by Eric Wilder
Madeline sipped her tea as I recounted last night’s visit to the thirteenth floor of Hotel Montalba and our meeting with the demon. Even though Adela kept making faces, Madeline seemed taken by the story. When I’d finished, I waited for her to comment. Adela spoke before she had a chance.
“It was just a dream,” Adela said. “None of Wyatt’s story ever really happened. It’s so preposterous I don’t understand why anyone who hears it can’t see through it.”
Turning to Madeline, I said, “It does sound preposterous, even to me. Doesn’t matter because it was as real to me as this teacup I’m holding in my hand.”
“Lucid dreams often seem real,” Madeline said.
“When I told the story to Taj and Mama, Taj told me I’d described the room and the demon just as he had seen it. If it were a lucid dream then how was I able to describe the exact room that Taj stayed in his first night in New Orleans? He wasn’t dreaming and has a cut foot and bloody voodoo doll to prove it.”
“I didn’t say what you saw never happened. Perhaps you experienced the vision in a dream because of your special powers.”
“What powers?” Adela asked.
“Wyatt is a Traveler,” she said.
Madeline’s declaration caught Adela’s attention. “What’s a Traveler?”
“A person who has lived many lives in many ages, and can physically traverse time. What Wyatt saw was an excerpt from your own thoughts. I cannot explain how but perhaps you somehow entered his dream. What Wyatt saw was quite possibly something you had experienced.”
Adela gazed at me while sipping her tea as if she were seeing me for the first time.
“Impossible,” she said. “Nothing like that has ever happened to me.”
“That’s not the entire story,” I said. “Mama Mulate and Taj visited St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 last night on a hunch.”
“A hunch?” Madeline said.
“The voodoo deity Baron Samedi had appeared to Taj earlier as a cemetery keeper at St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. When he told the story to Mama, she was suspicious because she knew of no such keeper at the cemetery. Taj’s description of the man got her thinking something other than coincidence was involved.”
“So they went to see?”
“Baron Samedi is the keeper of souls and cemeteries. When they got to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, Mama summoned him, and he appeared. When she asked him about Taj’s meeting with the demon, Baron Samedi told her the answer lies in a French Quarter Garden. She quizzed him further though all he would tell her was to ask the Irish witch named Aisling. Calpurnia called her Aisling. I think Adela is Aisling, the Irish witch.”
Adela flashed a frown. “I’ve been called worse.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a witch, my dear,” Madeline said. “I am a witch myself, as was my mother and my grandmother. I assure you there is no shame in being a witch.”
“If I were a witch, don’t you think I’d know it?” Adela said.
“Maybe you do know it and are hiding your abilities from us. If what Wyatt says is true, you can levitate and fly. No mere human can do either.”
“Neither can I,” Adela said. “Wyatt was dreaming. I have no control over what he dreams. I’m not a witch, and I have no special powers.”
“That’s not what you told me,” I said. “I wasn’t asleep when you said you had special powers and had known it since you were a little girl. I was wide awake when you levitated off the floor and floated across the room.”
“I lied to you. The pot you smoked did have a hallucinogenic drug mixed with it,” Adela said. “You were drugged. I’m sorry, but you’re only describing what you think you saw and not what really happened.”
Madeline refilled my teacup. “You smoked marijuana?” she said.
“I confess I did,” I said. “Doesn’t matter because my thinking was clear.”
Adela was smiling and shaking her head. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall when you told your story to a judge. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t hold up in a court of law no matter how many stacks of Bibles you swore on.”
She was right. For a moment, I began to doubt what I was certain I had seen. It didn’t matter because Madeline didn’t give me a chance to defend myself.
“Maybe Adela just does not know she is a witch,” Madeline said.
“There’s something else I haven’t told you. Adela has a voodoo veve on her chest,” I said. “An identical veve to one on Taj’s chest. Though they had never met, Adela knew about Taj’s veve.”
