on the floor was not having a heart attack: The pain had been too low, gut-deep.
Charmian's face changed. The angry blaze had given way to a look of shock and, for the first time in Cree's memory, uncertainty. But by degrees that faded, mastered with difficulty, to be replaced by the ancient, wise, hard look. She turned and limped away to the windows, where she stared sightlessly out at her garden. The rain had not fully stopped, but the overcast was broken now with brighter spots.
'Life is not a simple proposition, is it Ms. Black? It is mysterious, as you well know. It surprises us and confounds us continually. And all we can do is make the best judgments we can at the time and hope we've made the right choices and done the right things. But we are wrong at least half the time, aren't we? And then our mistakes compound our quandary tenfold. You of all people must know what it is to be something of a prisoner to one's own past. To one's own stubborn predilections.' She gestured at the garden, where petals strewn by last night's winds spotted the glistening leaves.
'We're only prisoner to things we've left unresolved. Those haunt us until we deal with them.' Cree wanted to press Charmian for specifics but stopped herself: better to see where the old woman took it.
'You're very talented,' Charmian went on. 'I can see now that I underestimated you.'
She seemed about to say more, but the housemaid appeared in the doorway. 'The van is here, ma'am. They waitin' out front.'
Charmian flipped a hand and the maid vanished again. Still facing the garden, Charmian bit her lips and appeared deep in thought.
At last she turned, limped toward Cree, stopped in front of her, and gave her a penetratingly candid, curious look. 'You're like a mirror, aren't you? You change around me – you become like me. I must admit it's quite remarkable, even if the reflection you offer is most unflattering!' The raying wrinkles revealed a flash of sardonic humor as she said that, but the expression passed and she became serious again. 'And you do it for each person you meet, don't you? At moments I see Lila in you so strongly! Look at you now, the way you wring your wrists, that's one of her gestures! It's not really something you can control, is it?'
Cree took her hands away from each other but didn't say anything. The old woman seemed to be hesitating at the edge of some important decision.
The maid returned. 'I'm sorry, ma'am, I tell him to wait, but he say they goin' be late they don't go soon – '
'Tell him I'll be right there, Tarika,' Charmian ordered. When Tarika had gone again, she continued to look at Cree with that curious light. 'I can imagine it would be difficult – that you could lose yourself in the process. And one has to wonder whether it is something you can do for yourself.' The question didn't seem intended as just another of Charmian's provocations.
'I'm workin' on it, Charmian,' Cree said gruffly.
Charmian limped past, looping the strap of her handbag over one shoulder as she headed for the door. She stopped at the hall doorway and turned again. ' 'That which is unresolved lives on.' You're absolutely right – that's really what all this adds up to, isn't it? So true. In so many ways. If only we had all been wise enough to know that from the start.'
She didn't wait for a reply but headed down the hall. Tarika stood at the open front door, waiting to help her to the van.
Cree caught up with Joyce at the Williams Research Center on Chartres Street, in the heart of the French Quarter. She had arranged to meet Lila at three-thirty, leaving just enough time for a few other errands, and then had called Joyce's cell phone number. Joyce told her she'd already had a productive day and that she'd be glad for a quick conference.
The Williams occupied a splendidly restored building that, according to an informational plaque, had once been a fire station. Cree rang the bell and was buzzed inside to a cool, spacious marble lobby, where a receptionist asked her to register and directed her to the main reading room on the second floor. This proved to be a two-story chamber with balconies on two sides, lit by huge hemisphencal chandeliers and ceiling-height windows topped by gracious fanlights. Bookshelves lined both levels, and microfiche carrels lined a darkened alcove. Here and there, other researchers sat singly or conferred quietly together.
Cree recognized a familiar pair of big sunglasses on one of the bent heads and went over to the table where Joyce sat.
'Hey,' Cree whispered.
