Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Frank introduced Carol as a friend visiting the city for the first time to do geneaological research. No need, he figured, to bring up either the mummy or Carol’s strange powers.

  “Well, I’m sure we can be of assistance, Miss Marlowe.” She turned a warm smile on Carol. “Come along to my office.”

  Once the three of them were seated comfortably, Mrs. Thibodaux asked, “Now, how can I help you, my dear? Perhaps if you tell me what you know of your ancestors already, we could start from that point.”

  “There are two facts that have eluded me so far,” Carol began, “the exact location of a sugar plantation called Elysian Fields and what happened to a young woman who was raised there until she was sent away after both her parents died.”

  “Her name?” Mrs. Thibodaux inquired.

  “Camille Mazaret. Her father was Edouard, her mother, I believe, was called Adele.”

  Excusing herself, the tall woman with graying hair rose and left the room for a moment. When she returned, she was carrying a large portfolio.

  “There should be a map here that will show us exactly where Champs Elysées, or as you call it, Elysian Fields, was.”

  “You mean the plantation house no longer exists?” Carol asked, remembering how vividly she had seen it—first in ruins, then in all its glory.

  “I’m afraid not. Look here.” Louise Thibodaux pointed with one neatly manicured nail to a spot on the map below New Orleans on the river. “Elysian Fields was located at a place in the river called Detour à l’Anglais, or English Turn. The spot got its name back in 1699 when Bienville encountered a British ship headed upriver. The Frenchman persuaded the English captain that a great fleet of ships was following his and would attack any British vessel that attempted to approach New Orleans. The English ship turned around and fled, hence the name.”

  “That’s an interesting history lesson, Mrs. Thibodaux, but what about Elysian Fields?” Frank asked, guiding the woman back to the original subject.

  “I’m afraid this appears to be one of those cases of an old family simply dying out. Without heirs to take over, the property fell into neglect. For some years the house stood empty. What was left of it was severely damaged in the hurricane of 1915. Shortly after that, the river reclaimed house, land, everything. Whatever is left above water is swampy area now.”

  “You say the Mazaret family died out, Mrs. Thibodaux. Can you tell me what happened to Camille Mazaret?” Carol asked, sitting on the edge of her seat.

  The historian, her dark eyes glittering as if she were a detective on a hot scent, reached into a drawer of her desk and drew out a book bound in worn leather. “This should be of help. It’s a history of all the early plantation families, complied by one of their own. Let’s see.” She thumbed through the volume until she found the M’s. “Mazaret, here it is.” She glanced up at Carol. “Camille, you say?”

  Carol nodded.

  “‘Edouard Mazaret, born 1798, died 1838. In 1820, married Adele Tessier, born 1802, died 1832 of accidental drowning.’” Mrs. Thibodaux looked at them over the rims of her reading glasses. “Interesting!” she commented with a knowing smile. “The fact that Adele’s death is listed as ‘accidental’ means that it probably wasn’t. Great pains were taken by this author to cover up for these old Creole families since he was related by blood or marriage to most of them.”

  Carol nodded, but held her silence even though she was dying to blurt out the truth as she knew it—that Adele Mazaret had caused that accident herself rather than carry her husband’s child to term.

  “Let’s see… there’s more,” Louise Thibodaux went on. “Ah, yes, here’s what we’re looking for. ’One daughter, Camille, born 1822, died circa 1840.’”

  Frank was frowning. “Circa,” he repeated. “That means nobody knows exactly when or how she died?”

  Mrs. Thibodaux nodded. “Exactly, Captain Longpre.”

  “But how can that be?” Carol queried impatiently.

  “Let me look up the detailed family history,” Mrs. Thibodaux said. “That should tell us more. Ah! Here it is. I won’t read it all right now. I’ll just give you the salient facts.” She scanned the page quickly, then frowned. “Oh, dear! I’m afraid you couldn’t possibly be descended from the Mazarets, Miss Marlowe. You see, Camille was the very last of the line. Her father died only a few years after her mother, leaving no other heirs. Shortly after Edouard Mazaret’s death, Camille was sent to live with distant cousins, the Pinards…”

  “I know,” Carol interjected. “Morris and Beatrice Pinard of Mulgrove Plantation.”

