Dead of Night: The Nephalem Files (Book 3)

by Douglas Wayne

  Construction equipment was stationed just outside the funeral parlor, parked side by side, blocked off with barricades to keep the public away. The only equipment was a backhoe and a pair of bobcats though there was a variety of attachments for all of them. For now, they were equipped with bucket attachments, probably to move dirt back in the holes.

  Just past the construction equipment, there was a black Cadillac, just like the one I was supposed to be driving around town. Nicholas wouldn't be happy to hear that mine was in impound though I suspected he might understand. At least it having it locked up was a lot better than getting a call that I had totaled the car.

  I had the cab driver drop me off at the front entrance of the funeral parlor. Not looking at my total, I reached into my wallet and handed the man a pair of twenties, knowing it would be more than enough. I asked him to stick around for a couple of minutes, in case Nicholas wasn't here and he agreed.

  As I approached the front door, I was surprised to see the place was lit up. Ornate floral bouquets were placed on either side of the door, primarily featuring black roses though there were a few red and white ones as well. Below them were two smaller wildflower arrangements, each in a black glass vase. There was a brass sign with a glass cover a few feet in front of the arrangements. Inside there were two sheets of paper, each detailing time and family names for two funerals. Both tomorrow.

  I approached the door and turned the knob slowly, just in case it was locked. It wasn't, and the doors opened outward, the cold air conditioned air rushed out to meet me, instantly cooling my skin. I turned around to the cab driver and waved a hand to signal he could leave. He didn't waste any time either. Within a matter of moments, I watched the car speed through the front gates and out on the street.

  The inside was decorated much like the outside, with various floral arrangements set up along the walls and on the tables. On either side of the door, there were two open doors, each with another brass signboard in front of them. I heard noises coming from the one on the left, so I went over to see if anyone was home.

  Nicholas was inside the room with two of his assistants, one of them the driver that picked me up from the airport. They were arranging things inside the room, preparing the room for a viewing. Along the back wall, an open casket sat, an occupant already inside. It was an elderly woman, with powdery white skin and a blank expression on her face, like they always were. I had always wondered why they wouldn't put a happier look on the body though I suspected it had a lot to do with freaking out the family. Once this was all over, I would have to ask Nicholas why he did things this way.

  "I don't mean to interrupt," I said, stepping into the room. The three of them stopped what they were doing and turned to face me, all except the driver who darted back against the back corner, nearly knocking down one of the floral arrangements.

  "Mr. Gilmore," Nicholas said, wide grin on his face. "I trust you have some information for me."

  "Believe I ran into the person responsible."

  "This is good news. Is he behind bars now?"

  "It's a she," I corrected him. "And no."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "I have a few questions I need to ask you," I said, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "About the mausoleum."

  He nodded, turned around, and gave his employees explicit instructions on what to do next. He threw in a few threatening insults for good measure and led me back to his office.

  "What did you need to know, Raymond?"

  "I need to know a little more about the family."

  "I'm afraid I don't know much about them, other than they paid my great grandfather a tidy sum to ensure everyone in his family could be buried here."

  "Why would he want to be buried here and not back in France?"

  "My great grandfather was a businessman, just like myself. He was looking for funding, hoping to get the cemetery off the ground, but he had bad timing. Right after he settled on a price for the land, Black Tuesday hit and the banks froze lending. Oliver Leclair approached him with a proposal. He would essentially buy the plot of land for the cemetery. You know what he got in return."

  "Why wouldn't he keep the land for himself. Surely it would've been a better investment if he became a partner or something. Seems like a high price to pay to me."

  "I'm not sure, but dollar for dollar, Oliver already has the upper hand. Back in 1929, he bought the land for just under five dollars an acre. The whole of Pine Ridge is right around one thousand acres, so he paid about five thousand dollars. Today, the average funeral runs seven to ten thousand dollars."

  "And the average price per acre is closer to ten thousand dollars, putting the value of the land right around a million dollars. Not sure how Oliver came out ahead on his side of the bargain."

  "It is hard to explain."

  "I've got time," I countered.

  Nicholas sighed, took a sip from a bottle of water on his desk, and continued. "The guaranteed burial plots were only part of the bargain. The other part of it was a monthly stipend to be delivered as long as the cemetery is in service. He had it set so the money goes into a trust fund, to be distributed evenly to his heirs once every few years."

  "How much we talking?"

  "Close to five thousand a month."

  "Sixty thousand a year? Just to use the land?"

  "I'm not one to question my great grandfather's reason for the bargain. Only that I have to fulfill my part of the bargain now that it belongs to me. I assure you, to this day, the bargain has always been in my family's favor."

  "I'm not sure how favorable five grand a month was in the thirties."

  "Ahh," he said, leaning back in his chair. "The number is adjusted based upon inflation. More specifically to represent a modest living wage. Back in the thirties, my great grandfather was paying a little over a hundred dollars a month. My great grandchildren will pay much more than me though they will still come ahead as long as they can maintain the property well."

