Walk of the Spirits

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “Yeah, you two didn’t want to be alone, did you?” Roo shot Gage a sly glance, hiding a smile as he looked away.

  Ashley tugged excitedly on Miranda’s arm. “Then we can research our Ghost Walk and Nathan’s ghost at the same time!”

  They headed toward the Brickway, while Ashley systematically checked off topics in her notebook.

  “Okay, here’s how we figured things out. Are y’all listening?”

  Parker instantly looked suspicious. “Who figured what things out?”

  “Parker, were you paying any attention in class when I handed in our outline? Research for the project, of course. And who else would do it? Gage and I always do all the work.”

  “Not true.” Roo frowned. “I contributed.”

  “You criticized. And complained. A lot.” Not bothering to hide her annoyance, Ashley continued down her list. “I’ll take the courthouse.”

  “No, I want the courthouse,” Parker insisted. “I’m all into that evil judge.”

  “This is not about your father. You take the museum.”

  Incredulous, Parker gaped at her. “My mom works there!”

  “I know your mom works there. That’s why we gave it to you. You won’t even have to do anything—just ask your mom about stuff.”

  “No. No way I’m working with her.”

  “Oh, fine then, Parker. Just fine. You can take Grace Church.”

  “Hell, no!”

  “Just give him the courthouse,” Roo spoke up. “Maybe that curse’ll rub off on him and he’ll hang himself.”

  “Then I’ll do the museum.” Ashley’s sigh was exasperated. “Roo wants the doctor’s house. And the library-funeral parlor.”

  Glancing at Ashley, Parker feigned amazement. “Don’t you ever find this disturbing? That your sister’s so obsessed with dead things?”

  “Why should it?” Roo threw back at him. “She goes out with you, doesn’t she?”

  Ashley doggedly kept on. “Gage said he’d do Grace Church.”

  “Way to go, Gage!” Parker clapped Gage hard on the shoulder. “Who’s Grace Church?”

  “Parker Wilmington, nobody here thinks you’re funny.”

  “Come on, Ash, admit it. Everybody here thinks I’m kind of funny—”

  “Etienne’s going to find out stuff about voodoo. Oh, and Roo and I are going to research that little boy who died at the feed store. And Miranda gets Magnolia Gallery—but of course we’ll all help her with that. And . . . and I guess that’s about it.”

  “Damn.” Parker did his best to sound disappointed. “I was hoping for a whole lot more.”

  Nodding sympathetically, Roo swept him with solemn eyes. “How sad. That’s exactly what Ashley always says about you.”

  “Oh, except for this other idea I had.” Ashley glanced hopefully around the group. “Instead of calling it Ghost Walk, why don’t we call it something else?”

  “Great idea.” Parker was adamant. “Why don’t we call it off ?”

  “How about”—Ashley paused dramatically, her eyes sparkling—“Walk of the Spirits?”

  As everyone traded glances, Gage repeated it several times out loud. “Yeah. I like it.”

  “Me, too,” Miranda spoke up. “I think it’s good.”

  “I think it’s romantic,” Ashley sighed. “Walk of the Spirits . . . don’t you think it’s wonderfully romantic?”

  “I think it’s wonderfully . . . you.” Etienne patted Ashley’s shoulder. “But could we move a little faster here? I got me a lotta work to do this evening.”

  “That’s okay, this is just our first outline. We still have to refine it. And we still have a lot more research to do.”

  Gage nodded. “Then we have to write up a script for the tour. And everything has to be timed. And—”

  “Enough torture.” Parker glowered at each of them. “I get the idea.”

  “But hey, y’all.” Ashley fairly glowed with pride. “The important thing is that Miss Dupree loves our project even more now. Did you see the look on her face when she was reading our outline? I’ve never seen her that excited about any assignment before, have you?”

  “I’ve never seen her excited about anything.” Parker exchanged guy looks with Etienne. “She needs to get laid.”

  “You know, at some point, we really need to do a trial run of this thing,” Gage advised, ignoring Parker. “Seeing it in daylight is totally different than seeing it at night. If we’re gonna get the full effect, we need to walk it after dark.”

