Chapter 3
“We usually get the bodies checked in on one day, and start the autopsies on the next,” Dr. Harper said, removing his gloves as he joined Quinn, Larue, and Peter Ellsworth where they stood, about five feet back from the staked “scarecrows” that held the three bodies, “but, in this case, I’m going to get started as soon as I can get them back, photographed, and cleaned up.”
Two assistants had come along with the M.E., and they were busy working with two of the crime scene techs to get the bodies down and into ambulances to convey them to the parish morgue.
“Thank you,” Peter Ellsworth told him. “Expediency in this might be everything.”
“You think it has something to do with old harvest fest sacrifices, or voodoo—or some other weird cult?” Dr. Harper asked.
“Nothing to do with the real religion of voodoo,” Quinn said. Dr. Harper looked at him, frowning.
“I, uh, didn’t mean to offend,” Harper said, frowning.
“Sorry,” Quinn said. “We have a friend who is a voodoo priestess in New Orleans. Trust me, murder has nothing to do with anyone who adheres to voodoo as their belief—human sacrifices are the stuff of movie fare or a sick cult—as with any other form of religion. If you are a true believer, you don’t do harm to others—it would come back at you several times over.” He shrugged. “One of my friend’s best friends is another best friend of ours, and he’s a Catholic priest. I hear about theology all the time.”
“Know them all,” Larue said. “Good people. But that doesn’t mean some whacked out person doesn’t use voodoo—or even Christianity—in some bizarre way.”
“That’s true—anyone can twist anything just about any way they want,” Quinn agreed. “But nothing I’m seeing here is reflective of voodoo.”
“No,” Larue said quietly. “This is some kind of…old autumn ritual we know nothing about?” he asked. “A sick twist on…I don’t know what.”
One of the crime scene investigators was searching the ground close to where they stood. She had apparently overheard and was looking at them as if she wished to speak, but perhaps worried that it wasn’t her place to do so. She was a young woman in her early twenties with dark hair pulled back, large brown eyes, and a wide, friendly face. Her appearance was so young, fresh, and sweet, it seemed odd she was wearing a parish parka and working at such a bloody crime scene.
“Hey!” Quinn said to her. “Do you know anything about the people around here or this place in particular?”
“Legends.” she said softly.
Peter Ellsworth let out a long sigh. “Cursed Yvette, right?” He looked from Jake Larue to Quinn. “Local legend—a Cajun girl fell in love with a rich Englishman. His mother killed her, and in turn, a year later the mother was murdered. Kind of like our version of ‘Bloody Mary.’ You’re not supposed to say Yvette’s name in the cemetery or something like that.”
“No, nothing to do with Yvette,” the young woman said. “I’m Mandy, by the way, CSI Mandy Haverhill.”
“This is Detective Jake Larue out of New Orleans,” Quinn said, indicating Jake by way of an introduction. “And with the Parish, Detective Peter Ellsworth—”
“Mandy and I know each other, of course,” Ellsworth said, nodding toward her.
Mandy nodded and looked at Quinn. “And you’re Detective—?”
“Nope. I’m Quinn. Just Quinn. Private Investigator out of New Orleans, so I’m happy to hear more about local legends.”
“Really?” Mandy asked, hesitant.
“Incredibly interested,” Quinn said, indicating the scarecrow poles. “Someone has been delving into some kind of legend, so it appears.”
Mandy nodded gravely.
“Okay,” she said. “Yes, there’s the story about Yvette, and it has gone on for…well, hundreds of years, I suppose. She was supposedly Cajun, and then the English or Americans or English Americans were moving out here, and at the time, they really didn’t mix. Enraged, the boy’s mother supposedly killed Yvette, only to be mysteriously killed herself in the same spot a year or so later. People love to use stories like that and embellish them. Every several decades or so, a mean person is supposedly murdered out here—Yvette’s spirit or ghost helping rid the world of those who would ruin other lives.”
“Was Ally supposed to be a nasty person?” Larue asked Quinn.
Quinn shrugged. “I have no idea. I imagine that just about anyone in the world might be considered to be a mean or nasty person by someone else. But,” he said, turning back to the young crime scene worker, “you seem to know about another legend? What is it?”
She hesitated, glancing to the poles that had held the “scarecrows.”
“So local legend,” Quinn murmured, glancing at Larue.
How the hell had it started in NOLA then?