  "Interesting," I admitted. Even though the deal didn't make sense in the long term, it was actually very fair to both sides. The Leclair family had a decent income source that would continue as long as the cemetery did. The Bates got a business and income source where the land was already guaranteed as long as they continued to send the monthly payment. In the end, the whole thing wasn't much different than any other real estate deal.

  As interesting as this all was, it wasn't why I was here. "What else can you tell me about them?" I asked. "Specifically, what items Oliver had buried with him when he died."

  "That information is private, Mr. Gilmore," he said, a frown forming on his face. "Given the circumstances, however, I would be more than willing to share it with you, but I'm afraid there has never been a record of what was in that tomb."

  "Another part of his bargain?"

  "Perhaps," Nicholas nodded. "More likely its because there has never been a written record of it. In the beginning, the business side of the things were handled much differently. Back then, the only records we have were who was buried where, and who paid what. My accountant has been begging me for years to get rid of that information, but I like to keep it. Reminds me of how this all started. Gives me a greater appreciation for what I have."

  I sighed. If he didn't have a log of what items were buried with Oliver Leclair, I was back to square one.

  "There is another option," Nicholas said. He reached into the bottom right desk drawer and placed a large Rolodex on his desk. He flipped through it, to the C's where he stopped a few cards in. "This is the number for Abby Cartier, Oliver's great granddaughter. She is the one currently in charge of his estate. I can't promise she will be helpful, but she would be your best bet if you have to know what's inside." He wrote down the number on a blank sheet of paper and handed it to me.

  I thanked him for the number and placed the slip of paper in my pocket. "Hows the cleanup coming?" I asked, genuinely curious as I hadn't been here in a few days now. "I saw the construction equipment outside.
"

  "The crew has been working hard," Nicholas admitted. "They have the mausoleum back in place, though over half of it is still not buried. Most of the other headstones have been put back though I had to order five to replace those that were damaged. Unless we get a hit of weather, the place should look like new by the end of next week."

  "That's fast."

  "Indeed. I ordered sod to make it look better sooner. I want this place to look like it used to as fast as possible, not to mention make it look like nothing had happened."

  I nodded. If I owned the place, I would want to do the same thing. Insurance would cover at least part of the repairs. For the rest he would have to go after the victims fund though I doubted he'd get much help there either. In the end, appearance and hospitality are the keys to this business. The repairs would do much to push the appearance factor back into play. The hospitality side I imagined was the same as it had always been, possibly better as it had to make up for the looks.

  "If you don't mind," Nicholas said, standing up and heading to the door. "I have a pair of funerals to prepare for tomorrow. Promised my workers they could get the night off as long as everything was ready."

  I nodded, stood up and stepped into the hallway. Nicholas accompanied me to the entrance where he placed a hand on my chest to stop me. "I almost forgot." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys and handed them to me. "Try to keep it out of impound this time. It's rather expensive to pull them out."

  "How'd you?"

  "My colleague received a phone call late last night telling him one of his cars was in the impound lot. He delivered it back here once he picked it up. He wasn't particularly pleased to have to retrieve it from there, but he assumed it had to do with the vandalism here."

  "I'll take good care of it," I said, deciding not to tell him about off-roading it through Cedar Ridge or the subsequent police chase. "Better than last time, I mean."

  He nodded and walked back into the viewing room. I heard him bark out a few commands before the door shut behind him. Not wanting to hear any more, I walked out to the car, pulled out my phone, and dialed the number he gave me.

  - 22 -

  "Cartier residence," a woman said on the other end of the line, picking up after the phone rang nearly seven times.

  "Is Abby around?" I asked.

  "What is this regarding?"

  "Her great grandfather's tomb."

  "One moment." I heard the woman place the receiver down on the table for a second. She said something I couldn't make out before the line shifted to some jazz music.

  I waited patiently for nearly ten minutes until the music silenced and another woman answered the phone. "This is Abby Cartier. I've been told this call is regarding Oliver's tomb, is this correct?"

  "It is."

  "Then why, may I ask, is this line tied to one," she hesitated for a moment before speaking again, "Raymond Gilmore. I have been told by the New Orleans police department and Mr. Nicholas Bates that the matter is in capable hands. Neither side told me I would be talking to a separate party."

  "I've been hired by Nicholas Bates to look into the matter of Oliver's tomb. He believes, as I do, that there was a lot more involved than a few kids looking to pass the time."

  "I'm aware, Mr. Gilmore. I'm also aware that I was to be informed of such decisions ahead of time."

  It took everything I had to keep from telling her to deal with it. Instead, I decided to try a more tactful approach. "I'm sorry for the apparent intrusion, but I believe I may know why Oliver's tomb was damaged. Perhaps you would like to meet me somewhere to discuss it."

  "Hmm," she replied. "Before I meet you anywhere, I need to have a little chat with Nicholas. If everything checks out, I'll call you back in thirty minutes. I assume you can be reached on this number?"

  "I can," I said, "and I look forward to talking to you later."

  She hung up without giving me anything in response. Not a thanks, a 'me too,' or even a 'shut up.' Just the immediate silence of the call being dropped. I placed the phone on the passenger seat of the car and started driving back towards town, stopping in the hotel parking lot to wait for the call.

