Continuing up and down the long rows, the twins took note of all the tombs they passed, resting places for families with names like Petit, Moreau, Martinez, Laurent, Bertrand, Fournier, Morel, Girard, Mercier, Garcia, Bonnet, Lopez, Blanc, Mathieu, Gautier, Dumont, Fontaine, Sanchez, Marchand, Dufour, Dumas, Leroux, Renard, Dupuis, Laveau, de Tremblement, Gomez, Leblanc . . .
Then Edgar and Allan met one another coming around a fog-enshrouded corner.
“I think we’ve covered the whole cemetery,” Edgar said.
“Lots of French surnames with a little Spanish tossed in,” added Allan.
“That pretty well describes the population of New Orleans in the early 1800s.”
But they hadn’t come here to take a census.
The bottom line was that there was no Shakespeare crypt.
Not even any names of his major characters. No Hamlet or Lear or Macbeth or Capulet or Montague or Othello . . .
Had Edgar and Allan figured it wrong?
The boys looked at each other, their two minds working as one.
After a moment, each broke out laughing.
Five minutes later, Edgar and Allan arrived with their pickax and shovel at the weathered but otherwise ordinary-looking tomb of a man named Lance de Tremblement, who died in 1813. As they struck at the old brass doors, they couldn’t help but wonder how they’d walked past it the first time.
It was so simple!
After all, the Lafitte brothers’ native language was French.
And in French the word lance means “spear,” while tremblement means “tremor” or “shaking.” Thus “Lance de Tremblement,” in English, was “a spear of shaking” or a “Shake-spear”!
Crack!
The boys broke the lock on the metal doors.
Allan tossed the pickax aside.
They looked at one another. Neither had ever entered a tomb at midnight before.
What awaited them in the darkness?
With Roderick serving as lookout, the twins entered the ominous crypt. They flicked on their flashlights, running the beams over the small cobwebbed chamber.
No skeletons, no coffins, no cremation urns.
There was nothing there at all.
The boys looked at each other in dismay. Had they guessed wrong?
“Any self-respecting pirate would make this a little more difficult,” Allan murmured.
They did a second flashlit examination of the crypt . . . and still, nothing.
Then, from a darkened corner, Roderick meowed.
“What is it?” Edgar asked.
Roderick meowed again, this time more urgently, his eyes reflecting the flashlights’ beams.
The boys rushed over.
Roderick sat atop a stone slab, which looked like a blank grave marker. After a moment, he inclined his head graciously, rose to his feet, stretched, and padded off.
The boys examined the slab. Then they reached for their pickax and shovel.
Any pirate worth his reputation always buried his treasure.
Edgar levered up the slab with the pickax. Allan began to dig.
And after several frantic minutes, they broke through to a subterranean storage space.
Within it was pirate treasure—far more than two boys could carry.
They opened the first of a half dozen chests, all of which had been waterproofed with tar.
Inside, glittering gold doubloons, booty of the Spanish Main!
In the second chest were more doubloons; in the third and fourth were jewels, sparkling in colors that hadn’t faded in two centuries; in the fifth were heavy serving dishes and chalices, all layered in gold and studded with rubies; in the sixth were personal items, such as clothing, boots of Spanish leather, hats, swords, and, most important:
A leather-bound diary stored inside of a sealskin pouch.
Edgar opened it, with Allan’s flashlight trained upon the first page.
A few minutes later, when the Poe twins emerged from the tomb, they still bore the wide grins that had spread across their faces when they first spied the treasure. But grins aside, they looked quite different from before. Now, they wore feathered pirate hats, vests that smelled of gunpowder even two centuries after their last use, and, slung across their hips, scabbards with slightly rusted swords—all authentic pirate loot. Roderick sported a two-hundred-year-old silk scarf around his neck.
Aside from the pirate garb and accessories, the twins had taken from the crypt only the murderous pirate’s incriminating diary. They closed the brass doors behind them, picked up their tools, and covered their tracks so no one would stumble across their discovery before the proper authorities were notified.
The boys might be dressed like pirates. But they weren’t really interested in loot.
This was about justice.
They ran out of the cemetery and back into the crowded part of the French Quarter. Here, every night was like a masquerade party, so their unusual attire (including swords) drew hardly any attention.
At the museum, they found the Dickinson sisters crouched in shadows near the entrance.
“Did you get the diary?” Em whispered.
Edgar and Allan’s faces answered the question.
“And in it he confesses his crime?” Milly asked.
“In gory detail,” said Allan.
“Good. But we’re not going to be able to break in tonight. So Milly and I have come up with a plan B.”
“Why can’t we go tonight?” the Poe twins asked impatiently.
Milly pointed to the museum. Inside, the lights were on. “There’s a whole crew in there, getting ready for a show that opens tomorrow.”
“Look at the banner they just hung to advertise it,” Em added.
“I have a feeling that show’s not going to run for long,” Edgar said.
