth Wyatt Thomas, but it was long before the publication of Big Easy in 2006. Once I started, I found it all but impossible to stop.
~SPOILER ALERT~
When I decided to write Big Easy, my first novel-length French Quarter Mystery, I did so by combining parts of three New Orleans’ short stories: Cities of the DeadVoodoo Nights, and Pontchartrain. If you haven’t read Big Easy and are considering doing so, then you should probably start it first before reading Cities of the Dead.
If you’ve already read Big Easy, then you might get a kick out of Cities of the Dead as it’s different in many ways than the side-story in the novel.

Cities of the Dead

Darkness draped Rue St. Ann as throngs of French Quarter tourists crowded the entrance to a Creole townhouse. Heat radiating from the stoop bothered Lieutenant Tony Nicosia. He mopped his brow as he watched paramedics remove two stretchers from the premises. The old man occupying one of the stretchers didn't notice the heat.
*  *  *
It started with Buddy DeJan's wake. Buddy was nearing seventy when a heart attack claimed him in his sleep. His wife Foxy called a wake for him at their house, near the spot where the Mississippi River meets the Gulf—the literal end of the road. I attended the wake with Buddy's cousin, Bertram Picou. As lights disappeared in our rear-view mirror, sub-tropical vegetation and endless splay channels gradually replaced them. Soon, there was no sense of civilization at all as scrub oak and cypress knobs replaced jazz and musty mortar.
Distraught over his cousin's death, Bertram tippled Cuervo and sniveled all the way from the City. Having my own memories of Buddy and little patience for Bertram's stories I'd heard all before, I stared out the window, trying to block out his mindless chatter. When we reached the wake, his bottle was already empty.
Foxy and Buddy lived in a fishing camp beside a murky channel that snaked into the Gulf. Wooden stilts raised their house above a soggy yard marked by muskrat hides, catfish bones, and flat-bottomed fishing skiffs. By midnight, the occasion had turned festive, with Bertram leading the charge. A black dress swathed Foxy DeJan’s large frame. She had long since discarded her shawl of mourning. Like many of the mourners crowding the room, she clasped a half-empty glass of bourbon in her hand.
Black crepe-paper draped the front door, and clocks were stopped to coincide with the time of Buddy's passing. All mirrors faced the wall. Lying in his mahogany coffin, Buddy seemed more resplendent than in life. I slipped out of the house, seeking solitude in the darkness below. My trance shattered abruptly when someone tapped my shoulder.
“I didn't mean to startle you,” the young woman said.”
“Guess I was thinking about Buddy.”
“I see that. I'm Celeste Duples. Mr. DeJan and my Father were distant cousins.”
“Wyatt Thomas,” I said. “I didn't know Buddy had any relatives named Duples. You from around here?”
“I grew up in Philadelphia with my mother. Now I live in Starkville. Daddy sells real estate. I teach at the college there. And you?”
“I have a place in the Quarter and do odd jobs for people.”
“Such as?”
“Look up this. Research that. Most anything to earn a buck.”
I stepped into the beam of the floodlight suspended from the roof. Celeste's green eyes sparkled in the light. She was tall, fully five-eight, and had jet black hair and an olive complexion that left little doubt of her French Acadian ancestry.
“This wake seems so strange to me.”
“Ritual,” I said. “A mixture of Catholic, Protestant, and Judaism, with a smidgen of black magic from Africa and voodoo from Haiti.”
Dueling strains of mandolin and accordion, saturating the damp air with a Cajun melody and silencing the chorus of frogs, floated down the stairs. A shooting star streaked across the sky, disappearing over the horizon.
“Buddy's wake will be a party before morning.”
“I won't last that long,” Celeste said.
“I wish I could leave, but I rode down with one of Buddy's closest cousins. He won't stop grieving till he OD's on Cuervo.”
My description of Bertram's alcoholic inclinations amused Celeste. Leaning closer, she said, “We'll take you back.”
I needed very little persuasion. After paying my last respects, I joined Celeste and her father in the driveway. He had the same strange last name as his daughter, and she called him Maurice.
