As they walked to a little breakfast spot they’d found, they could hear lively calliope music coming from the steamboat Natchez moored a few blocks away on the Mississippi River. They drank thick chicory coffee and Brian ran through today's schedule. They had declined Oliver's invitation to sit in the reviewing stand again, preferring today to experience the parade from street level and mingle with the masses on Canal Street as the floats went past. News reports indicated the gorgeous Sunday would bring nearly a million people out to the parades today.
They had a few hours this morning to relax; Brian scouted out a spot on the street and told Nicole they needed to be in place no later than one p.m., thirty minutes or so before the first float would turn the corner onto Canal Street. By the time that happened, there would be thousands of people surging against the barriers, arms outstretched to catch whatever the Krewe members were tossing off the colorful two-story floats. By 3:30 the first parade would be over and they would go to Oliver's gallery to hear more about the Duplanchier family.
"I wonder what's so important about the Duplanchiers anyway?" Brian wondered out loud, to which Nicole responded he should wait and see.
"Patience is a virtue, I've heard, but it certainly isn't one of yours!" she chided this man she knew so well. "You don't need reminding that Oliver knows New Orleans history better than almost anyone. If he's come across a problem, it must be something interesting. Personally, I'm glad he wants your help. I'm intrigued."
They ate gumbo at a marvelous hole-in-the-wall on Burgundy Street, seized their parade-watching space behind a barricade on Canal Street, caught trinkets the Krewe members tossed their way, and dropped their bulging sack of beads, plastic coins and other Mardi Gras trinkets at the hotel before heading to Galerie Toussaint. Brian gave a quick knock and waved as his friend emerged from the back of the store.
They maneuvered through a showroom so packed with beautiful furniture, vases, sculptures and artwork that in a different situation Oliver might have been termed a hoarder. Visitors had to snake their ways through narrow lanes between grandfather clocks, overstuffed Louis XVI sofas, Chippendale dining room suites and anything else one might want in an upscale antique shop. He opened a door in the back and they entered a cozy office. Brian had been here several times, but he had kept quiet about Oliver's desk so he could see Nicole's reaction. She gasped when she looked at the incredible French piece. It was in pristine condition and its top was emblazoned with beautiful tiny dancing animals and birds.
"My God," she whispered. "You keep the best pieces for yourself, I see."
"Don't we all, Brian? Haven't you ever come across something so stunning you couldn't part with it?"
He nodded and asked Oliver to tell Nicole how the desk came to be here. He'd heard the story before and found it interesting.
"It's seventeenth-century French, around 1690, I'd say, and my grandfather considered it his greatest acquisition. It came from the Frere house, one of the oldest homes in the Quarter, which is still standing just a few blocks from here. Grandfather bought it from the owner, an old man who'd been a cotton merchant in the 1920s. As happens every so often, the owners had seen better times and they sold off pieces now and then to raise cash. I can attest that those old houses cost a fortune in upkeep.
"Grandfather never put it out for sale on the floor; it became his desk and I remember it well as a child. After his death, my father used it, and here it is today, third-generation Toussaint, sitting right in the same place as when Grandfather bought it in the sixties."
The top of the desk was completely bare, allowing them to see the intricate inlaid figures in all their glory. Brian would have kept it empty too, he thought; it would be a shame to cover something so beautiful. Behind Oliver there was another desk - a functional rolltop from the 1940s that he used for work. It was loaded with stacks of books, papers, folders and magazines. When Brian first visited the gallery years ago, his friend had cheerfully labeled his filing system organized disarray, poking fun at his penchant for clutter over orderliness.
Oliver brought out a large piece of butcher paper on which he had created a flowchart - a family tree. There were boxes connected by lines to others. The odd thing that immediately struck Brian and Nicole was not what was on the sheet, but what wasn't.
Although there were only five boxes that contained names and dates, there were question marks galore. The first name - the top box - was Pierre Duplanchier. Next came the typical two dates - birth and death - written in pencil. Brian looked closely - this made absolutely no sense. The line for date of birth showed 1679? Haiti? The date of death read 1796? New Orleans.
