by Daniel Hecht
"Perhaps it's those very advantages." Charmian's gray-blue eyes stayed on Cree's, conveying no emotion whatsoever. "Perhaps it's generational."
"How so?"
"Richard and I were born in 1929, right into the Great Depression. It took a terrible toll in New Orleans. The fortunes and holdings of both of our families were mostly lost. Under such circumstances, if pride is your only possession of value, you protect it fiercely. You learn to hold your chin up no matter what. My children were born in a time of plenty. Perhaps they never found their own strength because they never really had to."
Cree nodded. She could see it clearly in the wrinkles that creased Charmian's forehead and rayed from her shrewd eyes, the determined fold on each side of her mouth. And she could feel it in her — that iron resolve. It was impenetrable, inarguable, a solid, hard thing at the woman's very core. She wondered if Charmian had ever witnessed her daughter's hidden strength.
"How do you feel about Lila's wanting to move back into the house?"
"Naturally, I'd be very glad to see her living there."
"But it sounds as if Ronald is not equally keen on keeping it in the family — "
"Ronald has his own brand of weaknesses."
"Such as?"
The raying wrinkles at Charmian's eyes tightened. "Are such concerns really germane to the task at hand?"
"I don't know. But, generally, the more context the better."
Charmian thought about that for a moment. "His weaknesses are the same as those of many men of his class and age: bad investments and young women of unreliable character. He is unlikely to have children with his young flings, and posterity therefore doesn't loom large in his thinking. And he 'took a hit,' as he puts it, on Wall Street when the dot-com balloon popped. I don't know the details. But I suspect he sees the house as an asset that would do him more good liquidated, not as one that would serve a larger vision of himself and our family."
"So who actually owns the house?"
"I do. If we were to sell it, I would divide the money between Ronald and Lila." Charmian set down her cup and frowned. "This is not the sort of interview I expected to have with a ghost hunter."
"I'm mainly trying to draw a bead on Lila's state of mind," Cree reassured her. "What stresses might trigger her vulnerability to the ghost.
If there's tension between her and her brother, for example — " "So you believe there is a ghost at the house."
"What do you think? You lived there for, what, forty years. Did you ever encounter a ghost?"
Again Charmian's eyes held steady on Cree's. "What is a ghost, Ms. Black? A memory of times past that suddenly awakens with unbearable poignancy? Images of a loved one who's gone? The buried longings or regrets that one inevitably acquires with age and that sometimes spring unexpectedly to life? Those I lived with constantly, as I do here. But if you mean the species of ghost you specialize in, no, I didn't. Of course not." The old woman's gaze remained unrelenting, as if challenging Cree to refute what she was saying, or as if she had spotted Cree's inadvertent response.
"May I ask why you left? I know you had a stroke, but you seem very healthy…"
Channian sighed. "What you see today is the result of years of deliberate effort. For the first few years, I had very little use of my left arm or leg. The doctors were concerned that I was prone to another stroke. Here at Lakeside, I have every imaginable convenience and none of those wretched stairs. I pursue the best physical therapy available in the facility's clinic. There are medical staff in residence twenty-four hours a day if I need them."
"But do you believe in ghosts?"
"What on earth does it matter what I believe?"
"I'm just wondering why you're willing to grant me any credence at all, even to talk with me now. Ronald certainly doesn't."
"I'm talking with you because my daughter requested I do so."
Charmian studied the vase of flowers critically and took a moment to adjust several of the roses. It was clear to Cree there was more there.
"And?"
"And at my age, I have learned not to discount the possibility that the world is stranger than people usually assume."
Cree nodded. "But when Lila tells you she's seen a ghost, what do you say? You either believe her or don't believe her. You either think she's nuts, or she's onto something. Which is it?"
"You're looking for yet another proof of my failure to support my daughter, aren't you. Another example of my supposed tyranny." Charmian's tone suggested anger, but Cree got the clear sense she enjoyed this kind of fencing. "Or are you really asking whether a ghost drove me out of Beauforte House?"