  “He’s right,” Ashley agreed. “Just . . . not tonight.”

  “How come not—” Parker began, then winced as Ashley squeezed his arm. Noting her glance toward Miranda, he was instantly contrite. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot about the wake.”

  Miranda was quick to reassure him. “If I didn’t have to be there, I wouldn’t go either.”

  They’d reached the Historical Society. Before anyone could go inside, Parker started backing away.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Ashley scolded him. “It won’t kill you to see your mother.”

  “But I haven’t seen her in weeks, so the shock really could kill me.” He paused on the curb, grin widening. “Besides, I wouldn’t even know what she looks like. And besides that, somebody still needs to find out if we can take tours inside some of these businesses. So I volunteer.”

  “Right,” Gage answered. “Like you’re suddenly so interested.”

  “Hey, never let it be said that I’m not a team player!”

  “A cowardly team player!” Ashley shot back.

  As Parker sauntered away, Roo nudged Miranda. “See what I mean?”

  They’d barely walked through the door when a tall, willowy blond woman glided toward them. Her hair was swept back into a diamond clip, she had Parker’s eyes, and her tailored suit was unmistakably designer label. She was lovely and elegant and smelled faintly of expensive perfume.

  “Why, hello, Ashley darlin’!” Mrs. Wilmington caught Ashley in a carefully distanced hug. “I see the whole group is here.”

  Whole group? Miranda felt a twinge of defensiveness. Parker’s not here. She studied the woman more closely. Mrs. Wilmington was staring at Roo, and not quite managing to hide her distaste. Roo looked smugly victorious.

  “And you must be Miranda.” Parker’s mother offered a welcoming handshake. “Well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing.”

  Embarrassed, Miranda was all too aware of Roo and Ashley hiding smiles, while Gage and Etienne seemed to find the whole thing silently hilarious. Mrs. Wilmington’s handshake was limp.

  “My, my, you look so much like your granddaddy,” the woman observed.

  “Dead?” Roo mumbled, while Gage elbowed her in the side.

  Mrs. Wilmington didn’t notice. “He was a very special person, your granddaddy. He and I were close friends for a long, long time.”

  “Run for your life,” Roo hissed in Miranda’s ear. “She’s after something.”

  “Parker told me about the project y’all are working on, and that you’d probably be stopping by.” Mrs. Wilmington made an all-inclusive gesture of the room. “And I think it’s just wonderful. Whatever it takes to get our young people interested in their community—I fully support it!”

  She paused, fingering the strand of pearls around her neck. Her frown was brief, but compassionate.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your granddaddy, Miranda,” she said. “Really, it’s such a shame.”

  Miranda managed an awkward nod. “Thank you for the food and flowers, Mrs. Wilmington.”

  “You are most welcome. Most welcome. Now. How might I help you ladies and gentlemen today?”

  To Miranda’s relief, Gage stepped forward. “We were wondering if you knew anything about an old opera house. We think it used to be where the Magnolia Gallery is.”

  “Opera house . . . opera house.” The woman’s face sank into deep thought. “You must mean the Rose Opera House.”

  As Gage nodded, Mrs. Wilmington’
s voice grew nostalgic and sad.

  “The Rose was almost completely destroyed by fire around . . . 1863? Well, very near the middle of the war. A small portion of the remaining building was salvaged, however. And many years later that became part of a brand-new gallery.”

  Catching Miranda’s eye, Gage smiled encouragement. Parker’s mother gestured them all toward a doorway.

  “Come along in here,” she instructed. “Let me just see what we’ve got on that subject.”

  They followed her into an adjoining room—part library, part office—where she quickly scanned several tall bookcases, then consulted the computer on her immaculate desk. After studying the screen for several moments, she turned to them again, adjusting small, dainty reading glasses on the bridge of her perfect nose job.

  “Built in 1830 . . . let’s see now . . . and my, yes, just as I suspected. Quite the hub of cultured society.”

  “Oh,” Ashley sighed. “How romantic.”

  “There are several photos in these files. I can print them out for you, if you like.”

