Trace of a Ghost

by Cherie Claire

  “Does it mention Briarwood?”

  “They don’t record names of homes, Vi, just addresses.”

  “So, how do you know this B&B is the same?”

  He pulls several pieces of paper out of his laptop bag and hands them to me.

  “When did you manage this?”

  “The French Camp office has a printer.”

  I’m impressed.

  “Anyway, there’s Wendell’s death certificate, a couple of court records from when he bought additional acreage, and a story on when he ran for mayor of Port Gibson.”

  I’m seriously impressed. I underestimated my husband and feel bad about my earlier admonishment.

  “This is awesome, TB.”

  He begins to rebound and there’s a happier glow about him. If I’m not mistaken, he loves doing this. The first time I asked for his help was on my initial press trip to Eureka Springs and he practically bounded out the room to the local library. He, and the librarian who assisted him, are the main reason we solved that case.

  “There’s more,” he continues. “The article about Wendell running for office states that he lives in a home with a different name. Something-in-a-field. So, I called them and that’s how I found out it’s the same as Briarwood.”

  I laugh. “Something-in-a-field?”

  TB grins and shrugs. “I can’t remember. Something with field in it.”

  “Did you talk to anyone there?”

  “I did, spoke with the owner. It’s not just a bed and breakfast. They give tours, said he did a lot of historical research, and he insists that Cora went a little nuts and they had to put her away.”

  “What?” I practically yell.

  This can’t be true. I feel it deep in my soul. I know what I saw, Cora sitting by a stream while someone came up from behind, lifting an arm to deliver a blow.

  “It sounded fishy to me, too,” TB continues. “So, I checked it out. There were a couple of mental hospitals in the state at that time and neither one had a Schumacher or a Meyers as a patient.”

  Again, I can’t help but question my husband’s research. “How do you know this?”

  “I called the archives department in Jackson and they have all the old records. Had to tell them I was a descendant, though. I said I was her great great grandson.”

  Damn, he’s good. But the injustice pisses me off.

  “Do you have the number of this something-field?” I ask TB.

  He digs in his bag and pulls out a note with a number scribbled on it. I flip open my cell and call them. A man by the name of Ricky Esteban answers on the third ring. I introduce myself as a travel writer and ask if he’s the owner.

  “Yes, I am,” Ricky says proudly. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Viola Valentine and you spoke with my husband yesterday, Thibault Boudreaux. About Wendell Meyers’s wife?”

  “Yes, I did. Sorry I didn’t have more information.”

  “Well, I think what you have is wrong. What makes you think she died in a mental hospital?”

  “Oh, that’s well known,” he insists.

  “And you have research to back this up?”

  He stumbles a bit. “Uh, that story’s been carried down for years.”

  “Did you ever think that maybe it’s just that, a story?”

  Where once we were cordial and Ricky believed I was a travel journalist about to make him famous, now his tone turns quiet and a bit defensive.

  “The family that owned this place told me so when I bought it.”

  “But that’s not necessarily fact, is it? What if they were hiding something?”

  I hear TB calling my name, telling me to calm down. I realize my voice has been raised a notch, but I can’t help it.

  “How many times have stories like this been tossed around erroneously and ruined a good woman’s reputation? Y’all couldn’t see to double-check your information?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but how does this concerns you?”

  My blood boils hotter. “It always concerns me when a woman’s being maligned, as it should concern you, especially if you live in the house that once belonged to her. She inherited it, not some Wendell Meyers.”

  There’s a pause and I’m starting to think I went about this wrong.

  “Ma’am, I have business to attend to. If you’re that concerned about Mrs. Meyers and her death, I suggest you do your own research and get back to us.”

  “You bet I will.”

  “Good day.”

  I flip the phone closed and find my blood pressure a bit too high. TB’s looking at me like I’m the one who’s gone crazy.

  “What?” I say to him.

  “Why are you so tense?”

