Both an archeologist and anthropologist, Aura loved the
study of ancient cultures. While over three hundred years old, New Orleans was
young even by European standards. Seth Daniels, Aura’s boss and the head
scientist on the dig, didn’t seem happier.
“What the hell, Seth! We should be working in Egypt. Does
anyone give a damn what we find here?”
“If someone didn’t care, then we would be in Egypt,” Seth
said.
Seth was forty-something, though his longish hair helped
maintain his boyish looks. Bouncy brown waves failed to produce his desired
look, and he usually wore a broad-brimmed hat to compensate for it. Seth had
never married, the career that often took him from continent to continent,
precluding any long-term relationship. He made up for it in other ways.
Seth was the head of the UNO
archaeology department, and Aura found herself in New Orleans because of him.
After meeting at a national convention, the two had enjoyed a wild albeit brief
affair. Aura thought that was all there was to it until a job in the department
had opened, and Seth called her to fill it. Though she still felt for
the attractive older man, she quickly learned the sentiment wasn’t mutual.
Aura had tied her brown hair in a bun, an Army-green
Boonie hat like the ones worn by jungle soldiers covering her head. The cap was
soft. She used it in the heat of New Orleans to wipe the sweat dripping down
her face.
Though not startlingly beautiful, the young woman had
expressive green eyes and sparkling teeth. Aura had never been in a serious
relationship and wasn’t over the short fling she’d had with Seth Daniels.
Aura and Seth only supervised four grad students
doing the digging and heavy lifting. None of them looked particularly happy.
Seth pointed to the nearby Creole townhouse that had partially collapsed because
of the weight of time.
“Most of the property in the French Quarter is privately
owned. When an owner allows you to dig, you take the opportunity,” he said.
“Seems a bit random to me,” Aura said.
“At least we have a wall around us and don’t have to contend
with gawking tourists staring over our shoulders,” Seth said.
Aura glanced at the eight-foot-high masonry wall
enclosing the courtyard where they were digging. Spanish moss-draped to the
ground from the live oaks, and a large butterfly was flitting in a hedge draped
with blooming honeysuckle. Bushes and flowering vines that had gone untrimmed
for decades had all but overgrown the open space.
Aura’s tone was sarcastic when she said, “Thank God for
small favors.”
“Get over it,” Seth said. “We won’t be here long. The
water table is only five feet deep, and that’s as far as we can dig.”
“What was this place?” Aura asked.
“The New Orleans home of some rich sugar planter who
probably had a plantation on River Road. Overseers and slaves did most of the
work. Plantation owners spent much time socializing and leading the good life in New Orleans.”
The grad students had staked out two eight-foot by
eight-foot excavation sites using shovels and sifters. Work came to a
halt when a young grad student named Amanda squealed. Seth sprang off his
portable chair and hurried to the hole.
“What is it?” he said. “A snake?”
Amanda was from Australia, petite, with honey-blond hair
and a killer body. Everyone participating in the dig, including Aura, knew she
was sleeping with Seth.
“Found something, Professor Daniels,” she said.
The other three grad students called the two supervisors
by their first names. Seth loved the young woman’s Aussie accent and her loving
attention and was oblivious to the talk behind their backs. Grabbing
Amanda’s hand, he helped her out of the hole. Aura joined them.
“An old coin,” Amanda said. “It’s heavy.”
Seth took the coin, practically unrecognizable from its
coating of encrusted dirt, to a work table erected beneath an open canopy. Aura
and Amanda watched as he used a microscope to view the coin and a descaling
tool to remove the grime.
“We got this,” Aura said. Catching Aura’s tone, Amanda
gave her an angry look before returning to her excavation site. “What is it?”
“An 1811 gold Napoleon. Now we know what timeframe we’re dealing
with,” Seth said.
“That’s eight years after the Louisiana Purchase,” Aura
said. “What’s a French coin doing here?”
“Gold,” Seth said. “You can buy anything with gold no
matter which country issued it.”
Seth dropped the coin when a grad student called out.
“I’ve found something.”
Seth and Aura stood at the edge of the excavation. The
hole was almost five feet deep, groundwater seeping over the grad student’s
boots. Water, turning the loamy soil into mud, continued to rise.
“What is it, Beau?” Seth asked.