“It revolves around the number three—superstitions, I guess. But the very first burial here was that of three people. Supposedly, the priest spoke about the number three that day—birth, life, and death. The circle of life. And more. Supposedly, bad things happen in threes.”
She stopped speaking, looking at them all. They weren’t responding.
“Well, the legend goes that soon after the cemetery was begun—even before Perryville, the nearest little town was established—we had a night in which three bizarre murders took place. It was right around Martinmas—of course, though, you know how legends go. It might have been January, if what happened really happened at all. One woman and two men were hideously hacked to pieces—and left in the cemetery on stakes.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sometimes, when you hear the story, it’s said the woman had been a witch, and she had killed her husband and their handyman, and then been murdered herself by a friend who came upon the scene. Not wanting to be blamed for the murders, he’d set them up as he thought the witches might set them up—on poles, or as it being the harvest time, as…”
“Scarecrows?” Quinn asked. “To do with…protecting the crops, or the harvest, or.”
She nodded solemnly. “Then the other version is the woman had something in her possession that could cause people to go insane—and kill others or themselves. Again, the same friend—I guess—came along and turned the tables on her. How he had the charm or talisman or whatever on him and didn’t kill himself, I don’t know, but the story goes two ways after that, too. One, that the talisman was buried with them. Another version has it that someone has the talisman in their home, though I don’t know how many homes were around at that time. But that it’s believed that it is still out there—somewhere.”
“Well,” Larue said skeptically, “it wouldn’t be easy to kill others, kill yourself—and bind yourself up on a pole like a scarecrow. But the number three…”
“And the versions all have scarecrows,” Ellsworth said.
“It doesn’t matter what the legend was, true or not true in any version, if someone is playing on it, we have to find them,” Quinn said flatly. “The legend says something causes you to go insane and kill others—and maybe yourself. Maybe not. Maybe the kind farmer was the one who went insane and killed everyone. Somehow, he gained control and got rid of the talisman—before it got to him.”
“Or he invented the story to get away with murder,” Ellsworth said.
“The number three,” Larue said thoughtfully. “Well, we have three. Maybe that means we have to catch a killer, but he’s done with his killing spree.”
“New Orleans—and then Perryville. I think we have to catch a killer before there are three more,” Quinn said, watching as the last of the corpses was lowered from a pole and onto a gurney with a body bag.
Legends were stories, of course. Enlarged, exaggerated, twisted, and turned.
But they often had a base in fact.
He was already wondering what kind of talisman might exist in the environs of Mount Misery and the cemetery.
***
The shadow had moved; everything was as it had been. Still Danni waited, watching for a few minutes before she crawled back out of the tomb.
As she did so, she heard a sharp, startled cry.
“Oh, my God!”
There was a couple that had apparently been leaning back against the other side of the little hillock that had formed over the in-ground tombs. They had used the natural slant to lean against as they talked…or…whatever.
As she exited the tomb, they must have thought she was the dead rising. The woman jumped to her feet; the man who had been at her side did the same. Then again, she was just as stunned to see them. She had thought the cemetery had been closed off—the medical examiner’s van was at the gates along with several vehicles belonging to the parish investigators.
After a minute, Danni realized she knew them both—or had, at least, met them at the lodge mixer party last night. She was Tracy Willard, a pretty, vivacious redhead, Colleen’s office manager from her base of operation in New York City. He was Trent Anderson, a local scion, so Danni had heard, land owner, investor, local millionaire—very, very eligible —and all-around supreme catch for many a young single woman with high hopes for a wealthy match-up.
“Danni!” Tracy said, her voice breathy. She was still shaking, Danni thought.
“Miss Cafferty,” Trent murmured, obviously still surprised, though certainly no longer frightened. “Um—what are you doing, crawling around in tombs?”
She stared at them both. “How did you get in here? There’s a crime scene less than a football field away.”
“What?” they asked in unison.
Danni shook her head. “You didn’t hear? There were murders committed here last night. A member of the Rankin group who was on her way out here and a man—as yet unknown. How on earth did you get in here without passing the authorities?”
“Murder.” Tracy said. “One of Colleen’s people?” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“I’m so sorry,” Danni murmured. Of course. Tracy knew Ally Caldwell; they were both from Colleen’s New York base.
“What the hell?” Trent said, walking around Danni to look toward the front half of the cemetery—and the personnel still working the site.