  “Because I’m tired of women being ignored in history. And this guy, who’s done all this ‘historical research,’” — I use my fingers to imitate parenthesis — “is convinced of this woman’s insanity simply because he heard a rumor in the family.”

  TB rubs his chin thoughtfully.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I was going to stop by and talk to the guy but now we’re probably not welcome.”

  “Unless I find out more.”

  “I can’t use my laptop driving,” TB says. “There’s no internet connection.”

  “I have my own internet,” I say, and pull out Cora’s photos.

  It’s nighttime and Cora’s lingering on the back porch while sounds of men laughing drift out from the parlor. It’s clear she’s unhappy, has been crying. As I inch forward — I’m again an outsider — I see she’s several months pregnant.

  Menasha steps on to the porch and brings Cora a tray of tea, placing it on the table in front of her.

  “Don’t you want some light out here, Miss Cora?”

  Cora doesn’t say anything and Menasha moves to leave. She’s not turned around when Cora grabs her wrist and holds tight.

  “Please stay,” she says, her words choked with emotion.

  Menasha appears uncomfortable and looks toward the kitchen.

  “For God’s sake, Menasha, look at me.”

  Menasha does as she’s told but reluctantly. At least I think so for it’s difficult to make out their faces in the darkness. Finally, Menasha pulls away and I feel Cora’s disappointment. But the kitchen slave doesn’t leave. She lights a nearby lantern, and sits next to her in a nearby chair.

  “It’s the baby talking,” she tells Cora. “You’ll feel better once he comes.”

  Cora shakes her head. A silence lingers.

  “Does he hurt you?” Menasha whispers.

  Cora nods her head, still saying nothing.

  I see Menasha’s body tense. “I believe I’ve heard him not following doctor’s orders, to leave you alone.”

  Again, silence, but it’s understood Menasha heard right.

  “I wanted to help y’all,” Cora whispers, the candlelight casting eerie shadows across her tear-streaked face. “I wanted to take y’all to Kentucky and free you there.”

  Menasha straightens, alert. “What’s that, Miss Cora?”

  “He talked me out of it, said a woman couldn’t do that, that I would never get away with it in Mississippi, never make it to Tennessee before we were all stopped. He convinced me to marry him, said we would do it together. To free y’all another way.”

  A round of laughter rises up in the quiet night and Cora tenses. It’s clear she now despises her husband.

  “He’s like the rest of them now,” she continues with disdain. “Always fraternizing with the other plantation owners. Talking crops and trips to New Orleans. He knows that slavery makes wealth and money buys you friends and whiskey. He’s even bragging about increasing the acreage and buying more slaves.”

  Like I did moments before, her voice is rising with the injustice of it all. Menasha moves to sit by her side on the porch settee.

  “Don’t get excited, Miss Cora. It’s not good for the baby.”

  “How do I bring my child into this horrid world?” she whispers
. “How do I live in it?”

  To my surprise, Menasha takes her hand. “That’s a question I ask myself every day ma’am.”

  Cora looks at Menasha, who this time doesn’t turn away. In the darkness of the night, the two women share their pain. Cora gazes down at their entwined hands and smiles, but Menasha turns Cora’s hand over and slips the cuff of her shirt up her arm. Numerous bruises are evident.

  “I can help with that, Miss Cora.”

  No words are spoken but I instantly understand. She’s not talking about first aid. It’s exactly what Aunt Mimi and I discussed the night before, certain herbs that cause drowsiness, sickness, and some, even death. Which ones these women will pick and brew is the question. Obviously, Wendell survives whatever they are contemplating.

  The vision fades and I’m almost blinded by the light of day. Cora’s once again sitting on the back porch, gazing out at the back forty, a warm blanket across her lap for the sunny day contains a chilly nip. She doesn’t care and the son she’s birthed is swaddled tight in her arms, warmed by his mother’s love.

  “He’s going to catch the death of cold,” Wendell says emerging on to the porch, unsteady on his feet. Instead of the clean-cut dapper man I saw sitting at Cora’s dining room table, Wendell’s sporting an untrimmed beard and ruffled hair and his clothes are wrinkled although finely made.

