by Cynthia Lott
“And in October, he states that Thomas’s life was lost. I don’t know but it doesn’t sound good. It seems like they ‘did’ something in response to the yellow fever.” I looked again at the Italian poetry book. “Who is this Elsie Coupout? She was an important woman to this Carpenter person. He dedicated it to her name. Why didn’t this book ever reach her?”
“I don’t think it ever reached her because it was confiscated by Alain Savoy for whatever reason. He mentions that Elsie caused some sort of trouble or became a wedge between the group’s friendships with Carpenter. Brenda…if Alain took this from Carpenter’s great grandfather, then maybe these other victims’ grandfathers took the antique tables and masks. Maybe they all took something after Carpenter’s ‘life was lost’ as Alain puts it.”
“Good point. And now his great-grandson is here to avenge this?”
“But then why didn’t our Thomas Carpenter take these prized possessions if they mean that much to him? Enough to murder someone over?”
“I don’t know.”
“The library is closing in ten minutes.” A woman’s voice startled us from behind our carrel door.
“I didn’t realize how late it was. Let’s go, Roy.”
We walked towards the circulation desk as Roy pulled out his library card.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” The librarian took her stamp out from behind the desk and marked the back of each book with due dates.
“Yes, thanks.” Roy took the books from her hands as she looked into his eyes.
“Some people back then thought it was a curse…an exorcism…something only a malevolent spirit would bring about. A plague can do that sort of thing to the best of people…make them have wild imaginings about something they can’t understand.” She placed the stamps back under the circulation counter.
“But have you ever heard of anyone committing murder because of it?”
“Oh, yes. As with any epidemic that takes over a large group of people…there is usually someone looking for a scapegoat…someone to blame. It’s amazing how little it takes to turn a group of people into a mob against someone. This was a massive and highly contagious disease that killed loved ones indiscriminately, mercilessly.”
“Yeah, it looks like people often abandoned their loved ones.”
The remaining lights in the library switched off, clicks echoing throughout the building, leaving one overhead light shining above us.
“’Abandon’ isn’t the word. Many had to take leave in order to ensure their own survival. People didn’t even have time to grieve those they lost. But don’t be mistaken. There was a lot of anger and frustration involved with this epidemic; and if there had been any hard feelings towards someone before this outbreak, then one found either forgiveness or an excuse for nefarious behavior as it occurred.”
“Thank you….have a good night.” Roy gave her an awkward smile as her dark eyes watched us leave the building. I felt her gaze follow us into the parking lot as we slid into the car and drove towards his apartment.
“That librarian is right, albeit a little creepy. This whole thing is starting to sound like a murder itself. Perhaps this Thomas Carpenter from 1878 was murdered because of the yellow fever.” Roy looked at me as we sat at a red light.
“Could have been. Listen, if these three men all have descendants here in New Orleans…people that his great-grandfather knew…people that were friends with him and then took his belongings, then what about this Elsie? Couldn’t she have someone here as well? Maybe they might know something about Carpenter’s history.”
“She could, I guess. If we go along with what Carpenter has laid out for us, then those last two victims should have the same last names as these two men left out of the journal. We need to find out the names of those last two friends of this Thomas Carpenter’s.”
“Roy, let’s drive over to Fleur de Lee’s.”
“Sounds good. Both dogs should be okay…my neighbor is a saint for taking care of them. I want to bring in my notes. This is all starting to get interesting.”
As we turned course and drove towards the bar, the night lit up with continued celebrations. It was spring and the beginning of the tourist season. This meant a plethora of tacky souvenirs and intoxicated people stumbling along the streets of the French Quarter. Roy pulled into a parking spot and I turned to face him.
“Roy, maybe I should go in alone. If he’s tuned in on me, he may reveal something if I’m the only one there.”
“I’m not letting you be alone. Not a chance. This guy is on a thought-out path, and I don’t trust leaving you by yourself. We’ll go in together.”
We exited the car and walked towards the bar amid throngs of people enjoying their evening. “Dancing Queen” was playing as we entered the club…a song that had everyone on the dance floor, in a good mood.
“Wow. Your second time coming here with me…you’re going to be a regular soon.” I jokingly pinched his arm as he turned to me and laughed, his grip tightening on my hand. We maneuvered past several people leaning against the bar and shuffled past others, finally finding a spot in the corner, two white chairs and a small round table.
“I’ll order us some drinks. White Russian?”
“Perfect.” I looked around, scanning the entirety of the place, hoping to see Carpenter. The club was flooded with people dancing while others caught up with friends at various tables and in corners of the bar, some kissed intimately. Roy returned with the drinks and I couldn’t have been happier. Carpenter was turning me into a bona fide alcoholic.
“You’re right. I think our next step is to see if we can find a relative of this Elsie Coupout. Maybe they will know something about this woman and her relationship to this Thomas Carpenter from 1878. I’m going outside for a moment…give Jake a call and see if anyone’s contacted the station with anything new. I can barely hear a damn thing in here. Will you be okay alone for a minute?”
“Of course, Roy. I’ll be fine.” Part of me wanted to be there alone, to patiently wait for Carpenter’s appearance, even if it took all night.
