A Twisted Ladder (39 page)

RÉMI AND HENRI WERE
now the sole heirs to the LeBlanc estates. Henri was no longer able to produce children because he had suffered his own wartime injury—one that actually occurred on the battlefield when a petard grenade took his leg and his virility. And so Rémi felt it was now his sole duty to continue the family legacy. Henri had retreated to his home on Esplanade in an alcoholic haze and remained unavailable throughout both his mother’s funeral and the wedding.

Rémi had already considered marrying Chloe long before this, but loathed the public scrutiny that would surely erupt from the interracial union. His own mother would have objected, and might possibly even have stricken Rémi from her will. But there came to Rémi a sudden urging notion, that now-familiar pipe smoke in fog that he never chose to deny, and he’d decided to marry Chloe without further delay.

And now that his mother was gone, there would be no familial outcry.

A Justice of the Peace presided over the small ceremony, and witnesses included only Rémi’s closest friends; among them, Jacob Chapman and the senior workers of Terrefleurs.

Chloe had been a grounding strength to Rémi since Helen’s death. Already she had begun to oversee business transactions for the plantation, as Rémi had become complacent and let his accounts slip toward bankruptcy. But most importantly, Chloe had already produced three children, two of them boys.

The series of funerals, however, were not the only somber outlay to the couple’s new life together. New Orleans had suffered much loss of citizenry due to the Great War, and for the two previous years, Carnival had been canceled.

And in strange coincidence, the day Rémi and Chloe were married was also the eve before the Volstead Act was to go into effect. Rémi was disgusted. First the government had outlawed French, then shut down the Storyville brothels, and now this. The new act prohibited the manufacture, sale, or distribution of alcoholic beverages within the United States. And in a city where alcohol had historically oiled the machinery of everyday life, the coming Prohibition caused a city-wide panic.

Rémi had taken Chloe to a honeymoon dinner at La Maison du Rêve, a quiet, bohemian eatery frequented by wealthy artists, outlaws, and in general, the fringe of society. A place where an interracial couple might enjoy an elegant dinner without molestation. But on this night the diners were whispering among themselves in speculation of how tomorrow’s ban on alcohol would impact New Orleans. Because it was the last day one might legally purchase liquor, the guests had all ordered wine with their dinners.

The restaurateur, however, having anticipated the ban, had let his stock of wine and spirits dwindle. He apparently did not want to find himself the next day with a stout inventory of alcohol that the authorities would surely confiscate and destroy, along with his profits. And so, early in the evening, the wine cellar ran dry. The depleted stock ignited a fever of outrage among the diners.

“You’ll not serve me drink?” one guest bellowed, rising from his seat. “The ban does not begin until tomorrow! You oughtn’t force your morals upon me!”

“I wouldn’t have come here had I known,” declared another.

Rémi and Chloe finished their honeymoon dinner with haste, surprised that their fellow diners felt so passionately about a simple matter of drink. While annoying, the Volstead Act was little more than a nuisance to Rémi. Prohibition was not a concern at Terrefleurs because they rarely purchased alcohol; they either manufactured or traded for it. The plantationers could only vaguely grasp the concept of such a ban. How would the authorities enforce it? Surely they wouldn’t bother to venture out to every farm and plantation.

Rémi and Chloe left La Maison and ventured into the dark winter streets of New Orleans. Already, people of every race, creed, and class were cramming the cobblestone roadways. The gas streetlamps illuminated their faces, shining with euphoria and desperation. They all sought that one last drink before the ban. It seemed every single person within the city limits had emerged to hail and bid farewell to drink.

Rémi took Chloe’s hand and led her through the crowd to a small tavern he knew to be quiet and intimate. Standing in the doorway, however, they found it overflowing with people.

“We go back to the house,” Chloe urged.

“This is our honeymoon. We won’t let them spoil it.”

Chloe seemed unconvinced. The crowd was boisterous, and she insisted upon returning to the house on Esplanade, which they had been occupying since Madame LeBlanc’s death. The men inside the tavern were making lascivious advances toward the women, and they in turn abandoned their sense of propriety and were behaving flamboyantly. Most of the women had likely never before set foot inside a tavern, and would have considered it improper to do so. But somehow for this one night it became fashionable, and prostitutes and debutantes alike rollicked with abandon.

“I am your wife and you should honor me,” Chloe said. “You are now the only one to inherit your family’s fortune. That is because I cast spells for you and brought you good luck.”

Rémi looked at her with amazement. “Good luck? Are you referring to the death of my mother and brother? Those tragedies had nothing to do with you. And I am not the sole heir, as my brother Henri still lives.”

Rémi escorted Chloe inside the tavern with the promise to indulge only a single toast to their new union before returning home.

When the other patrons learned that they were newlyweds, however, they cheered afresh with jubilation. Everyone in the tavern bought Rémi and Chloe drinks, and then Rémi bought a round for the entire house. Women who otherwise would never have acknowledged Chloe’s presence suddenly became her new chums. Rémi and Chloe were king and queen of the night.

