The Meriwether Murder Read online

  “Read the message,” I said.

  He bent over and then looked up at me.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “I don’t know. Not that many people know we’re working at Désirée.”

  “Ummm.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Maybe Freddie?”

  Freddie St. Ambrose was one of our local competitors, an unscrupulous operator with dubious credentials who would close his eyes to tearing down the Great Pyramid for a parking lot if the price was right.

  “He’s not above it,” I said. “But there would have to be something in it for him. Can you trace this back to the place it was sent from?”

  Frank Hill shrugged. “Theoretically. But nobody who’d send this kind of thing would do it from their own computer. Let’s see …”

  His fingers began to dance over the keyboard while I paced back and forth. Minutes later Hill grunted.

  “About what I thought. This comes from the computer lab at the university.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, you can find out who this address belongs to, but I don’t think it’ll help you.”

  “Why?”

  “Chances are somebody forgot to sign off and your mystery messenger cruising the lab found it. Happens all the time. Kind of like one of these Xerox machines with an access code. Somebody forgets to cancel their code when they’ve finished and the next person, if they’re not honest, just charges it all to that account.”

  “Great.” I looked over his shoulder at the words on the screen and then sighed. “But how did they get my E-mail address?”

  He gave me a pitying look. “Isn’t it on your business cards?”

  “You’re right. Thanks, Frank.”

  I let him get out of the little office and then printed out the message and stuck the paper in my top drawer. Then I exited the Internet.

  It made no sense. My business cards were all over town. But the last person I remembered handing one to was Brady Flowers, the caretaker of Désirée, when we’d stopped by a week ago to ask permission to look around the place. But Flowers hadn’t seemed very interested and had told us he didn’t care what we did as long as we didn’t tear things up.

  I went into Marilyn’s office. Tiny, efficient, and feisty, Marilyn served as office manager, bookkeeper and receptionist. Only twenty-five, she swore at least twice a month that she was looking for another job and at least twice a month I coaxed and flattered her into staying.

  “I’m going to see Sam,” I told her. Sam MacGregor was my ex-professor and mentor, the man who’d started the company and invited me to work with him when I’d returned from New Mexico some years back, after a failed marriage and no prospects. Today he lived in retirement in a plantation on the River Road and was always free with a glass of whiskey and advice.

  Marilyn jerked her head away from her computer screen to consider the source of the distraction.

  “You can’t call him?” she asked. “We really have to go over these balance sheets.”

  “It’s Friday,” I said. “Can’t it wait until Monday?”

  “Monday you’ll want to put it off till Tuesday.”

  “Got me,” I said.

  “And Rosemary Amadie called again. She wants you to talk to her class.”

  “Can’t somebody else handle it?”

  “She wanted you.”

  “It’s wonderful to be famous,” I said. “Tell her I’ll get with her in a day or two.”

  “Like Monday?”

  “Marilyn, you get smarter every day.”

  “And there was a woman named Goforth who’s with one of the television stations. She said she heard we were working at Désirée and she wants to do an interview.”

  “How did she find out?” I asked.

  Marilyn shrugged. “Is it a secret? I’m sure everybody in Port Allen knows. It’s only the other side of the river.”

  “Probably,” I agreed. “Well, I need Corps clearance to give interviews.”

  “I told her.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Alan, you really need to call Dr. Ardoin and get him to pay up.”

  “I’ll do it as soon as I get back from Sam’s,” I said and felt her disapproving eyes follow me out of the office.

  It took me half an hour to reach Sam’s house, partly because I stopped to pick up a bottle of Dant’s, mainly because I followed the winding River Road instead of taking Nicholson, which cut off most of the curves of the river. But it gave me a chance to get my questions in order. When I got there, though, the place was closed and I remembered vaguely something Sam had said about taking a trip in the fall.

  I could have called first, of course, but the drive had given me a chance to go over things in my mind, and to try to tell myself that the man buried in the mound across the river was just one of the hundreds of anonymous travelers who’d struck out for the old Southwest, as this part of antebellum America was called, and never been heard from again.

  And I could have believed it if I hadn’t seen the same dark car behind me on the River Road as I made my way back that I’d noticed behind me on the way down. By the time I reached Gardere Lane, on the outskirts of the city, it was gone, taking, I supposed, the short route back to town.

  FOUR

  When I got back to the office, more urgent business pushed the car out of my mind. La Bombast wanted an update on our survey at Désirée and, as usual, took it as a personal affront that I wasn’t in the office when she’d phoned. The television reporter had called again and wanted to appear at one o’clock with a camera crew. A man in Lake Charles needed an immediate quote on a pipeline through the wildlife refuge. And Rosemary Amadie, substitute schoolteacher and amateur archaeologist, was seated in a chair with her hands in her lap, looking nervous.

  “I’m sorry, Alan,” Marilyn whispered, following me into my office. “She just showed up.”

  I sighed and put down the pink message slips.

  “It’s okay. I’ll return the calls when she leaves.”

  I went out to the lab room and put on a smile.

