with it, honoring the request of his sister Lila, who had called Cree last week, sounding very distraught and desperate. Clearly there was more to him than the persona he apparently felt he had to project.
Cree hoped their offices made an appropriate impression on a potential cash client. They'd had the walls resurfaced and painted last week, which gave the place a crisper look, more professional and credible. When all was said and done, she thought the third-floor, three-room suite represented PPJV well: the reception room and front office, Ed's big lab-cum-tech warehouse at the back of the building, and this, Cree's office, a gracious, high-ceilinged corner room with hardwood floors and mahogany wainscoting. And of course the priceless windows. Sandwiched between First Avenue and Post Alley, the old brick building was not in terrific repair, but it had come through the recent earthquake with little more than cracks in the plaster. The other occupants were low-key – a law office and an architectural firm – and Cree felt it was an appropriately professional, discreet headquarters for a firm like PRA. Even with the rent reduction given by the landlord, Ed's rich uncle, they were paying more than they would for comparable facilities elsewhere: The view was expensive. But for Cree the good light, the big sweep of land and sea, were necessary antidotes to the other side of the profession.
Whatever he'd been thinking about, Beauforte seemed to have come to some decision. 'So how's it work?' he asked. 'You just come on down there, take a look, do some kind of… exorcism… or what?'
'Well, we start with just what we're doing, an initial conversation. If you or your sister think you'd like to proceed to a preliminary review, you pay us a retainer, and then we go to the location. We tour the site, conduct interviews with witnesses, and do some historical research. Once we have an idea what we're dealing with, we design a strategy tailored to your specific situation. This can range from us doing nothing – if, for example, we discover that all you've got is squirrels in your attic – to an intensive process that can take many weeks. For that, we have a standard contract that clearly defines our fees. Really, it's not so different from contracting with, say, an interior decorator.'
This was putting as mundane a face on it as she could manage in good conscience, verging on an outright lie. In fact, an in-depth investigation and remediation often turned into a wrenching experience for both client and researcher.
Beauforte chuckled sourly. 'It's not squirrels in my attic, thank you. It's my sister who's got the squirrels.' He tapped the side of his head with one finger. 'No disrespect intended, Ms. Black, but as I've made clear, I do not believe in any of this business. Hell, if you live in New Orleans, you know every damn house is 'haunted' – at least according to the tourist brochures. It's a whole local industry. And as far as that murder, there isn't a house in that town hasn't seen something sensational over the last couple hundred years.' He looked down at his hands, frowned at some imperfection and picked at it. 'I don't mean to sound flippant. Fact is, we – my mother and myself and Jack, that's Lila's husband – we're worried about Lila. She's been very upset since her… episode. Unstable. We persuaded her to see a psychiatrist, but it isn't helping.'For the first time since he'd been here, Beauforte sounded as though he might be sincerely concerned.
'Why don't you tell me more about the situation? Lila was reluctant to go into any detail over the phone. You mentioned a murder – what's that about?'
Beauforte took a deep breath and recovered from his lapse into candor and compassion. He checked his watch, gave his head a toss that suggested both impatience and resignation. 'Our family home was the, ah, site of a rather famous murder. I'm surprised Lila didn't mention it when she spoke with you.' He snorted, then went on with histrionic sarcasm: 'And I suppose it's the tormented spirit of the victim that roams those dark halls – '
'Mr. Beauforte.'
One eyebrow came up. 'Sorry. But be forewarned, that's probably just about what Lila's gonna tell you.'
'And I'll look forward to hearing her point of view when I interview her. Maybe we ought to just start with the basic information. The house – 1 gather it's been in your family for a long time -?' Cree readied a legal pad and poised a pen over it.
