by Laura Childs
“Ghostly,” said Fletcher in a slightly ominous tone.
Chapter 14
“THIS is just awful,”said Carmela. Her flashlight played across the walls of several more treatment chambers. Some had bars on the doors, while others had small sliding windows that had allowed staff to surreptitiously peek inside. Each door looked to be almost five inches thick. They definitely meant business down here.
“I keep expecting to see shackles and chains hanging from the walls,” whispered Ava.
“They probably had those at one time,” said Carmela. “Then modernized . . . to this.”
“From the Tower of London all the way up to the Spanish Inquisition,” said Ava. “Imagine that.” She slapped her hand against the side of her helmet, startling Carmela.
“What?” said Carmela.
“Just making sure my helmet cam’s on,” said Ava. “You got your recorder on?”
Carmela gazed at the tiny green screen on her handheld unit. “It’s on. In fact, it’s been on for the last ten minutes. Probably the only thing I’m gonna pick up is station WRNO. Or my irregular heartbeat.”
“Maybe,” said Ava, “we need to descend into the bowels of this place to discover its true psychic source.”
“You make it sound so enticing,” said Carmela.
“You know what I mean,” said Ava, pointing down a dark corridor. “Down in the boiler room or maybe even the morgue. Since this place is . . . was . . . a hospital, there has to be a morgue.”
Carmela frowned. The whole notion made her jumpy. “I suppose it should be down here somewhere.”
Together, shoulders touching, the two women edged down the passageway. Dirt and glass crunched underfoot, and water oozed from zigzag cracks in the walls.
“This remind you of anything?” asked Ava.
“You mean like Medusa Manor?” asked Carmela. “Maybe a little, but Medusa Manor is Disneyland compared to this place.”
“This place is definitely hardcore,” agreed Ava.
“I was reading on the Restless Spirit Society’s Web site,” said Carmela, “that buildings can take on and retain a sort of physical imprint of violence that occurred there.”
“Like psychic footprints,” said Ava.
“Something like that,” said Carmela.
“And the air, too,” said Ava, sniffling. “It’s like mold and bleach with a faint smell of blood and urine. Like hopeless-ness and desperation all melded together.” Ava stopped abruptly and clutched Carmela’s arm. “Oh my Lord!”
“What?” said Carmela, turning toward Ava and momentarily blinding her with her light.
“I’m almost positive I stepped on a dead body!”
Carmela took a deep breath, then aimed her beam of light at the floor. A dirty, lifeless doll lay in a crumpled heap beneath Ava’s feet. “Take it easy, it’s just a doll,” Carmela told her.
Ava let loose a sigh as she glanced quickly down at it, then kicked it out of her way. “Gettin’ jumpy.”
Gazing back at the rag doll, Carmela wondered how it got there, who it had belonged to. Dropped, perhaps, by some little girl on her way to treatment? The black eyes of the doll stared, vacant and accusing. Carmela shuddered.
“Cold?” asked Ava. “Want to turn back?”
“Maybe we—” began Carmela, but the rest of her words died instantly. The green screen of her directional microphone had suddenly come alive, crackling and jumping like mad. “Ava, I’m picking something up!”
“On your recorder? You mean like voices?”
“Something,” said Carmela. She focused on the eerie green light and watched, fascinated, as it spiked and peaked.
“Maybe voices of former inmates,” Ava said in a hushed voice.
“Or maybe nothing at all,” said Carmela, “because it just stopped.” She looked around. “Maybe just mice . . . or bats?”
“I know you think this ghost-hunting equipment is pretty much pseudoscience,” said Ava. “But if we really found something, I could do a video recording with my helmet cam.”
“You sure that thing’s turned on?” asked Carmela.
Ava ran her hand up the back of her black Kevlar helmet and felt for the tiny cam. “You see a red light?” she asked Carmela, leaning forward.
The red button burned steadily. “Yup,” said Carmela.
“Then let’s keep going,” said Ava, clutching Carmela even tighter.
They tiptoed down the corridor until it ended in a T. “Now what?” asked Ava.
“Mmm, maybe . . . right?” said Carmela.