  “What do you care?” she retorts, still gazing lovingly at her son. “You haven’t spent two minutes with your son since he’s been born.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy drinking and gambling with your friends.” She gazes toward the slave quarters. “Among other things.”

  “How else am I going to satisfy my needs, since you’re off limits?”

  Cora looks up now. “You’re despicable, a sorry excuse of a man. I rue the day I ever let you into this house.”

  Wendell’s eyes narrow and he moves toward Cora like he’s about to strike. Cora braves herself for the blow.

  “Breakfast is ready,” Menasha calls out from the kitchen, interrupting the action. Wendell grunts and heads inside.

  Cora leans down to smell the head of her sleeping son, reveling in his sweetness. But her smile fades, knowing that he, too, is now a victim of this nightmare.

  I open my eyes to see that the van’s slowing down and turning into a sunken driveway, the mud banks almost as high as our cars.

  “What did you see?” TB asks.

  I explain the vision and how Cora entered a marriage of convenience that has backfired, how she’s now a mother of a baby boy and thrilled, but worried about both of their futures. I don’t mention the conversation between she and Menasha, about how I believe the two may be conspiring to drug the man, or worse; I can’t be sure that is what I heard.

  “I can see how she would go crazy living with a man like that.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have yelled at that B&B owner,” TB answers. “He might have been right.”

  Doubtful, I think. I still see Cora lingering by the water’s edge, an arm raised, ready to kill, just like Wendell on that back porch. Did Wendell kill his wife? Did Cora and Menasha attempt to drug him and it backfired? Or was there someone else who reappeared in her life — Reynald, McDaniels? And yet, anyone or all of the above would drive a woman to enter an institution.

  I admit there may be more to this story than I realized.

  We drive through thick woods until the road forks, one side rolling down to a lovely pond with a fountain in the middle, the perfect setting for a wedding, and the other towards an expansive lawn leading up to the house. The antebellum home sports a wrap-around porch filled with rocking chairs, windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, and a massive front door that must open into a wide hallway. Two live oak trees drape their branches across the porch and roof as if to shelter the horrors of the world away from those who live there. And all along the driveway the owners have planted Knock-Out Roses which, because of warm weather leading up to this week, have caused them to bloom in vibrant shades of crimson and pink.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I whisper.

  As we pull up to the front steps I get the immediate feeling I’ve been here before, that deja vu sensation that sweeps through you and quickly disappears, leaving you to wonder if it’s all your imagination. Like maybe you’ve seen the place on a postcard or something. Which I probably have, since I’ve never driven the Trace, nor visited the surrounding area of Natchez. In fact, the last time I came to Natchez, the town, was in high school, when Dad and I visited for the Spring Pilgrimage, Natchez’s annual tour of historic homes and associated events such as the Confederate Pageant, which, I’m embarrassed to admit, I really enjoyed.

  I close my eyes and sigh. Once again, I’m reminded of my sister’s insistence to call my father, a man who’s been out of our lives for years now. I’m still angry at my father’s disappearance, but I promised Portia I would make an effort.

  I’m so busy thinking of my father and the pain he left behind that I fail to realize everyone has exited the van and are being greeted by the plantation’s owner who’s standing in the center of the circle of journalists. Even TB has left the cab, walking over to join the rest.

  “Guess, it’s time to put on my travel writer hat,” I say to Stinky, who purrs.

  After the emotional vision of Cora, I want to sneak my cat inside, find my plantation bed and take a nap, but we’re scheduled for lunch in the main dining room, then a tour of the house and grounds. After that, it’s hiking at a nearby site, a ghost town called Rocky Springs. Despite the name and what specters I might find there, I’m anxious to visit the old town that was once so prosperous about two thousand people lived and worked in this remote village.

  TB turns and sends me a worried look.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I tell Stinky. “I’m being summoned.”