"See anything that immediately catches your attention?" Oliver asked with a twinkle in his eye.
"I guess I don't get it yet," Brian commented, a reaction his friend had expected.
"You've noticed something unusual?"
Brian laughed. "It's hard to miss, I'd say. You've got one or both of his dates wrong and by the question marks I’m sure you know it. You know as well as I do that it's not likely a man could be born around 1679 and live ... what - a hundred and seventeen years?"
Oliver nodded. "It doesn't take you long to get to the crux of the problem. Unfortunately, it's not as simple as that."
He explained why the Duplanchier lineage was important and why he was becoming more obsessed with it every day. "Pierre was the first of a long line of Duplanchiers who were New Orleanians. There's no record of how old he was when he arrived in 1699, but the boat's logbook fortunately still exists. It describes him as an adult traveling unsupervised. For the sake of discussion let's say he was twenty. He might have been older, but he couldn't have been much younger than that, given the fact that he was listed as an adult."
Brian added, "So if he was twenty in 1699, then I see where you assumed 1679 as a possible date of birth. If that's even close to accurate, then the date of death you've written - 1796 - must be wrong. Where did you arrive at that date?"
"It's incredible - and fortunate for those of us who care about our city's history - that the records of all the local cemeteries have survived for hundreds of years, thanks to the farsightedness of our city fathers. Burials, removals, reburials and multiple uses of the same tomb are commonplace in New Orleans even today because of space limitations and the cost of building mausoleums. The water table won't allow below-ground burials, so every cemetery is a little city of tombs. The movements of bodies - burying, reburying, and so forth - were recorded in journals that are stored in humidity-controlled vaults at a privately-owned museum a few blocks from here. Thanks to old family connections, I've been allowed to access those records as I try to figure out the Duplanchier enigma. The records show Pierre died in 1796."
"But what's the enigma? Why the fuss about a date discrepancy?" Brian asked. Nicole was wondering the same thing.
"Because I want to trace the ownership of the Black Cross. The more dead ends I reach, the more obsessed I become with learning what happened to the original. I'm certain it was in New Orleans at some point a long time ago and I want to know where it is today.
"The tomb inscription for the Pierre Duplanchier who is buried in St. Louis Cemetery shows only one date - his death in 1796. Let's presume it's wrong for a moment. He couldn't have died before 1784 because the cemetery didn't exist until then. There are no Duplanchiers buried in the entire city before him. Either he wasn't an adult when he came on the boat in 1699, or he didn't die at age one hundred seventeen in 1796. Does either of you have any ideas what’s wrong?"
Oliver knew it himself but he was leading them down a path.
Nicole tossed out an idea. "He had a son named Pierre."
"Maybe, but there actually was a daughter. The Duplanchier mausoleum is three-tiered. Pierre's body is in the top vault and the next one is Felicite Duplanchier - no date of birth - who died in 1804. She was undoubtedly a relative, and if she was his child, then he couldn't have been born in 1679. The vault on the bottom's empty, as I mentioned earlier.
"Let's explore the idea of a son. The city records reflect that Pierre Duplanchier married a Creole named Marie Quantin in 1756. The Pierre from the boat would have been around seventy-seven years old and his wife not even twenty. That’s unlikely, although not impossible."
"Why not believe it, if it fits into your puzzle?" Brian asked. "That marriage could have happened."
"Because of yet another enigma." Oliver sighed. "Do you see now why I need help? Just when I think I've solved one small piece of this puzzle, I uncover a new twist. That Marie Quantin is also buried in St. Louis Cemetery, around the corner and down a bit from the Duplanchiers. She was born in 1738 and died in 1766 in childbirth. Do you see why this is so difficult?"
It wasn't, of course, if you knew exactly how it all fit. He was stringing them along to get something accomplished. One important piece of the puzzle was missing and he believed if anyone could figure it out, it would be Brian.