After only a few tentative steps down the new corridor, Ava hissed, “This floor is disgusting.” She stopped and balanced on one leg, trying to check the bottom of her shoe while aiming her light at it. “I think I stepped in a pile of pigeon droppings. Can you believe it? These are Coach shoes I got on sale at Saks. I love these shoes! I had to fight off two other snarling size nines to get them.”
Tilting her head again, Carmela focused her helmet light on Ava’s shoes. “You stepped in something, all right, but I don’t think there are any pigeons hanging around down here.”
“Then what . . . ?” But Ava didn’t have time to finish. Something swooped past her face, brushing gently against her head. Then its leathery wings flapped and the creature circled again.
Ava let loose a horrific shriek. “A bat!”
As if on cue, more bats came hurtling down the corridor, swooping and flapping around them.
“No,” cried Carmela, “it’s a whole battalion!” They grabbed each other and crouched low. Ten seconds later, there was only the echo of pulsing wings.
“Whew!” said Ava.
“Did you get that on camera?” asked Carmela.
“I was too busy cowering,” said Ava. “And worrying about getting rabies. What about you? Did those little eeps and beeps register on your meter?”
“No,” Carmela responded, “but now I’m picking something up again.”
“So not bats,” said Ava.
“Unless it’s the echo of their dead forebears,” said Carmela.
“Or maybe mice,” suggested Ava.
“Did you know,” said Carmela, deadpan, “that mice think bats are angels?”
Ava stared at her friend for a few seconds, then smacked her on the arm. “Oh, you!”
Together they eased forward again. Ten feet down, they came to a decrepit metal door.
“Dead end,” said Ava. “And I do hate the way that sounds.”
Carmela aimed her helmet light at a faded sign. Faint red letters spelled Boiler Room. She touched her hand to the door handle. “What do you think?”
Ava licked her lips nervously. “I suppose we could take a quick look.”
Together they put their shoulders against the heavy metal door and pushed. Reluctantly, the door swung open on rusted hinges. Then they were standing in the doorway, their lights focused on the massive boiler that dominated the cramped, low space. Cobwebs hung down from duct-work like shrouds.
“Still picking something up?” asked Ava.
Carmela shook her head. “No. Nothing.”
They eased their way toward the boiler. When they were barely five feet away, a click-tick sounded from within and a red glow appeared behind a thick metal grate. Ava nudged Carmela.
Carmela adjusted her light. “Not coming from me,” she said.
Ava shook her head from side to side. “Me, either.”
“That thing didn’t just turn on,” said Carmela. “This place’s been vacant for years!”
“Then wha . . . ?” began Ava. She hushed as there was a loud scrape against cement, then another click.
“Someone else is in this room,” Carmela told her in a low voice.
“Oh, Lordy,” moaned Ava. “Who? The ghostly remains of some poor tortured soul?”
“Now you sound like Mindy,” hissed Carmela.
“Then smack me with a wet noodle,” said Ava, “because I’ve gone over to the dark side.”
“So
mebody there?” called a man’s voice. Not a ghostly voice, but a rich, resonant baritone.
“Just us ghosts,” Ava called back a little shakily. Together, she and Carmela took a giant step backward as a man emerged from the shadows behind the boiler.
“You’re with the group,” said Carmela, homing in on his khaki vest and safety helmet.
“No, I live here,” said the man in a slightly mocking tone, miffed at being interrupted by them. “Of course, I’m with the group.”
“We thought you might be a poor tortured soul,” said Ava, bristling at his sarcasm. “Turns out, we were right.”
“Ladies,” said the man, a little more cordial now. “I’m just doing a little harmless exploring.”
Carmela tilted her head up, aiming her light directly in the man’s eyes.
“You want to get that light out of my face?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Carmela. She shifted her head slightly. “You know,” she told him, “you look kind of familiar.”
He waved a hand. “People are always telling me that. Separated at birth, that kind of thing.” He gave a false-hearty laugh.
“What have you got there?” Carmela asked, gesturing at the device he held in his hand. It was black, about the size of a BlackBerry, with a small screen that flashed several lines of LED readouts.
