Darkwater Truth

by Robin Caroll

  “Louis and Eva Pampalon had given birth to my grandfather, Henri, in 1937, the year before Harold ran off.” He considered Claude’s attitude, and clearly that of Louis, who would adopt a teen boy to make sure the legacy of the Pampalon name continued. “Maybe he was made to feel that Henri, a Pampalon by birth, would be the legal heir. It’s possible he was made to feel inferior.” Dimitri could so relate.

  “Perhaps.” Adelaide propped her elbows on her desk and rested her chin in her hands. “He was twenty-one years old when he disappeared. Don’t you think that’s a little old to run away?”

  “He was a legal adult. Maybe that’s what he was waiting for—to reach a legal age.”

  She dropped her hands to the desk and shook her head. “Back then, the legal age was eighteen, not twenty-one. It still bugs me about it being Christmas Day.”

  Dimitri grinned at her frustration. “Maybe he didn’t like what he got as a Christmas present?”

  She threw a paper clip at him, laughing.

  “Hey. Sorry to interrupt.” Beauregard strode into the office as if he had every right to do just that.

  Adelaide’s stayed firmly in place as she turned her attention to him. “Hey, Beau. Guess what? Never mind, you’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you. We figured out who the skeleton is.”

  “Really? Who?”

  She nodded at Dimitri. “Tell him.”

  Dimitri shifted in his chair to look Beauregard in the face. “Harold Pampalon, my great-uncle.”

  The detective pulled out a piece of paper from the folder he carried. “Here’s what he looked like.” He turned the paper toward them and showed them a picture before setting it on the edge of Adelaide’s desk.

  Dimitri gasped. He flipped through his folder and pulled out the photograph of Harold Pampalon and an older man in front of the hotel, written on the back Louis and Harold, Darkwater Inn, 1937. He set it on the desk beside Beauregard’s picture.

  It was of the same man.

  Adelaide stood and walked around to stand between Dimitri and Beauregard in front of the side-by-side pictures. “Oh, wow. They’re nearly identical.”

  “This is the 3-D rendering from FACES?” Adelaide asked.

  Beauregard nodded. “Chandler sent it over less than an hour ago.”

  “I’m amazed at the clear resemblance.” Dimitri couldn’t believe someone could reconstruct a face that was the person. The talent was awe-inspiring. “It’s definitely Harold, born Harold James, died as Harold Pampalon.”

  “That means he didn’t run away on Christmas Day.” Adelaide nodded. “I knew nobody would run away from their family on the biggest holiday of the year.”

  Adelaide’s heart was almost too kind.

  “I guess that means the big question is, who killed him and why?” Beauregard pulled out his cell phone and took a snapshot of the two pictures together. “Now that we have a confirmed identity, we’ll start backing up and going through Harold’s past and see what we can find out.”

  “We can probably help you.” Adelaide smiled up at Dimitri and put her hand on his. “Well, Dimitri can. He’s been getting all the information on his great-uncle from the time of his birth until he went missing in 1938.”

  Her touch, while as gentle and familiar as before, felt…different somehow. Almost too familiar. Comfortable. It didn’t seem to pull at his gut like her touch usually did. Odd. Must be all the talk of death and destruction.

  Beauregard nodded at him. “I’d appreciate any information you could share. Would save us some time.”

  As he looked up at the detective and Adelaide’s matching smiling faces, something inside of him knew they were meant to be together.

  Dimitri wasn’t quite sure if that devastated him, or if it was just a big disappointment.

  14

  — Addy

  “Daddy, your coffee’s ready.” Addy set his cup beside the plate of fresh fruit she’d brought to his suite. “News is about to start.”

  Vincent shuffled from the bedroom into the parlor holding a hand towel. “Honey, can you make sure I dried the stitches good enough? I don’t want the doctor to have any reason not to remove them tomorrow afternoon.” He sat down in front of the plate and cup.

