Lies Agreed Upon (19 page)

“I can’t see anything obviously wrong,” Tony said as he finally looked up. “I’ll have to dig a little bit deeper before I give you an all-clear, Tess. Although I do think the offer may be low-ball compared to other industrial lots on the river. When do you see the Gulf Coast lawyer?”

“On Thursday morning,” answered Tess.

“I may not have an answer by then, so I would advise you to stall.
Is it OK if I keep these papers for now?” asked Tony.

“I’d really appreciate it. What will it cost for your evaluation and advice?” asked Tess nervously. Tony might be less pompous than Jon, but he was also at ease with high-priced di
ning and powerful friends. Tess had an idea that he was very successful in his own right.

“If I can get you a better deal on the property, you can pay me 15% of the added value. If I don’t find anything to make me think you aren’t getting a good price already, it’s a freebie. How’s that?” grinned Tony.

“That’s more than fair to me, but I think you’re getting a raw deal,” Tess frowned.

“Unlike my glum friend here, I’m an old hand at helping damsels in distress,” laughed Tony. “Not the dragon-slaying part, of course. I leave that to brawny guys like Jon. I take care
of the riding into the happily-ever-after with a kiss that turns the swineherd into a prince.”

“I hope you don’t think you are getting kisses for this little favor to Tess,” warned Jon with only half-teasing asperity.

“Hey, pal, all in jest,” answered Tony with a lift of his eyebrows and a curious look for Jon’s apparent sensitivity. He turned to Tess and said with smiling sincerity, “Really, this is a no-strings-attached project. If I can help out, I will. It’s no big deal. This will only require a few phone conversations with people I talk to all the time anyway.”

“Thanks, Tony. And don’t let Jon make you think I’m against kissing if it’s for a good cause,” smiled Tess in return,
giving Jon a sidelong peep that captured a fleeting tautness in his mouth and chin before he relaxed.

Tess
relaxed, too, and seized the rare opportunity to enjoy the company of two attractive men. Her family research might be depressing, but her social life was definitely on the upswing.

Tony
parted from them in the balmy air outside the restaurant as Jon and Tess waited for the valet to bring his car. Tony promised to meet with Tess as soon as he finished his evaluation—another “date” for me, thought Tess wryly. Then Tony, who lived in the Garden District, strolled toward home. His gait was rolling slightly on the waves of mild inebriation, and he was whistling, hands in pockets.

As she ascended in the hotel elevator later, Tess found herself happily humming the same tune Tony had been whistling.

“Are you so naïve? Why are two successful lawyers helping a stranger pro bono? Clear the wine fumes from your head! Jon has reason to spite both Gulf Coast Refining and the Cabreras who exploited his family. And Tony seems like the type to slip a hand up your skirt when you least expect it. Watch out, you fool.”

“I’m not listening to your negativity. Look where it got you,” retorted Tess to the empty elevator.

9 betrayal

Gloria Donovan lived in a one-story, brick-faced box with a small roofed stoop and a “picture” window framed by undersized fake shutters. A dilapidated car port shaded an old si
lver compact. The house apparently had escaped major damage during Katrina, so it was neither damaged nor repaired, just deteriorated.

At precisely 10 a.m., Tess pushed the doorbell. A statuesque black woman, wearing nur
sing scrubs in the modern style of cheerful tangerine top and pants, opened the door.

“Ms. Rogers?” asked Tess diffidently.

“And you mus’ be Miss, um, Parnell,” smiled the woman with a reassuring warmth. “Come on in. I got Miss Gloria all prepped and primped as much as she’ll allow.”

She was still speaking when a high, harsh quaver issued from the depths of the house. “Charmaine, is that her? The Cabrera girl? What are you gabbin’ about? Bring her here.”

Charmaine remained unfazed and calmly motioned Tess to come inside. “Hold your horses. I’m bringin’ her right back, Miss Gloria,” she called.

Tess entered a Victorian parlor
furnished for a larger house. It was stuffed with ornate brocade sofas and armchairs attended by claw-footed tables capped by crocheted doilies. The walls were papered in pink roses and twining vines, which added to the claustrophobic clutter. The picture window was shrouded by sun-rotted sheers and faded rose-velvet drapes. The curtains admitted a strained sunlight to limn cobwebs in corners and dust film on every surface.

“Well, if cleanliness is next to godliness, our relati
ve is pretty far from the Almighty.”

“I’m sure Gloria Donovan is too old to do it, and Charmaine’s duties don’t include dus
ting,” Tess protested mentally in half-hearted defense of the parlor mausoleum.

Occupied by her internal dialogue, Tess bumped into Charmaine, who had halted a
bruptly. Waving off Tess’s apology, the woman spoke in a hushed contralto. “I’ll warn you she’s mean and fast as a rattler on her good days,” she confided. “Now mind you don’t see this dump and start feelin’ sorry for ‘po’ Miss Gloria.’ She’s a miser. She’s got lotta money in the bank and could live fancy in Old Metairie. But she’ll line her coffin in gold ’fore she spends a penny. Now here’s my advice: She’s gonna fade fast. So keep her on track and get your answers quick.”