Madeline glanced at me, and then back at Adela. “Is that true?”
Adela nodded. “Yes.”
“How does a girl from Michigan get a voodoo veve on her chest?”
“I have no recollection of where it came from,” Adela said. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”
“Is it a tattoo?” Madeline asked.
“See for yourself,” Adela said, pulling up her sweatshirt.
Like a doctor examining a wound, Madeline drew closer for a better look.
After a moment, she said, “This is no tattoo nor does it look like a birthmark. No two veves are ever exactly alike. How is it possible for two people to have identical veves on their chests? More importantly, how did you know about Taj’s veve?”
“Not by coincidence,” I said.
“That’s not so,” Adela said. “Taj’s shirt was open to his waist when I met him. I couldn’t help but see the marking.”
“All I know is Adela and Taj are inextricably connected. In my mind, the connection has something to do with the 13th floor of the Hotel Montalba.”
“What else?” Madeline asked.
“Mama confirms deities rarely appear to humans in their real form.”
“What do you mean by that?” Adela asked.
“They usually speak to humans through surrogates whose bodies they’ve possessed. The fact the actual Baron Samedi appeared to both Taj and Mama tells me whatever force of nature brought Taj to New Orleans is of prime importance to the Vodoun hierarchy.”
“Like I’ve said before, I know nothing about voodoo. The only voodoo I ever heard about before coming to New Orleans was in some sleazy exploitation movie,” Adela said.
“And your parents are Christians?” Madeline asked.
“Of course they are.”
“And you?”
Adela’s face reddened. “Except for weddings or funerals, I haven’t been inside a church since I was a teenager. That doesn’t make me a witch.”
“Nor does being religious preclude you from being a witch,” Madeline said. “I was a Catholic nun. I still believe the dogma though I assure you I am truly a witch.”
“Okay, say I am a witch. What are my motives for keeping that interesting bit of information secret?”
“If I knew, I would have the answer to your mystery. Calpurnia apparently knows you. She either knows you from the Quarter or perhaps another life.”
“This is my first trip to Louisiana,” Adela said. “You’re raven is beautiful and intelligent. It doesn’t matter because she mistook me for someone else.”
“I do not think so,” Madeline said.
“Maybe she knew Adela from the French Quarter courtyard Baron Samedi spoke of,” I said.
“You are both insane,” Adela said. “I’m from Michigan. My name is Adela Kowalski. I’m Polish, not Irish.”
“You are here for a reason,” Madeline said. “The veve on your chest is no coincidence. It is a voodoo veve. If Mama Mulate says she spoke last night with a voodoo deity, then I believe her. If you are a witch, why not just admit it. It makes no difference to Wyatt or me. We are only trying to help you.”
“I know nothing about the French Quarter,” Adela said. “If I’d lived here before, surely there would be things I’d remember.”
“There’s something else,” I said. “I haven’t mentioned it because it was very upsetting.”
Madeline glanced at Adela. “What could possibly upset Adela more than the thin
gs we’ve already discussed?”
“Trust me,” I said.
“You tell me now, or I’m going to have to embarrass myself in front of Madeline by yanking your hair out.”
“I don’t think you’ll like what I have to say,” I said.
“I’ll take my chances. Tell me.”
“When the demon blocked our departure from the bathroom, he was dragging the head of the woman in the bathtub by its long red hair. The head was lifeless its blue eyes rolled up in a death stare. It was your head. You were the murdered woman in the bathtub.”
Madeline’s hand went to her mouth. “Are you sure of that?”
“As sure as I can possibly be.”
My pronouncement failed to affect Adela. She was grinning as if I’d just told a joke.
“This is getting absolutely insane,” she said. “I’m obviously not dead. How could it have been me?”
“According to the bellman who talked with Taj, the murder in the hotel happened centuries before you were even born. Though it couldn’t have been you, I’m sure it was your doppelganger.”