The next morning, plan B worked like this:
With Uncle Jack and Aunt Judith breakfasting with Em and Milly’s parents back at the hotel, the Poe and Dickinson twins stood near the front of the line as the New Orleans Pirate Museum opened its doors. Once inside, they browsed the centuries-old skull-and-crossbones flags, the rusty swords, and the weathered treasure chests, trying to look like ordinary tourists.
But, of course, the Poe and Dickinson twins were in no way “ordinary.”
“Ready?” Milly asked the boys.
Edgar and Allan looked around the museum. The crowd had thickened, this being the opening day of the show.
Allan nodded. “It’s time.”
The quartet moved from the first room to the larger, windowless room where the wax figures of the Lafitte brothers stood.
“Time for you to get yours,” Edgar muttered to Pierre’s wax figure.
Nearby stood a glass case containing personal items that had once belonged to the murderous Pierre: comb, razor, compass, hat, sword.
“You think that’s the sword he used to run through our friends?” Em asked.
“Could be,” answered Allan.
Edgar turned to Milly. “Ready?”
She nodded briskly and produced her phone. Then she tapped on the keyboard, entering a string of Internet commands to reach the control panel of the museum’s power and security system. Next, she bypassed the password, which she’d cracked the night before while the boys were occupied in the cemetery.
“The password is, ‘Ahoy Matey,’” she whispered, disgruntled that it had been so easy. “An amateur could have broken in. I feel kind of insulted.”
“How long will we have?” Allan asked.
“We’ll have fifteen seconds between the time the power goes down and the backup generator kicks in, so we’ll have to act fast,” Em said. “Everybody ready?”
Milly showed the phone to Edgar and Allan. “How does this algorithm look to you?”
“Great,” the boys said.
She grinned and pushed the button.
Later that afternoon, the Poe and Dickinson twins sat in the otherwise unoccupied lobby of the Pepper Tree Inn, watching local news on an old console TV.
“What’s so important on the tube?” Uncle Jack inquired as he came downstairs from a nap.
“Current events,” they muttered.
“Hi, kids,” Aunt Judith said, walking into the lobby with the Dickinson twins’ parents, Blossom and Claude, who were philosophy professors at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore.
“So, is everyone well?” inquired Mrs. Dickinson, who the boys had noticed upon first meeting had a cool Phoenician symbol tattooed on her neck.
The two sets of twins answered with nods, their attention still on the TV.
Mr. Dickinson, who was bearded and wore a black turtleneck sweater, said, “Now, you girls know we allow no television.”
The Poe family had no such rules.
Just then the TV news show cut to a big graphic that read:
Instead of turning off the TV, the Poe twins turned it up.
A serious-looking newsman announced:
“This is Ryan Holborn with new details about this morning’s shocking invasion of the New Orleans Pirate Museum. According to New Orleans police, intruders vandalized a wax figure and broke into a glass case during a momentary power outage.”
The TV cut to a shot of the figure of Pierre Lafitte, dressed not in his pirate garb but instead in the striped outfit of a jailed convict (bought the night before by the Dickinson twins at a costume shop near the Pepper Tree Inn).
“But the wax figure is not what makes this story so shocking,” continued the news anchor. “It’s that the unknown suspects took nothing from the museum, but instead left behind a valuable, pirate-related artifact, which has been authenticated over the past few hours. Live with us now is the New Orleans Pirate Museum’s curator, Ellen Payne. Thank you for joining us, Miss Payne.”
The news feed cut to a live shot of a blonde woman in a red scarf standing outside the museum.
“Miss Payne, can you tell us anything about the historical item left behind in the broken glass case?” asked the newsman.
For someone whose museum had just been invaded, she seemed remarkably happy. “It is the handwritten diary of Pierre Lafitte!”
The two sets of twins leaned toward the TV.
“And that diary is financially valuable?” the reporter queried.
“Oh, yes,” Miss Payne answered brightly. “And, better yet, the diary sheds new historical light on some of the most important figures of the period. For example, we found it open to a page upon which Lafitte confessed in his own hand to the cold-blooded killing of a local couple named . . .” She glanced down at the old leather diary in her hand.
“Say it, say it. . . .” muttered the Poe twins, anxiously.
“Let’s see,” Miss Payne continued, her eyes scanning the small, ornate handwriting.
“Come on!” the Dickinson twins shouted at the TV. “Say their names!”
“What’s going on here, kids?” Aunt Judith asked.
“His victims’ name was Du Valier,” the museum curator said at last. “Clarence and Genevieve, whom he murdered in cold blood outside their own pub in 1814.”
At these words, Edgar, Allan, Em, and Milly looked at each other, then stood and cheered, thrusting their fists in the air, victorious.
Their guardians watched them as if they were insane.
“What’s this all about?” Uncle Jack asked.
Aunt Judith and Mr. and Mrs. Dickinson looked just as confused.
“Justice!” the four twins answered as one.
WHAT THE POE TWINS DID NOT KNOW . . .
CELL PHONE TEXT MESSAGES BETWEEN NATASHA PERRY AND CASSANDRA PERRY:
8
THAT’S A WRAP!
