"It's my pleasure. I believe you'll enjoy yourselves, and I'm glad I could arrange a few things for you during Carnival. Consider it my wedding present; I'm not much good at buying gifts, you know."
Brian and Nicole led off the dancing and then switched partners when President Harrison tapped Brian's shoulder to cut in. First Lady Jennifer Harrison was waiting nearby and swept into Brian's arms for a spin around the dance floor. The bride and groom thanked their old friends for inviting them to be married in this historic venue and reminisced about the many wonderful times they'd spent together.
Two hours later most guests had departed and the party was winding down. Brian told Nicole that Oliver wanted a brief word about business. She was neither surprised nor upset in the least that this happened on her wedding day. This was the Brian Sadler she knew and loved, a man always looking for the next adventure. Maybe Oliver had something to pique his interest. Frequently his revelations piqued hers too.
Hand in hand, the newlyweds walked to the table where Oliver sat alone, sipping from the same glass of champagne he'd taken when he sat with Oscar Carrington earlier. He wasn't a big drinker at social events, preferring a glass or two of wine when he was with close friends at home or out for the evening.
He explained that he'd been doing research on a very old relic he had acquired. "It's a replica of something called the Black Cross, a centuries-old copy of a much older original. It has some far-reaching implications involving a name you'll recognize. I'm mentioning it because I'd like you to consider helping me learn more about it. Maybe you could even find the original. I apologize for taking even one minute of time today, but if you will allow me a brief intrusion into your honeymoon, perhaps we can discuss it next week in New Orleans. I can show you some things I think you'll find intriguing."
Ordinarily Oliver wasn't an excitable sort of individual, but Brian could see that his new project intrigued him. He was arranging several things for them to do during Mardi Gras and it would only be polite to hear what he had to say, he said to Nicole. As it turned out, both wanted to know more.
"Give us a clue to whet our appetites," he urged his friend. "Whose name will we recognize?"
"Just remember the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria. That's enough for now!"
CHAPTER THREE
Nicole and Brian exited one of New Orleans' famous St. Charles Avenue streetcars at the Washington Avenue stop. Although for now the rain had ended, it was still a foggy, damp and chilly February evening. They hurried past the walls of Lafayette Cemetery. Across the street the bright lights of Commander's Palace Restaurant pierced the fog, illuminating the building's Mardi Gras decorations in purple, green and gold. A line of cabs and Uber cars dropped patrons off and sped away, their taillights disappearing within seconds into the murky haze.
"That's my favorite restaurant," Brian commented as they hastened along.
"Really? I would never have guessed."
"Very funny. Have I told you that before?"
"Maybe a million times this trip alone. No, that’s an unfair exaggeration. It's more like a thousand."
He hit her playfully on the arm and said, "If you play your cards right, maybe I'll take you there." He'd made a reservation for Monday and he was looking forward to a memorable dinner with his new wife.
They turned onto Camp Street and saw Oliver's beautiful antebellum mansion just ahead. Candles in the window beckoned them in from a dreary evening. Soon they were comfortably situated in front of an enormous fireplace in a room with fourteen-foot ceilings that was filled with beautiful antiques. Their host poured an elegant thirty-year-old Burgundy into vintage wineglasses that he said had been in the family for over a hundred years.
"Despite the nasty weather, did you enjoy the parade?" Oliver asked. He'd arranged seats for them in the reviewing stand at Gallier Hall, where the mayor of New Orleans personally greeted each float as the parade slowly crawled by just before the turn onto Canal Street. Only well-connected locals like Oliver, whose family had been in the Crescent City for generations, were invited to mix with the city's elite in the mayor's box during Mardi Gras each year.
"I loved it," Nicole said exuberantly. It was her first trip to this eclectic town, and spending her honeymoon celebrating Mardi Gras was a bonus she was enjoying immensely.