Beau and a red-headed Irish exchange student, Sean, had doffed their sweaty shirts. Beau was from France and was also an exchange
student. His dark hair, eyes, and deep tan seemed the antitheses of Sean’s pale and blue eyes. Both he and Sean spoke with accents.
“Don’t know yet,” Beau said.
Sean’s shovel
struck something with a thud.
“What is it?” Seth asked.
“A skeleton,” Sean said.
The excavation site had become a mud hole, and another grad
student named Joey jumped in to help. Joey was a local African-American. Like
Sean and Beau, globs of mud coated his chest, pants, and boots. When they
finally broke the suction, the three filthy grad students began pulling parts
of a skeleton out of the hole, laying it beside the canopy.
Joey returned to where he worked as Beau, and Sean
began assembling the skeleton. Mud coated the bones, an arm poking through the
mire. Amanda was taking pictures.
“Wash the mud away, and let’s see what we have,” Seth
said.
Joey called from the other hole before they could begin
the task. “I’ve hit the water,” he said. “What now?”
“Found anything?” Seth asked.
“An old bottle and another skeleton,” Joey said.
The four grad students, though unpaid, were receiving
extra college credit for their work in the dig. Seth
would be bestowing grades, the reason the other students weren’t happy with
Amanda. Seth turned to Aura.
“This little project just got bigger,” he said. “Hope our
workers don’t mutiny on us.”
“No one was expecting to find human remains,” Aura said.
“Should we contact the authorities?”
“This is private property; the new owner planning to put
in a boutique hotel with a pool. The skeletons need to be moved and reinterred
elsewhere. Meanwhile, we can classify the bones and determine who and what we
are dealing with.”
“Why weren’t the remains buried in a cemetery?” Aura
asked.
“Don’t know,” Seth said. “There were aboveground
cemeteries in New Orleans in 1811. Maybe we’ll get a handle on it before we finish the
dig.”
Seth’s answer failed to satisfy Amanda’s curiosity, and
she commented in her Aussie accent.
“Perhaps it was a slave.”
“Everyone in New Orleans, even the slaves, was Catholic
and received proper Catholic burials. There must have been a reason someone
buried these skeletons below ground.”
“What reason?” Amanda asked.
“We may never know.”
Seth glanced at Aura when she said, “Maybe the deceased
wasn’t from New Orleans.”
Joey interrupted their thoughts. “Seth, you better come
see this,” he said.
The students had washed all the mud off the two
skeletons. They were staring at the jumble of bones as Seth and Aura arrived to
take a look.
“What you got?” Seth asked.
Joey gestured with the palm of his hand. “Two skeletons.
This one’s an adult African-American male,” he said. “There’s no skull or
hands.”
“That’s not all,” Beau said.
Seth gave the two men an assessing glance. “What?”
“The hands and skull aren’t just missing,” Joey said.
“Looks like someone lopped them off.”
“Maybe with an ax,” Sean said.
Seth got on his hands and knees to get a better look.
“You’re right,” he said.
“What’s it mean, Professor Daniels?” Amanda asked.
“Don’t know,” he said. “What about the other one?”
“The skeleton of an older African-American male. Look at
the skull.”
Seth gazed at the skull as he held it in his hand.
“Jesus! Looks like this poor bastard took a bullet to the head at point-blank
range.” He blinked and rubbed his forehead. “Ninety degrees in the shade, and
this is a problem I didn’t need.”
Seepage of water into the holes had effectively ended the
digging. Mud coated Sean and Beau as they helped each other out of the growing
mudhole.
“I’ve got one more
for you,” Joey called from one of the holes.
“Another skeleton?”
“A body,” Joey said.
“What the hell!” Seth said.
Aura, Seth, and the grad students watched as Joey handed
the nude body of a small woman to Beau. After helping Joey out of the hole,
they brought the body to Seth. Beau laid the human remains on the ground and
waited for directions.
Seth was frowning when Joey joined them. “You found it in
the hole?” he asked. “It’s barely muddy.”
“Where else would it have come from?” Joey asked.
Their attention returned to the woman with long dark hair, light green skin, and an almost inner glow. The woman’s eyes were closed,
her arms folded across her chest. She was perhaps in her mid-twenties, quite
beautiful, and completely naked. Despite being beneath five feet of dirt for
over two hundred years, the body showed no decomposition signs.
“Good God!” Sean said.
Seth touched the woman’s neck. “The body is warm, though I
don’t feel a pulse.”
