Krewe of Illusion - Chapters

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

 

A

 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

 

I

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

 

C

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.