French Quarter Clues

by Eva Pohler

  Sue, who was closer to Tanya, reached over and patted her back. “Ellen’s right. We’ll get through this. But we’ll understand, whatever you decide.”

  Tanya nodded, but kept her face covered.

  Ellen climbed to her feet and grabbed her shovel. She understood how frightened Tanya was, but she hated the idea of her giving up on Ghost Healers, Inc. It had become the highlight of Ellen’s life. Her children were busy with their own lives. Even Paul seemed to have moved on to his own things. Solving mysteries and bringing peace to ghosts, while returning historical buildings to their former glory, gave her a true sense of purpose.

  She threw herself into the shovel and was surprised when she struck something solid in the earth.

  Sue climbed to her feet. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know.” Ellen dug around carefully. Then she crouched on the ground and used her hands to dig around the object. “It’s a wooden crate!”

  They all three crouched down and dug with their hands, revealing the top of a wooden box. Once they had cleared the top of it, Ellen used her shovel to crack open the lid.

  Inside they found tattered pieces of fabric covered in meal worms and a small human skeleton.

  “Oh my gosh!” Tanya cried. “We found the devil child!”

  Chapter Eighteen: The Fire of April 10, 1834

  With the remains of the devil child in the trunk of their rental, Ellen drove Tanya and Sue back to the house on Chartres Street. It was after three in the morning by the time they reached the guesthouse and unloaded their gear. They each showered and, soon after, went to sleep, exhausted. In the morning, Ellen called Maria Nunnery to share the good news. Ellen asked Maria to arrange for the child’s internment in the Laveau family tomb.

  “Glapion,” Maria corrected. “It’s the Glapion family tomb. And, my goodness, I can’t believe this! I will call the archdiocese as soon as we hang up. I can’t thank you and your friends enough. I’m so relieved that Cornelius will finally find peace!”

  “Please let us know where and when to deliver the remains,” Ellen said.

  “I will, Ellen. God bless you.”

  Tanya, who’d been making sausage and eggs in the kitchen, asked, “What do you guys want to do next? Finish reading Delphine’s diary, or go over the recordings from our investigations?”

  “Finish the diary,” Sue said.

  Ellen nodded. “I’m dying to know what really happened on the day of the fire and will throw that book across the room—I don’t care how old it is—if Delphine doesn’t tell us what the plan was and how it went wrong.”

  Once they had finished their breakfast, Tanya and Ellen curled up on opposite ends of the couch, and Sue took the chair, resting her stockinged feet on the coffee table. They sipped on their coffees as Tanya found where she had left off in the diary.

  March 22, 1835

  I met a handsome Frenchman at the parish carnival yesterday. He was a widower with three grown sons and a good deal of wealth. I permitted him to escort me around the grounds. He was a pleasant distraction from my pain and sorrow.

  As much as I would like to believe that I might still find happiness, I know I am cursed for all eternity.

  Marie Laveau made that very clear when she came to claim her devil child the day Bastien and I buried him. I told her she could go to hell. She told me that I would soon know hell on earth.

  How I wish I would have heeded her warning, dug up the child, and returned him to her. Perhaps I would still be in my home on Royal Street today—not happy, but not miserable.

  March 30, 1835

  One year from today, Rachel said it was time for me to wake up and face facts.

  She was the only slave, aside from Bastien, who could speak to me in such a manner.

  “What do you mean?” I asked her.

  She told me that the suffering in the attic had gone on for too long. The doctor’s slaves needed to be put out of their misery. For months, one of the captives, Catherine, a cousin of Rachel’s, had pleaded with Rachel to obtain some poison for her, so she could kill herself; however, the doctor controlled everything that went in and out of the room. He kept the garret locked and carefully guarded the key.

  “There’s only one way to free them,” Rachel said. “We have to burn the house down.”

  I told her too many people might be injured or killed. She said we could start the fire on a Sunday, while the slaves were off, and the children were at their catechism. Only those locked in the attic would remain.