  She took the towel and dabbed at the healing gash on the top of his head. It was the first time she’d seen his gash without a bandage. It looked…well, it was a thin cut, but…was it possible the guy in the black robe had hit her father over the head with an axe? She gasped.

  “What?” Vincent twisted and grabbed the towel, looking up at her.

  No sense getting him worked up. Not until she could talk to Beau about it. “It looks fine. I’m actually surprised at how fast it’s scabbed over.”

  “Yeah, well it itches like the dickens.” He reached for the coffee.

  “That’s good. It’s an indication it’s healing.” She used the remote to unmute the television for the morning’s newscast, then grabbed her own mug and sat at the table beside her father.

  It had become their routine to have breakfast together with the news every morning since the fire. Although she had been having supper with her father at home every Thursday night, it had been really nice starting off the day with her dad.

  Her father grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. “Here’s that annoying reporter.”

  Addy struggled not to scowl as Allison Williams filled the screen. “Police won’t confirm that the murder of Joey and Theresa Maggio on Monday morning is connected to the murder of Lance Bassemier Monday afternoon, but all three victims were found brutally murdered in their beds. A fourth attack occurred just yesterday morning. The police haven’t released details, but this reporter can confirm it was a woman who survived the attack.”

  The newscast faded into commercial break.

  “That woman is such an ambulance chaser. The families of those poor victims are probably in the final stages of planning their loved ones’ funerals, and Allison Williams is giving out the mental image of people bloody in bed.” She shook her head and pushed away her plate. The strawberries just didn’t look too appetizing at the moment. “It’s actually despicable. And then to announce one of the victims survived! Why, that’s just telling her attacker that he didn’t finish the job. It puts her in such danger. Allison should be fired, or held accountable if that woman is attacked again.” Beau was probably having a fit.

  Vincent pressed the rewind button on the remote.

  “Daddy, please tell me you don’t want to hear this again.”

  “Shh. Just a minute.” He pushed the play button.

  “…murder of Joey and Theresa Maggio on Monday morning is connected to the murder of Lance Bassemier Monday afternoon, but all three victims were found brutally murdered in their beds. A fourth attack occurred just yesterday morning. The police haven’t released details, but this reporter can confirm it was a woman who survived the attack.”

  Vincent turned off the television and jumped up from his seat. He disappeared into the bedroom.

  “Dad?” Addy stood. What was happening here?

  He returned to the parlor with his new laptop. He sat down, pushing his plate away with the computer and opened the MacBook.

  “Daddy, what’s going on?”

  “Just a second. Let me make sure I’m right.”

  She’d learned long ago that when her father was following a hunch or a plot twist or anything of the like, he wouldn’t be rushed in explaining himself. Addy took a drink of her coffee and snuck a glance at the clock. She still had twenty or so minutes before she needed to be at work. Good thing she lived in the hotel, so she didn’t have to worry about the weather or traffic.

  “There. I’m right!” Vincent sat back in the armless chair of the dining table. He pointed to the laptop. “See for yourself.” He grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

  She moved around so she could see the monitor. A web page was loaded with names and dates from 1918. “Um, what am I looking at, Dad?”

  “Those are th
e victims of the Axeman.”

  “O-kay.” She shook her head. “I don’t follow.”

  He sighed and turned the computer back to read. “First victims were Joseph and Catherine Maggio. Next was Louis Besumer.” He nodded and grinned. “And Harriet Lowe, who survived the attack.”

  But she didn’t understand. She shook her head. “You’re going to have to explain it to me, Dad. I don’t see the point.”

  “The first two people attacked on Monday morning were, according to our least favorite reporter, Joey and Theresa Maggio.” He tapped the computer screen. “Joseph and Catherine were attacked in their bed and there was an axe left on the floor. The news said Joey and Theresa were found in bed. What do you want to bet there was an axe left on the floor there?”

  “Come on, Dad. That’s a reach, don’t you think?”