THAT evening, before leaving the hotel room for A Tale of Poe’s wrap party, Allan and Edgar tuned the TV to the Wild Animal Channel, which was broadcasting its annual Bird Week Marathon. While the boys preferred Predator Week, nothing appealed more to Roderick than watching parakeets flutter from branch to branch. He watched it the way gourmets watch the Food Channel. Additionally, Bird Week allowed the cat to perfect his many vocal impressions, which he sometimes used to lure tasty between-meal snacks in the tree branches outside the Poes’ house.
“Your dish is filled with sparkling water,” Allan told Roderick, who preferred it to still.
“And your food bowl is over here,” Edgar said, indicating the Cajun tuna tartare they’d ordered up from the room service menu.
Roderick nodded, though his eyes remained on the TV.
The Poe twins had felt bad when Cassie informed them that pets were not allowed in the fancy restaurant Mr. Wender had rented for the festivities.
At first, the boys considered skipping the party.
But Roderick had curled up on the bed and looked like he could use a quiet night anyway.
“We ordered special sheets,” Edgar told him.
“Egyptian cotton with a thread count of a thousand!” Allan added.
Roderick turned to them and then chirped like a parakeet.
“So you’ll be OK while we’re out?” the Poe twins inquired.
Roderick answered by cawing like a crow.
“Good,” the boys said.
They closed the window and double-checked the lock on the door after them.
The wrap party was going strong by the time the Poe family arrived at the restaurant. The Dixieland jazz playing inside, rollicking and free and fun, lured tourists from all over the French Quarter. But five burly security guards saw to it that only invited guests got in.
“Yes, here you are,” a security guard said to the Poe family as he checked a list at the door. “VIPs.”
The prop crew had redecorated the restaurant with some of the Poe-oriented props used in the movie. A stuffed raven perched at the end of the bar. Mannequins in medieval masquerade garb stood scattered around the room. A giant silhouette of a black cat served as the backdrop to the band playing on a makeshift stage.
In the soft red light it all might have come off as spooky.
But the music kept it upbeat.
“Ah, my Poe family!” Mr. Wender said, approaching them with his arms open wide. “Welcome!”
Uncle Jack shook his hand.
“Help yourselves to our buffet,” the director directed.
“You’re the boss!” Uncle Jack answered gleefully.
The Dickinson family approached the Poes from across the room.
Em wore her usual long frock with a high, lacy collar. She always looked nice, if a little out-of-date. The surprise was that Milly also wore a dress (more modern). This was the first time the boys had seen her in anything besides either her movie costume or jeans and a T-shirt.
“It’s kind of a special occasion,” Milly explained.
“You mean finishing the movie?” Edgar asked her. “The wrap party?”
“No,” she said, looking away. “I mean it’s our last night all together.”
“Oh, yeah,” Allan said, suddenly shy.
Then the music stopped and Mr. Wender joined the band on the stage, holding up one hand to quiet the room.
The din of conversation ceased.
In his other hand, the director held a glass of champagne. “I want to toast everyone here tonight,” he said. “You’re a top-notch crew and cast. And I particularly want to thank my baby Poes, Edgar and Allan, for helping me to devise a perfect ending for our film.” He raised his glass higher. “Prost!”
German for “cheers.”
“Prost!” called those in the room with drinks.
Edgar and Allan smiled graciously.
“And I want to thank my
dedicated new assistant, Cassie Kilmer, who was such a help to me the last few days here in New Orleans. Cassie?”
Everyone looked around the room.
“Should I say ‘Cassandra Perry’?” Mr. Wender continued lightly. “Oh, what a complication you’ve been to our accountants, my dear. But, by any name, I want to toast you as a girl who understands the value of punctuality. Where are you, Cassie?”
She wasn’t there.
The Poe twins looked at each other, possessed by a sudden, terrible thought.
Cassandra Perry?
Like Professor Perry?
Meantime, Mr. Wender gestured for the band to start playing again.
The Dixieland jazz kicked in.
Then the Poe twins spotted the makeup lady cradling her Chihuahua and, across the room, the script supervisor holding her Cavalier King Charles spaniel, and they realized that pets weren’t forbidden here after all. It had been a lie.
Roderick was alone!
Edgar and Allan darted out of the restaurant, into the crowded streets of the French Quarter, and back toward their hotel.
The Poe twins threw open the door.
Their hotel room looked like it had been tossed into a giant dryer and run through the spin cycle.
“Roderick?” they called in unison.
The two mattresses and all the bedding had been stripped and scattered, shredded by what appeared to have been sharp and furious cat claws. The flowered wallpaper was newly decorated with vertical stripes that bore the signature of a violently frantic feline putting up a good fight. The latest volumes in the boys’ favorite book series, True Stories of Horror, lay scattered about the room, looking as if they’d been run through a paper shredder.
But no Roderick.
The boys glanced into the bathroom. It, too, was a mess, but absent any living thing.
Then they noticed the TV. They’d left it tuned to the Bird Week Marathon, but that’s not what occupied the screen now.
Once Upon a Midnight Eerie: Book #2 (Misadventures of Edgar/Allan) Page 7
