She took a deep breath and mustered a confident voice. "I'll be fine. I had some kind of episode — a memory loss or something. I remember everything now." That last part was a blatant lie, but she figured if she didn't say it, she might end up in a straightjacket when they landed.
He smiled. "Sounds good. I'm right here, so if you need something, just holler." Tiffany smiled back and thought how under different circumstances she would like to have known Tom Morrison better.
She didn’t dare sleep; instead she forced calmness through her being and closed her eyes. Once she was on the ground, she would think about all this.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Landry and Channel Nine’s lead cameraman Phil Vandegriff sat under the canopy at Café du Monde, as was their routine most mornings. Phil had shared most of Landry’s paranormal experiences, and the two had become fast friends over the years.
As usual, the popular coffee house was crowded, and Phil groused about how tourists coming for Carnival made it hard to get around.
“Two more days,” Landry said. “Tomorrow’s Mardi Gras. Forty-eight hours from now this place will be a ghost town.” Phil said it couldn’t come too soon for him.
As they shared a plate of beignets dusted with powdered sugar and cups of steaming black chicory coffee, Landry got a call from the station’s receptionist, who passed along the message that a Tiffany Bertrand had called, said it was urgent she speak with Landry and left her number. He didn’t recall her name but returned the call, listened a moment and gave her directions to meet him.
“That was strange,” he said to Phil, explaining how he knew Tiffany. “She claims she flew here this morning but doesn’t remember how or why. I’m the only person here she knows, so she called the station. She says she needs help.”
“Lots of tourists get drunk on the plane and can’t remember where they are,” Phil snorted, and Landry commented that he seemed to be on a tourist-bashing binge these days.
She arrived fifteen minutes later. Over doughnuts and coffee, she told them about her bizarre experience on the plane. “When we landed, I took a sick day from work and called your station. I’m going to book a flight home this afternoon, but in the meantime, please help me figure out what’s going on in my head.”
He remembered the dreams she had mentioned, but now they had become memories of things she couldn’t know about. Intrigued, he suggested they go to the station and talk further.
As they walked down the quaint streets of the French Quarter, she remarked about how much fun she and her friend Kayla had had the last time, up until the moment when she saw the building.
They walked along Chartres Street near Jackson Square and she looked into the quaint shops. She paused in front of a little gallery called Art in Bloom. Most of the paintings inside were floral designs — bouquets, vases filled with tulips and daisies — but some were New Orleans street scenes. The one prominently displayed in the window depicted the courtyard of the building. Not only was the fountain there, but a tall woman in a black dress who stood on the balcony. Her harsh features and grim countenance were unsettling.
Tiffany stifled a scream.
“What is it?”
“Look in that store window. Right there! It’s no coincidence this stuff is happening to me, and I’m terrified!”
Landry understood. The subject of the painting was the building on Toulouse.
They stepped inside and found a pleasant woman named Larisa, who owned the gallery and had created the picture in the window.
Tiffany said, “Please tell me about the painting in the window. It’s a building on Toulouse Street.
“You’re correct. I often paint old buildings in the Quarter.”
Landry said, “But you painted the courtyard, and that’s impossible. The building’s been vacant since Katrina, and the balcony’s been gone for decades. How could you have painted that scene without seeing it?”
“That’s my most unusual painting,” Larisa answered. “Sometimes I paint scenes from the past — streets in the Quarter in the days of the horse and buggy, Jackson Square when it was Place d’Armes – things like that. Much of my inspiration comes from old photographs.”
“Why do you say this one is your most unusual?”
“Because that scene came to me in a dream, one so vivid I’ll never be able to forget it. I felt compelled to paint it. You speak as though you’ve been inside the building. Is my painting anywhere close to reality?”
“Close?” Tiffany said. “From my standpoint, it’s spot-on. I dream about the building too. I see the balcony, even though it isn’t there today. And I see the woman. You captured her features and even her demeanor. What you painted isn’t the courtyard today — it’s the one I see in my dreams from a long time ago.”
They spoke a few more minutes and left. Tiffany said the experience was unnerving.
“It was quite a coincidence,” Landry agreed, but she shook her head.
“That was no coincidence. Something in that building is taking control of my mind. Seeing that painting was no coincidence. It’s part of a pattern. I dream, I think about it in the daytime, and now I even see it when I’m walking around. It scares the hell out of me.”
At the station she took time to book