“Oh, my God!” he whispered, hurrying back.
“Who? Who? Oh…” Tracy said.
“I’m so sorry,” Danni said quickly. Not a good way to find out a friend and co-worker had died.
“Who?” Tracy whispered again. She looked as if she was going to fall, but Trent Anderson was immediately back at her side, supporting her.
Danni wasn’t sure she had ever felt more awkward.
She took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry,” she said again—before taking another deep breath. She had to just say it; if Tracy had been at the lodge, she’d have known by now.
“Ally. Um, Allison Caldwell.”
“Ally,” Tracy said, eyes wide as she stared at her.
Danni nodded.
Tracy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Ally,” she murmured.
The woman didn’t burst into tears, nor did she waver. She stood there with her eyes closed and then said softly, “I was so afraid…”
“Afraid?” Danni said very softly.
Tracy opened her eyes. “I was afraid for Colleen—Colleen is…well, you must know how amazing she is. And how trusting. I was afraid she trusted the wrong person. Of course, you two are very old friends, but I hadn’t seen you, didn’t know you until the other day…. I mean, we don’t know everything about Colleen, except that she’s so sweet and giving…and I’m rambling because this is so very horrible.”
“How did you get here without seeing what was going on?” Danni asked.
Trent pointed behind them and to the right. “I own a lot of land around here. I was showing Tracy one of my hunting lodges. It borders the cemetery. This place is…well, gone to hell, but very historic. The first burials here were in 1779—right after the area was settled. In the 1800s, the Victorian era brought some beautiful funerary art…I just wanted to show Tracy my little lodge, and then we were there, so…I thought I should show her the cemetery. We…” he paused, wincing, “we had no idea anything had happened.”
Danni nodded; she hadn’t seen them this morning at the lodge. She didn’t know if that meant maybe they’d spent the night at Trent Anderson’s more private lodge, or she just hadn’t seen them. She didn’t know if Trent had even taken a room at Honeywell Lodge since he was a local; he had been at the first mixer where he’d been very popular and wore an air of confidence as easily as he wore his designer suit. He was a good-looking man, tall, with a wave of dark hair that fell over one of his deep green eyes.
And of course, he was very wealthy—which couldn’t hurt.
“Danni?”
She was grateful to hear Quinn calling her name. He came around the curve of the grassy-sloped tombs, a worried frown on his face. He stopped dead before he reached her, looking curiously at Trent and Tracy.
“Quinn, I think you met Trent and Tracy last night,” Danni said quickly. “Trent has a lodge right over there,” she said, pausing to point, “and they were just here because Trent is local and knows the area so well. He wanted Tracy to see the historic cemetery.” No one said anything, so she continued. “Tracy is Colleen’s office manager in New York and Trent is…”
Her voice trailed; she had just said he was local. “Trent was part of the little opening party last night. I think you met then. I think we all met…everyone who was there.”
“Yes, of course,” Quinn said, stepping forward to shake Trent’s hand. The man immediately responded.
“We were just sitting here. I had been telling Tracy these are some of the oldest tombs” He scrunched his face into a wry grimace. “Weird, I know, but I’ve always been fascinated by the history of this place. I grew up around here—thought I knew it through and through, but to be honest, I didn’t realize there was an opening hole—until I saw Danni coming out just now,” Trent said.
Quinn looked at Danni, lightly arching a brow. He didn’t speak his question to her aloud, but she knew what he was silently wondering.
What the heck were you doing? Where were you exactly?
“Ah,” he said to Trent and Tracy. “Well, I imagine all kinds of secrets have been well-kept by nature around here,” he said. “Of course, the situation right now means you really shouldn’t be here. I don’t know how long the police will have the immediate area cordoned off, but I don’t believe anyone knew there were people in the cemetery.”
“We didn’t know!” Tracy said. “It’s so horrible.”
“We’ve been out and hadn’t heard the news this morning,” Trent continued.
“No news,” Tracy repeated.
“Well, I’m sure this will be all over every form of media very soon,” Quinn said. He glanced at Danni again. “So…um, let’s walk these two past the police so they don’t wind up having to stop to answer all kinds of questions again.”
Danni hesitated. Tracy might not have been best friends with Ally Caldwell, but she had known her. It was hard enough to see what they had seen, the mangled bodies set up like scarecrows, but to see a friend or an acquaintance so…
“The M.E. and his assistants have moved on out,” he said quietly.