“Or someone you are incarnate of,” Madeline said.
“What on earth would prompt me to return to the place where I was murdered?” Adela asked.
“Revenge,” I said.
“I think you are both jumping to absolutely absurd conclusions,” Adela said. “Any sane person would think you are both crazy.”
“That doesn’t explain how Calpurnia knows you, and you her?” I said.
“She’s just a bird,” Adela said.
“A bird that called you Aisling, the very same name the demon used when confronting us. The same name Baron Samedi used. You can’t just explain that away.”
“I truly have no idea,” Adela said.
“You were drawn to the city for a reason, or you would never have met Mr. Davis or learned you both have identical veves on your chests,” Madeline said. “I have a notion you lived in the French Quarter during another lifetime, as did Mr. Davis.”
“Yes,” I said. “Before we came here, Adela and I did some exploring of the French Quarter. She seemed familiar with Royal Street and even told me as much. Her curiosity took us for a long walk up the street. When we reached the 1100th block of Royal, she grew faint and almost passed out. I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance.”
“The Lalaurie Mansion,” Madeline said. “It is located in the 1100th block of Rue Royal.”
“Of course,” I said. “I should have put two and two together.”
“What is the significance of the Lalaurie Mansion?” Adela asked.
“It was a place of pure evil,” Madeline said. “A house of unspeakable horrors.”
Chapter 22
Calpurnia was waiting for us when we returned to the courtyard. Landing on Adela’s shoulder, she continued acting as if she’d known her forever. Adela was all smiles when Madeline hugged her.
“I hope you find the answers you seek. If only Calpurnia could tell us. Alas, she can’t, and I am sorry I couldn’t help you myself.”
“Yes you did,” I said. “You’ve pointed us in the right direction.”
Adela’s mood darkened again as we exited to the French Quarter sidewalk. The sky had turned an angry shade of gray, though at least it had stopped raining.
“Now, where are you taking me?” Adela asked.
“You said you wanted a tour of the French Quarter. I’m giving you one.”
“I seriously doubt any tourists have visited Madeline’s courtyard.”
“Bet you’re right about that,” I said. “Where we’re going now is a neighborhood bar, on the edge of the French Quarter.”
“You thirsty?”
“There’s someone there who can tell us about the Lalaurie Mansion.”
“If it’s a tourist attraction, can’t you just research it on the Web?”
“My friends at the bar will know things about the mansion which aren’t common knowledge. Madam Toulouse used to work at the Notarial Archives.”
“What’s that?”
“A repository of knowledge. The city’s founding fathers kept precise records of everything from marriages, property sales, building permits, the sale of slaves, to you name it. There isn’t much about New Orleans Madam Toulouse doesn’t know. And if she doesn’t, her significant other Armand does.”
“Armand?”
“An art and rare book dealer, especially as they pertain to New Orleans. The rich, famous, and powerful, value his expertise. No two people know more about this old town than Armand and Madam Toulouse.”
“How much will you have to pay them?” Adela asked.
“They’re friends.”
“Must be, if they’re as knowledgeable as you say and you expect them to help us for nothing.”
“I’m taking them something they’ll value more than money. We have to make a stop at a liquor store.”
The little liquor store I was familiar with wasn’t far away, and the owner knew me from when I was a drunk. Adela browsed the racks of wine as I found what I was looking for.
“A bottle of scotch?” Adela said. “Sounds kind of chintzy to me.”
“This isn’t just any scotch,” I said. “It’s Armand’s favorite, rare and expensive. It’ll get us the answers we want.”
“If you say so,” she said. “How do you know they’ll be at the bar?”
“Because it’s their office. Where their clients go to find them.”
Adela glanced up at the cloudy sky. “Must be quite a bar.”
“Just the opposite,” I said. “It doesn’t even have a sign in front.”
“Then how does anyone know to go there?” Adela asked.
“People who matter all know where Allemands is located.”