  “You do not believe it too horrible a way to die?” I asked. “To be burned alive? Some of them are still conscious.”

  “The smoke would kill them before the flames,” Rachel said.

  “But what about my valuables?” I argued.

  She said I could think of a reason to ask Borquita and Jeanne to store them for me.

  “But what of the furniture?” I asked.

  She said that some things were more important than furniture. Human suffering was one of those things.

  I told her I would give it some thought.

  Honestly, as poorly as I felt over the fates of those locked in the garret, I did not wish to give up my home and valuables. There was no method for relocating everything I wanted to save. And I could not try to do so without raising my husband’s suspicion. I was not certain that I was prepared to make such sacrifices for the wellbeing of a handful of slaves.

  I chained Rachel to the stove, explaining that I needed more time and feared she would not allow for it. I believed I was preventing her from carrying on without me—an assumption I will regret forever.

  April 5, 1835

  One year from this day, I told Rachel I would conspire with her to end the suffering of the doctor’s slaves.

  I came to this conclusion because of something I witnessed through the window of the garret door.

  Seven of the doctor’s slaves were chained and bolted to the floor. This much I already knew. Four of them—Lizzy, Tina, Carol, and Armand—lay on cots with tubes and bags attached to them, presumably for consuming and excreting fluids. They rarely moved anymore, though their moans and groans indicated that they were still alive and somewhat conscious. They had been operated on many times, and their bodies were covered in scars, where the doctor had taken flesh and grafted it onto the devil child.

  The other three—Thomas, Catherine, and Lucas—sat or lay on the floor. They shared a common chamber pot that was rarely emptied, and they slept without bedding. They appeared emaciated and dehydrated. Catherine wore a spiked iron collar that prevented her from moving. She sat with her back against the wall with her eyes closed. Her breaths were rapid. I could not tell if she was conscious.

  As I secretly peered through the iron bars of the tiny window in the door, I held my breath—to avoid the foul stench and to prevent myself from screaming.

  The doctor bent over Catherine and peeled off a section of her scalp, exposing her skull! Then, before I could pull myself away, Catherine opened her eyes and glared at me!

  I was nearly sick beside the door. I fought the urge to vomit and fled the attic before the doctor discovered me. I went directly to the kitchen, where I told Rachel I would agree to help her carry out her plan the next day.

  I kept her chained to the stove, so she would not act before I was ready.

  April 10, 1835

  I dread the letters I shall receive in the coming months from my loved ones in New Orleans, because they will no doubt mention the papers’ inevitable reminders of the catastrophe that took place this time last year. The papers will refer to me as the “monstrous Madame Delphine Lalaurie” and make no mention of Louis. I am sure of it. Marie Laveau has won.

  But she shall never have her devil child.

  On Sunday, April 6th, 1834, I called off Rachel’s plan to start the fire. We had just celebrated Easter the previous Sunday, and because I had been busy preparing for it, I had not had adequate time to move my valuables to the houses of my daughters for safekeeping
. I promised Rachel we would carry out our plan the following Sunday, April 13th.

  Rachel did not object, so I was taken by surprise when smoke infiltrated my breakfast table on the morning of Thursday, April 10th. As I stood from my chair, the sound of a loud pop from the kitchen startled me. Although it was unexpected, the fire was less of a surprise to me than it was to Louis. He ran straight for his medical books and journals and ignored anyone who tried to stop him.

  I stumbled to the kitchen to question Rachel only to find it engulfed in flames. As I stood there in shock, I heard Rachel’s screams. I cried out to her, “Why? Why did you do this?” But it was too late. She was gone.

  My next priority was the children. Once I saw to their safety, I endeavored to salvage as many of my jewels and other valuables as I could. A few of our neighbors came to help, and I gave them instructions on what to save and what to leave behind.