“Charmaine! Where’d you get to? I can hear you. I’m not deaf,” the old voice screeched.

Charmaine shook her head and slipped Tess a reassuring smile as she led her to the kitchen. The kitchen had advanced from the parlor’s turn-of-the-century decay into the 1970s before stopping in confusion. Harvest-gold range-oven and refrigerator planted greasy feet on linoleum squares in dizzying “Spanish” brown and orange arabesques. The room was bound in a loop of brown laminate countertop. Pine cabinetry had been “updated” with gingerbread framing and bottom scallops, and then painted in garish burnt orange. A tiny “nook” was crammed with a table and chairs sporting red floral cushions that clashed painfully with the orange color scheme.

“Gloria has hideous taste.”
  Tess barely prevented a wince of agreement.

A figure in a bright-pink housecoat
was perched at the table. A near-empty glass of milk and a crumb-littered plate indicated that she had just finished a mid-morning snack.

“So you’re the Cabrera girl.
Come and sit down,” commanded Miss Gloria as Tess christened her mentally, following Charmaine’s practice.

Tess smiled and tried to hide her i
nstant revulsion. Time can be cruel to even beautiful women, and Miss Gloria had not started from an attractive base. Now her features had lined, pulled and shriveled into a permanently querulous mask. The eyes were hard brown pebbles, and a sunken mouth pouted above a quivering double chin. Deep frown lines extended into sagging jowls and bracketed a beaked nose.

This ugly head exhibited a noticeable tremor
, vibrating the stiff steel curls of her thinning hair. The spidery arms and legs twitched restlessly around an obese torso of sagging folds. Tess assumed the old lady was suffering from some degenerative disorder and tried to dredge up sympathy rather than repugnance for the malevolent vibrations that emanated from the old woman.

“S
ave your pity till you know her.”

Tess forced a smile as she took a seat opposite Miss Gloria as ordered. “Good morning, Ms. Donovan. My name is Tess Parnell. My grandfather was Guy Cabrera, who was
—”

“I know about my Cabrera relati
ves. I haven’t lost my wits,” interrupted Miss Gloria. “So you’re the last of the Cabreras. Well, they didn’t come to much for all their pride.”

Charmaine derailed further unfriendly comments by interjecting, “Now, Mi
ss Gloria, why don’t I get Miss Parnell some refreshmen’? Then you can begin recallin’ all the ole family stories. Would you like some coffee, Miss Parnell? We also got Coca Cola, Dr. Pepper, lemonade or ernge juice.” (The last item Tess interpreted as orange juice.)

Tess smiled gratefully at Charmaine’s calming intervention. “Coffee would be fine, thank you,” she said and hoped she did
not step on Miss Gloria’s toes again as she continued, “I’m in town because I recently inherited some Cabrera family land, Ms. Donovan. I don’t know the history of my family here, so I’m exploring my roots. Mr. Philip Dreux, whose law firm represents a prospective buyer of my property, did family research to trace ownership, and he steered me to Sam Beauvoir, an old Cabrera family friend. I met with Mr. Beauvoir, who gave me your phone –”

“So Sam Beauvoir is a family friend now,” the
old woman grumbled. “I know Phil Dreux, and I doubt he said that! But it’s just like a Cabrera to go talk to some uppity colored man before their own kin. What did Sam say about me? Nothin’ good, I’m sure. The Beauvoirs always stuck by the Cabreras. They knew which side their bread was buttered.”

Tess glanced in embarrassment at Charmaine, who was calmly pouring coffee and a
ppeared unaffected. She was clearly used to the woman’s overt prejudices.

“You’re right. I don’t know very much about the Donovan side of the family. I was ho
ping you could tell me more,” placated Tess.

“My grandmother was a Cabrera before she was a Donovan. I’m more Cabrera than you,” snapped Miss Gloria. “I bet you know all about patriarch Antonio, wicked Josephine, great Ben and beautiful Thérèse. But what do you know about my mother Elaine?”

“I understand she married a man from out of state—” Tess started to respond.

“You heard she married a Yankee. Well, lemme tell you a real romance i
nstead of tripe about Antonio’s wives, who were opportunists plain and simple. No, young lady, it was my momma who lived the love story in the family,” declared Miss Gloria with a thrust of her shuddering jowls. “Charmaine, hand me that shoebox.”

Charmaine strolled over and set a steaming coffee cup and a plate of pecan-covered co
ffee cake in front of Tess before pushing the indicated box from one side of the table to a spot near her elderly charge’s boney elbow. Miss Gloria jerked the box into the protective circle of her quavering arms.

“I see you don’t strain yourself hurryin’,” she snapped at the impervious car
egiver. “And why don’t you give me some coffee and cake?”

“You already ate breakfas’ and a snack,” answered Charmaine. She eyed the old woman’s pouting expression and then apparently decided that it would be wiser to appease her. “But a guest don’
t feel right eatin’ alone. So I’ll get some cake and more milk for you.”