  “Why, yes! That’s exactly correct.” The woman looked impressed.

  “But what happened to Camille?” Frank questioned.

  The woman read on, then sighed and clucked her tongue. “It seems she became something of a social outcast. This old history does not go into great detail, but I can tell by what the author left out that Camille had acquired a rather shady reputation before she disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?” Carol asked.

  “Well, it states quite plainly that at one time she was engaged to be married. The name of her fiancé is omitted, which tells me he was not thought to be ‘socially correct.’ Then there’s reference to a duel between her ‘lover,’”—Mrs. Thibodaux looked up, one brow arched to show her shock—“yes, the author actually uses that term! Between her lover and her cousin and guardian, Morris Pinard. The duel ended in a family scandal. It seems Pinard retired from the field of honor in disgrace after seriously wounding his opponent.”

  “It doesn’t give the man’s name?” Carol asked anxiously.

  “Oh, no, my dear!” Again the historian made a clucking sound. “That would further besmirch the young lady’s name, for generations to come. That sort of thing simply wasn’t done back when this book was written.”

  “I’ll bet I know his name,” Frank offered. “Victoine Navar!”

  Both women turned to stare at him. Carol realized instantly that Frank had to be right.

  Mrs. Thibodaux quickly thumbed back to the N-section, then shook her head. “There is no Navar family listing, Captain Longpre.”

  “Figures!” Frank mumbled.

  There was little more information that Mrs. Thibodaux could offer. Camille had returned to Elysian Fields, scandalizing the whole population of New Orleans by running the vast plantation alone. There had been rumors of a man and a boy living there and helping with the duties, but again, no names were given. Could this man, too, have been Camille’s lover? Carol wondered. Could the man have been Black Vic?

  “I’ll keep searching,” Louise Thibodaux assured them as they rose to leave. “If I turn up any more information, I’ll be sure to let you know, Captain Longpre.”

  They thanked the lady, then left.

  “We should have come here first,” Frank said once they were out on the street again. It would have saved us those two hours in the dust this morning. That was certainly a waste, knowing as we do now that Camille Mazaret is a dead end anyway.”

  “Don’t sound so down, Frank,” Carol said softly. “This could very well prove what I believe, that your mummy is, indeed, Camille. If she disappeared without a trace, that could mean that now, at least, she’s been found.”

  “Sounds good,” Frank answered, “but how do we prove it?”

  For a blinding instant, pain shot through Carol’s left leg again, just as it had when she was in the morgue earlier. She grabbed Frank’s arm to keep from falling.

  “Hey, what happened?” he asked, concern in his voice and his dark eyes. “Watch the cobbles. They’ve sprained many a dainty ankle.”

  “I didn’t turn my ankle, Frank.” Still leaning heavily on his arm, Carol said, “There’s something I forgot to mention. This pain in my leg started when I touched the mummy. It’s like hot poison shooting through me. Is there any way you can check to see if Camille was bitten by something? Perhaps a poisonous snake,” she added, remembering the loathsome reptile in her vision.


  “We can check the corpse more carefully,” he replied. “I reckon we could have missed something. After all, we weren’t looking for anything like a snakebite. You’re right—that would be the most likely. Why don’t I take you back to the hotel, then I’ll go on over to the morgue again and ask some questions. There’s no need for you to put yourself through that again.”

  Carol was about to agree when she spied a red tignon in the crowd. Her heart raced even as her blood ran cold. “You go on now, Frank,” she insisted. “I can find the hotel on my own.”

  “You’re sure?” He was still clutching her arm, supporting her.

  “Positive!” she replied. “Now, get going. It’s late.”

  “Okay,” he answered. “I’ll see you back at the hotel in a couple of hours.”

  Frank was only a few yards away when Carol felt a dry hand touch hers.

  “Choctaw, he be there for you in the morning. Cami needs you.”

  “Tell me your name,” Carol begged.

  She received no reply. As abruptly as the old woman had appeared, she vanished into the crowd.