“All right. I’ll be right back.” He slid his way past several patrons and walked out the front door.
I moved away from the table, stretching my body, and walked towards the edge of the dance floor. I ordered another White Russian from a passing waiter. When he returned with my drink, I swiftly downed it, much to his surprise.
“It’s been a long day.” He nodded in agreement and disappeared.
The alcohol crept through my blood stream as an extended version of “I’m your Boogie Man” tempted dancers onto the floor, many of them brushing against me, their energy contagious. I wanted to join them, lose myself among their bodies, their fluid movements but I remained where I was, my mind wandering.
When I was a little girl, my father and I played our own version of hide-and-go-seek. Whenever he came home from work at the store, I hid somewhere in our house, usually a closet or toy chest, waiting for him to call my name. He would enter through the front door, take off his shoes and ask, “Where’s my Bren?” I would remain quiet in the dark smell of cedar, making him look in different rooms, repeating the question a few more times before I appeared out from my hiding place, running into his arms. “There she is!” he would say, holding me close to his chest that always smelled of musk and spice cologne. I still had his handkerchiefs and what was left of his cologne in my dresser. Sometimes I sprayed one of his handkerchiefs and held it up to my face, smelling the familiar scent of him.
“Here I am, Dad. Here I am.”
Finding myself in a vacant corner of the club, I realized I was in another game: a hide and seek with Carpenter. Three feathers down, two remaining.
I inched my way further back towards the wall and it was then that I sensed someone standing behind me, a person who hadn’t been there before. Heat from his breath warmed the small space between us and the tip of his beak caressed the curve of my neck. Shivers ran along my skin, following the tra
il of his beak.
Does anyone else see him? No one is looking this way. No one is paying any attention to me.
I stood motionless, unable to turn around to face him. A green feather floated down towards one of my black heels.
I had been waiting for this.
“Thomas?”
There was a pause…an intake of breath.
“Yes,” he whispered into my ear.
Heat rushed through my face. My heartbeat was rapid and furious as it beat through my blouse, the sound coursing through my head. Auras lit up in the corners of my eyes, stars similar to the floating patterns on the disco ceiling.
“Why are you doing all of this?”
He hesitated.
“I think you know why.” His Italian accent was distinct in my ear.
Why now? Why do you want me to see you now?
“Because of your great grandfather? Did they kill him? Is that what this is about? You wanted revenge for his murder?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you doing all of this then?” There was a pause before I heard his voice again in my ear. It was passionate, insistent.
“Not my great grandfather’s murder. My murder.”
The last two words settled in my ear and I turned around to face him…to see what I had been searching for within the last few months. There was the scent: the herbs from his mask, calming and tranquil. He was handsome with the dark eyes and high cheekbones I had come to expect. He wore the white ruffled shirt Karen described. The green feathers brushed against my face, the jewels outlining the eyes reflected the ceiling’s lights. We stood there in front of one another for what seemed a good five minutes before he removed his mask, holding it at his side. I reached my hand towards his face but he stopped me mid-way with a gentle grasp. He caressed my fingertips and then it went dark.
In my dream, I saw my father coming towards me down our hallway dressed in a long white sheet as he gave the obligatory moans and groans of a poltergeist. I wasn’t in the mood to humor him and made a beeline into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.
Upon awaking on one of Lee Reuben’s plush velvet couches in his office, I felt a sense of remorse. I wished I had laughed or pretended fear, all in jest in order to play along with my ghostly father. I looked around me, expecting to see my father’s perplexed countenance, but instead I found myself looking up at Marcus.
“Brenda, are you okay?” Marcus’s hand was supporting my head as I lifted it up off the cushions of the sofa where he had carried me.
“What happened?”
“You passed out in a corner of the club. It might have been the drinks. I made them pretty strong tonight. I picked you up and carried you into Lee’s office. Do you need for me to call an ambulance?”
“No, no. It’s fine. Thank you, Marcus. I’ll wait here for Roy. Thanks for the water.” I drank from the glass he had placed on a small table. The cool water quenched the heat in my body, the dryness of my mouth. I didn’t want to involve anyone in this but Roy.
“No problem. Sit here as long as you want. If you need anything, just grab me. I’ll tell Roy you’re in here.” He walked out the door, returning to the bar.
Did I imagine this? I couldn’t have. It was too real…
I looked around Lee’s office. On the walls hung a degree and some certificates, framed articles about his restaurant and photos with him standing beside various celebrities.
“There you are. Why are you sprawled out on a sofa?” Roy walked into the room.
“Sit down, Roy. Please. You won’t believe this.”
He closed the door and sat down next to me.
“What the hell happened while I was gone? Marcus said you passed out.”
“I did. Carpenter was here.”
“Again? Are you sure?”
“Very sure. He spoke to me. He was standing behind me, and I heard his Italian accent. That’s his real voice. No one else saw him, I’m sure of that and when I stood in front of him, it felt like we were the only two people in the room…when he spoke to me, everything else went quiet. He explained to me why he is killing these people. Roy, you might not believe this, and I barely believe it myself, but it wasn’t Carpenter’s great-grandfather who made the antique tables or the masks.”