  Once, I figured, Rosemary Amadie had probably been a beauty. But ever since I’d known her, which had been four or five years, she’d had the worn look of someone who’d been beaten down by the system. Now in her late forties, she had auburn hair that was stringy and gray-streaked, and worry lines etched her thin face. It came, I figured, from teaching a horde of young hellions and then going home to care for an aged parent. Truth was, I felt too sorry for her to be rude.

  “Dr. Graham,” she cried, jumping up. “I hope I’m not interrupting …”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Amadie?”

  She told me her class was studying Indians: “Dr. Graham, I hate to ask you, but would it be possible for you to come speak to the students about archaeology?”

  I told her I would and she shook my hand gratefully and promised to call and set a time for me to come. I saw her out, happy to get away with such a short visit, and then turned to the message slips.

  The estimate for the pipeline was priority, so I called the prospective client and told him to fax me the survey plats. Then I took a deep breath and called Bombast’s number. She was in a training session so I left a message. Then I called the reporter, who was also out, and left a message that I couldn’t do an interview without running it through the Corps first. These tasks accomplished, I called Frank Hill into my office and, unlocking my desk, took out the Hardin journals.

  “I want you to go over to Printing Tech. Use one of the self-service machines and make a good copy of every page of these three books,” I said.

  “Something wrong with the machine out there?” he asked, gesturing at the lab room where our own copier sat.

  “This will take a while,” I said. “I don’t want to have to interrupt any of our other work.”

  Frank left, Marilyn handed me the faxed maps from the pipeline man, and I worked on the estimate until noon. I inserted the estimate into our stand
ard agreement, faxed it back, and was just trying to decide where I wanted to eat lunch when the phone buzzed and Marilyn told me a Mr. DeLage was on the line.

  I pressed the button. “Hello?”

  “Dr. Graham?”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. DeLage?”

  An imitation of a chuckle echoed from the other end.

  “How about lunch?” Nicholas DeLage said. “I’d like to hear what you’re finding at the plantation.”

  I thought for an instant and then made up my mind.

  “Tell me where, Mr. DeLage.”

  “How about the Camelot Club? I like to look out at the river. Say half an hour?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  After I replaced the receiver, I sat back, trying to decide what it meant. Either he was fishing or he wanted to make a proposition. Or maybe a threat disguised as a proposition.

  I reminded myself to try to find out what color car he drove. Then I called the history department and asked for our historian.

  “Alan? How nice to hear your voice.”

  That was Esmerelda LaFleur, a true member of the gentility. Left with a modest insurance policy from her husband, at age fifty-five she’d taken a doctorate in history at the University of New Orleans and now worked part-time for us while teaching a couple of classes at LSU. A native of Natchitoches, on the Red River, she was an expert on antebellum Louisiana history and I’d learned never to underestimate the nooks and crannies of her mind, which seemed filled with esoteric bits of knowledge.

  “Has Pepper talked to you about the Louis grave?” I asked.

  “Indeed she has. It’s as intriguing as hell, if you’ll pardon my use of the vernacular. I’ve just finished the chain-of-title research in the Port Allen Courthouse, but I didn’t find any will on file. Of course, not having a full name to work with leaves something to be desired, and I really didn’t find anything that remotely fit the description. But I’m going to check the Hill Memorial collection after lunch.”

  “Why?” I asked. “What’s there?”

  “Charles Fabré’s collection, according to the archivist I called. Fabré donated his papers before he died.”

  “Go to it,” I said, deciding that telling her about the threat wouldn’t accomplish anything.

  “And Pepper?” she asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Nothing. But you know you can talk to your aunt Esme anytime.”

  I groaned. She never gave up trying to put us together.

  “All right, be hardheaded. I’ll tell you what I find out at the library.”

  And she hung up before I could protest.

  The Camelot Club is at the top of one of the tallest buildings in downtown Baton Rouge, the tallest being the state capitol. It’s a members-only restaurant for lawyers and bankers and I’d eaten there only twice before, both times by invitation.

  On the previous occasions I’d worn a coat and tie; this time all I had was my usual guayabera and if they didn’t like it I figured I could let Nick DeLage straighten out the misunderstanding.

  But they were expecting me because the maître d’ met me as I emerged from the elevator, and when I told him my name he escorted me to a corner table where a man was already seated.

  The man, who had an empty martini glass in front of him, jumped up when he saw me and extended a hand. Maybe forty-five, he had longish blond hair and a tan that probably came from Cancún. His hand tightened on mine for an instant and then just as quickly let go, as if he’d done what was required and didn’t want to be seen holding hands with another man.

  “Dr. Graham?” he said, trying to smile. “Glad you could come. How about something to drink?”

  “I’ll take tea,” I said.

  The waiter at his elbow scurried off and another one brought a menu. I gave mine a quick look and then let my eyes creep over the top edge to study DeLage’s face.

  The best I could say about it was that the smile didn’t go with the eyes. The smile was broad, but his eyes were close-set and hard. I wondered how many of his properties had turned into crawfish farms.

  “I like the chicken cordon bleu, but everything’s good,” he said.