“Oh,” said the man, slightly startled. “It’s an XMap, a kind of GPS device.”
“I don’t remember Mindy handing those out,” said Ava.
“She didn’t,” said Carmela. “It belongs to him.” She gestured toward the man, who took a half step backward. “So what’s it do?”
The man shrugged, trying to retain his casual air. “It uses GPS to map and measure property.”
“And how does that help detect spirits?” asked Ava.
“It doesn’t,” said Carmela, suddenly getting a feeling for who this might be. Taking a step toward the man, she backed him up against the old boiler. “You’re not interested in spirits, are you? Your primary interest is in real estate.”
“Huh?” said Ava.
“If you ladies will excuse me . . .” The man stepped deftly past them, ducked through the doorway, and took off down the corridor.
“What was that about?” asked Ava.
“You know who he is?” asked Carmela.
Ava shook her head.
“I’ll bet a hundred bucks that was Sawyer Barnes . . . the developer who bid against Melody for the Medusa Manor property. I looked him up on the Web this morning.”
“No shit,” said Ava. “So . . . what? You think he wants to buy this property, too?”
“Maybe,” said Carmela. But the real question spinning wildly in her head was, had Sawyer Barnes desperately wanted to own Medusa Manor? And if so, had he been willing to kill for it?
Chapter 15
LAFAYETTE Cemetery, established in 1833, was once part and parcel of Madame Livaudais’s fine plantation. It served as a city of the dead for more than a century, fell into a terrible state of disrepair, and, more recently, was refurbished to become the resting place for the crème de la crème of New Orleans. As a must-see on a de rigueur Garden District tour, Lafayette Cemetery stands as a somber, picturesque, and unique monument.
However, Lafayette Cemetery contains more than a few secrets. It’s where Marie Laveau, the voodoo priestess, is buried and where the “secret garden”—a square of four tombs built by four friends—is located. It’s also the supposed lair of zombies and ghosts, the place where scenes from Interview with the Vampire were filmed, and where the vampire Lestat supposedly resides.
This Thursday morning, Carmela and Ava strolled along the cemetery’s narrow gravel pathways, past towering obelisks, vaults, and decaying statues, heading for the site of Melody Mayfeldt’s memorial service. After last night’s rain, the sun now shone down brightly, bouncing off bleached, whitewashed tombs and tilting gravestones, making them look like shiny, uneven teeth.
“I’m impressed,” said Ava. “Melody is being laid to rest in a family crypt in a very prestigious cemetery.”
“Her folks were longtime residents here in the Garden District,” explained Carmela. “Hence, a family crypt.”
“Which I think is right over there,” said Ava, narrowing her eyes and pointing with a black-gloved hand. “At least that’s where everyone seems to be congregating. Behind that wrought-iron gate.”
“Then that must be the place,” said Carmela.
As the two of them drew closer, they could see a mahogany coffin resting atop a wooden bier, a string quartet just beginning to set up, and a rather large group of mourners milling about. In fact, far more mourners than they’d expected to see.
Carmela bit her lip as they approached. It was one thing to know her friend was dead. It was another thing to come face-to-face with her coffin.
“This has turned into quite the social gathering,” whispered Ava. “Look, there’s Baby over there. And aren’t those some of the people from last night? From the Restless Spirit Society?”
Carmela nodded. “And I see a few restaurateurs and shop owners from the French Quarter.” Feeling slightly heartened, she gave a faint smile. “Nice that they came to pay their respects.”
“And some Demilune krewe ladies, too,” said Ava, suddenly dabbing at her eyes. “Sweet of them to show up.”
They edged through the crowd, nodding to people they knew, then tucked in next to Baby.
Carmela put a hand on Baby’s arm. “Thanks for coming.” Baby nodded knowingly as she gave a sad smile.
“You’re looking quite glamorous,” Ava whispered to Baby. “All decked out in your Dior suit.”
“And you’re looking unusually sedate,” replied Baby. Indeed, Ava had forgone her usual tight jeans and low-cut T-shirt to pour herself into a severely tailored black suit.