"Is that what happened?"
Charmian's poker face remained perfect, inscrutable. "Answering questions with questions — that's a technique used by both police interrogators and psychiatrists, isn't it? Do tell me, which role are you playing?" She held Cree's gaze for a moment, not really wanting an answer, then checked her wristwatch. "You know, I have a lunch date with some of the other residents at one o'clock. If you have any questions that are actually relevant to this… situation, we'd better get to them."
That was all right with Cree. Whatever else she had evaded, Charmian had clearly indicated that certain kinds of probing were not welcome. It was a point worth pondering, but for now it was obvious that further efforts would only antagonize her. So Cree poured herself another cup of tea and began asking the standard questions.
"One of my focal concerns will be the house itself," Cree told her. I'd like to know more about its architectural history, especially any renovations. It's often hard to tell at first who a ghost is, or even what era it's from. But if I can put dates to when the floor plan might have been changed, I can compare the ghost's behavior to the layout of the house. A ghost walking through a wall, for example, suggests that it lived there when that wall wasn't there, or when there used to be a door at that place. We call it spatiotemporal divergence, and it's an important clue for the parapsychologist. Do you have any architectural schematics for the house?"
"My husband was very fortunate to find the original builder's drawings before we renovated in 1948. He made every effort to stay true to the historic plan of the house, so I think you'll find the layout has changed little, if at all."
"Do you still have those drawings?"
"We gave them to Tulane University, the School of Architecture archives. We felt that students and historians should have access to them."
"Excellent." Cree made a note. "And do you know anything about the people who lived in the house before you and Richard moved in? Family names, dates…?"
Charmian shook her head. "It had stood empty for at least ten years. So many of the fine houses did then. Before that, I don't know. You'll no doubt find records of who owned it down at City Hall. But who actually lived there is another story."
"Do you remember hearing any anecdotes from before you and Richard moved in? Did you ever have conversations, with neighbors, say, about the prior occupants?"
"About murders, gruesome accidents, tragic illnesses?" Charmian's cheek twitched, a signal she was amused.
"Those, or whatever — marriages, babies born, illnesses, love affairs — ?"
"Or ghosts?"
"Sure." Cree just smiled at her.
Charmian shook her head. "We were newlyweds. If there was any gossip about unpleasantness at the house, I'm sure I did my best to ignore it. And if I ever did hear any, that was fifty years ago — I've long forgotten it."
"What about gossip from when the first Beaufortes lived there?"
That was a different matter. Charmian did remember some stories her husband had told her about when his great-great-grandfather, the general, lived there. Jean Claire Armand Beauforte had led Confederate troops in several important battles and returned a hero to his home city in 1865. The house had been empty for a time after its occupation by Union troops in 1862, but it was still in good condition. In the years that followed, New Orleans suffered under the exploitation of
Yankee carpetbaggers, and the transition from a slave economy was difficult for both black and white. Still, the Beauforte name had prestige, and the general used it to his family's advantage. He sold off his up river plantations and with the proceeds established a foundry that thrived throughout his lifetime. He died at the house in 1878, one of many victims of the yellow fever epidemic that swept the city that year.
His son, John Frederick, didn't do as well. The Reconstruction was hard on New Orleans, sending the city into a decline that it didn't recover from until the Louisiana oil boom and burgeoning war industries brought the economy back to life in the 1940s. Sugar and cotton prices fell. Trade on the river waned, and John Frederick was slow to modernize the Beaufortes' businesses. He kept the family going by selling off parcels of the land around the house, until by 1890 it stood on the urban lot it now occupied. When he died, his widow sold the property.
"I do recall a Beauforte legend from that period," Charmian said. "One that might interest you. John Frederick killed one of his servants."
"What!"