"So did I. It was a special treat and we thank you for that." Brian had been a frequent visitor over the years, making his first trip to Mardi Gras during his university days. Several fraternity brothers - including the current president of the United States - piled into a car and drove from Norman, Oklahoma, to New Orleans, moving in with friends from his hometown who were attending Tulane University. Those days were more about drinking, partying and revelry, but in the two decades since college he'd returned many times, usually to meet with the man in whose home they were sitting now.
Oliver was in his mid-sixties - twenty-five years older than Brian - and he owned the most prestigious and eminent antiques gallery in the South. The shop, as he chose to call his ten-thousand-square-foot store on Royal Street in the French Quarter, had been the short-term home to some of the world's most beautiful and important paintings, sculptures, books and pieces of furniture. A handsome man with genes that allowed him to look years younger than his age, the perpetual bachelor enjoyed the finer things in life, traveling worldwide to buy and sell antiques and frequenting the finest hotels and restaurants along the way.
When Brian became owner of Bijan Rarities on New York's Fifth Avenue due to a tragic but fortuitous circumstance, he was thrust into the rare world of collectors and traders with whom only a handful of the world's premier galleries interacted. He'd met Oliver in the London townhouse of a well-known member of Parliament. The man wanted to sell a family heirloom - a gorgeous Louis XV commode - and he invited the two gallery owners to a bidding showdown. A fierce back-and-forth was soon under way between Oliver, the scion of a family of respected antiques dealers and Brian, the young upstart from New York. The match lasted only a few minutes and experience won out over youthful enthusiasm. When Oliver raised the bid to $450,000, Brian acknowledged defeat and shook his hand.
"You were a formidable opponent today," Oliver had told him that evening over dinner. He had invited his young competitor out so they could get to know each other better. Although Oliver had few friends, he and Brian had hit it off from the beginning and their evening together was the first of many over the years. The two had bought, sold and collaborated on several pieces as Oliver watched Brian grow in knowledge and gain respect from colleagues in this rarefied business.
"Your wedding last week was wonderful," Oliver remarked to Nicole as he refilled their glasses. "I'd never been to the White House and I'm glad you were able to have your ceremony in such a beautiful and historic setting."
She thanked him and said, "That decision came about because we asked Harry and Jennifer to be our best man and matron of honor. Security's always the issue with them, and they suggested the White House because it made life simple. We had a relatively small guest list, so the East Room was perfect, I thought."
Oliver nodded in agreement, thinking that they could have invited a hundred more guests and still had plenty of room in the spacious venue.
Brian had known Harry Harrison for years - he and the president had been roommates at Oklahoma University in the nineties - and Brian had been the best man at Harry and Jennifer's wedding. The two couples were as close as friends could be, even though getting together happened less often now that Harry was the leader of the free world.
After a few minutes' reflection about the ceremony and reception, Oliver asked Nicole if he could turn the topic to business. She nodded; it always turned out this way when Brian was among colleagues, and she thoroughly enjoyed hearing their banter. He was always on the quest for something unusual, out of the ordinary, lost, missing or mysterious. Her career as a solo-practice attorney paled in comparison to the excitement of his profession, and she loved it.
"I ment
ioned a relic called the Black Cross at your reception," he began. "If I know you, you've already researched it."
"Not this time," Brian confessed with a grin. "I had a couple of distractions between the last time we met and today - something called a new wife and a honeymoon!"
"Ah, yes, I can only imagine how that might get in the way of scholarly research. I've no personal knowledge myself, of course, but it seems marriage suits many people. I'll give you a pass on the research this time and tell you what I know about it." He rose, walked across the room, retrieved something from a drawer and brought it to Brian. It was a twenty-inch black wooden cross encrusted with stones that might once have been colorful but now were dim and faded.
"Should I be wearing gloves?" Brian asked.
"Not necessary this time, I'm sorry to say. I wish this were the original, but as I mentioned earlier, it's one of several replicas that exist. The copies are antiques in their own right - they're hundreds of years old - but I think the original is far older. When it surfaced in the 1400s, I think it was centuries old then. It's a voodoo cross."