Celeste's maroon convertible left no chance for conversation. The breeze it produced was welcome after the smoky wake. I'd recently moved into an apartment over Bertram's bar. When Celeste and her father dropped me off, I didn't expect to see them again. I was wrong.
***
Lady, Bertram's collie licked my hand, relieving any guilt about missing Buddy's funeral. Next morning I opened the bar for him, even managing to turn a small profit. Bertram showed up at noon. Hung-over and head pounding, he went straight to his apartment in back. I kept working until five when Maurice Duples strutted through the front door.
Back-dropped by bright sunlight, he seemed different from the man whose shoulder I had pressed all the way back to the City. Although still wearing the same tweed sports coat, he had changed pants, shirt, and shoes. Now he sported combed gray hair and a fresh shave and greeted me by squeezing my hand in a vice-like grip.
“I was hoping I'd find you here,” he said.
“Bertram's under the weather. I help out when I can.”
“Celeste said you were a good man.”
Celeste's praise secretly pleased me. “You aren't here to commend me on my benevolence. What can I do for you?”
Surprised by my directness, Duples gazed around Bertram's bar. “Celeste says you know a lot about New Orleans burial rituals.”
“No more than anyone else in the City.”
“Am I correct in thinking you make a point in knowing things others don't?”
“Maybe.”
“Several people at Buddy's wake told me so. I’d like to visit a grave and thought you might be of assistance. I have no earthly idea where to find it.”
“Then you're in trouble,” I said. “The city has dozens of cemeteries.”
“Precisely why I need your help. I'll pay your fee.”
He sat on a stool and sprawled his elbows on the zinc countertop. Exhaling, he rested his head in his hands.
He smiled when I said, “You look like you could use a drink.”
Maurice Duples was tall and slender. Thirty-five or forty years older than his daughter Celeste. I guessed his age at sixty-five or seventy.
“Red wine,” he said.
When I set the glass in front of him, he seemed almost asleep, his left hand dangling off the counter. Lady's warm tongue revived him, and he patted her head before sipping his wine.
“Interesting place,” he said, noting the severed ties, bras, panties and other intimate undergarments draped from the ceiling and mirror behind the bar.
“New Orleans is an easy place to lose your inhibitions.”
Duples smiled for the first time since I'd met him. “Celeste was conceived here. During a particularly eventful Mardi Gras.”
“She said you live in Mississippi.”
“Born in New Orleans. My mother worked for a man named Duplessis. We lived with his family until she died. An aunt from Starkville took me in. I never knew my father or mother's burial place. I'm desperate to find her grave. Will you help me?”
I topped up his glass and said, “Anything else you remember about New Orleans?”
“Is that a yes?”
“Look, Mr. Duples, you don't need me. If you know your mother's name and her approximate date of death, you can go over to the Notarial Archives in the basement of the District Court and find where she's buried.”
“Tried that already. The two investigators I hired found nothing. If you can't help me, I don't know where I'll turn.”
“Why don't you tell me everything you remember and I'll do my best to help you.”
The look of desperation melted from Duples' face. When he latched on to my hand with both of his, I had the sudden sensation I was saving a drowning man.
“Thank you, Mr. Thomas, thank you.”
I poured myself a glass of lemonade from the stash under the counter and said, “Let's go to a booth and talk.”
Duples and Lady followed me to the back of Bertram's bar. Most of Bertram's regulars never appeared before nine or ten at night. The place was empty.
“Now tell me what you remember.”
“Nothing much,” he said. “I was eleven when they buried her. Guess I’ve blocked most of the details from my memory.”
“Rest your head and relax. Close your eyes and focus on the muscles in your face. Imagine you have a warm towel resting there.”
Maurice Duples followed my suggestions, soon sinking into a low-grade trance. I continued speaking in modulated tones until his breathing and heart rate reduced to barely a whisper.
“You're a child again, at your mother's funeral. Tell me what you see.”