Rémi felt euphoric. He reveled with a freedom that he had not known since Helen died and Ulysses had begun to appear. But now he had not seen Ulysses in over a week, and wondered if perhaps his period of darkness was over. His new wife was his salvation, and he wrapped himself in worship from strangers, knowing not a care in the world.

Chloe, however, was glowering. “I do not understand these women in their fine clothes and expensive jewelry. They allow themselves to be fondled. This is polite society?”

“They’re celebrating,” Rémi said. “And we should too. Look, someone just sent more champagne.”

“They can take their champagne and go hang!” She stood and straightened her jacket. “Stay if you like. I go back to the house.”

She strode toward the door, and Rémi, bewildered and heavy on his feet, made to follow her. He fumbled through the crowded tavern as hands pulled on his clothing and sirened one more drink, one
last
drink of ages for the lucky groom.

He finally broke free from the tavern, only to feel the slap of the winter wind. The crowd was almost as thick and raucous on the street as inside the tavern. Chloe had gotten far ahead of him by now, and he strained to keep her in sight as he lumbered after her. He could see the back of her soft white woolen hat and matching suit that bloomed out at her calves as she bobbed ahead in the throng, her erect posture and strident gait easily discernible against the slumped, ambling bodies of the inebriated crowd.

Rémi’s shoes dragged as though filled with cement, and it took all the concentration he could muster to focus on her. He hadn’t realized he was getting so drunk. As they moved toward the heart of the Carré, the crowd grew ever more dense, and Rémi had to turn his shoulders sideways to press through. He feared he would never catch up with her.

Angry howls erupted from the center of the street, and punches began flying. Rémi couldn’t tell what had caused the brawl. He saw Chloe stop as she found herself in the midst of rabid shouts and lunging bodies. Next to her, one man flung himself at another, and she stepped backward just in time to avoid getting knocked to the ground in a tangle of belligerents. She turned to her left and disappeared into an alley.

“Wait!” Rémi called after her, but his voice was swallowed in the rabble.

He pressed forward with renewed vigor, but his progress was slow. He kept an eye on the gap between buildings where Chloe had disappeared, and noticed a tall black figure moving toward it. He paused and looked back at Rémi. It was Ulysses. He followed Chloe into the alley.

NEW ORLEANS, 2009

T
HEY DID NOT IMMEDIATELY
see Zenon inside the Pelican Club. Many familiar faces, including Vinny and Joe Whitney. She also saw Anita, Sam’s intern at the flower shop. She was smiling and two-stepping her way from group to group. As Madeleine wandered through the dining hall with Ethan, it struck her how many people knew this missing girl, Angel Frey. She seemed to have had just as much presence in New Orleans as in her home of Baton Rouge. And although people tend to glorify those who are no longer with us, it seemed this girl had possessed a rare heart. She was an altruist, clearly, a regular in charity and volunteer work while still holding down a full-time job, just like her parents.

As Madeleine said her hellos, not a single person inquired about the bruises on her face. All offered sympathy about the fire, though. Likely the incident had been fodder for hot gossip.

Ethan turned and shook hands with a very tall man whom Madeleine didn’t know. “Madeleine, this is my buddy Shawn.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said as she took his hand.

“Ethan and I went to school together. I know your father.”

“Oh?” Madeleine smiled.

Ethan clapped a hand on Shawn’s shoulder. “Shawn here writes for the
Times-Picayune
. If you read it this morning you might have seen his exposé on Joe Whitney.”

“That was you? I did read it. Congratulations.”

Madeleine looked over to where Joe was engaged in conversation with some older gentlemen. Ironically, he was more likely to make appearances when in the midst of a scandal than when things were quiet. Joe looked up and caught her eye, then launched himself in her direction. She braced.

“Ethan and Miss Madeleine!” Joe cried as if they had been triplets separated at birth. “And my good friend the executioner! I gotta hand it to you, old man, you really gave me a tar-and-feathering in the paper today.”

“You’re certainly good-natured about it,” Shawn said mildly, and then with just a teaspoon of acid: “Because it looks like there’s going to be an official criminal investigation.”

Joe snorted. “I’m not worried. Nothing illegal transpired, I can assure you.”

“Least nothing they can
prove
. Yet.”

“Of course you realize, I’m gonna have your head on a platter.
And
your ass. Both the paper and you will be named for libel.”

Whitney was speaking loudly, much more so than was necessary for any normal conversation. Madeleine suspected he did this more for the benefit of the wider audience, the New Orleans socialites who were now looking over their shoulders at him. Zenon was looking too. He caught Madeleine’s eye. She stared back, refusing to avert her gaze. Very slowly, his lips curved upward in a smile.

“You might want to start looking for another job,” Joe Whitney was saying, and Madeleine tore her gaze back to them.

Shawn raised his voice to match. “Bring it on. Because I got the paper trail. Your board membership under an assumed name for the spin-off company, whose interests are currently under investigation. Your consulting fees, your approval for zoning—I even have a copy of a bonus guarantee for
268,000, plus ongoing fees that’ll earn you millions. I’d be happy to share it all in a court of law. Especially during your run for city council, assuming those rumors are true.”