“Impossible,” Joey said.
One of the woman’s hands was clenching something. Seth
began working her fingers, trying to loosen the grip.
“What is it?” Aura asked.
“Her hand is frozen, and I can’t get it open. It’ll have
to wait for now.”
“How can she still be so perfectly preserved?” Amanda
asked.
“Voodoo,” Joey said.
“Why do you say that?” Seth asked.
“I’m a homeboy, born and raised here in New
Orleans,” Joey said. “I know.”
“We need to get her to a hospital,” Aura said.
Seth gave Aura a glance. “She’s been buried for more than
two hundred years. She can’t be alive.”
“How can you be so sure?” Aura said. “We need to get her
someplace where they can check her out.”
“No,” Seth said. “Whatever’s going on here is important.
It’s our discovery. I’m not turning her over to the whims of the City of New
Orleans.”
“Then what do you intend to do?” Aura asked.
“We have a refrigerated room for storing bodies at the
university. Call and have them bring a van. The skeleton also needs to go.”
Though Aura wasn’t smiling, she began punching in a
number on her cell phone. Late afternoon shadows covered the courtyard when the
van arrived from UNO to pick up the skeletons and the bodies.
The grad students had erected a makeshift shower attached
to a branch of a towering live oak. Sean, Beau, and Joey had stripped down their boxer shorts and washed away the mud beneath the slow spray.
Not to be outdone, Amanda stripped to her red thong
panties and joined them. Aura turned away when she noticed the look of jealousy
on Seth’s face as he watched the grad students showering together. Joey was
drying his hair when he approached Seth and Aura.
“I’m taking Beau and Sean club hopping. We’d love to have
you join us.”
“Thanks,” Seth said. “Other plans.”
“Aura?”
“Not tonight,” she said. “I have notes I need to edit.”
“Suit yourself,” Joey said.
The three male grad assistants waved as they exited the
gated compound. Seth’s broad smile spoke volumes about how he felt when Amanda
appeared in a leather miniskirt and low-cut blouse, dramatically emphasizing
her ample cleavage.
“Amanda and I are having dinner at Antoine’s,” Seth said.
“There’s a quaint old bar on Chartres Street called Bertram’s. After dinner,
we’re heading there for drinks. Will you meet us?”
“Are you sure?” Aura said.
Seth gave her a wink and a peck on the cheek.
“Of course, I’m sure.”
Seth didn’t wait for an answer. Aura agonized over the
invitation as she spent time working on her notes. The sun was low, shadows
creeping over the courtyard when she stripped off her clothes and stood beneath
the makeshift shower, washing away the day’s grime.
The once beautifully manicured French Quarter courtyard
had become overgrown with native weeds and vegetation. The lily pond, which had
played host to golden koi, was cracked and devoid of water. None of the
fountains worked, and the branches of the live oaks extended to the brick
masonry. Aura jumped when something peeked around the corner of the abandoned
Creole townhouse.
The creature had the snout of a dog, although its teeth
were longer and crooked. Brown was the color of its hairless body with the
look of old leather. A fin extended down its back to its bony tail. It was
standing on its hind legs. When Aura screamed, the beast ran behind the house.
She didn’t know what to think as she hurriedly pulled on a fresh set of khaki
shorts.
“What in holy hell was that?” she said.
Chapter 2
Sometime
during the night, a gust of wind blew open the door to my French Quarter
balcony overlooking Chartres Street. I was lying in bed, awake, or else
dreaming I was awake. It seemed like the latter because I wasn’t surprised when
a wispy cloud floated through the door.
Aglow with ephemeral radiance, the cloud wafted to the
foot of my bed, the translucent image coming into focus of a person I knew. A
voodoo woman so old, she transcended time. I somehow found my voice.
“Is that you, Madam Aja?”
“Who else would it be?”
The image continued to flash in and out of clarity.
“Are you real?” I asked. “You look like a ghost.”
“Because I am a ghost,” Madam Aja said.
“Then, this is just a dream, right?”
“Sometimes, life is nothing more than a dream,” she said.
“Or a nightmare. This is one of those times.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I have left this world. Before I move on, I need your
help.”
“To do what?”
The ghostly figure of the ancient woman Madam Aja
extended her hand toward me.
“You’re a Traveler, a special and privileged person. With
privilege comes duty, and sometimes that duty is deadly serious.”