“Okay,” Danni murmured. “We can walk you through—”
“My car is on the other side of the little hammock by the cemetery,” Trent said.
“Well, then,” Quinn said, “we’ll stroll with you. You can show us your property. I guess you just walked over a bit of broken wall.”
“Easy as pie,” Tracy said.
As they walked, Quinn wasn’t cheerful, but he was polite. He was obviously interested in Trent Anderson. “Local. I guess you know all the local legends.”
“Oh, yeah, there’s Yvette and the thing about women getting murdered every few decades. But of course, not sweet, beautiful women like you,” he told Tracy, and then remembered that her co-worker had just been murdered. “Oh, I’m sorry. How terrible of me, I didn’t mean…you asked about legend. Half the world has a ‘Bloody Mary’ story and for us, it’s Yvette. I didn’t mean…Tracy, I am so sorry!”
“It’s okay, it’s okay—I didn’t see Ally every day. We were in the same offices, but she was gone a lot and when we were in, she was in her office and I’m always right outside Colleen’s office, and I guess Colleen usually went to her office when they were discussing business…I mean, it’s truly horrible, and of course, we’re all effected by it, but…sad to say, she wasn’t my best friend or even a close one. I just keep sounding worse and worse, don’t I? I am so sorry—and, of course, it’s terrifying, and Colleen must be devastated, but…oh, there you go. Ally was a workaholic. She didn’t come down from New York to New Orleans with us, she came on her own. When a group of us made our arrangements for a van to come out, she wasn’t ready, she wanted a car of her own.”
“How did she get her car? You’re the office manager. Did you order it for her?”
Tracy shook her head. “I asked Colleen if I was supposed to order a separate car for her, but Colleen said arrangements were already made.”
“We’ll find out about the car company—could be her driver who was with her, in the cemetery and…with her,” Quinn finished a little awkwardly.
“Dead! She was dead, in the cemetery, not far from us! We were just lying back on that little mound and talking and…oh!” Tracy said.
Trent put an arm around her shoulders as they walked. “I’m so sorry. What idiot brings a woman to a cemetery?” he apologized.
“No idiot,” she said, touching his face lightly but with adoring eyes, “just a great man who knows history and nature are amazing!”
Danni looked over at Quinn. He was watching the two, perplexed.
When the couple were a bit ahead of them, he asked, “Were we ever that…creepy?” he asked.
She smiled. “Um, so much for the romance of it all, huh?”
“Oh, wait, I forgot. I thought you were a spoiled party girl, and you thought I was a terrible jerk. Well, once upon a time, I was a jerk. Still…is that romance?”
“I’m guessing it depends on who you are,” Danni said. She maneuvered around a broken headstone barely visible in the long grass.
“So, where were you—in a vault? Alone? In a cemetery where two murders just took place?”
“I was within ear shot of you, Larue, Ellsworth, and a half dozen parish workers,” she said. But she looked at him, remembering, “Quinn, you’ve got to get down there. There are five or so coffins…well, sarcophagi or tombs with coffins in them, but there are bones all over the floor—and the coffins are filled with straw.”
He stared at her. “And you didn’t tell me this right away?”
“You were talking about legends! People around us, remember?”
He winced. “Yeah, yeah, sorry, but…”
He walked quickly, twisting somewhat as he did so. The cemetery had not been laid out with a designer’s hand; trails appeared and disappeared. All manner of stone filled the place, along with the few vaults and dozens of the “city of the dead” style family mausoleums. Then there were cherubs, lambs, angels, and other artistic memorials, some in better shape than others.
It occurred to her that the place must be incredibly eerie and sad by night. She’d lived in New Orleans all her life; she knew well what many referred to as the “decaying elegance” of the NOLA cities of the dead.
This place…
It was more. So many burial styles, so many chipped and broken tombs and stones. Age sitting upon the place like a gray and dismal aura.
Danni suddenly felt as if something had wound around her ankle. Shrubbery! The place was so overgrown!
She fought to steady herself, but she could not—she pitched forward, stopping herself from meeting with the ground by catching the edge of a life-sized child holding a lamb. Luckily she had caught herself just before she could fall on a chipped and decaying tombstone.
The last name was all but obliterated, but she could read the first name.
Yvette.