Nicole raised her eyebrows skeptically.
"Ah, like many others you doubt the dark arts, I see," he continued, his tone of voice turning serious. "I'll modestly admit that over the past few decades I've become somewhat of an authority on the subject. I've accumulated one of the most comprehensive collections of voodoo paraphernalia in existence. My ancestors came to New Orleans around the time it was founded and have been here ever since. I grew up with a profound realization of the fact that there's nothing silly or laughable about those who practice voodoo. It's a religion embraced by many diverse peoples, and if there's one emotion the word should conjure in your mind, it's fear. Voodoo is real, my friends. It's as real today as it was in Africa in the 1300s and in the Caribbean two hundred years after that. Once Christopher Columbus learned about it, he feared it too."
"The Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria connection comes out at last. Are you saying Columbus is somehow involved with voodoo?"
Oliver shifted positions to make himself more comfortable in his overstuffed barrel chair. "Not at all. The Black Cross was a voodoo relic centuries before Columbus. You're holding a copy of the cross that Queen Isabel I presented to Cristobal Colon as he embarked on his maiden voyage to the New World in 1492."
Brian was stunned. Noticing, Nicole smiled and said, "Touché, Oliver. It's not often someone blindsides my husband these days. He's pretty good at what he does, but I think he's just learned something new."
"That's an understatement," Brian added. "I'm not following. How did the queen of Spain have a voodoo cross in the first place?"
"I doubt we'll ever know for sure. Around the time of Columbus, Spain was becoming very interested in colonization in Africa. My theory is that before Columbus, a Spanish explorer acquired the cross during a trip to the dark continent and brought it back to his queen. Voodoo originated in Africa and I feel certain the cross was made there. There are at least two copies - and likely more - that might have been created around the same time as the first one. Maybe the copies were like the crosses that hang in churches today. They're not original, but they symbolize the original. We simply don't know much about it.
"Back to the Black Cross, Isabel believed it brought good luck to its possessor. She gave it to her young sea captain in hopes it would bring him fair weather and good sailing. And it did. For as long as Columbus had it, the voyage went well, as far as the history books and his own logs recount."
Brian thought a moment. "But he lost one of his ships - the Santa Maria, I think - on that first voyage. Isn’t that right?"
"Ah, I see you're one of those people who knows just enough to be dangerous," Oliver said with a grin. "And you're absolutely right. Losing his flagship certainly qualified as bad luck. But Columbus apparently didn't see it that way; in his journal he described the shipwreck as a stroke of good fortune. There's a reason why he said that, but for now let's fast-forward to the New Orleans part of this story or else I fear I'll keep you up past your bedtime. Not a nice thing to do to honeymooners, I'm told." They laughed as he stoked the fire and returned to the subject.
He told them that voodoo came to New Orleans when Jean-Baptiste le Moyne and his brother Pierre came by boat from Haiti in 1699 to a place they named Pointe du Mardi Gras. They established a settlement and in 1718 Jean-Baptiste christened the town Nouvelle Orleans, in honor of the Duke of Orleans, the regent in France at that time. Many Creole families emigrated here over the ensuing years and practiced the religion of their ancestors.
"Marie Laveau's family, for instance," Brian interjected.
"She's the most famous, of course. 'The Voodoo Queen,' they call her today. But there were others too. These Creoles - people of mixed European and black descent - were sophisticated, financially stable and free. These weren't slaves in any way. They were 'people of color' and they were proud and strong. They were also feared by many of their fellow New Orleanians. The Creoles who were involved in voodoo - and that was most of them - had strange powers and could hurt those whom they disliked. At least that was the story.
"By the 1760s there was an established Creole community in New Orleans, many of whom lived in fine homes on St. Ann Street. Most of the voodoo rituals in those days occurred in Congo Square on Rampart Street. That was where slaves were permitted to congregate on their one day off each week. The Creoles joined them there and they taught their Caribbean and African brethren their religion - voodoo."
Brian nodded, recalling some of this. "So the Laveau family ..."