  “Louis Besumer and his lover, Harriet Lowe, were also attacked, but survived.” Her father rubbed his chin. “Monday evening a Lance Bassemier was attacked in his home. Louis Besumer…Lance Bassemier. And a woman was attacked that same day.” Vincent wagged a finger at Addy. “What do you want to bet her name is close to Harriet Lowe? And that both she and Lance were attacked with an axe that was left at the scene?”

  She had to admit, it sure seemed more than a coincidence, but someone repeating the attacks of the Axeman? Now? Why? It was a hundred years since his attacks. There was no way Harold could have been the Axeman’s victim. But why was the axe in the space with him? None of it made sense.

  “There’s a connection, honey, I feel it. I’m going to do some research so I can give it all to Beau. Can I email it to you when I’m done and have you print it out for me?”

  “Sure, Daddy.” She stood and carried her plate and mug into the little sink area, thankful for housekeeping. She needed to get to the office. “I’ve got to go. Call me if you need anything or if you leave.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Yeah. Okay. Have a good day, honey.” But Vincent was already opening a new Word document.

  “I’m serious, Daddy. If you plan to go anywhere, let me know. Don’t forget what Beau said.”

  He stopped typing to look up at her. “I heard you and I will. I haven’t forgotten. I could say the same to you, too.”

  “Deal. If I leave the hotel, I’ll let you know.” She smiled and gave him another kiss. “Love you, Daddy.”

  “Love you, too, Addybear. Have a good day.”

  She headed out of the suite, the reassuring tapping of his fingers on the keys making her smile as she made her way to the elevator.

  “Hello, Ms. Fountaine,” Richard, the elevator attendant, said as he held the door for her. “Lobby?”

  “Yes, please.” She smiled and pulled out her cell phone as she exited and headed to her office. As she unlocked her door, she dialed Beau’s cell phone.

  “Hello, Addy.” He answered on the first ring.

  She flipped on the lights and made her way to her desk. “Hey, Beau. Listen, I know you’re busy, I saw the news this morning.”

  He sighed long and loud. “I swear, that woman needs a gag.”

  “Oh, I agree. Anyway, today was the first day I really got to look at my dad’s head injury without the bandage.” She felt a little silly continuing.

  “Is it okay? Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine, ornery as ever.” She booted up her computer.

  Beau chuckled. “That’s Vincent.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, as I looked at the gash, it kind of looked about the length and size of the niche in Harold’s skeleton we found.” Funny how she already had switched to referring to him by name now.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m just wondering if it’s possible that my dad was hit with an axe.” She tapped her fingers on her desk. “I mean, I know if an axe was left, it most likely burned up in the fire, so we really can’t say, but the wound looks like—”

  “Yes.”

  She stilled and grabbed a paper clip from her desk and absentmindedly began straightening it. “What?”

  Beau sighed. “Yes, it very well could have been made by an axe.”

  She paused. He’d sure answered quickly, and with confidence. “You already thought of that, didn’t you?”

  “We needed to get an idea from the doctor for our report. As he was giving us details of the injury, Marcel asked and the doctor confirmed that an axe or hatchet would be consistent with the gash he’d sustained.”

  “And you didn’t tell us?” She bent the now-straight paper clip until it snapped.

  He inhaled slowly, making an almost hissing sound. “We can’t prove or disprove what caused it because of the fire. I can’t just make assumptions, Addy.”

  “But you could have told us it was possible.”

  She thought about what her dad had been so excited about. “Beau, was an axe found at the scenes of the attack on Joey and Theresa Maggio and Lance Bassemier?” She threw the two pieces of the paper clip into the trash can under her desk.

  He hesitated. “I can’t give out such information about an open investigation.”

  Which likely meant yes. “The woman who was attacked and survived…was her name anything close to like Harriet Lowe?”

  “Again, I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation, Addy. Why all these specific questions?”

  “Dad has a theory that the attacks are someone repeating the attacks of the Axeman from 1918.”

  “A copycat killer?”

