French Quarter Clues

by Eva Pohler

  Michael was convinced that the condos would be ready to rent before Thanksgiving.

  “Will you ladies be at the VIP Lounge tonight?” Michael asked as he was preparing to leave the Chartres house.

  “Not tonight,” Tanya replied when Sue and Ellen seemed incapable of speech. “But we’ll be there tomorrow night for the costume contest and dance.”

  “Tanya’s son and his partner are competing,” Sue explained.

  “I hope you’ll save me a dance,” Michael said as he waved goodbye.

  Once the door was closed behind him, Ellen screamed. “What does he think he’s doing?”

  Sue laughed. “I think he’s enjoying our attention.”

  “You guys,” Tanya scoffed.

  Not long after Michael had left, the three friends headed to the Voodoo Spiritual Temple to loan Priestess Isabel the diary of Delphine Lalaurie, as promised.

  When they walked in, Isabel stood next to the counter with a can of Sprite in her hand. A boy in his late teens sat at the computer behind the counter.

  “Well, hello again,” Isabel said. “You have something for me?”

  Ellen handed over Delphine’s diary.

  “Most of it’s in French,” Isabel said as she leafed through the pages. “I can’t read French. Can you?”

  “I can,” Tanya said.

  Isabel handed the diary to Tanya. “What did it say?”

  “Um, a lot,” Tanya said.

  “Do you have dinner plans?” Sue asked. “We have a reservation at Antoine’s at seven. I bet it’s not too late to add one more to our table. We can tell you all about the diary then.”

  “Antoine’s is my favorite,” Isabel said.

  “Can we pick you up at 6:45?” Ellen asked.

  Isabel nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  Six a.m. came way too early for Ellen Saturday morning as she reached for her phone and turned off the alarm. The dinner at Antoine’s had kept her and her friends up late, as they’d conveyed to Isabel all they’d learned about Delphine and the fire of 1834.

  But this morning, she and her friends had a three-hour road trip ahead of them. They were going to the Louisiana State Penitentiary, also known as Angola Prison, to visit inmate and poet, Jeffrey Nicholson.

  At ten a.m., they arrived at the front gate, where a staff member checked to see if their names were on the guest list of Jeffrey Nicholson. Fortunately, they were. They’d been added two weeks ago, when Ellen had contacted him through his blog. She’d used her married name—Ellen Mohr—and had hoped he would not suspect that she was the same Ellen who had contacted him through Facebook messenger. When Ellen had set up her Facebook page years ago, she had followed her daughter Alison’s advice and had used her maiden name, Ellen Porter.

  Either the prisoner hadn’t suspected she was the same woman who had privately messaged him on Facebook, or he knew and wanted to meet with her anyway.

  After a brief search of their rental vehicle, they parked and entered the visitor’s center. They underwent a metal detector and canine search before boarding a bus with nine other visitors—three young mothers and their small children. As the bus took them to the visiting room, one of the security guards reminded everyone that contact between visitors and inmates was limited to a hug and brief kiss at the beginning and end of the visit. No lingering kisses were allowed and would be grounds for removal of the inmate from the visiting room. While small children were permitted to sit on an inmate’s lap, only handholding was permitted between adults.

  “I’m ‘a sit on Daddy’s lap first,” one boy said to his siblings.

  The bus pulled up in front of the visiting room. All passengers were led inside the building, through two sets of bars, and into the main visitation area, which resembled a school cafeteria. There were televisions on the walls on low volume. One displayed a football game, another cartoons, and a third, HGTV. There was also a kid area in one corner with toys and coloring books, where the three young mothers and their children went to meet the fathers. Food and hand-crafted items were being sold along two back walls by a few inmates.

  The first thing Ellen thought when she walked in was, “Where are all the white people?”

  Only one table of the dozens in the room had a white family sitting at it. Everyone else was black. Shouldn’t the population of a prison reflect the rest of the population? If blacks were a minority on the outside, why wouldn’t they be a minority on the inside? Not for the first time, Ellen questioned the fairness of the justice system in America.