"This really isn't about Marie Laveau," Oliver interrupted. "She has become the symbol of voodoo in New Orleans and her father almost certainly practiced it, but Marie wasn't born until around 1794. By then voodoo was firmly entrenched here. My story's almost a hundred years before Marie and it's about another Creole family who also lived on St. Ann Street across the street from Charles Laveau. His name was Pierre Duplanchier and I believe he brought the true Black Cross here from Haiti in 1699."
Brian had become so enthused at the story that Oliver had revealed more than he had intended, so he subtly changed the subject. "If you have the time and interest to tackle it, I have a project for you, something that may captivate you as much as it has me. It's an enigma that requires a second set of eyes - and a second brain - to learn what I'm missing. How much longer are you in town?"
"Three days," Nicole answered. "We're leaving the day after Mardi Gras."
"Would you mind if I engage you and Brian in a little history lesson for a couple of hours before you leave? I promise it won't take long and you'll have plenty of time for parades and dinners and everything else you want to accomplish."
"That's up to Brian." She glanced at him, saw the expectant look in his eyes and grinned. "But I can already see that we're in. Aren't we, honey?"
He sighed. "She knows me too well. You've got me on the hook. Just reel me in and tell me what I have to do."
"I want you to help me figure out the Duplanchier family tree," he explained cryptically. "It won't be something you can do while you're here. I'll give you hard copies of some of the research I've done, not that it may be that helpful. I've worked on it for years and it's still a puzzle. If you happen to visit the old cemetery, here's what the Duplanchier mausoleum looks like." He showed them a nine-by-twelve color photo of the structure, pointing out the names and dates on the top two vaults. The bottommost one was missing its front cover - there was simply a black hole. "That one's apparently been unoccupied forever," he commented.
Nicole squeezed her new husband's arm. "You certainly know how to pique your guests' interests. I'm not sure Brian's going to get much sleep tonight."
Despite Oliver's fascinating stories, Brian and Nicole had been going nonstop since early morning and were getting weary. After a second snifter of their host's fine cognac, their long day finally began to take its toll and it was time to go. Oliver glanced through the window and said, "It's pouring again. S
hall I call a cab?" Brian used Uber instead and soon their driver was heading toward downtown, his headlights piercing through fog and rain.
Before midnight they were in their cozy hotel room, tucked under a comfortable duvet and already well along the way towards consummating their marriage once again, as they had enthusiastically done on every other night of their honeymoon. They were tired, but not that tired.
Oliver lay in bed in the second-floor bedroom of his Garden District mansion. He had kept to himself the real reason he wanted Brian's help. As he expected, the family-tree discussion had captured his attention, although Oliver really needed no help at all. He knew the answer to the Duplanchier lineage. He just wanted to start Brian off in the right direction. Everything else would fall into place.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sunday morning in New Orleans is a relaxed time when locals and tourists alike enjoy coffee, beignets and a Bloody Mary or two. There would be four Mardi Gras parades downtown today, the first arriving around 1:30 p.m. Oblivious to the rain, inebriates had whooped and yelled on Bourbon Street all night, but around dawn huge sweepers arrived, transforming streets full of trash into presentable walkways glistening in the morning mist. The ancient sidewalks of the French Quarter were ready for another round to begin, but for a few hours it would be relatively quiet.
Their small hotel was only a half block off Bourbon Street, but once guests came through the front door the screams, laughs, blaring music and raucous conversations were all left behind. The interior courtyard of this boutique hotel, surrounded by its fifteen rooms, was a place to sit, chat, drink coffee and savor the solitude before hitting the streets once again.
The rain had stopped sometime during the night, and when Brian and Nicole stepped out on the sidewalk, the sky was cloudless and bright. There was a slight breeze and the temperature, already in the low sixties, was heading for a gorgeous seventy-two degrees this afternoon. It would be a perfect Sunday for the parades.
The Black Cross (Brian Sadler Archaeological Thrillers Book 6) Page 2
