by Eric Wilder
Chapter 36
I opened my eyes in the Charity Hospital Cemetery. A new day had dawned, and wispy spirits caressed me before disappearing into the damp earth. My clothes lay in the mud, and I quickly got dressed. The front gate was still open as I hurried toward it. Mama was waiting for me on the sidewalk.
“Oh, Wyatt, I’ve been so worried. Where’s Adela.”
“Adela was really Aisling, and she chose to stay.”
Wink wasn’t smiling when we reached the cab. “Your fare is getting more expensive by the minute.”
“And I have no money,” Mama said.
Mama, Wink, and I were the only ones in the cab. “Where’s Taj?” I said.
“Gone,” Mama said.
“Where did the big basketball player go?” I asked.
“Ain’t nobody here but the three of us,” Wink said.
I fished through my wallet, looking for some of Taj’s retainer I had stashed there. Taj’s money was gone. The twenty-two dollars I found wasn’t enough to pay our fare.
“Take us to Bertram’s Bar on Chartres,” I said. “I have money upstairs in my room.”
Bertram was up, waiting on a customer when we entered the bar.
“Where you two been?” he asked.
“Detective work,” I said as we hurried upstairs.
My cat Kisses met us at the door, and I quickly opened a can of cat food for her.
“I put my share of Taj’s retainer in the upper drawer,” I said, pointing.
As I finished feeding Kisses and was giving her a few full body strokes, Mama rummaged through my underwear drawer.
“There’s nothing in here,” she said.
“You sure?”
“Nope, nothing. What now?”
“Back downstairs.”
Bertram had coffee waiting for us when we reached the bar.
“You been mud wrestling?” he asked.
“Something like that,” I said. “Can I borrow some money for a few days?”
“What for?”
“No questions, please. There’s a cab waiting outside and his meter’s running.”
Bertram handed me a wad of cash from beneath the bar.
“When you gonna pay me back?” he asked.
“Soon as I can,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I believe you, but I believe you’re lying.” Mama followed me to the door. “You two coming back? Eddie’s in town. He found a cache of the rum that’s so good. We’re celebrating later on.”
“We’ll have to see,” I said as we walked out the door.
Wink was waiting, the motor of his cab running. The sun was rising, tourists beginning to prowl the early morning streets.
“Well?” Wink said.
“Drop us off at the Upper Pontalba Building.”
Wink looked visibly perturbed but drove the short distance to one of the buildings flanking Jackson Square. He was considerably happier when I paid his tab and added a nice tip.
“Who do you know who lives here?” Mama asked.
“Armand and Madam Toulouse. Maybe they’ll have some answers for us.
Artists, mimes, tourists, and pigeons were already occupying Jackson Square as we reached the front door of the Pontalba and rang a bell. A squawky voice sounded through the speaker.
“Who the hell is it?”
“It’s me, Armand. Wyatt Thomas.”
When the buzzer sounded, we entered the hallway and walked up a short flight of stairs to Armand and Madam Toulouse’s apartment. Armand was waiting for us at the door.
“Mama Mulate,” Armand said. “What a pleasure. Come in here. You’re just in time for breakfast.”
Armand was dressed in house slippers and a plush burgundy bathrobe. It marked the first time I’d seen him in anything other than black. We followed him into one of the most sought after places to live in all of the Big Easy. Known as the oldest apartment complex in the United States, Armand, and Madam Toulouse’s domicile was anything but old and rundown.
Madam Toulouse was cooking at a restaurant-style six-burner stove that must have cost them a small fortune. She was also dressed in a plush burgundy bathrobe, and her usual bouffant hairdo was relaxed and draped over her shoulders.
“Wyatt,” she said. “And Mama Mulate.”
Madam Toulouse scooted the pan away from the flame and rushed to give Mama a big hug.
“Better cook enough for two more, Baby,” Armand said.
“You know it,” she said. “No one goes away from my house hungry.”
We didn’t. We were soon sitting at a beautiful wooden dining table drinking coffee and eating Eggs Benedict. When we’d finished, Armand refilled our cups from the pot on the stove.
“Now, tell us what’s so important you felt you had to talk with Madam Toulouse and me before nine in the morning.”
“Taj Davis,” I said.
“What about him,” Armand said.
“The Pels are in town tonight. Is Taj playing?”
Armand stared at me as if I’d just asked him something crazy.
“What the hell are you talking about? The Celtics aren’t in town tonight.”
“We traded Zee Ped to Cleveland for Taj Davis,” I said.
“What planet are you living on? Taj Davis never played for the Cavs. He’s a Celtic,” Madam Toulouse said.
“You sure you’re on the wagon?” Armand said.
“I was just pulling your leg. I do have a couple of other questions for you,” I said.
“Hit us,” Madam Toulouse said.
“Do you know anything about a murder at the Hotel Montalba which occurred almost two centuries ago?”
“Madam Toulouse knows all about it,” Armand said. “She researched the case when she worked at the Notarial Archives.”
Madam Toulouse made a face when I asked, “Who was murdered?”