  My stomach grumbled in protest, telling me it was time to eat, but I held up, in case Abby wanted to meet me today. Thankfully she didn't make me wait very long before the phone rang.

  "Gilmore."

  "Raymond, this is Abby Cartier. I have just talked to Nicholas Bates and must apologize for my attitude. He told me he hired you hoping to keep the whole situation as quiet as possible. Apparently there has been another attack at a cemetery across town. I assume you are working for its owner as well?"

  "He didn't want the help," I admitted. "He wanted to keep things even more quiet than Nicholas did." I didn't tell her he practically kicked me out or that I'd been arrested just outside of Cedar Ridge. There are some things that others just don't need to know.

  "I appreciate the honesty, Mr. Gilmore. I am willing to discuss whatever it is you wish to discuss, but I'm afraid I'm leaving town for a few days. I should be back the morning of the tenth. Perhaps we could get together sometime that afternoon to discuss things."

  "We can talk about it over the phone. There is nothing I need to ask that is personal in nature."

  "If it's regarding my great grandfather's estate, then it is personal in nature. I understand your desire to get to the root of the problem, but I simply refuse to discuss things this important over the phone."

  "I'm not sure it can wait that long. What time is your flight? I could swing in before you have to leave. It won't take much time."

  "I'm afraid it will have to wait."

  I wanted to protest, but really didn't have any ground to stand on. My lips moved to ask her to call the moment she got back in town when an idea hit. "I understand," I said, putting a hint of rejection in my voice. "If you don't mind, give me a call once you are back in town. I'd like to discuss things before the matter becomes urgent."

  "Gladly, Mr. Gilmore."

  I wished her a safe flight and we ended the call, leaving me hungry, but with a shred of an idea. Picking up the phone, I called the office. As expected, Stacy answered the phone fairly quickly, which meant she wasn't playing solitaire or another computer game between calls.

  "Everything OK?" she asked when she picked up the phone.

  "I need you to do something for me," I said, getting to the point.

  I went over my conversation with Nicholas and how he didn't have any records of the items that might have been buried in Oliver's tomb. From there I told her about Abby and how she blew me off as she said she had a flight across town. "Is there anything you can do to see what time she is flying out or if she is flying at all."

  "Give me two minutes," she said. I heard the rhythmic sound of typing on her keyboard. She said a few things almost at a whisper, likely meant for herself though loud enough for her to get her distaste at my intrusion off her chest. After a few moments, the rapping stopped and she spoke. "I'm not finding any record of an Abby Cartier on the manifest of any flight leaving from New Orleans. There is the possibility she is on a private charter, however, so don't take it as gospel."

  "I'll try not to hold it against you," I said, jokingly. "Next question..."

  "She lives in the French Quarter," she interrupted. "Off of Burgundy."

  "That was fast."

  "Like you expected any worse."

  She had a point. "Thanks again," I said, "as always."

  I hung up the phone and set it back it the passenger seat and made the long trip across town, stopping at a quaint little Mexican restaurant on the way to pig out on a few tacos on the drive.

  The trip took a little over half an hour, give or take as I lost track in the periodic bumper to bumper traffic that seemed to just appear out of nowhere.

  Burgundy Street instantly reminded me of all those Mardi Gras pictures I used to see in magazines. The narrow, one way road had a line of cars parking along one side, leaving precious fe
w inches of space on each side of the car. It was all made worse with the never ending foot traffic that crossed at nearly every street corner. The houses were very small, though some were two, or even two stories tall, painted in nearly every color imaginable. Between each building there wasn't much space, often just a few inch gap separating each house from its neighbor.

  The taller homes were the ones that really stood out. Most of those were built with brick and had large decks up on the second story. A few of them were decorated with red, white, and blue ribbons in preparation for the holiday tomorrow. Many of the houses even had an American flag hanging from the building by a metal flag pole attached to the brick. The street wouldn't be decorated to near the level that Bourbon Street would be just a few blocks away, but still it definitely added to the appeal of the area.

  I found the house within a matter of minutes though struggled to find a place to park. Eventually I settled on leaving the car parked at a nearby bar and making the short walk to the house. The house was made out of brick and had three different green doors on the front. Not knowing which one would be the front door, I settled on knocking on the one that had address stickers affixed to it.

  I gave the door three loud knocks and took a few steps back, careful to stay on the sidewalk. After two minutes there wasn't an answer, so I stepped back up to the door to try again. Once again, my knuckles pounded on the door, louder this time, wanting to get the attention of anyone who was inside. On the second round of knocking, the door swung open, forcing me to take a step back to avoid its wooden frame. A brown haired woman stood just inside the house wearing a knee length black skirt with a button up white blouse. She was a small woman, maybe a little over five foot tall and if I was being generous, weighed no more than eighty pounds, though I suspected she would have to be soaking wet to be that heavy.

  She brushed a strand of her long hair out from in front of her face enough to emphasize her scowl, though it was softened by her soft, almost tempting, green eyes.

  "May I help you?" she said, still holding the handle of the door.