Duples began reciting in the high-pitched voice of an eleven-year-old.
“Rows of rectangular structures topped with crosses and Greek statues. Beautiful flowers with colors and smells you can almost feel, amid wide streets separating the structures. I see an impatient horse, snorting and kicking up grass with his hoof. He's pulling a black carriage. It's almost like a city. Everyone is crying, and dressed in black.”
“Is there a special statue you see, or maybe a nearby name you can read? Anything specific you remember?”
“Yes,” Duples said. “Hundreds of x marks on one of the structures.”
Bingo. Having all I needed, I woke Duples from his trance.
“Amazing,” he said. “I feel wonderful. Better than I have in years. And I remember things now.”
“You never really forgot. You just had them blocked.”
By now, Bertram was awake and cleaning up the bar with a wet rag. A few afternoon patrons straggled in, along with a curious sightseer or two. A street band, hoping to evoke donations from the throng of tourists filing into the French Quarter, fired up a hot jazz number outside. Maurice Duples was smiling.
“I haven't visited the cemetery since Mother's funeral. Now, I remember it vividly. It was almost like a little town, with rows of houses and narrow streets.”
“That's why they're called Cities of the Dead. Since much of New Orleans is below sea level, the water table is close to the surface. Before the City set up a drainage system, the only recourse was to bury their dead in a puddle of water, or else above ground.”
“You said you knew where to find my mother's grave.”
“I know exactly where it is, in the St. Louis Cemetery # 1, over on Basin Street.”
“Pardon my skepticism, Mr. Thomas. How can you be so sure?”
“Number One is the oldest cemetery in the City. Many famous people are buried there—Etienne Bore, father of the sugar industry, and Homer Plessy, to name a couple. You may remember the pivotal cemetery scene from Easy Rider. It was filmed in the St. Louis # 1.”
Duples didn't seem to know about Easy Rider or the two names I'd mentioned.
Homer Plessy?”
“Plessy v. Ferguson. An 1892 Supreme Court decision establishing separate-but-equal Jim Crow laws for blacks and whites in the South.”
“Sorry,” Duples said. “I'm in real estate, not a first-year law student.”
Biting my tongue, I refrained from asking if he could read. Instead, I continued my explanation.
“Many of the rich and notables had expensive and ornate tombs built for their families. It's not uncommon to see forty-foot tall Greek statuary or tons of carved and polished stone. I was hoping you would remember a landmark tomb.”
“But I didn't.”
“Yes, you did. You remembered seeing the most famous tomb in New Orleans—the crypt of Marie Laveau, queen of voodoo.”
Light from the jukebox reflected off Duples’ deep green eyes.
“Take me there.”
“We'll go tomorrow.”
Duples folded his arms and shook his head. “I won't wait another day. Let’s go now.”
“Impossible. It's near the Iberville Project and crime is rampant there. Even tomorrow we'll need to go with a group.”
“Not on your life, Mr. Thomas. I have a thousand dollars. It's yours if you take me now. If you don't, I'll find someone else who will.”
Before I could answer, the educated voice of Celeste sounded from behind us.
“Such wild expressions on your faces, you both look ready to fight.”
***
After leaving Duples' irresistible money with Bertram for safe-keeping, I accompanied Maurice and Celeste up Basin Street, past the Project to the St. Louis Cemetery # 1. Although closed to the public for the night, I knew the location of the caretaker's entrance. Duples had armed me with two vital bits of information: the probable location of his mother's grave and the name of a shadowy figure from his past. Arthur Duplessis was still alive, living on St. Ann's. Duples could look him up after we visited the grave.
Last glimmers of the sun had disappeared over the trees as we opened a wrought-iron gate and entered the City of the Dead. Dormant pigeons roosting in eaves around the tombs barely budged as we passed. Bats strafed our heads with wildly beating wings. Up the street, a tomcat's screech momentarily silenced the cooing of pigeons.
Apparently unaware of our possible danger, Celeste sported a blissful smile on her pretty face. “If Marie Laveau's grave is unmarked, then how did you know Daddy saw it?”