  “Dad said this morning that the names of your victims are way too similar to that of the Axeman’s victims, and in the same order.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah. He said he was going to do some research today and email it to me to print out so he could give it to you.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “So you don’t think he’s off on a tangent?” She reached for another paper clip. Her heartbeat quickened. Surely her father’s theory had to be wrong. Someone wasn’t running around New Orleans, replicating murders from a serial killer.

  Beau didn’t respond.

  “Beau?”

  “I can’t discount anything at this point, Addy.” The enormity of his words were weighted down with the heaviness of his tone. “Not when it comes to these cases.”

  Oh, no. Then it was possible someone was repeating the Axeman murders. She’d have to read her father’s research, just to be prepared.

  “I wish I could tell you more, Addy, I do, but I can’t. The captain is already on the warpath because of Allison Williams’ reports. He’s out for blood until we can find whoever is giving that woman information.”

  “I understand.” She did, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t scared.

  Her other line beeped. She glanced at the display. “Hey, Tracey’s calling.”

  “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Okay, bye.” She switched over to Tracey. “Hey, girl, what’s up?”

  “Geoff asked me to go to an art show at your hotel on Friday night.”

  “That’s great.” She’d forgotten about the show Dimitri was throwing for one of Zoey’s artists. “It’s a date-date, right?”

  Tracey laughed. “Of course it’s a date-date, girl. So, what kind of artist? I need to plan what I’m going to wear and that depends on the type of artist.”

  Addy shook her head and tossed the straightened paper clip onto her desk. “I honestly don’t know. Dimitri set it up for Zoey and that’s about all I know at this point.” She grabbed a scrap of paper and jotted a note to be sure and let the guests know the restaurant would be closed tomorrow night.

  “Well, then ask Dimitri, will you?”

  Addy grinned. She wanted to know more about the artist anyway. “Sure. I’ll ask him this morning and call you back.”

  “Thanks, love. Appreciate you. Gotta run.” The line went dead.

  Shaking her head, Addy stood and slipped her cell into her pocket. Typical Trace. She was actually a little envious of her best friend. Tracey apprec
iated that life was but a fleeting moment, and tried to enjoy every moment she’d been given. Her love of life drew people to her like a magnet.

  She grabbed her note and headed toward her assistant’s office. Might as well get this workday started.

  Erika, one of the front desk managers, met her in the hall with a large box wrapped in flowered paper with a big, yellow bow on top. “Ms. Fountaine, this just arrived for you.”

  “Wow, that’s something.” Addy moved to take the box from her.

  “I can set it inside for you, Ms. Fountaine. It’s heavier than you’d expect.”

  Addy opened the door to her office. “Thank you for bringing this.”

  Erika set the box on the little table in the settee area to the left of Addy’s desk. “It’s not your birthday, is it?”

  Addy shook her head as she looked over the beautifully wrapped package. “There’s not a card.”

  Erika helped her look. “I guess they wanted to be anonymous.”

  Visions of the jar of pig’s blood danced before her eyes. “Do you know who delivered it?” Addy didn’t recognize the wrapping paper. She reached for the bow and looked because some of the local stores put their sticker on the bow.

  No sticker on this one.

  “I don’t know, Ms. Fountaine. We were busy, just Misty and I working the counter, and I didn’t get a good look at the delivery guy. He was just a guy with a box and said it was for Adelaide Fountaine. I didn’t even think to ask him where he was from. Is something wrong?”

  “No. It’s fine. I would just like to know who to thank is all.” Addy forced a smile. “Thank you for bringing it back.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll ask Misty if she recognized the guy or anything and let you know if she did.”

  “Thanks.” Addy waited until Erika had left, then stared at the box.

  It was beautiful, certainly, but without a business marking or a card…

  Addy shook her head. It was probably just an oversight. The card probably fell off in the delivery person’s van.

  Carefully, she slid the bow from the box. No explosion, no blood seeped out. She shook her head. She was just being silly. Addy pulled the lid off and pushed away the plain, white tissue paper to reveal a flower-shaped wooden box.