“What? Who made them then?”
“He did. It was our Thomas Carpenter who made them. It wasn’t his great grandfather who was murdered. It was Carpenter himself. He was murdered when he was twenty-two. That’s why there are no fingerprints and why everyone falls into a trance around him. Don’t you see? He has the ability to take on his victims’ talents because he’s not human. I have no idea how this one-hundred and twenty-two year-old man is killing the descendants of the people who murdered him, Roy, and I know this all sounds crazy, but I saw him. I felt his energy. He was wearing his mask but then he removed it. I looked into his eyes. They were dark. So dark. We’re dealing with something here that is…supernatural. Had you seen his face, heard his voice, you would believe me.” I wrapped my arms around my knees, holding them close to my chest. I was breathless from my monologue, awaiting a response from him.
Roy looked at me for a moment unable to do the one thing I needed him to: believe what he heard. He looked away, trying to understand what I shared with him.
“Brenda, I think you may have been hallucinating. Don’t you think? I find this difficult to comprehend to be honest. It’s unreal. You’re talking about a fucking ghost. A man who has come back one hundred years later to revenge his own death. Let’s be reasonable. I mean, this place is fucking crazy with all of these lights and heat. It’s enough to make you imagine things. Come on, Honey.” He rubbed his hand over his face.
“No, Roy. I swear. I wasn’t in some sort of hallucination. I don’t know how he is doing this, but it does explain how easy it is for him to take on each victim’s talents. For whatever reason, he’s using them to slip into the good graces of the next victim. All I know is that we need to find this relative of Elsie Coupout. We have to see if there is any further explanation as to why he is doing this or how. Please don’t tell anyone I told you this. I know it makes me sound insane, but I also know what I heard and saw. You have to believe me on this one. Please put your doubts aside and follow me on this.”
“Jesus, let me get you out of here. Let’s go home. You’ve had a lot to drink and this place is…man, this place can make someone nuts.” He helped me up from the sofa.
“Roy, please don’t downplay this. I’m not drunk…I only had a few drinks and I know the difference.” I pulled my hand away from him and straightened my blouse and skirt.
“Brenda, you’re talking about a supernatural killer here. Forgive me if I have my doubts. I think anyone would. I mean, Christ, you’re asking for me to believe in a ghost that has a grudge against relatives of his own murderers. Listen, I’m not only your friend…I love you, you know? But, I can’t…I can’t wrap my mind around this right now. Let’s go home and talk about this later. You need to get the fuck out of this place. It’s been a long night with the diary and Gwendolyn…let’s just go.”
He rubbed his hand through his hair and walked out of the room.
* * *
Chapter Seventeen
Roy’s light blue eyes studied me. A thin layer of stubble had formed across his face and he appeared exhausted. Biting his lip, he looked away, walked towards the kitchen, tripped over one of the dog’s toys, and cursed something under his breath. He rattled some pots and the sound of a cork escaped from a wine bottle. Silence pervaded the space between us for a good part of the day and every little sound in the apartment was magnified. Carpenter’s encounter on the preceding night left us both speechless and after we returned to Roy’s apartment, we slipped into bed, remaining silent the rest of the evening. I counted the crystals over his bed until I couldn’t focus anymore and only then did I fall into a deep sleep.
How else could one react to such a discovery?
I regre
tted confiding in him what occurred the night before but there was no going back on what I said and nothing was going to convince me otherwise: we were dealing with a Thomas Carpenter from 1878.
There was no hiding what Carpenter was: a victim himself, left to murder descendants of his friends. Just like there were no trick mirrors or magic dust concealing the reality of my mother taking her own life. I always wished that my mother’s suicide had been something else – an accident, a clumsy trip off of a bridge. I was in denial as a child…that she could actually leave us in the way she did. But she did.
“Here.” Roy handed me a glass of Burgundy wine. I took it from his hands, smelling the musky, earthy aroma.
“You’re really convinced of this, aren’t you?” His finger skimmed the top of his wine glass.
“Yes. I am. I wish I could go back and be as confused about this as you are but it all makes sense to me now.”
“Well, I’m not convinced. No offense but I think what we have here is a very mortal killer who has been clever enough to cover his tracks. Yeah, he’s slicker than anyone we’ve come across but, Babe, I’m not going down this supernatural road with you. Sorry. No matter what you think you saw.”
“It’s not what I think I saw. Listen, Thomas’s friends didn’t agree with his relationship with Elsie. Fear. Ignorance. For whatever reason, they blamed her or him or the both of them for something that happened. He returns one hundred years later after his own murder. I have no idea why he chose to come back here and now. But I do know this is something that we won’t be able to explain, if ever, to the victim’s relatives or to our colleagues. It’s not a situation that any of them will understand. Roy, look at me. If I had any doubts about this, I would say I was drunk or created the whole scenario in my head. But I didn’t. I know I didn’t. He was as real as you sitting next to me right now. Yet, he wasn’t. If that makes any sense.” I drank from my glass and looked into his eyes, the comforting blue familiarity. I needed to see recognition, a mirror of my own conviction.
