Landry said, “That’s interesting information, but what does it have to do with the Richards?”
“I’m getting there. I talked to a woman at the St. John the Baptist Parish historical museum. She was very helpful and looked up a few records. The house is still standing, but it’s in serious disrepair and has been closed up for decades. Guess who was the last person to live there?”
Landry said, “What year are we talking about?”
“1878. The house has been vacant since then.”
“I’ll guess one of the Richard men. Charles, maybe.”
Jack pointed his finger at Landry. “You got it. The last person to live on the LaPiere plantation was Charles Richard.”
“That’s very interesting information. We knew he was connected to the family because Prosperine made him co-trustee. Now we know after she died, he lived in the family’s country house. Who are these guys?”
“That’s all I could find. The Empyrion Richard who showed up yesterday couldn’t be the one from 1892, so the man was a fraud or a descendant. You’d think with a name that unusual, something would turn up in the records, but I’ve hit a dead end so far.”
Landry thought of someone who could help. Using Jack’s name instead of his own recognizable one, he called the building trustee Shawn Leary and said, “I work with Cate Adams. She told me you can’t reveal information about your client, but we need to get in touch with Empyrion Richard. Please give me his address and phone number.”
“I wish I could help, but that’s not possible.”
“You can’t even give me a number?”
“He doesn’t have a phone.”
That would seem an odd thing for most twenty-first-century Americans, but Empyrion Richard was one of the strangest people Landry had come across.
“An address, then. He was at the building yesterday and I want to talk with him. How do you reach him?”
The lawyer paused for a minute and said, “We don’t, and you didn’t see him yesterday because he’s deceased. You must have him confused with someone else. He was trustee of the building in 1892, and upon his death our law firm took over as successor trustee. It has served the LaPiere estate in that capacity for a hundred and twenty years. There are no descendants at all.”
Landry pushed on. “If he’s dead, then who showed up at the hypnosis session yesterday saying he was Empyrion Richard, the owner of the building?”
“What did he look like?”
“Very tall, eloquent African American. Well-dressed too. Three-piece suit, hat, walking stick, the whole nine yards.”
Another pause, this one longer, as if he was debating how much more to say. “I can’t help you, Mr. Drake. Empyrion Richard is dead. There were no heirs — no one to carry on his name. You’re mistaken. Goodbye.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
As they left Café du Monde, Phil said, “You guys have fun in Edgard today.”
“What makes you think we’re going there?” Landry said.
“Come on. I’ve worked with you long enough to see when your wheels are spinning. The less information you know about something, the more interested you are. I want to hear all about it when you get back.”
They drove up I-10 past the airport, took 310 south and crossed the Mississippi on the cable bridge at Destrehan. Less than an hour after leaving New Orleans, they were at the historical society in Edgard. The same lady who’d spoken with Jack was excited to see Landry walk in.
“My, my, to what do we owe this surprise visit?” She laughed. “Is something spooky going on in our little town?”
Jack introduced himself as the person who had spoken with her yesterday, and said they were looking for information on a man named Empyrion Richard, perhaps a relative of Charles Richard. “Other than what you gave me about Charles yesterday, can you tell us anything about either of them?” he asked, and she turned to her computer and started typing.
“Empyrion. That’s an odd name and one I would remember. There’s nothing about him. As for Charles, I told you he lived in the big house on the plantation. I’ve heard stories that he was one of the LaPieres’ servants. We know some about that family, since they were landowners here. They’re also buried in this parish.”
Landry interrupted. “Where?”
“On the property. There’s a family plot out there. Charles Richard’s grave is there too. That’s the only parish record in his name I could find.”
Jack took notes as Landry asked her to continue.
“Lucas and Prosperine LaPiere would come up the Mississippi on a steamboat that docked at Caire’s Landing. They would go by carriage to the house, and a wagon behind carried supplies and their servants. I have a picture of them.” She turned the monitor toward them. A grainy, faded sepia photograph showed several people standing on a dock in front of a sternwheeler boat. There was a white man and woman and several African Americans, one of whom was much taller than the others.
“See that one — the tall black man?” Landry said, pointing. “Who was he?”
“There’s no telling. This picture was taken in 1824, two years after they built the house. They brought servants with them every time they came up here, and it’s sad that no one recorded their names.”
“Could he be Charles Richard?”
The woman smiled. “He could be anyone, Mr. Drake. There’s no way to know.”
She gave them directions to the old mansion along with a warning. “It’s private property although I doubt there’s anyone to stop you from going there. I wouldn’t try to go in the house, though. After being abandoned