“Because it's covered with freshly-chalked x’s. The superstitious believe if you make a wish, along with marking an x on the grave, your wish will come true.”
Celeste squeezed my hand. “What do you believe?”
“That we should find your grandmother's grave and get the hell out of here.”
“Is it that dangerous?”
Her question went unanswered. By now it was dark, with only dim fluorescent street light and the powerful beam from my flashlight illuminating our path. We barely noticed two men as they appeared from the shadows in front of us.
“Well, what do we have here? Grave robbers or midnight mourners?” one of the men asked.
 Several missing teeth made his accent even more incomprehensible. It didn't stop his companion from laughing at the joke. His laughter died away when we tried to walk around them. They were big, mean and ugly. Even worse, both men had switchblades.
“Where you think you're going?” the leader said, digging his knuckle into my breastbone.
To my surprise, Celeste knocked the man's hand away with the palm of her hand.
“Leave us alone. This is a public place.”
Celeste's anger brought an even greater outburst of laughter from the two men.
“Looky here Biggs. We got ourselves a sassy one.”
“Jackson, we surely do.”
“You heard the lady,” I said. “I'm an off-duty cop. Make trouble with us at your own risk.”
I forced as much authority into my voice as I could and it had some effect. Biggs and Jackson both took half-steps backward. The NOPD is notorious. That's spelled b–a–d, with a capital B. The force had even turned back a group of Hell's Angels at the City limits, preventing them from attending and disrupting Mardi Gras. I was counting on my bluff to get us safely out of the cemetery. Something else saved us instead.
Two pistol shots fired directly behind my head almost caused me to lose my lemonade. Diving for the turf, I wrestled Celeste down with me.
“Run or I'll blow your heads off, you lice-infested ghouls.”
 It was Maurice Duples, screaming like a banshee and firing an old German Luger into the air. Biggs and Jackson didn't wait around. They took Celeste's smile with them and she trembled as I helped her up. Sirens wailed in the distance. They weren't coming our way.
“Are they gone?” she asked.
“Yes. Now let's get out of here.”
“Not until I see my mother's grave.”
Celeste and I stared at her father's eyes, now wildly green amid dim light from the street.
Celeste continued to shake. When I put my arm around her, my own racing heart did little to abate her chill.
“This is frightening your daughter. I'll bring you back tomorrow. And what are you doing with that gun?”
“It saved our lives. Go on, if you're so frightened. And take Celeste with you. I'll find the grave by myself.”
When I nudged Celeste toward the street, she shook her head. “We can't leave him here by himself.”
“He has the gun,” I reminded her.
Celeste ignored my comment.
Maurice Duples struck out alone, trudging blindly along the path lined with broken shells. Celeste and I followed after him. We weren't far from Marie Laveau's grave when Duple's demented yell pealed through the cemetery.
“Here it is!”
We found him squatting by a large tomb bedecked with faded marble, and statues of Greek gods. Celeste knelt beside him, her hands on his shoulders.
“What is it, Daddy?”
“The name,” he said. “It's not our name. Someone removed my mother's remains from her grave. Why would anyone do that to her?”
Duples was possibly correct. During the plague years of the 1800s, with cemetery space at a premium, residents often sold or bartered tomb rights to the more prosperous. This practice continued until recent times, bones being moved hither and yon, often to who-knows-where. Strangely, the names of Arthur and Megan Duplessis were engraved in stone on the tomb, their deaths as yet unrecorded. The couple Maurice and his mother had lived with had apparently taken her grave.
Probably a mistake,” I said. “We'll check the Notarial Archives tomorrow.”
After helping Maurice and Celeste to their feet, I pointed the flashlight back from where we had come. It reflected off of Marie Laveau's grave. Celeste stopped beside it. Maurice and I watched as she took a fragment of chalk from the sidewalk, closed her eyes and made a large x on the side of the tomb.