Still groggy from having just awoken, I rubbed my eyes to
assure myself Madam Aja was at the foot of my bed.
“You’re confusing me,” I said.
“There has been a discovery in the Quarter that has
exposed the city’s dark past. If I were still alive, I could help. I am not, and
I have no place to turn except to you.”
“I’m happy to help,” I said. “Tell me what you want me to
do.”
Madam Aja had something in her hand, a glow emanating
from her closed palm as she extended it toward me. “Take this,” she said.
Madam Aja’s touch was cold when she dropped a gold
pendant into my palm. Several milky crystals dangling from the chain reflected
a prism of color emanating from the flashing neon outside my open patio door.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A moonstone pendant that was once magical.”
“Once?” I said.
“One of the moonstones is missing. It caused the pendant
to lose its power.”
“What happened to it?” I asked.
“Someone who wanted to prevent the pendant’s magic took
it,” Madam Aja said.
“Can you tell me who that person is?”
“They are no longer alive. The moonstone was removed centuries
ago.”
“And you want me to return and find it?”
“Yes, restore it with the pendant and return it
to its rightful owner.”
“Is there more you can tell me?” I said.
“I wish I could help you more than I am, but I’ve told you
all I can. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”
The glimmering image of Madam Aja flickered and died as I
passed my hand through an icy mist. My fingers were still cold when the cell
phone on the nightstand beside the bed rang and woke me.
A cool breeze was blowing through the white linen curtains of my
balcony door. It was daylight, a mule snorting as the carriage was pulling
past on the street below. Mama Mulate spoke when I answered the phone.
“Wyatt,” she said. “Madam Aja died last night.”
***
With all its heat and humidity, August had arrived in
the Big Easy. Three in the afternoon, the temperature was almost intolerable. I
felt every bit of it as Mama Mulate and I waited on a Basin Street curb for a
jazz funeral to begin.
Mama Mulate, my sometimes business partner, was a tall, attractive African-American woman. She had a Ph.D. from
the University of South Carolina and taught English literature at Tulane University.
She was also a practicing voodoo mambo.
I’m a private investigator. Years before, when a client
had hired me to help him lift a voodoo spell he thought his wife had placed on
him, I’d formed a partnership with Mama that had proven lucrative. We’d created
a loose association to assist people with questions concerning the paranormal,
a subject not uncommon in the Big Easy. Since then, I’d developed a close
friendship with the intelligent and eccentric woman.
One of the people I’d met through my friendship with
Mama Mulate was an ageless voodoo woman named Madam Aja. We were attending Madam Aja’s funeral on the side of the street with
hundreds of well-wishers waiting to celebrate the woman’s long and
illustrious life.
Mama wore a bright yellow African tribal dress with a flowing necklace of pink coral. A traditional Creole tignon covered her long, Afro-style tresses out of respect for her departed friend and mentor.
Like almost everyone else at the funeral, I was dressed casually in khakis, a bright Hawaiian shirt, and sandals with no socks. We were there to celebrate
Madam Aja’s life and not to mourn her death.
Because of our close friendship with Madam Aja, Mama and
I were part of the procession’s first line of family and friends. A
small band of old black men dressed in matching caps, white shirts, and dark
pants waited to lead the procession to the cemetery. Soon, the little drummer
removed his hat, raking a bony hand through his snowy hair before tapping his
drumsticks on the edge of his snare drum six times. Another band member began
playing a slow dirge on his trumpet. Trombone and tuba joined in.
I was one of the many honorary pallbearers charged with
carrying Madam Aja’s wooden casket on the short distance to St. Louis Cemetery
Number 1. In deference to Madam Aja’s funeral, vehicle traffic had ceased as we paraded down the middle of Basin Street.
Elaborate crypts were visible over the masonry
fence surrounding the graveyard. Though I’d visited the oldest cemetery in New
Orleans on many occasions, I’d never been quite so aware of the finality I now
felt. The front gate was open, and we carried the coffin to a honeycomb vault
where an empty rectangular space awaited Madam Aja.
Inclusion in the task was an honor, and there were at least
a dozen pallbearers. Everyone wanted to help ease Madam Aja’s coffin into its
spot some seven feet above the ground. Once the box was securely in place,
gentle rain that seemed to evaporate before getting you wet began to fall.
The temperature dropped, and clouds covered the sky as a
fiery preacher said a few final words about Madam Aja’s life and her family.
