Lies Agreed Upon (49 page)

As she swayed forward, her vision kept blurring and dissolving into flickering light. A rustling, sighing chorus of whispers seemed to surround her. Vague forms flitted just at the co
rner of sight. Ghosts, she thought vaguely, welcoming ghosts because I’m almost in their world. Strangely, it did not alarm her; she sensed who they were, these shades: Josephine, Solange and Thérèse. They had already joined her mother in her mind as intimate phantoms, an extended family.

Her pale, w
avering form in the dark wood was now a twin of spectral Josephine. Her white dress was soaked and streaked with mud and gore. Her hair hung in dark clotted hanks, and her face was veiled by drying blood. “Maybe I’m even more terrifying than you, Josephine,” she slurred to her shadowy companions.

It was a short path, but Tess made slow progress. Her knees tended to buckle without warning, and the pain in her head blinded her, squeezing her vision down to a pinpoint of focus.

“Don’t give up. We’re with you.”
The cool night air turned into her mother’s whispered breath, soothing her abraded cheek.

Each time she felt on the verge of collapse, s
he blinked, stopped and sucked in desperate breaths until her equilibrium returned.

Tess finally staggered to the edge of the
oak grove and squinted painfully at the crowded picnic area only steps away. She sagged dizzily against a tree trunk and prepared to call out to the closest group of figures, but the words died in her throat. She had something she had to accomplish here besides rescue: Dreux. Where was he?

The open area was illuminated like a stage set, but its actors were frustratingly doubled and blurred, and penumbral spots circled and tumbled like kaleidoscope chips. The beat of the music and the rattle of voices fluctuated, fading in and out.

“Tess, Tess,” murmured a voice. She was surprised to see Sam Beauvoir wearing his old suit, fedora, and sunglasses. He pointed, and Tess obediently looked where directed. Now she saw Dreux. Rage held everything still at last. Dreux was wearing his neatly pressed jacket and strolling nonchalantly toward the bleachers.

There had been a lull in the fireworks, but the band struck up “America the Beaut
iful,” and a loudspeaker announced “The Grand Finale.” Tess left the trees and approached the aluminum viewing stand as Dreux began to slowly mount the steps toward an empty spot in the third tier. She tried to call out to him but achieved only a faint croak. Oblivious, Dreux kept climbing.

Though she had failed to capture Dreux’s attention, Tess unexpectedly succeeded els
ewhere. A teenage girl in the stands glanced in Tess’s direction and displayed sudden wide-eyed horror. She grabbed at her companion, another teenager, and both began pointing and shrieking. Over the noise of the fireworks, Tess could make out the words “the ghost.” A woman screamed. A man descended the viewing stand at a run. “Get the paramedics,” he shouted.

Finally, Dreux became aware of the commotion and followed the gaze
s of nearby agitated spectators. Across the explosion-illuminated space, his eyes met Tess’s baleful gaze. In a last effort to communicate, she raised her trembling hand and pointed at Dreux.

Tess saw the old lawyer’s eyes widen and his mouth drop open. What did he see
in that instant? An escaped victim demanding justice? A gruesome ghost accusing him from the beyond? She hoped he did not see her alone. She hoped his guilty soul saw her surrounded by the spirits of those he’d wronged—her mother, her grandmother and her grandfather. Perhaps even Josephine drifted from her haunted grove.

Whatever he saw overwhelmed him enough to make him stumble sideways in shock. He tripped over his own feet and fell with wind-milling arms against the outside railing. His m
omentum was enough to flip his light torso over the barrier, and he plummeted.

Before Tess could see more, she was surrounded by concerned citizens urging her to lie down. The paramedics appeared moments later, and she was caught in a whirlpool of movement and flat, efficient voices. She was strapped to a stretcher and her head and neck were immob
ilized so that she could not even turn her face to look where Dreux had fallen. The fireworks were exploding, and the band was playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“What happened to Mr. Dreux? Don’t let him get away,” Tess cried hoarsely as the eme
rgency crew lifted up the stretcher.

She wished she could lie still, she thought hazily; the mov
ement was nauseating. She kept trying to catch the attention of the paramedics, but they only gave her glances of professional assessment.

“Just hold on a bit longer, Miss,” said one as she grabbed his sleeve.

Suddenly Tony’s voice was shouting in her ear. “Tess, my God. What happened? I’ve been going crazy looking for you.” She saw his face leaning over her. He grabbed her hand with both of his, and his puppy dog eyes were wide and terrified.