***
I tossed and turned after finally making it to bed, somehow sensing the night had yet to end. It hadn't. At midnight I received a frantic call from Celeste.
“Daddy's gone crazy. He went storming out of here with his pistol to find Arthur Duplessis.”
“Meet me at the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann,” I said, pulling on my pants. “Just down the street from your hotel. I'll be there in ten minutes.”
We found the door to the Duplessis townhouse on St. Ann open and entered without knocking. Duples stood braced against the wall, pointing his pistol at an old man in a rattan wheelchair. A ratty Afghan draped the man's legs and he showed no fear. His face was contorted in a crooked grin every bit as deranged as Duples'.
Duples waved his gun at us in a menacing fashion. Remembering the incident at the cemetery, I pinned Celeste against the wall with the back of my arm. Duplessis spoke, returning Maurice's attention to the center of the room.
“You wanna kill me? Go ahead. I'm ninety next month,” he said, giving his useless legs a hard slap with the flat of his hand. “I already done more living than any three men.”
“I'll kill you, all right, but not before you tell me why you moved my mother's remains.”
 “You crazy? Who are you, anyway?”
 “Maurice Duples. My mother's name was Emeline, but you already know that.”
Arthur Duplessis's rheumy old eyes glimmered with sudden recognition in the light of the suppressed overhead bulb.
“You about a dumb one, you. You mama was a whore over in Storyville until they bulldozed the place to the ground.”
“You're a liar.”
“Don't call your own father a liar.”
Duples opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Outside the door, a horse-drawn carriage clomped by on the street. It was followed by a dog howling over near the Iberville Project.
“Don't look so surprised,” Duplessis said. “You think your name was Duples all these years? What kind of dumb name is that? You mama was my whore and you're my bastard boy.”
Duplessis howled with laughter and it drew into a hacking cough. When the coughing abated, he started to speak but never got the words out. A terrific blast rocked the room, knocking the old man out of his wheelchair and blowing him against the wall.
Celeste and I turned to Maurice Duples but he looked every bit as stunned as we were. Both barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun had blasted Duplessis. A gray-haired old woman, dressed in tattered silk, stood tall and without emotion. She was still clutching the smoking gun.
“He's the bastard, not you. I should have killed him twenty years ago. He kept your mama and others like her. He never gave a whit for my feelings or theirs.”
Megan Duplessis let the shotgun slide to the floor and crossed the room to where stunned Maurice stood, still braced against the wall. When she touched his cheek, he dropped the pistol to the floor.
“I want you to know, your mama's still in that tomb. The old man just had her bones pushed to the back of the vault. I raised you as my son until the old man sent you away to Mississippi.”
She went to her fallen husband, kneeling and giving his lifeless cheek a final kiss before clutching her heart, gasping once and sinking to the floor beside him.
***
Lieutenant Tony Nicosia gave me a go-to-hell look when he and the NOPD finally arrived. Between stilted explanations, deftly omitting why we were there in the first place, I spirited Maurice Duples' pistol off the floor and into my jacket. Arthur and Megan ranked high in the City's elite. Because of this, the police would conveniently overlook the fact that the old man had died from a shotgun blast. His death, subsequently resulting in Megan's untimely heart attack, would go down as accidental.
Other than some puritanical need to punish Maurice for his temporary insanity, I saw no reason to involve him further in his father’s death. New Orleans has few Puritans. I wasn't one of them. While escorting Maurice and his daughter to the hospital to attend Megan Duplessis, Celeste informed me the real reason I covered up for her father.
“The x I made on Marie Laveau's tomb. I wished my father would find out about his family so his bad memories would go away. And I wished for a happy ending.”
Watching Maurice hold Megan Duplessis’ hand in the back of the ambulance, I realized Celeste had gotten her wish.