Like the rain, the sermon didn’t last long. Smiles had suddenly replaced the
tears and solemn expressions as the band struck up a Mardi Gras marching song
and started toward the entrance.
Mama Mulate, accompanied by a woman I knew well, joined
me. It was Senora, Madam Aja’s daughter. Senora was as tall as Mama. Though
only forty-something, her hair had gone prematurely gray. No one knew Madam
Aja’s age. From the looks of her when she was alive, she must have been well
over a hundred. It seemed more likely that Senora was her granddaughter or
maybe even her great-granddaughter. I’d never asked her.
Senora’s dress was red and equally as festive as Mama
Mulate’s. She lived in a small house in Faubourg Marigny. While Madam Aja
performed voodoo spells for the locals, Senora provided herbs, tribal
medicines, and secret potions that Mama Mulate and other voodoo practitioners
used to assist in employing their craft. Together with the hundreds of
well-wishers, we marched out of the cemetery and proceeded up Basin Street.
As we started through the French Quarter, the noise and number of participants marching in the second line had grown. More musicians
playing horns and keeping time with drums joined us. The street was crowded
with locals and tourists as the procession continued up one road and down the
other. Hours had passed when we paraded by Senora’s house in Faubourg Marigny.
Mama, Senora, and I broke away from the march. The Creole
cottage had a front porch facing the street. Mama sat in the swing, and I
sprawled on the porch, draping my legs over the edge.
“Come inside, and I’ll get us something to drink,” Senora
said.
“This swing feels good,” Mama said. “I’m so tired I can
hardly move.”
“Then wait on the porch,” Senora said. “I’ll get the
drinks.”
Senora’s smile had disappeared when she returned with a
glass of iced tea, a bottle of whiskey, and two empty glasses. I grabbed the
tray as Mama arose from the swing to give Senora a comforting hug.
“It’s okay,” Mama said.
“This is going to be so hard,” Senora said. “I’ve never
lived alone. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Get a man or a pet,” Mama said. “Either one will work.”
Mama’s suggestion returned the smile to Senora’s face.
“I’m going to miss the old woman.”
“I know you will,” Mama said.
I set my tea on the porch and poured whiskey into their
glasses. A smile transformed Senora’s gloom as Mama held the pungent liquid to
her lips and let her taste a sip.
“Old Crow, Madam Aja’s favorite alcoholic beverage,”
Senora said.
Mama made a face. “Horrid!” she said. “Don’t know how she
drank this swill, much less liked it.”
“I know,” Senora said. “There’s only a bit left in the
bottle. It seemed like a good idea to toast Madam Aja with her favorite drink.”
“You got it, sister,” Mama said. “Wyatt? You can at least
take a sip.”
I obliged with a taste from Mama’s glass. “Damn!” I said.
“If Old Crow was all there was to drink in New Orleans, I’d have never become
an alcoholic.”
Senora felt better, her smile turning to laughter
as she joined Mama on the swing. We were soon recounting tales about the old
lady as the sounds of the jazz funeral disappeared in the distance.
The bottle of Old Crow was finally empty; the sky was growing
dark. Senora’s tears had returned, and Mama used her yellow tignon to wipe them
away. Both Mama and Senora had a tolerance for alcohol, and neither of them
showed the most minor signs of inebriation.
“Do you mind sharing with us how Madam Aja passed?” Mama
asked.
Senora pointed to a rocking chair, Madam Aja’s favorite
orange shawl draped over it.
“Madam Aja was an early riser. Sometimes, she never went
to bed. The sun was coming up, and she was sitting in her chair when I came out
to the porch.”
“She loved that
rocker,” Mama said.
Senora folded her arms. “Yes, she did. She didn’t answer
when I asked if she wanted coffee.”
Mama hugged Senora when she started crying again. “It’s
all right, baby.”
“When I realized she wasn’t breathing,” Senora said, “I
ran next door to get help. The neighbors called 9-1-1.
Paramedics arrived, but they couldn’t revive her.”
There was a sip of whiskey left, and Senora drank it
straight from the bottle. Mama took it from her and set it on the porch.
“I need something else to drink besides Madam Aja’s Old
Crow,” Mama said. “Let’s go to Bertram’s and have him make us some of his
famous martinis.”