The stretcher team halted imp
atiently. “Sir, we need to get this woman to a hospital,” said one with a frown. “Please step aside,” ordered another.

A senior
member of the emergency medical team approached the stalled caravan. “Are you a relative, sir?” he asked Tony politely but impatiently.

“No, I’m a friend. She doesn’t have family here. She’s visiting from out of town,” Tony answered, without turning his gaze from Tess. His shocked face told Tess her injuries must look alarming.

“You can follow us to the hospital, but we need to get going now,” the medic was saying, pulling at Tony’s shoulder. Tony began to comply, but Tess fiercely tightened her grip on his hand.

“Tony, make them arrest Dreux. He hit me with a rock. He pushed me in the water. He tried to kill me. Don’t let him get away,” she rasped anxiously.

An odd look passed over his face. “Don’t worry, Tess. We need to take care of you first.” He began to withdraw his hand. Tess dug in her ragged fingernails and saw him wince. “No, listen—”

Tony bent close over Tess’s tethered face. “You don’t need to worry.” He spoke slowly and firmly. “Dreux won’t get away. He’s dead, Tess. He broke his neck.”

Tess blinked up into the concerned faces of Tony and the paramedics. She closed her eyes and let her sore, exhausted limbs relax. Her fingers went lax and slipped from Tony’s gentle grasp. She wanted to sleep now.

“Good,” she said dreamily. “I hope he has to haunt that a
wful little bayou forever.”

20 RESURRECTION

As a result of posthumous generosity, Dreux’s funeral had a respectable attendance. Per his will, his assets, excepting his townhouse, were to be liquidated and donated to philanthropic causes, including bequests to the Catholic Archdiocese, New Orleans cultural institutions, and his high school alma mater, St. Paul’s.

The funeral mass took place at the venerable Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, where its patron saints—St. Jude of impossible causes and St. Expedite of quick succor—watched over Dreux’s legal peers, clients, and charitable beneficiaries. It was a decorous but far from gloomy gathering; only Chrysanthe Jinks and Vera Blaise dabbed at tears and sighed between eulogy and grave. But the cynical whispered that Miss Jinks was a stickler for mourning demeanor, and Mrs. Blaise was sad because her ungrateful employer had ignored her in his will, leaving not even a teaspoon to the devotee of his kitchen.

There was a brief buzz when it was learned the townhouse had been left to a gentleman named Alonzo Love, who was described as a Key West retiree and “long-time friend.” Mr. Love never set foot in New Orleans; he sold the house through a local agent, so the gossip mills ground to a halt for lack of grist.

When the contents of Dreux’s home went to auction, it drew a larger crowd than his last rites. Most items were snapped up locally. However, the gaudy Empire bedroom suite went sailing back to its birthplace in France to take center stage in the vineyard chateau of a wealthy Minneapolis businessman. Dreux’s former legal adversary Jon Beauvoir won a brief bidding war for the worn griffin fountain in the courtyard and also captured Benjamin Cabrera’s Civil War cavalry sabers and pistols, surprising many with his interest in the weapons that had defended slavery.

At the same time as the elite funeral of Dreux, Sam Beauvoir’s flower-bedecked coffin drew an emotional, overflow crowd to St. Augustine’s. The long funeral cortege entered St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, where Solange had
established a family crypt. The tomb was nicely ornamented with a sleeping marble cherub given to her by a “grateful client.” Sam’s son Maurice, the funeral home owner, arranged for a moving and impressive send-off in the old style – with the banners of the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club and black-suited marshals pacing to the trombone and slow drum. Sam’s daughter Luanne organized a second line for a triumphant, gyrating farewell to brass-band fanfare.

A few days after Sam Beauvoir and Phil Dreux were laid to rest, the ostentatious D
onovan crypt in Metairie Cemetery admitted Miss Gloria Donovan. The only attendees were her long-time caregiver Charmaine Rogers, the priest, her lawyer, her accountant, and the cemetery staff. While most of her considerable estate went to charity, the dusty contents of the old lady’s house had been bequeathed to Charmaine, who was heard to comment, “Jus' my luck to get lef’ all the junk to clean up.”

At the same time as the funerals, Tess Parnell’s
bed in the Interim Louisiana State University Public Hospital attracted a stream of disparate visitors. The neurosurgeons at the hospital, a main post-Katrina trauma center, had tended crime victims before, so it was not unusual to see the arrival of a police detective after Miss Parnell’s admission. The young tourist had made accusations to paramedics about a wealthy old lawyer, coincidentally killed in a fall. However, her confused story apparently did not impress the detective enough that he wanted to tarnish the reputation of a respected and posthumously generous citizen, and her injury was officially treated as accidental.