  “Damn!” Carol moaned. “I had a dozen questions I wanted to ask her.”

  It seemed, though, that Carol would have to wait and get all her answers directly from Camille Mazaret.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Carol repeated. “Again? So soon? I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  But even as Carol voiced her doubts, she realized she would meet Choctaw in the cold, misty hours before dawn. She could no more stop herself from going than she could stop herself from taking her next breath. She could no more ignore the old woman’s words than she could ignore the growing warmth and closeness she felt for Frank Longpre.

  They both needed her—Cami and Frank.

  As she wandered back toward the hotel, the fleeting thought crossed her mind that she should have stayed tucked atop her mountain in North Carolina—safe from danger, safe from love. But in a flash she realized the truth. She had been drawn by destiny to New Orleans, to Camille Mazaret, and to Frank Longpre. The two of them were intertwined through Carol’s life—my lives, she corrected mentally.

  “I wonder when—if—Frank will realize what’s happening to us?”

  Chapter Six

  Carol was exhausted and emotionally wrung out by the time she returned to the hotel. Her early-morning jaunt into the past had deprived her of much-needed rest. Then Frank had kept her on the go all day. As for the mental strain, most of that came first from seeing Camille Mazaret’s mummified corpse, then later from hearing that the young woman’s date, place, and cause of death were all unknown. Carol’s visit with Choctaw to Elysian Fields and Mulgrove had made her understand that somehow she and Camille were linked. She knew it was crazy, but it almost seemed as if they shared some profound affinity. She tried to sort out her feelings, but found that thinking about the fragile bond between herself and Cami only brought on more confusion.

  Carol entered her room and glanced about. The maid had been in to tidy up. The bed looked especially inviting.

  “If I could just catch a quick nap…”

  No sooner had Carol uttered the words than the phone rang. It was Frank.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to meet with some out-of-town politicians for dinner this evening, Carol.”

  In spite of her weariness, she felt a pang of disappointment at the thought of not having dinner with Frank. She’d been eager to talk over the day’s findings with him.

  She frowned into the receiver. Admit it! she thought. You were eager to see him, be with him, tonight. And it has nothing to do with the case.

  She was careful to hide her growing feelings and her disappointment, however. “Don’t worry about it, Frank. I’m really done in. I think I’ll just call room service, eat a light supper, then get some rest.”

  “You’re sure you’ll be all right alone? I hate to run out on you like this.”

  He sounded so concerned that Carol almost laughed—not at Frank, but at the sheer delight it gave her to have someone worry so.

  “Really, Frank, I’ll be fine.”

  “If I could get out of this dinner meeting, believe me, I would. I’d much rather spend the time with you.” He paused and cleared his throat nervously, as if he’d said more than he’d meant to. “I mean, we have so much to talk over.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Carol insisted, pleased to hear that he was as disappointed as she was. “Any word on the snakebite?”

  “Nothing yet,” he answered. “They’re working on it. Maybe I’ll know something by morning. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop for breakfast at eight sharp tomorrow. Okay?”

  Remembering the woman in the red turban, Carol paused before she answered. “That’s awfully early, Frank. How about ten?”

  “No, no!” he insisted. “We have to get an early start. I’ve requisitioned a boat to take us down to English Turn. I figured it might help you to see the spot where Elysian Fields once was, even if there’s nothing there any longer.”

  “Yes, that could be helpful,” Carol agreed. “But so early, Frank?”

  “Once you’ve had a good night’s sleep, you’ll be raring to go again. Trust me on this, Carol.”

  “If you say so.” She sighed. There was simply no arguing with the man.

  She was about to say goodbye and hang up when Frank spoke again. “Carol, I’ve been wanting to tell you something all day… what I mean is, I had my doubts before you got here, but… well, I’m no good at saying exactly what I’d like to. I just want you to know that I’m real glad you’re here—not only because you’re helping so much on the case. I mean, I’m really, personally, glad you’re here.”

  Carol held the phone in stunned silence for a moment, trying to think of a reply. Before she could, Frank said a quick “’Bye now!” and hung up.

