Cree had no standing – she wasn't family, was not Lila's physician or psychiatrist, wasn't even licensed to practice in Louisiana. If Lila woke and asked for her, she might get in to talk with her, but otherwise not. And maybe not anyway: Jack made it clear that he blamed Cree for Lila's state of mind, and he claimed that given Lila's instability, he had some presumptive power of attorney that would allow him to prohibit future contact. The attending physician looked at her with suspicion and distaste.
Paul: She was pretty sure she'd blown it with him yet again, terminally. Or vice versa. Whatever, Cree thought viciously.
She slipped away while Jack and Paul talked. Downstairs, she found a pay phone, called Joyce, and went outside to catch a cab.
They met at the base of Canal Street, on the riverbank – Cree still wasn't feeling up for interiors. They found a bench in the narrow riverside park that adjoined the Aquarium of the Americas. The sun had become merciless, hard and heavy as hot bronze, so they chose a little enclosure shaded by oak trees and cooled by a weak breeze from the river. Today it carried a faint sulphur smell, pollution from some downriver chemical plant. Cree brought Joyce up to date on their discoveries in the Epicurus archives and described from a clinical perspective the many ways Pdchard's rape explained Lila's life choices and current mental state.
Listening, Joyce took on an old and world-weary look. But hearing about Lila's suicide attempt brought her eyes wide with urgency again.
'Cree, we're gonna have to step back a bit here. I mean, do you really need me to tell you how you look right now? It's not just last night, either – swear to Gawd, Cree, you've lost easily ten pounds since you got here, and you did not have it to spare. But last night, do I have to tell you how bad that was? How close you've been cutting it? When you tell me you've got to kind of go crazy, and when the person you're getting this super-empathic link with slits her wrists? What am I supposed to do? I keep telling you, this is a job, okay? It's not supposed to kill you.'
'It'll only kill me if we lose – if we fail to solve the problem. If I can save Lila, I can save myself.'
'The problem is not just Lila! Look, Cree, I'm no psychologist, but it doesn't take Uncle Sigmund to tell that some of this is Cree and Mike and nine years of ambivalences. And you can't stake your survival on shedding all that in a matter of days!' Joyce shook her head, and her voice softened. 'Cree. You know I'd do anything for you. I would. You're like… like a sister to me. More than a sister. We play this game, you and me, a lot of times I'm kind of the court jester with you, I'm trying to keep you happy and grounded?' Joyce's lips went into a trembling pout, and Cree realized how deep this went, how naked an admission this was. 'But I can't find a way to do that here. Being the funny girl-buddy sidekick, you know, like in the TV sit-coms? It doesn't help, it's not enough. I'm scared. None of this is funny any more.'
Moved, Cree reached out to touch Joyce's cheek. 'You do keep me happy and grounded. Joyce, we're getting toward the end, I can feel it. We're beginning to get a handle on this.'
'Yeah?' Joyce's anger rose again. 'Well, I hope you are, because I've come up with just about squat that's gonna be useful. Richard Beauforte – there's a ton on the guy. He gave to charities. He was president of civic groups. He bought and sold properties. He entertained. He was buddies with mayors and other bigwigs. In the obits everybody called him practically a saint.'
'He was capable of raping his own daughter in the most sadistic way imaginable. There has to be some indication of that elsewhere in his life. Somewhere we're going to find what we need to undo him.'
Joyce opened her briefcase, took out a thick sheaf of photocopies, and shakily leafed through them, pulling one here and there to hand to Cree.'Well, you're gonna have to read a lot between the lines, Cree. Let's see – he got caught driving under the influence twice in his life. Got himself lawyered up, no convictions. Does that mean he had an uncontrollable alcohol problem and that he was out-of-control drunk when he raped Lila? Maybe, maybe not. Okay, here we got a sexual harassment suit by a female employee at his firm. He denied everything, fought it, settled it on some unspecified terms. A valid complaint, suggesting the guy had impulse control issues with the opposite sex? Or a frivolous thing by somebody who wanted a raise and didn't get one? Oh, and here he's doing some litigation himself, suing a former business partner, seeking damages and insisting the court revoke the guy's license to practice law. Was it appropriate, or does it show our man has a nasty, vengeful streak?' Joyce shrugged, flopped the sheaf against her leg. 'If you want to know who this guy is from this material, you're gonna need more than empathic talents, Cree. You're gonna need to be clairvoyant. Because to me, this doesn't add up to a hill of beans.'