  The fire brigade soon arrived and contained the fire, saving much of our home. The house might have survived, and my reputation along with it, had my ill-bred cousin Montreuil not asked about the slaves chained in the garret. Judge Canongo asked Louis and me if there were slaves upstairs. We both denied it but for different reasons. Montreuil insisted that he spoke the truth. The judge followed Montreuil and our other neighbor, Fernandez, upstairs. They quickly returned, hacking up smoke. Then another neighbor, Felix Lefebrve, came to them and said he had discovered the slaves behind a locked door in the attic. The men followed Lefebrve, as Louis and I continued to salvage all we could of our valuables. I prayed the seven captives were already dead, but when the men returned, I saw my husband’s victims were still alive.

  The seven slaves were taken away. It did not take long for word to spread about their horrific mistreatment. People also heard that both my husband and I had refused to help them or to admit that they had been chained, defenseless, upstairs during the conflagration. People were outraged, as they had every right to be. However, I was mortified when they turned their outrage on me and my home.

  What the fire brigade had saved, the mob of outraged citizens destroyed. Realizing our lives were in danger, Louis instructed me to take the children in the carriage to Bayou St. John and to board a boat. He would meet us in Mandeville as soon as he could. Fearing for my children’s lives, I did as he said. I waved at the angry people when we passed on the road, hoping they would see my innocence.

  I soon discovered that Marie Laveau had succeeded in making my life into a living hell.

  April 19, 1835

  Without any notice, Louis came to Paris and attended Easter Mass with the children and me this morning. Out of obligation, I invited him to luncheon afterward. Even though his presence was confusing and upsetting to Jean Louis and to the other children, I am glad my husband came. I discovered the answer to something that has been weighing on my mind for over a year.

  In a private interview with me before his departure this evening, he brought up the anniversary of the fire that had destroyed our Royal Street home. I asked him if he had ever learned any news about what might have caused it. He said that the fire marshal had concluded it had begun in the kitchen. Louis believed Rachel had started it intentionally. When I asked why he thought this to be true, he confided in me that his poor judgment had been the cause of it. He said that he had made the mistake of letting Bastien become aware the morning of the fire of the doctor’s intention to begin practicing that evening on Rachel’s granddaughter, a slave Louis had purchased from my aunt. Louis speculated that Bastien must have told Rachel, and Rachel, wishing to spare her granddaughter, set the house ablaze, even though it meant her own certain death.

  Louis apologized for that part he played in the catastrophe, having no knowledge of his greater role or of my plans with Rachel. Although he was acquainted with the rumors about me, he made no apology about them. He offered no words of comfort or regret. He made no acknowledgment of the fact that my life now lay in ruins.

  Tanya looked up from the journal and muttered, “Wow. Should I keep going?”

  “Why don’t we take a moment to process what you’ve just read?” Ellen suggested.

  Sue took a sip of her coffee. “I can’t believe I feel sorry for Delphine.”

  “Me, too,” Tanya admitted.

  “I wonder if this diary will change anything,” Ellen said. “Or if history will continue to paint her as a monster.”

  “That’s a good question,” Tanya said.

  “Why don’t we ponder it over lunch?” Sue said. “I made another reservation for us at Antoine’s.”

  When the three friends returned from lunch, they hooked up the camcorder to Sue’s laptop to review the footage they’d taken in both the main house with Priestess Isabel and at Audubon Park beneath the Tree of Life.

  Sue sat between Tanya and Ellen on the couch with her laptop on her lap. Ellen kept notes in her journal as they watched.

  “That curtain by the French doors keeps moving,” Sue pointed out. “Did you see that?”

  “There could be a draft coming through,” Ellen said. “We should check that out.”

  Tanya pointed to the screen. “I keep seeing a shadow on me. Do you guys notice it?”

  Ellen nodded. “I saw the same thing in the photo that was taken of us at Drummond Lodge.”

  “You think it’s Cornelius?” Tanya asked.

  “I think so,” Sue said.