"John Frederick had been born in the era of slavery and never really adapted to the idea that his servants were now free people. It was not at all uncommon in those years. He believed in, shall we say, 'firm discipline.' Apparently there was a horseman, a big, strapping Negro, who gave him a great deal of trouble. One night they came to blows, and John Frederick beat him to death with the fireplace poker. Richard's father wasn't born until twenty years later, but he used to tell the tale with a… certain amount of pride."
Cree couldn't hide a shiver of revulsion. "Do you remember the servant's name? Or when this happened?"
"Lionel. Just the first name, Lionel. I believe this was in the 1880s."
"Was John Frederick charged for the murder?"
Charmian's mouth turned down as if the question were absurd. "A white man killing a truculent black servant? Not in that century! But I take it that's the sort of thing that arouses your morbid curiosity?"
It was the second time Charmian had made a point about the role of violence or trauma in hauntings, and Cree felt it deserved to be addressed. "There is often a morbid element to my job, it's true. But it has to do with how extracorporeal manifestations originate. My partner, Edgar Mayfield, has a theory that powerful emotions create electromagnetic 'broadcasts' that imprint naturally occurring geomagnetic fields. They're like tape recordings that replay under the right conditions. Not every emotion is intense enough to accomplish that imprinting. It makes sense that mortal moments are full of intense feelings, so often the ghost is a reenactment of the state of mind he or she had at death. But that varies greatly. People might feel shock and fear, or horror and anger. Or they might feel a surge of affection or concern for loved ones, or intense relief and ecstatic serenity. Quite often, they relive memories of important earlier experiences, recollections that may not seem directly connected with what happened at the moment of death. The range of perseverating experiences varies enormously."
"So conceivably, agreeable, or… happy emotions could also become ghosts."
"Absolutely. But usually perseverating emotions tend to be feelings that are unresolved — the frustrated need for closure or resolution seems to be a constant." Unexpectedly, the image of Mike's face, full of that yearning, came to Cree and her voice faltered. But she banished it and went on deliberately: "That's the one thing the folklore has right. Ghosts are most often created when the individual dies with something important pending, up in the air, unexpressed, and their dying emotions usually orbit around that yearning for closure. Positive emotions are not as often so unresolved. So my interest in deaths and so on really isn't my own morbid curiosity. It's just that I don't often get called to investigate a happy or benign ghost. I consider it one of the… downsides of my profession."
Charmian's gaze showed she caught the undercurrents in Cree's comments. She thought about it for another moment and then asked, "So the ghost that's ostensibly terrorizing my daughter, it's an unpleasant one? Of course it is — that's why it's so upsetting for her."
" I 'm sorry, but Lila has asked rne not to discuss the specifics with anyone." Cree almost gave her statement the inflection of a question, that irritating propensity for turning tentative around Charmian's forcefulness.
"Why on earth? I'm her mother!" Charmian tucked her chin indignantly.
"Because she's afraid you'll think she's crazy. That she's weak. She's very concerned with what you and Ronald and Jack think of her. She longs for your respect and doesn't want to lose what little she feels she has. I also think she wants to process this by herself, without anyone's interference, however well meaning. And I think that's a wise decision, because she needs to master this on her own terms."
Charmian raised one eyebrow. "I had no idea this was such a… nuanced process," she said drily.
Cree shrugged. "Can be."
The sweet scent of roses thickened as sun squares from the windows inched across the tiled floor. Cree steered Charmian back into more recent times, trying to assemble in her mind a list of the people who had inhabited the house. During Charmian's life there, it was a short list: Richard, Charmian, Ronald, Lila. Charmian's brother Bradford had stayed at the house for a time before he got his own place, and was a constant visitor. Houseguests stayed over now and then — friends and relatives. And of course there were the servants. Charmian remembered the names of many of them; she'd employed four different live-in housemaids and five or six groundskeepers from 1972 until her stroke in 1991. Before that, they'd had the same housemaid from the mid-1950s until Richard's death: Josephine, who'd been a mainstay of the household and nanny to both kids, raising them from birth until boarding school. Where any of them were now, God only knew. Only one person had died at the house during the forty-one years Charmian had lived there: Richard, who had died of a heart attack in 1972, leaving Charmian a widow.