“Don’t know,” she said. “They found the body of a naked man in the bathtub. His head was missing. It was never found.”
“Could it have been the body of Dr. Lalaurie?”
Madam Toulouse gave me one of her patented looks. “Funny you should ask. The dead man had registered using an assumed name. Though no one believed him, the clerk who’d checked him in swore it was Dr. Lalaurie.”
“The murder happened the same night the Lalaurie Mansion burned,” Armand said. “Dr. Lalaurie disappeared and was never seen again, probably to avoid abuse and torture charges for the way he and Madam Lalaurie had treated their slaves.”
“Did Madam Lalaurie flee to France?” I asked.
“That’s the word on the street,” Armand said.
“And you don’t believe it?” I said.
“Not long ago, someone found a plaque in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 which seemed to indicate she was buried there,” Madam Toulouse said.
“What happened to the Lalaurie’s slaves?” I asked.
“They were all manumitted and became part of the city’s free people of color population,” Madam Toulouse said.
“Do you know anything about an Irish woman and her daughter who had lived with the Lalauries?” I asked.
“They were related to Delphine Lalaurie and her cousin who at the time was the governor of Louisiana and Florida. The governor took them with him to Florida,” Armand said.
“Do you know what happened to them after they moved away from New Orleans?” I asked.
“They must have prospered because there’s a dormitory named after one of their ancestors at the University of Florida,” Armand said. “I know because I lived there while I was attending college.”
Armand nodded when I asked, “You from Florida? I didn’t know.”
“Lots of things you don’t know, Cowboy,” Armand said.
The sky was blue, not a single cloud in the sky as we left Armand and Madam Toulouse’s Upper Pontalba apartment.
“Guess that answers all my questions,” I said. “It’s almost as if Taj and Adela were never here.”
“They weren’t, except for y
ou and me. We may as well keep it to ourselves. No one will ever believe us anyway,” Mama said.
“Sure seems that way,” I said.
“So sad,” Mama said. “That handsome man, Taj Davis, is out of my life forever, not to mention our lost twenty-thousand dollar retainer.”
“When I told the story about seeing the demon, Adela kept telling everyone I was only dreaming. Right about now, I’m not so sure she was wrong.”
“Oh, Wyatt,” Mama said. “Sometimes there’s not an ounce of difference between reality and a bloody nightmare.”
“At least the rain has stopped,” I said. “And Eddie’s back in town. I’ll bet he has a story to tell.”
Mama put her arm through mine and turned us toward Bertram’s. “Then let’s go get drunk.”
####
Book Notes
Although Garden of Forbidden Secrets is a work of fiction, many of the historical details in the book are real. The Lalaurie Mansion on Royal Street exists. As the story accurately details, it’s the structure built after the infamous Lalaurie Mansion had burned.
Madam Delphine Lalaurie and her third husband, Dr. Leonard Louis Nicolas Lalaurie actually existed. Madam Lalaurie was Irish and had powerful relatives in New Orleans and the Spanish colonies. While the true story of what actually happened within the confines of the Lalaurie Mansion is conjecture, much information exists to indicate both abuse and torture likely occurred there. Madam Lalaurie possibly died in France, though a plaque found in the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 suggests she may have actually died and been buried in New Orleans.
The Charity Hospital Cemetery exists. Thousands of people were buried there in a common grave beneath a single gravestone. The city of New Orleans briefly floated the idea of turning the cemetery into a bus stop. Realizing that the spot where the cemetery is located is hallowed ground, the citizens vetoed the idea.
I hope you enjoyed reading Garden of Forbidden Secrets as much I enjoyed writing it, and that you like Wyatt Thomas, my moody private investigator. If so, please consider leaving a review, and reading the other six books in the French Quarter Mystery Series. You may also like my Paranormal Cowboy Series that includes Ghost of a Chance, Bones of Skeleton Creek, and Blink of an Eye and watch for the upcoming French Quarter Mystery #8.
Thanks for being a fan. Without wonderful readers like you, my stories would be little more than morning fog wafting across a forgotten lawn and then disappearing forever into the Great Unknown.
Other Books by Eric Wilder
Ghost of a Chance
Murder Etouffee
Name of the Game
A Gathering of Diamonds
Over the Rainbow
Big Easy
Just East of Eden
Lily’s Little Cajun Cookbook
Of Love and Magic
Bones of Skeleton Creek
City of Spirits
Primal Creatures
Black Magic Woman
River Road
Blink of an Eye
Sisters of the Mist
About the Author
Born on a sleepy bayou, Louisiana Mystery Writer Eric Wilder grew up listening to tales of ghosts, magic, and voodoo. He's the author of twelve novels, four cookbooks, many short stories, and Murder Etouffee, a book that defies classification. His two series feature private investigators adept in the investigation of the paranormal. He lives in Oklahoma, near historic Route 66 with wife Marilyn, three wonderful dogs, and one great cat. If you liked Garden of Forbidden Secrets, please check out the rest of Eric’s French Quarter Mystery Series, and all of his books at his Smashwords homepage.
Erics Links
Website: EricWilder.com
Twitter: EricWilderOk
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