  His unexpected sentiment left her with a warm, cozy feeling. She smiled, stretched out on the bed, and closed her eyes.

  Carol never remembered anything about that evening after Frank’s call. She retained no recollection of ringing room service or of drifting off to sleep after she ate supper. Nor did she recall getting up before dawn to go the the foot of Barracks Street. She could only assume later that Choctaw had met her and taken her back through the years.

  It seemed only moments after Frank’s phone call that she found herself—or rather, Camille Mazaret—right where she had left her, riding alone through the night, escaping from Mulgrove Plantation.

  Once again this was a different time, a different place. And Carol was a different woman.

  Thick mist rose in humid clouds from the nearby swamp as its night creatures signaled to each other in an eerie medley of peeps, screams, and grunts. Mulgrove seemed a haunted place on such a night, and the storm only added to its sense of mystery and danger.

  Cami bent low over Voodoo’s neck, urging the powerful stallion to go faster. But the muddy, rutted road proved treacherous. Realizing the need for caution, she eased off on the reins, letting her mount select his own pace. At a turn in the path, the plantation house slipped behind a tall line of oaks.

  “You can relax now,” she said aloud to herself. “You’re safe. No one but Lorenna saw you leave.”

  Camille was mistaken. A second pair of eyes had watched her every move since the moment she spurred her father’s huge black stallion out of the stable and toward the levee road. A gray curtain of rain and some fifty yards now separated her from her pursuer. The trailing rider, who could have overtaken her at any time, held back purposely, not wanting to spook his prey.

  “Steady, Lucifer,” he said to his horse in a low whisper. “We’ll keep them in sight, but we don’t want to get too close just yet.”

  Victoine Navar had suffered one minor defeat tonight, and he had no intention of losing this second opportunity. He meant to capture this runaway slave he’d spied slipping off from Pinard’s place. He could certainly put the reward money to good use.

  Black Vic chuckled softly, humorle
ssly. “When am I not in need of ready cash?” he reminded himself.

  The ball at Mulgrove had been only a lark. He had not really expected to gain entreé de la maison. Getting stuffy old Pinard in a huff had been entertainment enough, he mused, smiling grimly. Besides, it would have seemed such a waste not to use the handsomely engraved invitation after he’d won it in a game of craps from young Rene Gireau.

  A low laugh rumbled in his chest. “C’est un gentil garcon! Such a well-bred young man!”

  That, the boy was, Vic reminded himself, but Rene had needed to be taught a lesson. A man’s game required a man’s skill and cunning, and a player should never wager more than he can afford to lose. Young Gireau now understood that fine point of gambling. Perhaps because of the lesson he’d been taught—the ball he had missed—Rene might be spared what Victoine had had to learn the hard way. Ten years ago, Vic had lost far more than a single evening of lavish food, fine wines, and flirting with pretty women. He had learned the hard way about the gaming tables. By wagering unwisely, Vic had lost everything—his plantation, his family, his entire birthright.

  “Ancient history,” Navar muttered, pulling his hat lower over his eyes to keep out the rain.

  His attention focused once more on the lone rider up ahead. This venture was surely much more to his taste than trying to get some prissy Creole virgin to toss her glove his way. He’d been a fool to waste precious time on such silly sport. This present pursuit could prove highly profitable. He needed money now. And that runaway slave up ahead would likely fetch a fat reward, especially since the foolish fellow had stolen one of his master’s prized stallions in order to make his getaway.

  Vic tipped his hat to the blurred image in the distance. “I thank you and my creditors thank you,” he said with a bemused smirk.

  Cami shivered—wet to the skin and aching with weariness—but she refused to stop. A creeping sense of alarm prickled along her spine. She had neither seen nor heard another soul since leaving Mulgrove, but she felt as if someone was watching her, following her. Several times she glanced back over her shoulder. All she saw were distorted shapes in the blackness—tall oaks like ghostly sentinels guarding the road behind. Still, the feeling persisted, like a phantom riding double on her saddle. She could not ignore this sixth sense that never failed to warn her when danger was close at hand.