Charmian's face became inscrutable again as she told about Richard's death. Then she paused and fixed her raptor's gaze on Cree. "You're a widow, too, aren't you," she stated.
Caught off balance, Cree just looked at her.
"It's not just that you call yourself Ms. Black but wear a wedding ring. Let's just say I recognize the… signs. When our conversation approaches certain topics. I know the symptoms. The style." Charmian raised her own gnarled hand to show Cree the gold band she also wore, and her unrelenting eyes took on a satisfied look. Pleased at her own insight, or at Cree's discomfort? Both, Cree thought. And maybe, just maybe, there was some genuine commiseration there, too, appreciation for this small measure of shared circumstances.
"I ordinarily answer yes," Cree confessed, suddenly tentative again."But I've been wondering if there's a time limit for it. The way people who are recently divorced say, 'I'm divorced,' but at some point they say, 'I'm single'? Maybe I'm… single."
Charmian appeared not to have heard her. Instead, she moved her hand among her roses again. "You know, I only select the very best. A bloom past its peak will not have the scent, and it'll quickly shed its petals. So one gets an instinct for knowing when a rose is at its prime. For cutting it at just the right moment. And even then, perfection is a fleeting thing." She paused and then went on with certainty: "You are not past your peak, Ms. Black. You are in prime bloom, and you should not waste that bloom. At the same time, you are indeed a widow. Very much so. A most difficult dilemma, I'm sure. Oh, you conceal it well — the chipper smile, the quick recovery, the dogged persistence, the pretense that you haven't heard or been affected by insults. The blue-collar-with-a-Ph. D., wholesome, plain-Jane girl-Columbo act. But when all is said and done, they are all stopgap stratagems, aren't they. Because none can solve the fundamental problem — the best they do is postpone the reckoning. Yes, I am familiar with such."
Charmian leaned back to watch Cree's response closely. Her eyes took on that satisfied gleam as she saw she'd hit her mark, saw Cree's utter inability to think of a comeback. But there was the other glint there, too, the ancie
nt, enduring thing that verged on commiseration. After a moment she stood up briskly, then quickly caught the edge of the table as her reluctant leg didn't quite get under her in time.
"And now I have to get ready for my luncheon with the ladies. Club sandwiches, bridge to follow. And then my physical therapy session. You can see I live a demanding life."
Cree had found her breath again. "Can we talk again soon?"
Straight-backed, regal, Charmian paused at the doorway to the sunroom. "Why, I look forward to it! I haven't enjoyed myself so much in years."
14
Cree called again on her way out of Charmian's house, but there was still no answer at the Warrens'. The buzz of worry intensified. She checked her watch and decided there was time to drive over there before her appointment with Bobby Guidry of the New Orleans PD's Cold Crimes Unit. Torn between outrage at Charmian and concern for Lila, she drove west on Robert E. Lee Boulevard, then turned into the maze of residential streets just below the lake.
Damned old buzzard, Cree kept thinking.
There were no cars in the Warrens' driveway, and when she rang the bell, no one answered. She couldn't decide why it concerned her so much. Lila had a life; maybe she was, wisely, having lunch with friends, or doing something else that would get her mind off her troubles.
Guidry's office was at the police and courts complex on Broad at Tulane, which according to her street map meant she had to drive half the north-south length of the city once more. It left her with plenty of time to think about Charmian Beauforte. The dowager's parting remarks made it hard to focus on anything she'd learned that might be relevant to the haunting.
Roses, widows. Once pierced, she found it hard to ignore the wound.
Was it so obvious? Charmian's exposure of her would seem sadistic if it weren't so accurate: Mustn't waste the bloom. A fleeting thing. Still very much a widow. Stopgap stratagems. Suddenly Cree's eyes stung and she winced back tears, teetering on the brink of a self-pity she could neither abide nor afford.