“I’d better stay here,” Senora said. “It’s been exhausting
since Madam Aja passed. I’ve been so depressed that I slept the entire day away yesterday. A sip of whiskey was rising.”
“You need to be with warm-blooded humans, not ghosts,”
Mama said. “You are coming with us. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“I’m sorry,” Senora said. “I can’t get my head around
Madam Aja’s passing. I never thought she’d die and leave me alone.”
“You know she
isn’t gone,” Mama said. “Madam Aja’s a Traveler.
“While it’s true she’s still out there someplace, it doesn’t
matter because I’m going to be so lonely in that house all by myself,” Senora
said.
“Then get out of the house and socialize. Maybe meet that
man I mentioned,” Mama said.
“Oh, Mama, I just don’t know,” Senora said.
“Nonsense,” Mama said. “There’s a club in Bywater where I
go every Wednesday night. They have wonderful local talent, and occasionally, big performers stop in to jam with the regulars. You’ll love it.”
“Maybe,” Senora said. “I’ll have to see how I feel about
it.”
“Good,” Mama said. “Let’s go to Bertram’s. You can stay
the night at my house, and I’ll bring you home tomorrow.”
Senora shook her head as she hugged Mama.
“I’m going to be alone from now on. I’ll get used to it, and I’m starting tonight,” Senora said.
“Then I’ll call you tomorrow,” Mama said.
“I look forward to it,” Senora said.
We left Senora sitting on her front porch swing.
“What now?” I asked.
“With or without Senora,” Mama said. “I need one of
Bertram’s martinis.”
Mama’s vintage Bugeye Sprite was parked down the street.
I held the door handle as she raced toward Jackson Square.
Chapter 3
Not far
from Jackson Square is Bertram Picou’s Bar. The rain had lowered the
temperature but left lung-popping humidity in its wake. As a result, foot
traffic on the sidewalk was almost nonexistent. We found Bertram’s almost empty
as the weather had caused a similar effect.
Probably the most eclectic watering hole in the French
Quarter, Bertram’s was also one of the oldest. The building measured its age in
centuries and not decades. Crisp air and Bertram’s booming Cajun-inflected
voice greeted us when we entered the double doors.
“Look what the cat done drug in,” he said. Bertram
crawled through the opening in the bar and gave Mama a big hug. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Rafael got me a gig working a voodoo cruise on a
riverboat sailing from here to St. Louis. I’ve never had so much fun in my
whole life,” she said. “I can’t wait to do it again.”
“So sorry to hear about Madam Aja,” he said. “I had lots
of customers after the parade honoring her. This damn Nawlins’ heat wave sent
them all home early.”
“Some things never change. August in the French Quarter
is one of those things,” Mama said.
“Me and Miss Lady
are shutting down this place next August and going somewhere cooler,” Bertram
said.
Mama laughed. “You’ve never been farther north than
Mississippi, and it’s just as hot there in August.”
“I might fool you. Me and Lady could spend the summer
fishing in Alaska and surprise you.”
“That would surprise me,” Mama said.
“If you go, take me with you,” I said.
Bertram flashed
his Cajun grin. “Grab some stools at the bar. I’ll fix us some drinks.”
Lady was Bertram’s beautiful collie. She remained behind
the bar, her tail drumming the hardwood floor when she heard her name.
Except for the lissome brunette with a sullen expression
sitting beside me, the bar was empty. Her little-bit-of-nothing black dress and
stylish heels drew my attention to her long legs. Though I knew I wasn’t the
person she intended to impress, I was wishing I was. She was sipping a soft
drink through a straw, her tanned shoulders and big green eyes the only things
keeping me from staring at her legs. For a moment, I had a problem suppressing
a wolf whistle.
When I smiled and nodded, the young woman gave me a dirty
look and moved over a stool. Only some people in New Orleans wish to be as friendly as the locals. I returned my attention to other things when Bertram arrived with
our drinks.
Mama was enjoying her martini and talking to Senora on
her cell phone. I made do with lemonade as Bertram gave the brunette an
assessing glance.
“Can I mix you something stronger than that soda pop
you’re drinking?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” she said.
“You ain’t from around here, are you?” Bertram asked.
“What difference does it make?”
“If you’re sightseeing, you can party tonight and sleep
in tomorrow,” he said.
“I’m not sightseeing.”
“Then what are you here for?” Bertram asked.
“You’re a nosy one,” she said.