  Gage glanced at the others. “Thanks. That’d be great.”

  While the information was being processed, Parker’s mother spoke the rest from memory. “Only the rich and titled could afford such luxuries, you understand. The operas—and plays— usually came here from New Orleans. In fact, any traveling shows passing near or through St. Yvette were always welcome. But there were local events, too, and local talent. Theater troupes and ballet, special events and extravaganzas.”

  Strolling behind Mrs. Wilmington, Roo made a face. “Extravaganzas?” she mouthed silently.

  “You said aristocrats were the main audience.” Arms folded over his chest, Etienne angled himself back against the wall. “Who exactly would that’ve been?”

  “Well, the upper class, obviously. The ones who held all the power. Plantation owners . . . doctors . . . lawyers . . . wealthy merchants, just to name a select few. And, during the Civil War, high-ranking Confederate officers, of course. Until the Union army laid siege to the town.”

  Mrs. Wilmington removed her glasses and toyed with one pearl earring. Ashley stared longingly at the jewelry.

  “Normally, there would be quite lavish parties at the opera house after the performances. Some of the performers were regarded as royalty—they were the famous celebrities of their day.”

  Roo was not impressed. “How famous? Like rock stars?”

  Ashley gave her a lethal frown.

  “They were honored and esteemed wherever they went.” Mrs. Wilmington sounded deeply insulted. “They came here to St. Yvette not only from New Orleans, but from every major city in the United States. And some actually traveled from Vienna and Paris and London.”

  As the printer churned out copies, Etienne picked one up and began studying it. He motioned Miranda over so the two of them could examine it more closely. The photograph didn’t seem particularly exceptional, Miranda decided—just like any other public building of that era, except on a much grander scale. Wide, tall columns; wide, shallow steps rising to the entrance; wide, massive doors; a wide, curved drive.

  “Notice the architecture,” Mrs. Wilmington said proudly, peering over their shoulders. “The driveway was specifically designed for horse-drawn carriages. So ladies and gentlemen could alight close to the building, without mussing their clothes.”

  "Alight?” Roo mouthed again to Miranda. “Mussing their clothes?”

  Ashley’s face took on a dreamy expression. “All those hoop skirts and fans . . . I just love hoop skirts and fans.”

  Trying to view the photo, Roo crowded in next to Mrs. Wilmington. The woman discreetly cringed and moved away.

  “Can I see one of those?” Gage asked, coming over to join them. He retrieved another printout, then leaned in close to Miranda, comparing both photographs side by side. The photo he held had been taken on the night of a performance— the building crowded with people, the driveway lined with carriages.

  The entrance overflowed with flowers.

  Miranda made a small, choked sound in her throat. Curious, Ashley and Mrs. Wilmington walked up behind her while the others exchanged lowered glances.

  “Ah, yes,” Mrs. Wilmington said, apparently recognizing the picture. “All the roses. Aren’t they lovely?”

  With a gentle tug, Gage coaxed the paper from Miranda’s hand. She didn’t even realize she’d grabbed it away from him.

  “What about the roses?” Gage’s tone was casual, but Miranda could hear an underlying hint of excitement. “There’re so many of them.”

  “And hundreds more you can’t even see here,” Parker’s mother informed him. “Red roses had a special significance at the opera house.”

  Miranda had begun to shiver. From some distant place, she was vaguely aware of Gage’s hand on her back.

  “And,” the woman added, “when red roses lined the driveway and spilled from every door and window of the opera house, it always meant that Mademoiselle DuVrey was performing that night.”

  “And why was that?” Roo stared pensively into Mrs. Wilmington’s enraptured face. “Did she have body odor or offensive personal habits?”

  Gage choked down a laugh. Ashley looked horrified. Etienne shifted from one foot to the other and mumbled under his breath. Mrs. Wilmington maintained her dignity.

  “Through all these years, we’ve found precious little information about Mademoiselle DuVrey. We do know that she was originally from New Orleans, and that she was considered somewhat of a heroine by the Confederate soldiers. Apparently, she was so passionate about the southern cause, she frequently insisted on crossing enemy lines just to visit our camps and rally our troops. One can only assume she had no trouble acquiring escorts.” Parker’s mother gave a suggestive little smile. “But as for details of her personal life? Only that she was stunningly beautiful and had the voice of an angel.”