Nicole picked up a pen and began calculating on a notepad. In a moment she said, "I may have figured out part of it. Assume Pierre was born in 1679 as Oliver suggested. His wife Marie Quantin died in childbirth when Pierre was around seventy-seven. The child she bore was Pierre Junior. He died in 1796 at age thirty and he's the one buried in the top vault of the Duplanchier tomb. I have only two holes to fill to make that work. First, where is Pierre Senior buried, and second, could he have fathered a child when he was almost eighty?"
"I'm glad to see you're thinking outside the box," Oliver responded. "That's how you must do it if any of this is ever going to make sense. The problem with your hypothesis is that there must be a grave somewhere for Pierre Senior. The family was prosperous and that's the only mausoleum for the early family. He's buried somewhere, that's for certain. And as to your second theory, we know the name of Marie's child. Records exist confirming it wasn't Pierre Junior. It was a girl named Justine Duplanchier."
"Are you serious?" Brian cried in exasperation. "I'm about to give up on all this. It's like a maze."
"Welcome to my world."
They chatted for another hour, tossing out one theory after another as to how alternative dates might fit. Since there was no other explanation than missing relatives, Oliver said he had inserted blank boxes in the family tree. Some of the ideas they mulled over were preposterous, but then so was the possibility that Pierre Duplanchier had died a very old man indeed.
"Obviously you don't have all the records," Brian said at last. "As good as birth, death and marriage dates are, there have to be records of Duplanchiers somewhere that you haven't found."
"I'm willing to concede that," Oliver said. "I've thought of every possibility. Thank God the Duplanchier name is rare; if there were very many, the situation would be even more cluttered. I'm lost, to tell the truth. All I have is a family tree full of holes."
Nicole said, "Let's talk about Justine Duplanchier. You say Pierre and Marie were her parents and Marie died in childbirth in 1766. Where is Justine buried?"
Oliver smiled and shook his head.
"Oh, shit," Nicole exclaimed. "Pardon my vulgarity, but this isn't another dead end, is it?"
"I'm afraid so. I found Justine's birth certificate. She was born to Pierre and Marie in 1766 in their home on St. Ann Street. From there her life is a mystery."
"What year did she die?"
He smiled. "I have no idea. There are no records of her marriage, her death, or anything about her life at all."
"Then what are you saying? She moved away or something, right? She didn't simply disappear."
Oliver shrugged. "I have no idea, but just as we think their might be another Pierre back there somewhere, let me tell you something else to make the story more interesting. I searched for the rather rare first and last names 'Justine' and 'Quantin' and I got a match. There was a Justine Quantin who was married here in 1927 to a local man named Henri Frere." He picked up the family tree and showed them where he had placed their names in a box toward the bottom along with a question mark. "That name isn't a coincidence. I want to know who she was because she's part of this somehow. Who were her parents? Why did she have the same last name as Marie Quantin, and the same first name as Marie's daughter who was born in 1766? Do you see how complex all this is? One step forward results in two steps back."
Or not, if one knows the truth. He hated wasting time on a mystery that wasn't a mystery at all, but it was something that he had to continue until they were finished. All this fit into what he needed Brian to do for him.
"Next I guess we need to also trace the Quantin and Frere family trees, right?" Brian was beginning to get caught up in the conundrum. There must be a logical explanation. Hopefully the records that would give them an answer still existed somewhere.
"To determine where - or if - this person fits in, we must include her in the search. I haven't done that, nor have I investigated Henri Frere. They would both be dead by now, of course, if they were married in 1927."
Nicole looked up and commented, "I know this may sound silly, but have you tried an ancestry genealogy site?"
"I have, and I learned nothing I didn't already know. I've literally racked my brain to think where else to turn."
Suddenly Nicole's stomach rumbled and she grinned. "Sorry about that. I think all this mental effort is making me hungry."
"My apologies," Oliver replied, secretly grateful for the interruption at last. He'd spun a tale this afternoon filled with more holes than the Duplanchier family tree. "I've kept you two away from your honeymoon for far too long, so I'm reluctant to ask if I might buy you a cocktail before you head out for dinner? There's one more thing I need to toss into this pot for you to stir around. There might be someone who could help us."