####



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 is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his AmazonBarnes & NobleKobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Thursday, June 07, 2018

Something Terrible - The Bombing of Alfred P. Murrah

Years ago, I wrote a short story called Prairie Justice. I had almost forgotten the story and found it again, recently, while deleting unnecessary files from my computer. As I reread and re-edited the story, details of why I wrote it in the first place flooded my brain.
The year was 1995. During April of that year, a madman blew up the Alfred P. Murrah Building, killing 168 innocent victims, including many children in daycare there. Anne, my wife then, was a fledgling lawyer, having gone to law school late in life (mid-forties). She partnered with Becky S., and we were about to move into our new offices when the bomb exploded.
I had returned home from an early-morning dentist’s appointment. I found Anne sobbing uncontrollably.
I was puzzled because Anne was a trooper. Despite all the bad things that had happened to us, I don’t recall having ever seen her cry. When I saw her that morning, she was crying like a baby.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Something terrible has happened.”
We turned on the TV to a local news station. Their helicopter was heading downtown to check out an explosion that had rocked the city.
“There’s lots of smoke coming from one of the buildings. I think it’s the Federal Building,” the chopper pilot said.
A cameraman was taking pictures. Except for the smoke, the front of the building looked normal. We watched as the chopper circled around the building. When the camera focused on what remained of the north side of the building, Anne and I gasped in disbelief.
“Oh my God!” the pilot said. “Oh my God!”
Days passed, and then weeks. The bombing was like a blow to the head for the entire City. It became all too common to be talking to someone, and suddenly have them dissolve into tears, blurting out some heart-wrenching story they’d kept bottled inside for far too long. Everyone had a story. Everyone was affected.
Shortly after the bombing, Becky sent Anne to interview a deadbeat, druggie client that had been put in jail for beating his wife.
“You may think he’s scum, but he deserves his day in court. He’s your client so treat him with respect, no matter how you feel about him in your heart,” Becky counseled.
Anne and I left Oklahoma City early one morning, heading west to El Reno, the Canadian County seat. I can’t even remember why we stopped there, but I remember the courthouse facilities and the historic town well. Leaving El Reno, we passed a Las Vegas-style bingo hall in nearby Concho. Gambling was in its infancy in Oklahoma. Sixteen years later, it’s rampant.
We drove through the tiny town of Okarche, to Eischen’s Bar. The longest continuously operating bar in Oklahoma was shut down at the time because of a flash fire. We made it to Enid shortly before lunch, finding the correction’s facility ensconced in an old neighborhood.
The jailers brought Doug (that was his first name) into a visitor’s room, wearing an orange jumpsuit, shackled in leg irons, handcuffs and a belly chain. I watched from a distance as Anne talked with him for about half an hour. Wearing her own shackles of lawyer/client privilege, she never told me what they talked about.
Later that night, I wrote Prairie Justice, a short story featuring Buck McDivit, a character that had suddenly invaded my mind. The story is about a crooked oilman and mirrors a real oilman responsible for the bankruptcy of the oil company Anne and I started from scratch. Most of the description in the story actually occurred.
Years have passed since I wrote Prairie Justice. Anne died three years after the Murrah bombing. I wrote Ghost of a Chance, my first Buck McDivit novel, some years later. It was published in 2005. The scar of the 1995 Oklahoma City Bombing has faded. Tears streamed down my face as I wrote this story. Buck McDivit is now a real person to me. The Murrah Building scar has faded, and people no longer sob during normal conversation. Maybe, but the bombing still rests like a red blotch on my soul, as I’m sure it does for everyone that experienced that sad day.


###



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 is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his AmazonBarnes & NobleKobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Sunday, June 03, 2018

Old Bones - a short story


It's October, my favorite month, and it's time to share some spooky stories for Halloween. Old Bones is one such story. The problem is, it's true. It happened when I was a graduate student at the University of Arkansas. Ghost stories are always frightening... except when you are unexpectedly thrust into one.





Old Bones

It’s a gray day here in Oklahoma, and my two kitties, Buster and Buttercup, are searching for even a scant patch of sunlight to bask in. The gloom reminds me of a search I made many years ago, which resulted in an eerie discovery.