In her simple black sleeveless dress and string of pearls, Carmela suddenly wished she’d worn a veil or even a scarf to cover her bare shoulders. Something to make her look a little more funereal and less cocktail-partyish. Oh well, nothing ever turned out as planned, did it? Not her marriage, not her business expectations, not even her relationship with Edgar Babcock. Because who knew where that was going?
On that slightly downbeat note, Carmela let loose a deep sigh and surveyed the crowd. Everyone was suddenly scrambling for the dozen or so wobbly black metal folding chairs that had just been set up by a bored-looking funeral director. But because there were far more mourners than chairs, the activity looked more like a children’s game of musical chairs. Grab one or you lose.
“That’s weird,” said Ava, observing the scramble. “You’d think they’d set out more chairs.”
“Maybe Garth didn’t expect this many people to show up,” said Baby.
Garth, thought Carmela. Where was Garth anyway? Her eyes scanned the assembled group. Ah, there he was. Standing next to the casket, talking to Reverend Robertson, a gray-haired, round-faced minister Carmela remembered slightly from another service she’d attended. Her eyes continued to rove the crowd, finally settling on the man she and Ava had encountered last night in the boiler room.
“Baby,” Carmela whispered, touching her friend’s shoulder. “Do you know . . . is that Sawyer Barnes over there?”
A tiny line insinuated itself between Baby’s elegant blond brows as she studied the man across the way. “Yes,” she finally whispered back.
“You’re sure?” asked Carmela. “You’ve met him before?”
Baby nodded. “At a NOMA benefit.” NOMA was the New Orleans Museum of Art.
“Sawyer Barnes?” Ava inquired in a low voice. She’d overheard their exchange.
This time both of them nodded.
“What’s he doing here?” Ava wondered out loud. A few moments of pregnant silence hung in the air, and then she added, “Think he’s got something to feel guilty about?”
“I don’t know,” said Carmela. “Good question.”
And then the funeral began. The string quartet play
ed Grieg’s Notturno, Opus 54, No. 4, making the piece sound lyrical and soulful at the same time. As the final strains drifted away on the wind, Reverend Robertson opened his black book of prayers and stepped in front of the flower-banked coffin.
“Dear friends,” he began, “we are gathered today to celebrate the life of Melody Mayfeldt, a soul tragically taken from us far too soon.”
Carmela hunched her shoulders forward, listening to Reverend Robertson’s words, thinking about Melody, wondering if Edgar Babcock was any closer to solving her murder.
Babcock. Could he be here?
Carmela’s head rose like a periscope, scanning the crowd, the perimeter, the few tourists who had gathered to gawk.
Nope. Don’t see him.
But she did see someone interesting. Sidney St. Cyr. Leaning against a slate-gray tomb, Sidney managed to look even more hunched and pinched than usual.
Sidney, Carmela thought to herself. I wonder how his ghost walk business is going? I wonder what’s he’s been up to lately?
“Let us listen and heed,” said Reverend Robertson, “the comforting words of the Twenty-third Psalm. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .”
As the service continued, Carmela watched as Sawyer Barnes eased his way slowly through the crowd—behind the musicians, through a small group of mourners—then ducked behind a small monument, finally ending up right next to Olivia Wainwright. Barnes’s shoulder touched Olivia’s ever so slightly, as if in greeting, and when she turned to acknowledge him, she favored him with a faint smile.
Interesting, thought Carmela. Or was it? They probably did know each other, since it was Olivia’s money that had been used to outbid Barnes for Medusa Manor. Carmela decided she was probably jumping at shadows and, instead, focused her attention on Garth Mayfeldt.
Hunched next to his wife’s coffin, Garth looked like a broken man. His complexion was pale as a ghost, dark circles engulfed his eyes, and his clothes seemed to hang on him like a scarecrow’s. Carmela’s heart went out to Garth, and she wondered how on earth he’d make it through the rest of the service.
As if in answer, Reverend Robertson closed his book and told the crowd, “And now, Garth would like to say a few words.” The reverend reached a hand out to steady Garth, then Garth took a tentative step forward.