Brian glanced at his watch. "We have plenty of time, right, Nicole?"
We'd have made time if we hadn't, she thought to herself as she grinned and nodded.
CHAPTER FIVE
Oliver caught the eye of the maître d' in the crowded Court of Two Sisters Restaurant a block from his gallery. The bar was packed with tourists, but there was no problem accommodating a regular customer like Oliver Toussaint.
"Right this way, sir," the man said affably, taking everyone's coats and leading them to a booth in the back. Once they'd ordered cocktails, Brian asked, "So there's more to this saga, something you've held back?"
"Something I forgot, actually. There are too many twists and turns in this crazy story! I got off on Marie and her child Justine but overlooked something that makes this all even more bizarre. There's another possible piece to this mystery - a living one. This one's more of a stretch and may not lead to anything. There's an old woman - Creole, if I had to guess - who walks the streets of the Quarter. She's been around for years and I see her now and then. Think of how a witch looks and you've described her - ancient, dressed in a flowing black robe and carrying a stick. If she had a tall pointed hat, the picture would be complete. I'd call her eccentric - that's probably the kindest word I can think of. She never speaks to anyone, but she's constantly muttering to herself. I asked around about her. No one seems to know anything except that she is rumored to live deep in the Quarter in a house somewhere on Ursulines Avenue near the old convent."
"And what does she have to do with the Duplanchiers?"
"Ah," Oliver said with a weary gesture, "I'm truly getting old. Once again, I've gone off on a tangent and forgotten the original subject. I brought her up because I've been told her name is Justine. It's a long shot - there are lots of Justines out there, I'm sure - but I want to check it out when I have time."
Brian had an idea. "You're saying she could be the Justine Quantin who was married in 1927? Why not? She'd be maybe ninety."
"She could easily be that old. Maybe she is. I'll work on that angle since I'm here and can keep an eye out for her. I'd like to turn the rest of the search over to you for a while to see if a fresh set of eyes picks up something I'm missing. It's going to require some travel."
Nicole squeezed Brian's
arm. "Travel is no problem, is it, sweetie? We love to travel."
"How about Guatemala?"
"No problem," Brian responded without even thinking. "Been there, done that, more than once."
"And Haiti?"
Nicole's face registered her alarm. "Are you joking? Isn't Haiti ..."
Oliver was ready for that response. "Dangerous? Crime-infested? The poorest country in the Western Hemisphere? On the State Department's no-travel list? Are you going to let minor inconveniences keep you from traveling there?" He smiled, but Nicole was grim. There was nothing funny about this to her.
"I'm not going. You can count on that," she retorted, her voice shaky. "And I hope Mr. Adventurer here doesn't go either. Those inconveniences, as you call them, could get my husband killed. But I'm sure you're going to tell him something that'll get his adrenalin flowing and he'll be off to Haiti before you know it." Her attempt at those last lighthearted words failed. She was tense and worried and there was no hiding how she felt.
Brian had trepidations too, but now wasn't the time to discuss them. "I'm glad you're keeping an open mind," he joked, patting her leg. He'd heard how dangerous Haiti was. If this trip worked out - and that was a big if - he had to convince her he'd be safe. They'd talk about it later. That thought reminded him that it was time to go. He glanced at his watch and Oliver nodded.
They'd planned tomorrow just for themselves. They'd meet Oliver the next day - Mardi Gras - in the mayor's box to watch His Honor review the fabulous Rex parade, the grandest of them all. For now it was goodbye - air kisses and all - and they walked in silence to the restaurant a few blocks away.
There was no way the conversation was going to be light this evening. "You're the world traveler," Nicole began as soon as they were seated. "You undoubtedly know that Haiti's a downright scary place. I damned sure do. What kind of man would ask someone he calls his good friend to go there? Let him do it himself if it's so damned important." She was becoming emotional and her voice got louder. "You could be killed, Brian! Not maybe, but probably!"
The Black Cross (Brian Sadler Archaeological Thrillers Book 6) Page 3