  I ordered sensation salad and the soup du jour.

  “The usual,” my host said, handing his menu back to the attendant. “And hit me with another martini.”

  He turned to me, one hand playing with an edge of the tablecloth.

  “I don’t know any archaeologists,” he said. “I thought you’d have a bullwhip and a pistol.”

  “Only when I’m on a movie set,” I said.

  DeLage forced a smile and nodded at the window, which framed a view of the river.

  “Nice, isn’t it? You can almost see Désirée from here. Can I call you Al?”

  “Alan’s better.”

  “Fine. In my business we use first names a lot.” He leaned forward and I held my breath, waiting for the hard sell: “Call me Nick.”

  “All right, Nick.”

  His smile was lopsided.

  “Alan, I called you because I’m curious about what was going on at Désirée. I hear somebody talked to my aunt Ouida.”

  I nodded. “She’s the owner of record and your caretaker said she was in a nursing home. We try to interview people we think might have historical information.”

  “Right.” He nodded, fingers drumming the table. “Old Flowers said some people had asked for permission to walk around the place.”

  “That’s right.” I picked up a piece of melba toast and took it out of its cellophane wrapper. “Is there a problem, Nick?”

  “None at all,” DeLage said. “But I was curious when I heard you were asking questions about the plantation. I thought it was just the levee the Corps was interested in.”

  “Technically,” I said as my iced tea arrived. “But they like us to try to get as much historical information on nearby properties as possible. The river’s taken a lot of the land in the last few hundred years, so where you put a levee now might be square on top of some historic feature or even an Indian site. What was Désirée Landing before the Civil War is in the river now and the place they want to put the levee is where an old store is shown on the maps. So the idea is to get as much information as possible about a given holding and see if the improvement will impact anything that might be buried there.”

  “Fascinating,” DeLage said, trying to sound sincere. “And that’s why you went to see my aunt?”

  “We thought she might know some of the folklore of Désirée. Talking to people is one of the best ways to get an idea of what went on at a place.”

  DeLage lifted his glass. “Cheers.”

  I half lifted my own and watched him guzzle.

  “But, you know, Alan, Aunt Ouida is pretty confused these days. That’s why I had to have her put in the nursing home. I don’t think you’ll get much from her.” He attempted a laugh.

  “Really,” I said. “She seemed pretty lucid to me.”

  “She has her moments,” my host said. “But the thing with Aunt Ouida is you never can tell. She can be clear as glass one minute and in outer space a few seconds later. That’s why we had to put her under supervision.”

  The waiter brought our plates and DeLage ordered another martini, then started sawing at his cordon bleu.

  “How’s the salad?”

  “Very good,” I said.

  “I’m glad. Bring a lot of clients up here. Never had any complaints.”

  He chewed almost angrily and then jabbed his fork at the river.

  “Ever go down to the gambling boats?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Smart,” he answered. “You can’t beat the house. I learned that a long time ago. Just like you can’t fight City Hall. You can buy ’em, but you can’t fight ’em.”

  He speared a piece of broccoli. It headed for his mouth, then halted with the fork midway up.

  “I hear Aunt Ouida loaned you some papers.”

  “That’s right.”


  “What kind of papers?”

  “Diaries of John Clay Hardin,” I said. “They cover about forty years.”

  The broccoli continued to hover in midair.

  “Never heard of ’em,” he said. “Sounds like Aunt Ouida’s been holding out on me.”

  “I assumed the diaries were hers.”

  “All the family papers were part of my grandfather’s estate.” This time his smile let me know he was sure I understood.

  “Well, we aren’t going to keep them,” I said. “We just needed to look through them as part of our background research.”

  He nodded. “Was there anything interesting in them?”

  “It was all interesting,” I told him, “if you’re trying to get a feel for what a planter’s life was like in the years before the Civil War.” I played with a piece of lettuce and decided I might as well say the rest: “And there were some references to somebody named Louis, who’s buried in the family cemetery.”

  DeLage snorted. “I know the grave you’re talking about. The blacks used to be scared to death of it. I must’ve heard a dozen stories about old Louis, every one of ’em different.”

  “Really? What did you hear?”

  “Oh, Christ …” He set his fork down and sat back in his chair. “Let’s see, have you heard the one about the Man Without a Country?”

  I nodded.

  “And then there’s the one about how he was a rich man’s son in the East, a doctor, who took to drink and fell off a boat and washed up at Désirée. And then there was one that said he was a traveler on the Natchez Trace, who was being followed by robbers all the way from Nashville. They were supposed to have followed him to Natchez and tried to finish him off after he got on a boat for New Orleans.”

  “The Natchez Trace,” I said thoughtfully.

  “Sure.” He coughed. “It went from Natchez to Nashville in the old days.”

  “Of course.”

  He asked a few more questions about archaeology, but I could tell that the subject didn’t really interest him. Finally he wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  “Coffee, Alan?”

  “Thanks, I’ve got to be getting back.”

  “Sure.” He got up. “By the way, Alan, if you dig up something, who does it belong to?”