There are many great bars in New Orleans, most of which tourists never hear about. Allemands is a hole-in-the-wall bar situated on the edge of the French Quarter. Adela gave me an as if look when we reached the door.
“You sure this place is safe?” she asked.
“Safest place in town,” I said, opening the door for her.
The bartender recognized me, saluting as we entered. The place reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The patrons sitting at the bar didn’t bother turning around. The place was dim, pool balls sounding as someone was breaking a rack. The couple we were looking for had a table of their own.
“Well, look here,” Armand said.
“Brought you a present,” I said, handing him the sack.
Armand beamed as he tore it open. He was from a different era, a quintessential beatnik if such a person still existed. His black hair had thinned even further since the last time I’d seen him. His cookie-duster mustache was also black, as were all his clothes. Even in December, he wore no socks with his sandals. His companion blew me a kiss.
Madam Toulouse’s red leather miniskirt showed off her long legs. Her bouffant hair pointed toward the ceiling. As usual, she was sucking a sugary drink through a long red straw. Armand was grinning as he admired the bottle of scotch.
“Eighteen-year-old single malt Laphroaig,” he said. “I ain’t drank this good since the last time you dropped by for a visit.”
“Adela, this is Madam Toulouse Joubert and Armand.”
Armand had stepped out of the booth and motioned for us to slide in beside them.
“Sit on this side of me, baby,” Madam Toulouse said to Adela. “I want to visit with both you and with Wyatt.”
With Madam Toulouse sandwiched between us, we waited while Armand walked over to the bar to speak with the bartender.
“I didn’t forget you,” I said, handing Madam Toulouse a package.
“Oh my God!” she said when she saw the piece of jewelry I’d brought her. “Is this what I think it is?”
“A diamond encrusted fleur de lis necklace worn by my mom when Dad was King of Rex.”
“I can’t take it,” Madam Toulouse said. “This piece of jewelry is priceless and needs to be in a museum.�
�
“Leave it to the New Orleans Museum of Art when you die,” I said. “Enjoy it until then. It’s been in my dresser drawer far too long, and there’s not a person on earth who will appreciate it as much as you.”
Madam Toulouse was beaming when Armand returned to the booth.
“Armand, you’re not going to believe what Wyatt gave me.”
The little man in black leaned across the table and took a long look at the necklace.
“I keep forgetting your old man was once King of Rex,” he said. “You know how much this piece is worth?”
“I don’t want to know,” I said. “I would never sell any of Mom’s jewelry. I’m just so happy one of my very best friends in the world can enjoy and appreciate it.”
The bartender, a man named Jake, arrived with a pitcher of lemonade for me, a bottle of champagne and three glasses. Despite the weather, Jake’s shirt was sleeveless, probably to show off the multiple tattoos decorating his brawny shoulders. After placing the champagne and lemonade on the table, he removed the cigarette resting on his ear and lit it.
“We’re celebrating and may need more than one bottle, my man,” Armand said.
“You got it,” Jake said. “Just give me the high sign.”
Before leaving the table, Jake made a production of opening the champagne and then filling the glasses. Armand lifted his glass in a toast.
“Good friends and drink,” he said.
After a couple of glasses of champagne, Adela’s mood began to lighten. She was laughing and kibitzing with Madam Toulouse as more customers entered Allemands.
“Where are you from?” Madam Toulouse asked. “Your accent isn’t one I recognize.”
“Michigan. My ex-boyfriend and I decided to visit over semester break.”
“And where is he?” Madam Toulouse asked.
“He ditched me,” Adela said.
Madam Toulouse touched her hand. “Dear, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I wasn’t in town for even a single day before strange things began happening.”
“Such as?”
“I have a mark on my chest. It’s been there for as long as I can remember. My boyfriend and I were taking a tour of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. The only other person on the tour, though I didn’t know it at the time, was a pro basketball player.”