  “Oh, look! Pause it!” Ellen said, excitedly. “Another shadow fell on Isabel, when she started speaking in tongues.”

  “Not in tongues,” Tanya said. “It was French. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Ellen wrote in her journal: ghost attachment or possession leaves shadow on victim.

  They continued watching the footage from the main house but didn’t see anything more that was noteworthy. However, the audio picked up on something that did not seem like the other traffic noise they heard.

  “Play that again,” Ellen said.

  Sue rewound the video. It sounded like a low human voice, possibly female: ja MA NA na ee ee uh BYE.

  They played it a few more times.

  “Let’s see if the EVP recorder picked it up better.” Ellen crossed the room and turned on the machine.

  Playing back the audio on the EVP recorder allowed them to find a similar sound pattern throughout the investigation in the main house: ja MA NA na ee ee uh BYE.

  Ellen slowed the recording down and turned the volume all the way up. “Here we go,” she said before pressing play.

  In a low, gravelly voice, the sounds manifested into words: “Jamar Nunnery is alive.”

  Chapter Nineteen: The Peace of Heaven

  “Jamar Nunnery is alive?” Tanya repeated.

  “Jamar is Cornelius’s father, right?” Ellen asked, to be sure.

  Sue nodded. “And Maria’s husband. Oh, my God. Do you think it’s true?”

  “I don’t know,” Ellen said. “But why would a ghost say it, if it wasn’t?”

  “To mess with us, maybe?” Sue speculated. “Cause mischief?”

  “Should we tell Maria?” Tanya wondered.

  “Let’s try to find some more answers first,” Sue said. “We don’t want to get her hopes up and then not be able to find him.”

  “Let’s use the Ouija Board.” Ellen found the board in the kitchen, where it was laying among their other gear. “Ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Sue said.

  Sue and Tanya stayed seated on the couch while Ellen sat on the floor opposite them with the board on the coffee table between them. They rested their fingers on the planchette.

  “I’ll start,” Sue said. “Spirits of the other realm, we mean you no harm. We’re looking for answers about Jamar Nunnery, who was a victim in Hurricane Katrina. Is anyone there?”

  The planchette flew to “Yes.”

  “Who is this?” Sue asked.

  “C-O-R-N-E-L-I-U-S.”

  “Cornelius,” Sue said. “Is your father still alive?”

  Th
e planchette did not move.

  “Cornelius, are you there?” Ellen asked.

  The light overhead flickered as the planchette circled around the board and returned to “yes.”

  “Is your father, Jamar Nunnery, still alive?” Sue repeated.

  “I-D-O-N-O-T-K-N-O-W.”

  “He doesn’t know,” Tanya said. “Now what?”

  “Cornelius,” Sue began again. “Is there anyone there with you? Anyone from the other side?”

  The light overhead flickered again as the planchette flew to “yes.”

  “Do you know who?” Sue asked. “Can you tell us their name?”

  “G-R-A-N-D-M-A-N-U-N-N-E-R-Y.”

  “Grandma Nunnery,” Tanya said.

  “Can we talk to Grandma Nunnery?” Ellen asked, noticing a drop in the temperature.

  The planchette slowly moved to “yes.”

  “It’s getting cold in here,” Tanya whispered.

  “Grandma Nunnery?” Sue asked. “Are we speaking with you now?”

  The planchette circled around and returned to “yes.”

  “Is Jamar Nunnery your son?” Ellen asked.

  The planchette circled around the board and returned to “yes.”

  “Is Jamar still alive?” Sue asked.

  The planchette circled around and returned to “yes.”

  “Do you know where he is?” Tanya asked.

  The planchette slowly moved to “no.”

  “How do you know he’s alive?” Sue asked.

  “H-E-I-S-N-O-T-H-E-R-E.”

  “He is no…” Ellen began.

  “He is not here,” Tanya said. “He must not be on the other side, with the dead. That’s how she knows he’s still alive.”

  The planchette flew to “yes.”