  A security guard escorted Ellen, Sue, and Tanya across the room to a table where a man in his late forties was sitting alone. Even though he was aged, Ellen recognized him from his Facebook profile. The man sitting there was Jamar Nunnery!

  Ellen tried not to show her surprise, so as not to alarm him. She and her friends didn’t want him to know they were looking for him with the hope of reuniting him with his family. They wanted him to think they were there to publish his poetry.

  He stood up and smiled at them as they each shook his hand before sitting down again at the table. Ellen, Sue, and Tanya each took a seat.

  “You’ve written some impressive work,” Sue began.

  “Thank you,” Jamar said. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “We’d like to include a brief biography with a few of your poems in the publication,” Ellen said. “Can you tell us a little about yourself?”

  “I was born and raised in Louisiana. I had a wife and kids, but they were taken by Hurricane Katrina.”

  “We’re so sorry to hear that,” Sue said, glancing at Tanya and Ellen. “How awful.”

  “I ain’t never been the same since,” he said, his smile gone.

  “How did you end up in this high security prison?” Sue asked. “Can you tell us about that?”

  “Sure. I knew you was gonna ask. You see, Katrina washed away my home and carried me and my family away with it. I was rescued and taken to the Superdome with thousands of other people. You heard about all that, I’m sure.”

  The three friends nodded.

  “What happened while you were there?” Ellen asked.

  “I was searching for my family,” he said. “I was desperate, you hear me?”

  “I can only imagine,” Ellen said.

  “They kept saying they was gonna send us some busses, to take us to better shelters, but every day, the busses never came. People was starvin’, you hear me? And they was scared. Most of us were walkin’ around in a fog. All I could think about was findin’ my family. I had to know if they was dead or alive.”

  Ellen shuddered. She glanced at Tanya and noticed her eyes had welled with tears.

  “When the busses finally came, we were all desperate to get out. Some wanted safety. Others wanted food. But most of us, we just wanted to find our family. And the Superdome, that was the worst. No organization. No control. Nothing. A mob of us stormed the busses, trying to be the first to get on.”

  Ellen noticed that Jamar’s face was tautly drawn in a frown of grief and agony. His eyes were red and filled with tears.

  “The police officers shot at us,” Jamar continued. “The guy next to me, he had my back, you hear me? We watched out for each other during that whole mess. He fell to the ground. Shot straight to the heart. The police could have aimed for his foot, for his leg. No, man. He was shot in the heart. He was dead in a matter of minutes. I lost it man. I seen the guy who shot him. I rushed him with a mob of others and snapped his neck. That’s how I ended up here. I didn’t contest the charge. I was guilty, plain and simple.”

  “There’s nothing plain and simple about it,” Ellen said.

  “Let’s get back to your poetry,” Sue said, trying to change the mood. “Tell us about your inspiration.”

  “Loss is my inspiration,” Jamar said. “I lost everything. You the first visitors I’ve had since I been here.”

  “You have no other family or friends still living?” Ellen asked.

  “None I care to talk
to,” he said.

  Ellen cleared her throat, not sure where to go from there.

  “Tell us which three are your favorite poems,” Sue said. “You can help us decide which ones to feature.”

  On the shuttle from the visiting room, Ellen turned to Tanya and Sue. “How are we going to get Maria and Cecilia in to see him? They have to be on the visitor list, and there’s no way he’ll agree to put them on there.”

  “I don’t think that’s true of attorneys,” Sue said. “Cecilia can request a visit as an attorney interested in appealing his case.”

  “You’re so smart!” Ellen said, beaming. “I’m so glad you know things that most of us don’t.”

  Sue laughed. “It sounds like you want to buy me lunch.”