Cree looked over the papers as Joyce tried to compose herself. She was right: For every little item that suggested a dark side, there were ten that showed Richard to be a pillar of the community, a good citizen, a dedicated family man.
At last she handed them back, beginning to feel defeated. 'What about Josephine Dupree? Any luck at all?'
'Next to nothing. Her name does show up in the phone records for 1973 and 1974 – I have the service address here. Looks to me she moved there for a couple of years after she left the Beaufortes, but after that, nothing. The only other thing, I found in the Times-Picayune records exactly one, small hit for Josephine Dupree.' Joyce rummaged in her briefcase again and extracted a single page.
It was a photocopy of an obituary-page article about the death of one Souline Dupree, who had died in 1975 at the age of eighty-two. 'Queen Souline' had been a moderately well-known root doctor and conjure woman in New Orleans for forty years. The article described her as the last of her generation, having learned her hoodoo charms and remedies from practitioners who had once been slaves. As such, she was a repository of knowledge of Afro-Caribbean folkcures, quasi-mystical traditions, and oral histories; her loss meant the end of an era. She had once been a fixture in a tiny shop on the northern edge of the French Quarter, selling herbs and lore and advice. A lifelong smoker, she'd died of lung cancer, survived by only two of her seven children – daughters Jasmine Tricou, sixty, and Josephine Dupree, fifty-four.
The blurry photo showed an old woman with frizzed gray hair and pouched eyes, wearing a small crucifix on a chain around her neck and holding a cigarette in a V of gnarled fingers. She bore an unmistakable resemblance to the photos Cree had seen of Josephine – that long face with its strong jaw, downturned lips, and resolute expression.
'So of course I looked for the sister, Jasmine Tricou, everywhere, too,' Joyce said. 'Nothing. Nada. I think they're both probably dead.'
'No,' Cree assured her. 'Josephine is alive. And we have to find her.'
The hexes, she was thinking. Here at last was a possible connection between the hexes and the Beaufortes. By all accounts, Josephine was a devout churchgoer, but as Deelie had pointed out, voodoo and hoodoo often coexisted with Christian beliefs. And Josephine must have learned something of the old arts, growing up with a mother who was a serious practitioner. Josephine had put the notched sticks at Beauforte House, Cree was sure, and had placed the one at the Warrens', with the goal of inducing 'confusion of mind' in the residents there. If she knew about the rape, it made sense she'd want Lila to forget. But why the Chases? With everything she and Joyce learned, and with every new puzzle that presented itself, Josephine seemed to hold the keys.
'Okay. But, Cree – it hurts my professional pride to admit this, but I'm kind of running out of magic here? I can't think of a lot more we can do to locate her. We could collect every phone book in Louisiana and call every Dupree to see if any of them know a Josephine. But for all we know, if she is alive, she moved to Chicago, or – '
'I know someone who might be able to help us,' Cree said.
Deelie Brown said she had another appointment, but if they could get across town fast she'd be happy to hear them out. When they got to the Times-Picayune building, they found her waiting in the little park in front of the main entrance, sitting on a bench and pulling yards of magnetic tape from a cassette that was apparently stuck in a small recorder. Her face was folded in that glowering frown she'd first greeted Cree with, but when she saw them the smile came back, sun from behind the clouds. Cree felt a rush of affection for the solid, chunky woman, her mismatched clothes, the congruence between what she claimed to be and what Cree sensed she really was.
'Yo, my ghost hunter sister,' she said. She tossed the mess aside and stood with a rattle of hair beads.
The highway ramps all around roared steadily as Cree kissed her cheek, introduced Joyce, and thanked her for making time to meet them.
Deelie's frown had returned. 'You know, you don't look so good, Miz Black.'
'I've been hearing that a lot lately, yeah.' Cree tried to grin.