  I climb out of the pickup truck and head towards the group. It’s then that I hear a familiar sound. As I make my way through the crowd and spot the source of the voice, my fears are realized.

  Ricky Esteban’s the owner of this establishment.

  Trace of a Ghost

  Chapter Twelve

  “Welcome to Richfield,” Ricky announces to the group once we’re inside. “One of the few accommodations on the Natchez Trace besides campgrounds and one of the finest plantation homes in Mississippi, if not the Deep South.”

  “Thank goodness,” Kelly says. “I’m all for a real bathroom.”

  “We’ve stayed in cabins at Tishomingo and French Camp and in retro Airstreams at Davis Lake,” Shelby says, a bit defensive.

  “All wonderful places,” Ricky says, coming to her rescue.

  Shelby’s smile returns, Pepper frowns at the memory of her trailer, and everyone else looks ready for a nap. Dwayne’s casing out the place. I’m hanging back of the crowd because sooner or later someone will start introductions or maybe Ricky will hand out our room assignments and my name will emerge. I’m trying to remain invisible while I can.

  Ricky, on the other hand, is beaming having travel writers visit his plantation which, he announces to us, he purchased several months ago and is excited about the publicity. A short, petite man with salt and pepper hair wearing small, round glasses, he reminds me of a shy history professor I had at LSU who was so enamored with Huey P. Long that he failed to realize half his audience were asleep and the other half doodling away.

  “There’s so much to see here at Richfield,” Ricky says, looking around the massive hallway filled with antiques, portraits, and elaborate crystal chandeliers. “But don’t worry, I’ll explain all in good time.”

  Jeff arrives and begins placing luggage inside the hallway. The journalists scramble for their suitcases, anxious to spend any amount of time in private repose; we have so little on these trips. Ricky’s enthusiasm drops.

  “Why don’t y’all get your bags and I’ll see you to your rooms,” he finally says, realizing his audience has disintegrated. “You can refresh before lunch and then
we’re have our tour.”

  “Lunch is in thirty minutes,” Shelby calls out.

  Ricky pulls a set of key cards from his pocket and TB sends me a glance and I wince knowing what’s coming. Ricky starts with Winnie, then hands Shelby her card and gives them both instructions on how to open the keypad on their room doors. They grab suitcases and head to bedrooms at the end of the hallway. Ricky calls out Dwayne’s name and informs him that he has the bridal suite at the back of the house on the second floor.

  “Well, isn’t that special,” Dwayne says with his trademark smile and glances at Pepper with a wink since Shelby has gone to her room. I feel Kelly tense at my side.

  “Easy girl,” I whisper to her.

  Carmine’s next and it’s then I realize that Ricky is going in alphabetical order. Carmine, the Penningtons and Kelly receive their keys and are located by what I assume will be next to our room on the second floor. Kelly balks at the stairs but Ricky shows her the way to the elevator. Everyone heads off and Ricky returns, holding the final card in his hand. He starts to call my name, then pauses and looks up. I smile tentatively and do a little wave.

  “You’re the one who called,” he says, and it’s not friendly.

  I start to explain but TB steps forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Thibault Boudreaux. I’m the one who originally called.”

  This derails the man. He looks down at the card and can’t figure out how he missed TB.

  “He’s my husband,” I offer.

  “And so honored to be here,” TB adds with a bright smile.

  Ricky hands TB the card and explains that we’re in Room 102, which opens on to the second-floor balcony.

  “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room,” he says softly.

  Ricky turns and heads for the elegant staircase that ascends gracefully to the second floor. I glance at TB for support but he only shrugs, grabbing our suitcases and following the man. No one says a word while we walk up the long staircase, the ancient wood floors creaking every step of the way. Once we get to our room, Ricky explains the keypad, then opens the door to our room, an exquisite bedroom with four-poster bed, fireplace, antiques, and those floor-to-ceiling windows opening to a tree-sheltered porch with rocking chairs.