  “I bet men admired and adored her.” Ashley’s sigh was a little more yearning this time. Mrs. Wilmington seemed equally smitten.

  “Yes, I’m sure of it. Whenever she performed at the Rose, it was to sellout crowds, standing room only. And she was the one who always insisted the opera house be filled with red roses.”

  Miranda realized the others had surrounded her now, all of them curious and expectant, waiting for Mrs. Wilmington to continue. The woman’s expression went thoughtful.

  “It was her signature, really. You know, many people thought the opera house was named simply for all the flowers. But, actually, the Rose was rather like a nickname of the utmost respect. From Mademoiselle DuVrey’s stage name. Ellena Rose.”

  18

  SOMEONE WAS SQUEEZING HER HAND. No, both hands, Miranda realized—Gage on one side, Etienne on the other. Roo was staring at Ashley. Ashley was staring at Gage. Gage was staring at Etienne over Miranda’s shoulder.

  It was Etienne who finally broke the startled silence. “You wouldn’t have any pictures of her, would you?”

  “Of Mademoiselle DuVrey?” Mrs. Wilmington shook her head. “None here in the museum—well, at least no actual photographs. Apparently, they’re quite hard to find, if any even exist. Some written accounts say that she was quite phobic about having her picture taken or even her portrait done. But there are several newspaper articles that mention her—and I do seem to recall an old playbill. In fact, there might even be a small caricature of her face on that. You’ll find everything in our display featuring the arts.”

  Etienne jerked his chin toward the door. Without a word, they all walked back into the main room.

  “Miranda, dear, I guess you know that your granddaddy is— was—an avid collector of Confederate memorabilia.”

  “Yes, he was.” Images of all her grandpa’s things came back to her. The Civil War shrine. “I think he really liked collecting things.” Profound statement, Miranda. Well, at least that’s one thing about him you know for sure.

  Mrs. Wilmington seemed intrigued by the subject. “Oh yes, he was quite obsessed with it.
It’s not that difficult to find artifacts in this area—folks are always discovering buttons and bullets and old coins. But your granddaddy found some real treasures. In fact, a lot of what you see here in the museum is actually on loan from him.”

  “Told you. Here it comes.” Muttering under her breath, Roo nudged Miranda. The warning escaped Mrs. Wilmington’s notice.

  “I can’t help but wonder what his estate will decide to do with all these lovely things. It would be such a shame for them to end up in somebody’s attic, where they can’t be fully appreciated.” The woman paused, her brow furrowing. “I don’t suppose you know what other interesting things he might have kept at home?”

  Roo seemed dangerously on the verge of responding when Gage quickly steered her away. As Miranda followed them, she could hear their muffled conversation.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Gage.

  “What?” Roo.

  “Don’t ‘what’ me. I know that look.”

  “Did you hear what she said to Miranda?”

  “I heard.”

  “She’s such a—”

  “Dammit, Roo, shut up.”

  Mrs. Wilmington was still talking, but Miranda had tuned her out. “Take it . . . the rose . . .” The Rose Opera House . . . roses spilling everywhere . . . Ellena Rose. So Nathan was talking about a place and a person. He wanted to get a message to Miss Ellena— Mademoiselle DuVrey—at the opera house.

  Thoughts and questions tumbled wildly through Miranda’s brain. But what’s the message? And how am I supposed to deliver it to someone who lived a century ago?

  “Now, where did we move that display?” Mrs. Wilmington’s voice drifted back to her. “We rotate the exhibits in here every six months, you know—there are so many things of interest, and we simply don’t have the space.”

  Miranda tried to catch Etienne’s attention. He was standing uncomfortably with Roo and Gage, while Mrs. Wilmington went on and on about charitable donations. Gage had Roo’s shoulder firmly in his grasp—each time she tried to ease away, he held on tighter. Miranda felt as if the walls were closing in. She needed to get some air. She needed—