Once he got going, Ronald Beauforte managed to tell her a great deal. The house had been built in 1851 in New Orleans's Garden District by Jean Claire Armand Beauforte, a wealthy sugar producer and military officer who later distinguished himself as a general for the Confederacy. During the Civil War, the house was seized by Union troops under the terms of a law that permitted the Army to occupy absent slave-owners'property. When hostilities ceased, it was restored to General Beauforte's family for another generation, but they sold the house in 1897, after which it was owned by a succession of progressively poorer families. Like most historic buildings in New Orleans, its condition mirrored the economic hardships of the region, the long swoon from Reconstruction right on into the Great Depression. So the house endured many years of improper maintenance and neglect and then stood abandoned for another decade until 1948, when it was repurchased by Ronald Beau-forte's father, great-grandson of the famous general. By that time the roofs were practically falling in, the plaster raining from the walls, the sills gone to wet rot; a big live oak had come down in a hurricane and damaged one wing. Beauforte's father spent a small fortune restoring and modernizing the house, slave quarters, and carriage house. According to Ronald, many historic houses in New Orleans shared a similar arc of interrupted ownership, decline, and restoration.
Ronald and his sister Lila were both born into the big house and lived there until they left for boarding school and college and began their own lives. Their father died in 1972, but their mother stayed on there until her stroke in 1991. The house was empty for about a year, as Charmian Beauforte went through rehabilitation and tried to determine whether she could live in it again; finally, deciding she needed closer medical supervision and more modern conveniences, she opted to move to a retirement complex. They rented out the house for seven years, until the tenants encountered their 'unfortunate circumstances.' For eighteen months afterward, it had stood empty again until Lila Beauforte Warren, Ronald's sister, decided she wanted to move back in, reestablish the Beauforte name and bloodline on the historic premises.
Cree jotted notes as Beauforte expounded, impressed by his knowledge of the house and its long history. She realized how little she knew of the places she'd lived – the apartments in Philadelphia, the suburban ranch houses, the student dives, the old farmhouse near Concord where she'd spent those happy years with Mike, even the little house she lived in now. Next to nothing. She wondered with some envy how it would feel to trace your roots so clearly to one locale, a single proud structure. To have your world pivot on such a durable axle. Depends on what kind of place it is, she decided.
'Course,' Beauforte finished, 'Lila's plan has one little fly in the ointment – her damn ghost. She doesn't want to move in again if she has to cohabit with tormented spirits and the rest of it.' Before Cree could formulate a question, Beauforte raised his hand. 'And don't ask me about that. She swears it's haunted, she wants somebody to unhaunt the place. She found out about you guys on the Internet or someplace, and I was coming to Seattle on business and therefore got delegated to check you out. You want the fine print on the supernatural end of it, you're going to have to talk to her. She won't reveal the details, and anyway I'd refuse to dignify her claims by repeating them.'
'But you were going to tell me about the 'unfortunate circumstances'of your tenants.'
Beauforte checked his watch again and looked out the window as if to verify the time by the slant of light across the rooftops. 'You no doubt heard about it in the news, even up here. The Templeton Chase murder?'
'That does ring a bell, but – '
'Well, we'd rented the house to this fella Templeton Chase – Temp popular news anchorman on a big New Orleans TV station. Pretty wife, well-off, seemed like a good tenant after Momma moved out to Lakeside Manor. So one fine day after they've been there seven years, Mrs. Chase comes home to find Temp in the kitchen shot in the head. Caused a big stir.'
'Right, I vaguely remember. So how'd it turn out?'
'Well, later on, some dirt came out about Temp having some under-the-table connections with big crime elements, I can't remember all the details. So some people said maybe it was a whack j o b. ' Beauforte's face darkened and became more guarded. 'I don't know how the police are doing now, but for us, surprise, surprise – kill somebody in a house, high-profile grisly murder, your rental value really takes a dive. End result is, Beauforte House is sitting empty again, almost two years now. We cleaned it up good and did some remodeling, but after a year of advertising and no takers, we took it off the market. Can't say as I blame anybody.'
'I thought you didn't believe in ghosts.'
Beauforte cleared his throat. 'Has nothing to do with ghosts. You want to sit your kids down to breakfast in that kitchen nook where somebody got his head blown off? Where they had to scrape Temp's brains off the wall?' His expectant look suggested that he'd deliberately tried to upset her with the gory details.
Cree nodded. For a moment, inside, she felt the familiar empathic dip and swoop toward the chaos and