Two young
men—a short, lean and agitated fellow called Tony and a tall, reserved African-American named Jon—also appeared shortly after Miss Parnell’s admission. They waited anxiously for the neurologist to make his rounds so they could pepper him with questions. The doctor assured them that recovery would be slow, but the prognosis was good now that a small subdural hematoma had been drained.

The two young men were part of a wider circle of male admirers. Get-well bouquets and phone calls from “Remy,” “Joel” and “Mac” generated interested speculation among the nursing staff.

Two old ladies—one tiny and chattering, and one lumbering and taciturn—showed up after a few days. The small one was heard to say, “I knew that something bad was going to happen. I warned her to be careful. My heart just stopped when I read about the accident.” She peeped around the drawn privacy curtain and chirped, “Tess, dear, it’s Mimi. We’re so glad you’re awake.”

Three young female visitors
all the way from California were the next to appear. They hurried into the patient’s room, and a nurse jotting notes on a chart outside the patient’s door overheard the following conversation between the out-of-towners and the patient.

“Oh, my God, we were so worried. How are you feeling?” asked a buxom, broad-beamed woman in a tailored navy pantsuit. Her commanding voice easily carried into the hall. “You look, um
—”

“Awful,” concluded a bold-eyed, olive-skinned girl in a tight skirt and expensive blouse. The weak response of the patient was unintelligible, but the eavesdropping nurse could guess its content from
the other girl’s exclamation. “Are you crazy? You can’t make the wedding! Katie, talk sense into her!”

The third
young woman—a black-haired, blue-eyed beauty with a lithe figure—said gently, “Tess, of course, I want you to be there. But I can’t risk you keeling over with a brain hemorrhage.”

“By the way, we met Jon and Tony in the hospital lobby right before we came up,” said the sexy one. “I couldn’t stop myself from giving that Tony a piece of my mind for letting Dreux distract him so the old devil could arrange an ‘accident.’ But why were they dressed up like the Blues Brothers?”

The patient said something quietly, and all three exclaimed.

“Oh, we didn’t know they were coming from Sam
Beauvoir’s funeral. I’m so sorry. I know you liked him,” soothed the blue-eyed beauty. There was a murmured response, and the visitors were silent for a moment.

“Tess, you were—
you
are
—suffering from a nasty concussion. It’s not possible Sam was there in the oaks with you,” said the large friend in a firm voice.

When the patient spoke next, her voice was steady and clearly heard out in the hall. “I know. Actually, Jon told me Sam died before the fireworks even started. It doesn’t matter if he was
hallucination or paranormal experience. I saw him, and there’s a reason. There’s something I promised to do for Sam before he died, something I especially owe him. I’m too tired to talk. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll explain.”

The final odd visitor was a robust dark-skinned woman in lime green scrubs. She e
xplained that she was Charmaine Rogers, and she had come to let the patient know that her last remaining relative had passed away.

When the staff asked in concern whether Miss Parnell had been close to the deceased, Mrs. Rogers declared, “No way. But I thought she’d still wanna know. ’Sides, I got somethin’ the old lady passed on to her.” Mrs. Rogers lifted a crumpled paper bag and s
trolled into the patient’s room,

She could be heard
exclaiming, “Lord, you look bad, honey!”

At last, a wobbly Tess Parnell was discharged and whisked off to California by her trio of girlfriends.

It was close to a year later when the same three girlfriends again visited New Orleans. This time, they traveled together in a hired stretch limousine.

Katie nestled against the side of her husband Trevor and exclaimed to her friends over their economical but “romantic” French Quarter hotel. A swift elbow jab punished Trevor’s ribs when he muttered under his breath about “low water pressure” and the “eau de
mildew” scent.

Christina laughed, “I’m with you, Trev. Rob and I are right next to the Bourbon Street a
ction in a hotel that’s updated, not museum musty.” Christina gave her latest companion, Rob, a teasing cuddle. He was a tall, laconic journalist from London, and Christina loved his “adorable accent.”

As the limo purred toward its destination, Jen, who had come without male escort, pr
oposed a toast with the iced champagne provided. The five repeatedly lifted glasses “to Tess,” “to New Orleans,” “to air-conditioned limos,” becoming sillier and more raucous until the limo slowed, turned and rocked down a paved drive.

“We must be here,” exclaimed Katie, and the passengers peered
out at the passage of majestic live oaks.