A chill weekend in November found Gail, my ex, and me deep in a pine forest in southwest Arkansas. A graduate student in geology, my thesis concerned long-forgotten mineral deposits in a sparsely populated corner of the universe. Years before the invention of GPS tracking devices, we relied on a very old Brunton compass to navigate through the stark loneliness of the southern Ouachita Mountains.
Tall trees, mostly pines, covered the rolling terrain. While the Ouachitas aren’t high, rapid elevation changes of several hundred feet are common. We were moving slowly, picking our way through the undergrowth as we traversed an east-west trending ridgeline, looking for an old lead mine hidden deep in the forest.
Gail was short, had green eyes, dark hair, and an olive complexion inherited from her French-Acadian parents. Though raised in the New Orleans metro area, her athletic legs carried her through the forest as smoothly as if she’d been born there. She was walking ahead of me, and I bumped into her when she halted abruptly.
“How do you know where we’re going?” she asked. “There’s no trail. I think we’re lost.”
I was holding an old topo map in one hand and the Brunton compass in the other. “We’re following an azimuth. The mine should be just up ahead.”
“That’s what you said thirty minutes ago,” she said.
“It’s hard staying in a straight line with so many trees and boulders in the way.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Let’s keep walking,” I said. “We’ll find it.”
I was about to give up when we reached a slight clearing that led down the slope to a roaring stream. Something anomalous about the rounded pile of dirt in a bend.
“That has to be it,” I said.
“That pile of dirt?” she said.
“Someone dug that dirt out of the ground and put it there. I think it’s the mine we’re looking for.”
“Doesn’t look like a mine to me,” Gail said.
“Quit bitching, and let’s investigate. Even if it’s not the Davis Mine, we can at least take a break.”
Gail had endless energy and rarely ever took a break. As I sat on a fallen log and tossed pebbles into the roaring water of the creek, she climbed up on the pile of dirt and began exploring it.
“This hill’s bigger than it looks,” she said. “It follows the river for at least fifty yards.”
“I’m sure it was built by humans,” I said.
“Hell yeah,” she said. “Look at this.”
Glancing up the hill, I could see Gail had something in her hand.
“What is it?” I asked.
“An old bottle.”
“How old?”
“Real old,” she said. “Looks like something from a museum.”
I left my perch on the stump and followed her up the hill. The bottle was faded green and crusted with dirt. I was still examining it when Gail called again.
“Check this out,” she said, holding up something for me to see.
“What is it?”
“What’s left of a Confederate soldier’s shirt.”
“How do you know that?”
“There’s a brass button still attached with the letters C.S.A.,” she said.
The weathered hill was the talus pile of an old mine. A scar, roughly a half-acre in size, was all that remained of the old mining operation. Vertical shafts had collapsed or were filled with standing water. We soon began digging beautiful ore specimens out of the talus pile, which was strewn with old bottles, broken timbers, and a few faded signs of the men who had worked it.
“How did anyone ever find this place?” Gail asked when she finally stopped for a break.
“Prospectors searching for silver in the 1830s found lead and antimony instead,” I said. “This particular mine used horses and slave labor to mine lead for the Confederacy.”
“The old man at the truck stop told us we’d never find this place and that it’s haunted,” Gail said.
“Well, we did find it. Don’t know about any ghosts, though the accounts of operations at the Davis Mine refer to abuse, torture, and even murder of Union prisoners of war conscripted to work here.”
“Then maybe it is haunted.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “The shadows and silence are starting to creep me out.”
“Me too,” Gail said. “I keep looking around, thinking someone’s behind me.”
It was already past noon when we found the old mine. Days were short, and our time was limited before we needed to start back to the truck. We took photos and collected specimens, all the while feeling as if there was something present other than ourselves, even if it was only fleeting shadows. The distinct sensation that we were disturbing a place where something terrible had happened was unmistakable. I felt it, and so did Gail.
I jumped when she said, “Oh, shit!”
“What is it?”
“You better come see. I’m not touching this thing.”
She was standing on the top of the pile, nudging something with the toe of her boot. Though mostly covered with dirt, it looked for all the world like a human skull.
“Shit is right,” I said, digging the skull out of the earth with my pick hammer.
“Is that a bullet hole?” Gail asked as I held the skull in my hand.
“Looks like it to me,” I said. “But hell if I know for sure.”
“What are we going to do with it?” Gail asked.
I tossed it into the creek, staring at the rapidly rushing water momentarily before answering.
“Forget we found it,” I said.
“Can we do that?” Gail asked.
“I have a thesis to write and no time to participate in a murder investigation. I don’t intend to ever return to this place except maybe in my nightmares.”
“I hear that,” Gail said. “Let’s get the hell out of here before it gets dark.”
Twilight draped the forest when we finally made it back to our old, faded green Ford truck, waiting for us on a muddy dirt road. When we returned to Fayetteville, I sent some of the ore samples to the U.S. Geological Survey in Denver for analysis. The results surprised me as I’m sure they would have been the prospectors who discovered the Davis Mine. The ore wasn’t just lead and antimony; there was silver present, and it was richer even than ore from the Comstock Lode.
Many years have passed since Gail and I felt the presence of ghosts at the remote Davis Mine, hidden deep in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas. Today, as an overhead cloud cast a shadow on my kittens, sleeping on the hood of my car, I remembered in vivid detail.
###




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.