Miss Gloria rewarded her with a glare. “I gotta watch or she’ll starve me to death,” the old harridan
muttered as Charmaine quietly poured milk and served cake, immune to the old lady’s venom.

“Don’t let down your guard because you think Gloria’s gaga. She’s mean, whether it’s about cake or money.”

Meanwhile, Miss Gloria focused intently on her shoebox treasure. Her tremulous hands lifted the warped cardboard lid and reverently scooped yellowed sheets from a pile of letters, some still tied in batches by faded satin ribbon. Tess reached out to take the papers, but Miss Gloria reared back angrily.

“You can NOT touch these letters. You may damage them. These are historic artifacts,” she hissed at a startled Tess. “I will read one to you. This is a letter from my father Charles D
onovan to his family, dated April 1862. My daddy was a 17-year-old Irishman when he served in the 171
st
New York Regiment in Louisiana. Now pay attention.” Miss Gloria began to recite the long-ago words of a masculine author in a quavering soprano:

Dearest Father,

I understand Billy Wills, who lately returned home to recuperate from yellow fever, gave you some alarming news about me. I am writing to reassure you that, though I have been wounded, I am now on the mend.

I received my wounds three months ago while I was assigned to provost duty on the Mississippi River between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. We were making sure that every steamer had passes for the freight landed at the river docks and intercepting any freight that m
ight be intended to help the Confederates. One morning, we received a report from a steamer captain that he had unloaded suspicious goods at the dock of a local plantation owner named Arnoult. Our captain sent Sgt. O’Reilly and five of us from my squad to check this out.

As we approached the landing area
on foot, we suddenly came upon three mounted Confederates, who had arrived to pick up the goods. Shots were exchanged, and the Confederates fled.

Sgt. O’Reilly told me to go to the planter’s house to demand a boat to
transport the confiscated goods. I left our men at the dock, and, as it turns out, it was the last I was to see of them.

I went to Planter Arnoult’s house and asked him to provide me with a boat and with slaves to load and navigate it. He complied but not happily. As I walked back to the river through a pecan grove, I suddenly heard
hoofbeats and looked up to see the same three Confederates galloping toward me, bent on recovering their contraband, I suppose. Before I could aim my rifle, they were firing their shotguns. A charge of heavy buckshot hit my foot, knocking me down. A second blast struck a glancing blow to the right side of my face, knocking me out.

By the time I came to my senses, the Confederates were taking my weapons and watch. Hearing me moan, one drew a pistol to finish their murderous work. Suddenly, a young woman flew out of the pecan trees like an avenging angel. She berated the armed ruffians and ordered them to “let the poor man die in peace.” I must have looked pretty bad to her. After shouting and curses, they finally left me
in her care but still stole my watch and rifle.

The young lady turned out to be the daughter of
Planter Arnoult, and she had her slaves carry me to her house. Her father was upset that she had involved herself in my trouble, but she ignored him and bandaged my wounds tenderly. I was unconscious much of the time, but I woke briefly to find myself rocking in the keel of a boat, my head in her lap as she shaded me with her parasol. They took me to the closest Union camp, but I had passed out and did not get a chance to take my leave of the angel who had saved me.

The surgeons worked on me and got
out most of the shot, but I must tell you that I may have lost sight in my right eye. I also have lost some toes and may walk with a limp. Still, I am lucky to be alive to write this tale to you!

While I was recovering, I learned that Sgt. O’Reilly and the other men never returned
. A search did not find them, and they are presumed dead or captured. So you see that I was the luckiest man on that foray.

I also learned
that my captain burned down the Arnoult house in retaliation, and I feel very bad that his daughter’s kindness to me should be so rewarded. Her face is burned into my memory along with her name: Thérèse. I vow I will thank her as soon as I am back on my feet.

Your Loving Son, Charles

“Did Charles Donovan get to
thank Thérèse?” asked Tess, surprisingly moved by the antique war-time drama. It certainly showed Thérèse in a different light.

“By the time he recovered enough to seek her out, she had married that fool Ant
onio,” snorted Miss Gloria. “Her father was bedridden from a stroke, brought on by the shock of Yankee retaliation they say. All three were livin’ in a former overseer’s house. When my daddy explained his desire to thank Thérèse, Antonio slammed the door in his face. But my daddy never forgot his ‘beautiful angel.’ He came back to New Orleans in 1900 as a railroad station master, and he was determined to meet her. Since Ben Cabrera had invested in the railroad that employed him, he somehow snagged an invitation to a gala out at ‘Alhambra,’ as Antonio called his new Moorish palace. So, yes, he eventually spoke with Thérèse. Not that she was happy to see him.”

“I guess I’m confused. So far this is a story about Thérèse Cabrera and Charles Donovan,” Tess interrupted. “You said you were going to tell me about the romance of your parents, Charles and
Elaine
. Did your father and mother meet in that visit to Antonio’s home?”