  After a late lunch, Ellen and her friends left Angola and drove back to New Orleans to meet with board members of the Louisiana Historical Society at 4 p.m. at the Round Table on St. Charles Avenue. They were surprised to learn the building was adjacent to Audubon Park.

  “Boy, does that bring back memories,” Sue said as they drove north on East Drive, past the Tree of Life.

  Ellen had decided to take a longer path around the park, because she had wanted a glimpse of the tree during the daytime. Under the shining sun, it looked less ominous and foreboding than it had in the dark. In the daylight, it looked beautiful. Magnificent.

  “To think that this land was once part of Delphine Lalaurie’s family’s sugar cane plantation,” Tanya said.

  Nora Wetzel greeted them in the lobby and led them to a meeting room where five others were already seated around a conference table. Nora introduced Ellen and her friends to Emily Ford, a New Orleans-based restoration mason, cemetery preservationist, and historian; Lydia Blackmore, Decorative Arts Curator, the Historic New Orleans Collection; James Mokhiber, an Associate Professor of African and World History at the University of New Orleans; Patricia Gay, Executive Director of the Preservation Resource Center; and Howard Margot, Archivist and Curator of the Historic New Orleans Collection.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” they each said as Ellen, Sue and Tanya, took their seats at the table.

  “Did you bring the diary?” Howard Margot asked eagerly.

  Ellen passed it over to him. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves before opening the book and leafing through the pages.

  “It’s incredible,” he said. “I have every confidence that this book is authentic.”

  Howard Margot passed the book around the table, where each member did the same: latex gloves, glances through the pages, nodding heads, and smiles.

  “Then, do we agree?” Nora asked the board.

  “Unequivocally,” the professor said. He turned to the other board members, who nodded in agreement.

  “Is there a motion to move forward with the Lalaurie mansion project?” Nora asked.

  “I motion that we move forward,” Lydia said.

  “I second,” Patricia said.

  “Motions accepted,” Nora said. “I’ll have our agent write up the offer and submit it immediately.”

  Ellen felt a rush of relief. She hoped the spirit of Delphine Lalaurie was aware that her legacy in American history was about to change forever.

  That evening, Ellen and her friends fell asleep in the guesthouse living area and might have missed the LGBT Halloween costume competition and dance if Tanya’s phone hadn’t awakened them at nine-thirty. Mike was calling to ask where they were.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Tanya cried. “Sue, Ellen, come on! We need to get ready! We’re late!”

  Half an hour later, Ellen drove them to the VIP Lounge, which, fortunately, was only seven minutes away near South Rampart Street.

  When they entered the building, Ellen realized they stood out among the throng of partiers, all in elaborate costumes. Searching for a place to sit, they passed superheroes, Greek gods, the Village People, and characters from Super Mario Kart, The Wizard of Oz, Sesame Street, and Alice in Wonderland.

  They eventually found Mike and Seth, who were dressed as Gryffindor wizards from Harry Potter.

  “Where’s your costumes?” Mike asked when they reached his table.

  Tanya laughed. “Oh, silly. I told you we weren’t wearing any.”

  “What about those witch costumes you guys wore a few years ago?” Mike said.

  “You remember that?” Sue laughed. “You guys look great, though I see you have a lot of competition, don’t you?”

  “We don’t care about winning,” Seth said. “It’s all for a good cause.”

  They squeezed together around the table, which was crammed between two other tables along the dance floor. Mike and Seth went to get them each a margarita. The couple hadn’t been gone long when Michael Rouchell appeared at their table, dressed like the Wolverine.

  Ellen felt her eyes nearly pop from their sockets. He was hot. She imagined the spirits agreeing with her as they used the planchette and the Ouija Board to spell, H-O-T.

  “May I have this dance?” he asked her.

  She pointed to her chest. “Me?”

  He laughed and nodded his head, offering her is hand, which was strapped with Wolverine blades.