'Aha.' Joyce patted the chair next to her and slid a stack of photocopies toward Cree. 'I'm about to hit the microfilm on Richard Beauforte. But I did get you some goods on that murdered servant. Take a look.'
Cree sat and looked over the papers, which reproduced short articles from newspapers of August 1882. The first, from the Times-Picayune's daily 'Crimes and Casualties' feature, gave the basic information; a follow-up article filled in the details in the florid, opinionated journalistic style of the day. Lionel Daniels, a former slave who was now houseman for the Beaufortes, had responded violently when his employer – the papers still referred to John Frederick Beauforte as his 'master' – accused him of stealing two silver candlesticks. In self-defense, John Frederick had 'seized the fireplace poker that stood nearby and administered several blows to the negro's head and torso.' Still, 'a negro of intemperate disposition and imposing physical stature,' Lionel wouldn't desist, so John Frederick had beaten him further, inflicting a fatal wound. The Metropolitan Police found the downstairs library of Beauforte House 'in a state of utter disarray that bespoke the vehemence of the servant's temper.' 'Court officers agreed that a clearer case of self defense could hardly be imagined and expressed hope that the incident will provide a corrective example for others tempted by larcenous inclinations.'
'There's your beating motion,' Joyce whispered. 'In the library, too.'
Cree thought about that. It was possible, but the idea that the ghosts were John Frederick or Lionel created as many questions as it answered. For starters, she would expect to experience the scene from the perspective of Lionel, not that of John Frederick, who died during a business trip to Vicksburg many years afterward. And why would either ghost manifest now? And what explained Lila's susceptibility – what was the link to the Beaufortes of today? Not to mention the problems suggested by the boar-headed man, the wolf, the smoke snake.
She took out her own notebook and pen and was about to jot some notes when Joyce hissed, 'Put that away! Jesus, Cree, no pens in here! Really, seriously, pencils only.' Eyes wide with alarm, she tipped her chin toward the staff desk, where one of the archivists had stood up and was shaking her head at Cree. Joyce put her lips to Cree's ear: 'She's very sweet and helpful, unless you use a pen. Then she turns into, I don't know, Helga the She-Wolf of the SS or something. They're fanatics about not getting ink on archival materials here.'
Cree put her pen away and took the pencil Joyce offered.
'Obviously the articles reveal a certain… bias,' Joyce went on. 'So I went a little deeper. This place has a great collection of personal correspondence from members of prominent New Orleans families, nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The Beaufortes are well represented. I was able to find one from John Frederick to a cousin of his, from the period right after the incident.'
This was a photocopy of an elegantly handwritten letter that had faded with age, harder to read. John Frederick confided that he had grown impatient with Lionel for his 'reluctance' to do some of his chores as instructed, and that he had resolved to 'take a firm hand' with him. From the letter's tone, Cree inferred that while the beating was certainly intentional, Lionel's death was not. Still, John Frederick boasted that the episode had greatly improved discipline among the other servants.
Cree turned the pages facedown, feeling a little sick. 'Joyce, I wanted to tell you – '
'And,' Joyce whispered excitedly, 'I got your architectural plans. Went to Tulane and nagged 'em.' She handed Cree a key with a number tag attached. 'They're in a big tube. Had to check it into a locker downstairs, but you can pick it up on your way out. We can do the spatiotemp tonight, if you like.'
'Great. It'd be best to have one of the Beaufortes with us,' Cree told her. 'Probably Ron – if he'll stoop, Can you call and ask him to accompany us? I think he's a little angry with me right now – '
'The guy who came to our office? The handsome one? Great idea.'
Cree sighed and put the key into her purse. 'Joyce, I've got a favor to ask.'
'Sure.'
Still chipper, Joyce waited expectantly. But suddenly Cree couldn't name the favor. It had to do with what Cree was doing, the radical balance she had to find. But there was no way to describe that. And no way, really, to know what form it might take.
'I think I'll probably need to go a little crazy,' Cree said at last. 'To get to the bottom of this.'