“I’m a bartender. Being nosy is part of my job
description.”
Bertram’s blunt reply and Cajun-inflected accent brought
the hint of a smile to the young woman’s pretty face.
“I’m working in town,” she said.
“Okay, then,” Bertram said. “If you just moved here, your
next drink is on the house,”
“I arrived in town last night,” she said. “I can’t afford
to lose my job on the first day at work.”
“You won’t, Bertram said. “Everyone in New Orleans
drinks. Well, except for Cowboy here. Where are you working?”
“I’m an associate professor of archaeology at UNO.”
“If you’re gonna live in Nawlins, you gotta loosen
up. You’ll get the hang of it. I’ll whip you up one of my lime mojitos, and
it’s still on the house.”
“I’ll try it,” she said.
Bertram had no other customers and was working hard to
keep the ones he had. He hurried away to mix the mojito before the young woman
could refuse his hospitality or request her tab.
“Don’t drink that thing too fast,” he said when he
returned with the colorful drink. “The rum will go straight to your head.”
“And I have to be at work at five tomorrow morning.”
“I’m Bertram.
What’s your name, pretty lady?”
“Your comment is sexist,” she said.
“I’m Cajun,” he said. “My mama didn’t raise no priest.”
“Aura,” she said.
“This is the Big Easy,” Bertram said. “It’s okay to party
all night, put in a full day’s work the next day, and then do it all again
tomorrow night. Where are you working that you have to be there at five?”
Though Bertram was nosy, he had a way about him that kept
people from becoming offended by it. Still, the woman hesitated before
answering. When she did, she drew Mama’s attention, pivoting on her stool to
listen.
“I’m helping supervise a dig in the courtyard of an old
Creole townhouse here in the quarter.”
“The Old François Place?” Mama asked.
“You know about it?” Aura asked.
“I know it’s haunted,” Mama said.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Aura said. She pushed the
mojito toward Bertram. “Though your drink is lovely, I’d better pay my tab.”
“May as well drink it,” he said. “You ain’t digging
tomorrow.”
“How do you know that?” Aura asked.
“Raining outside. It's going to rain all night and all day
tomorrow. Your dig’ll be one muddy mess,” Bertram said.
Before Aura could react to Bertram’s announcement, her
cell phone rang. It was Seth.
“Plan to sleep in tomorrow,” he said. “I just watched the
weather report. It’s going to rain all day. I’ll meet you at the department
around one.”
“Damn!” she said as she sat the cell phone on the bar. “I
was hoping to finish the dig this weekend so I could concentrate on finding a
place to live.” The tropical storm had intensified. The wind whistled down the street
and blew open the door. “How often does it rain like this?”
“Sometimes every day,” Bertram said, pushing the mojito
toward her. “At least take a sip. I guarantee it’ll relieve what ails you.”
Mama and I were still listening as Aura sipped the
mojito.
“This is good,” she said.
Bertram held up a palm. “Like I said, not too fast. I put
an extra pour of 151-proof
rum in it. It’ll knock you on your ass if you ain’t careful.”
Ignoring his warning, Aura downed the drink. “Bring me
another.”
“You sure?” Bertram asked.
“I can hold my liquor,” she said.
“You the boss, pretty Miss Aura,” Bertram said as he
began mixing another mojito.
Uninterested in our company, Aura turned away from Mama
and me as she began working on her second mojito. Mama turned her knees toward mine as if remembering I was also at the bar.
“Sorry about the long phone call,” she said. “I’m worried
about Senora.”
“She’ll be fine,” I said. “She’s a strong woman.”
“You’ve been amazingly quiet,” Mama said. “Is there
something you want to tell me?”
“Your perception never ceases to amaze me,” I said.
“I’m listening,” Mama said.
I leaned against the back of the stool and sipped my
lemonade.
“Madam Aja visited me the night she died.”
Bertram stopped what he was doing and leaned on the bar.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” he asked.
“Maybe you better bring us another round,” I said.
“Your tab?” he asked.
“Isn’t it always?” I said.
Mama was tapping her long fingernails on the bar, glaring
at me as Bertram mixed a fresh martini.
“This better be good,” she said.
“Don’t know how good it is, but you asked. Madam Aja
appeared to me in a dream the night she died,” I said. “At least I thought it
was a dream until I woke up the next morning with this in my hand.”
Mama and Aura watched as I placed the pendant on the bar.