“Well, it looks like Tess is going to get a good turnout for the grand opening,” commen
ted Jen as they all exited the limo into a crowded parking area. The center of the black-asphalt lot was ornamented by a burbling fountain with a worn stone basin supported by eroded griffins. The fountain created an appropriately historic atmosphere to balance the bright new billboard that announced “The Gardens of Eden: Fine Dining and Events.” Next to the sign and in the middle of a long, 10-foot-high yew hedge was a gated rose-arbor entrance. A shapely young hostess with milk-chocolate skin greeted them at the entrance, murmuring “Welcome to the Gardens of Eden” as she handed out site maps to guests.

“Oh, my God,” gasped Katie as they passed through the arbor and emerged in the main garden area. “The pictures don’t do it justice.”

They were standing on a paved platform looking down wide golden-stone steps at a rose garden of lush blooms and heady scents. Honey-colored stone paths created a grid of rose beds bisected by a central channel of pale azure water dappled by interlaced arcs of silver droplets. Another garden with fountain basins set in multicolor floral squares could be glimpsed through a clipped hedge arcade.

“Let’s see the gardens later once the sun isn’t melting us into sweaty puddles,” suggested Christina. “I’m sure Tess is in the air-conditioned restaurant.”

They skirted a semi-nude female statue, descended the steps and hurried past the roses to the belvedere at the end of the garden. Its arcades had been enclosed top and bottom by glass to create air-conditioned dining areas that still offered diners garden or riverside vistas. The roof sported new tiles, the walls were bright with fresh stucco, and the border of Moorish tiles was seamlessly vibrant. A new addition housed the kitchen.

The restaurant hostess was checking a list of special invitees for their names when an e
xcited voice called out. They turned to see Tess running down a stairway. The four girlfriends collided joyfully, hugging and laughing in a feminine huddle under the bemused male gazes.

“Oh, I’m so happy to see you all,”
declared Tess breathlessly. She was dressed in a pale beige jacket and skirt with a red blouse and – in what would have been an amazingly bold statement for the Tess of a year earlier – red high-heeled pumps.

“Did you click your ruby slippers and land here? This isn’t Kansas, is it?” quizzed Chri
stina.

“Oh, do you think it’s too much?” asked Tess, biting her lip and looking at her shoes an
xiously.

The friends exchanged glances and laughed. The old diffident Tess still emerged from time to time, and it was reassuring. In the last year, their once-cautious friend had been a whir
lwind of decisions.

“You look great,” soothed Katie, “and the gardens are lovely. Now take us on a restaurant tour.”

“I’d love to,” grinned Tess. “The Mediterranean ambiance of the place is going to be reflected in the food, with a Creole twist that pulls together the French, Spanish and Italian influences on local cuisine,” she lectured in tour-guide solemnity and then lapsed into excited chatter. “Come and look at the back courtyard first. I expanded it and opened up the back hedge so it’s less claustrophobic. Now there’s a view of a new native-plant garden. The patio café will be a tourist pleaser for the lunch crowd and then a tapas and wine bar in the evening.”

Tess stopped abruptly and pointed to a framed photo on the arch of the door leading out to the patio. “By the way, Noah Cabirac’s adoptive sister Louise donated that picture of Noah.”

The group paused and stared curiously. “What a gorgeous guy, but he looks so sad,” remarked Katie.

Noah was dressed in a plaid shirt and patched denim work pants. He was hatless and his thick, dark hair was tousled
. Like a beautiful but melancholy David, he stood on a small dock next to a 10-foot alligator Goliath. Despite the trophy kill, his expression was unsmiling and aloof. A neatly typed legend identified him as “Noah Cabirac, oldest natural son of Roman Cabrera.”

“Was Louise Gregory pleased that you acknowledged Noah’s parentage?” asked Jen.

“Yeah, but she was also pleased that Noah’s descendant Remy got a share of money from sale of the property outside the garden area. I’m still sole owner of the gardens, but Remy has graciously helped me with them, too. He took the fantastic photographs that got us a spread in
Southern Living
magazine and in some local publications. Let’s step out to see the patio, and then I’ll show you more inside,” said Tess.

The group exited briefly and surveyed a tide of green umbrellas shading
cast-iron tables. The tables stretched to newly planted shrubbery and a large artificial pond with a battered, tiered stone fountain at its center. This fountain was mounted by goggled-eyed fish dribbling weak streams of water from pursed lips. “I call it Gloria’s Fountain since Gloria Donovan remembered it so vividly from her childhood,” remarked Tess. “It’s sort of unattractive, but I think it belongs here,”