  Awkwardly, she took his hand, laughing, and followed him to the dance floor. It was a fast beat, which she liked. Although out of shape, Ellen knew how to move and had been quite the clubber in her younger days, back when music was good, in the eighties.

  When the song came to an end, it was replaced by a slow number.

  “Shall we?” Michael asked, holding his arms open to her.

  Did he expect her to walk into his arms? Ellen fanned her face as she stared back at him with indecision.

  “Come on,” he said. “One more.”

  She took a deep breath and allowed him to put his arms around her. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Their bodies touched. She was uncomfortably aware of every place they touched. Her sweat glands seemed to be working on overdrive.

  “You smell nice,” he said, close to her ear.

  Was he kidding? She was covered in sweat.

  “You must be picking up on my hormones,” she said laughing. “They’re way out of whack.”

  “You look nice, too,” he said.

  “It might be time for a visit to the optometrist,” she said, still laughing.

  She was so damned nervous.

  “Why do you do that?” he asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Say such things. You’re a beautiful woman, Ellen.”

  She didn’t think it was possible to feel more uncomfortable, but she did. As attracted as she was to Michael Rouchell, as curious as she was to know how he kissed, as crazy as the fantasies of being with him had become, she was a married woman. It might be a sham marriage, but it was her sham marriage, and it was all she had.

  Feeling slightly nauseous, she pulled away, thanking him for the dance. “I don’t feel well. I need some air.”

  “Can I walk you outside?”

  “No, thanks. I think I’m going to let my friends know that I’m ready to leave.”

  “I hope it’s not because of me.”

  “No, of course not, Michael. You made my night. Really. But I’m married, you know.”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “You see my ring, don’t you?”

  “People wear them even when their widowed or divorced.”

  Ellen wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I’m happy that I made your night. I’ll walk you back to your table.”

  Once Ellen and her friends were back at the guesthouse on Chartres, Ellen sent a text to Paul: I miss you, Honey. And I’m so very sorry. I want you to be my partner in everything.

  She was surprised when he replied, because it was after eleven o’clock—way past his bedtime.

  I want that, too.

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Reunions

  Sunday morning, Ellen called Maria Nunnery and asked if there was any way they could meet with her and Cecilia within the next couple of days. When
Cecilia asked why, Ellen said that it was something she needed to tell them both in person. Cecilia wanted to know if it had something to do with Cornelius. Ellen told her that, in a way, it did. Ellen refused to say anything more about it over the phone.

  Ellen hadn’t expected Cecilia to drive from Houston right away, but she did, and later that evening, Ellen, Tanya, and Sue went to Maria’s FEMA trailer to break the news about Jamar.

  First, Ellen played back the sound they’d picked up with the EVP recorder during their investigation in the main house on Chartres.

  “Jamar Nunnery is alive?” Cecilia repeated. “Did I hear that correctly?”

  Ellen and her friends nodded.

  “We used the Ouija Board to ask the spirits more questions,” Sue explained, “and we spoke to your Grandma Nunnery.”

  Cecilia’s face turned pale and her eyes went wide. “I don’t believe this. I mean, I believe you, but this is so…what did my grandma say?”

  “She said your father must be alive because he wasn’t on the other side,” Tanya said.

  “Could she be mistaken?” Cecilia asked. “Mama? You haven’t said anything.”

  Maria’s face was nearly as white as a sheet. “I, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think, what to feel. I don’t think I can handle this. Don’t lead me on if this isn’t true.” Maria started crying.

  “We did a little research online,” Ellen continued. “And we found him.”

  “He’s alive,” Sue said.

  Ellen and her friends were exhausted when their plane landed in San Antonio on Wednesday, Halloween day. Ellen was surprised to find Paul waiting for them at the gate. Tanya’s husband, Dave, usually picked them up curbside after they’d picked up their bags.

  “Is everything okay?” Ellen asked, as a knot formed in the pit of her stomach.

  Paul nodded. “Dave’s got a cold. He asked me to come.”