Bertram was also gaping.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A gold necklace with a moonstone pendant attached,” I
said. “One of the moonstones is missing.”
Aura grew suddenly animated. “Where did you get that?”
“It was in my hand when I awoke. Why do you ask?”
Aura was facing me, her arms clasped around her chest and
her legs tightly crossed. Her face was pale, her neck glowing with a crimson
blush. She didn’t answer my question. Mama took the necklace.
“I’m calling the police,” Aura said. “You stole the
necklace from the Old François Place.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” Bertram said. “Cowboy’s lots of
things. Thief ain’t one of them.”
“I saw a picture of that same necklace at the dig,” Aura
said.
Bertram glanced up at one of the slowly rotating fans.
“A picture?” he said.
“An old portrait in the upstairs hallway.”
“Moonstone necklaces have always been popular,” Mama
said. “Perhaps the necklace you saw simply looks like the one in the portrait.”
“It’s the same necklace,” Aura said.
“Wyatt’s been with me since early this morning,” Mama said.
“Are you saying your crew dug up that necklace, and someone stole it?”
Feeling the warm effect of Bertram’s mojito, the young
woman’s face was flushed.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then what did you say?”
“I saw that necklace in a portrait at the Old François
Place. It belonged to the woman in the portrait. I have a trained eye for art.
That pendant is one-of-a-kind and likely very valuable. Where did you find it
if not at the Old François Place?”
“The necklace Wyatt has isn’t the same as the one you
think you saw,” Mama said. “Madam Aja gave it to him the night she died.
Bertram’s alcohol is affecting your perception.”
Aura uncrossed her arms long enough to sip the mojito.
“Maybe.”
I glanced at her. “What did you find at the Old François
Place?”
“A naked woman buried in the courtyard.”
“I don’t think you better be calling the police,” Bertram
said. “If you tell them what you told us, they’ll probably lock you up in
the insane asylum.”
Mama grinned. “There are no insane asylums any longer.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” he said.
Aura also seemed to understand. “Please, bring me another
mojito,” she said.
“You already had two,” Bertram said. “I done told you
they were strong.”
“I’m not driving, and my hotel is only a few blocks from
here,” Aura said.
Bertram was already pouring her next mojito. “You got it,
pretty Miss Aura.”
“How do you explain finding a perfectly preserved body
that had been buried for two hundred years?” I asked.
“Joey, the grad assistant who found the body, blamed it on
voodoo.”
“I doubt it,” Mama said.
She smiled when Aura asked, “How in hell would you know?”
“She’s a voodoo mambo,” Bertram said. “She knows.”
“Then what’s the answer?”
“If you dug her body out of the mud after two hundred years and it wasn’t decomposed, I’d say she’s supernatural,” Mama said.
“No one is supernatural.” Aura looked at Mama and asked,
“What are you laughing at?”
“Your disbelief,” Mama said.
“I don’t believe in myths,” Aura said.
“Do you believe your own eyes?” Mama asked.
Aura gave Mama a pointed glance. “What do you mean?”
“How do you explain digging a warm body buried
two hundred years out of the mud?”
“I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation,” Aura said.
Mama snickered. “You need to wake the hell up. There is
no scientific explanation for what you just told us.”
“I believe in science and not the supernatural,” Aura
said.
“Doesn’t matter what you believe,” Mama said. “The world
is what it is.”
“Bullshit!” Aura said. “There’s a scientific explanation
for everything.”
Mama shook her head. “No, there isn’t. People see what
they want and believe what they want to see. Everything else they disregard.”
Aura raised a finger, motioning Bertram to hurry with her
drink. The rum had begun affecting her brain, and she rocked unsteadily on her
stool.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Before leaving the dig
tonight, I saw something that scared the holy hell out of me.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“A creature. It looked a little like a big dog, but its skin was leathery and furless. Its teeth were long, jagged, and crooked. An
appendage that looked like a fin extended down its spine. There was something
else about seeing the creature.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“I had the strange sensation that not only had the
creature recognized me, but I couldn’t stop thinking I’d seen it somewhere before.
Maybe in a dream.”
Two men walking in the door had caught Aura’s description
of the beast.
“What you saw was a Chupacabra,” the first man said.
“Perhaps tomorrow, you can take us to the place where you saw it.”
###
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 might also like checking out his Facebook page.
