Krewe of Hunters 1 Phantom Evil (5 page)

“You think the house is haunted?” he asked her.

She laughed. Once again, she chose her words. “Say I believe that a house
can
be haunted. Perhaps things go bump in the night—or ghosts prowl the hallways. I don't think that ghosts pushed Regina Holloway over the balcony.”

“Good conclusion.”

The voice came from the doorway and Angela turned quickly to see that Jackson Crow had finished whatever work he was doing and stood there, watching them. She felt color flood her cheeks. Just how long had he been there?

“I wanted you to let Jake know that he needs to go ahead and pick a room,” Jackson said, his blue eyes as enigmatic as ever. “The rest of the crew will be arriving soon. You might want to get settled. The two maids who worked in the house when Regina was alive won't come back to work here, but they should be here in a few minutes to show us where the linen can be found, towels, cleaning articles, all that.”

“All right, I think I'll go ahead and take that third room in the hallway where you two are,” Jake said. “And I'm pretty good at picking up after myself. I can cook, too,” he assured them.

 

“I'll help you,” Angela said.

“I just have my guitar and my bag,” he said.

“I'll get the guitar for you—and treat it like gold,” Angela assured him. “You wouldn't want to drop it on the way up the stairs.”

“Sure,” he said, and they both walked past Jackson. Angela felt
that he watched them, and she wondered why. She was equally curious as to why she was suddenly trying to avoid him.

Because the meeting over the pickax remained between them—and she didn't really want him knowing that, despite her credentials, she definitely still had her vulnerabilities.

She wasn't sure. She was confident, and she knew how to keep her own counsel. But there was something about the way that he looked at her…

She usually didn't care, she realized. She
wanted
Jackson Crow to like her.

 

“Hi!”

The fourth member of his team, Whitney Tremont, had just rung the bell. She'd been born and bred in New Orleans just like Jake, but with the difference that Jake came from an “English” background and Whitney was pure Creole.

She was, he thought, a compelling little bundle of energy. She was little, no more than five-two or five-three, slim, with curly hair and hazel eyes, and skin the color of amber. She had a smile that was infectious, and a soft, sweet voice.

They had sent him another child.

No, there was a keen intelligence in her eyes. She had been a straight-A off-the-charts student; she had studied ethnicity, religion, philosophy, modern and ancient beliefs, while also receiving her degree in film from NYU. Her maternal great-grandmother was a noted contemporary voodoo priestess, and owned a shop called As You Believe up near Rampart Street. She had helped the local police crack down on a cult of would-be voodoo worshippers who had taken it upon themselves to bastardize the beliefs for the sake of human sacrifice—two young people had died during blood-drinking rituals.
According to her file, she had a chameleon-like ability to slip into any group and be accepted as one of them—and somehow manage to film or video events and people who had never allowed such a thing before. Her expertise was cameras and film, and Jackson knew that she, like Will Chan, whom he had yet to meet, had been brought in for their work with cameras and sound.

“Hi,” he said, reaching for her large, tapestry travel bag. “Come on in. Whitney, right? Miss Whitney Tremont.”

“Jackson Crow. Love the name,” she assured him.

“Thanks.”

“So, you've already been digging up bodies—I'm late to the party,” she said.

He grimaced. “A skeleton. Angela Hawkins found it.”

“I'm impressed, and the majority of the people in the city are convinced that now all the ghosts who might not have been busy yet will be crawling out of the woodwork. Anyway, if they do, I'm hoping that we catch them on film. I have a lot of equipment out in the van.”

He looked over her head. There was a fellow in the driver's seat who looked so much like her that he had to be her brother. The man waved to him; Jackson waved back.

“I'll open the courtyard gate. And call the troops to help. Well, the two who are here now,” Jackson told her.

“Okay,” Whitney said. “That's my brother, Tyler, over there. I'll get him to come around the corner,” she said cheerfully.

Whitney went out; he called for Angela and Jake, and soon they were all in the courtyard, meeting Tyler and hauling heavy boxes out of the van. They decided to set up in the grand entry slash ballroom, so Jackson shut off the alarm entirely in
order for them to open the middle courtyard doors and take the shortest route.

It didn't take them more than thirty minutes to bring everything in.

Tyler was as tall as his sister was short, ranging a good foot over her head. He was as pleasant with the others as if he had been leaving his sister at summer camp, but when he was actually ready to leave, he gave her a huge hug and said seriously, “You be careful, and you don't take any chances, and you don't go getting your nose in where it shouldn't be.”

“I'm all grown up now, Tyler,” she reminded him, but she hugged him in return.

“She has a tendency to rush in—right into people who have guns,” he said.

Jackson grinned. “We'll watch out for her. I promise.”

Tyler nodded. “Adam wouldn't have set her up with you if you weren't good people. And if she wasn't going to be safe.” He paused, looking around. “So this is the Newton house. It doesn't look like a dark torture chamber, but…I'm sure it's creepy as hell at night. You all be careful, huh? I remember when the kid took a header when the cops were after him about a decade ago. Brought it all back. And now Mrs. Holloway…it's a shame, and it may just be that the place is bad.”

“We'll all be looking out for each other,” Jake said solemnly.

Hugging his sister and warning her to call him, Tyler left at last.

Jackson looked at the four members of his team and the mass of boxes in the living room. “Well,” he said.

Whitney shrugged. “It's not bad, really! Somebody else is in film, right?”

“Will Chan, but he's not here yet,” Jackson said.

“We follow orders well,” Angela assured her.

“And I'm way brawnier than I look,” Jake added, laughing.

“That's good. Because you can all start while I check the doors, windows and the alarm system again,” Jackson told him. “Here are the rules—no one opens the gate without me knowing it. We're going to be opening the balcony doors from our bedrooms, so I'll have the alarm set during the day so that we can do that. Though it will sound if we don't key ourselves in and out of the front door—everyone understand?”

“Yes, and thank God! I can't imagine not going out on that beautiful balcony,” Whitney said. She didn't seem the least disturbed by the house—simply fascinated.

“We'll dig on in and help Whitney start getting set up,” Angela assured him.

“I won't be that long.”

He was long, though. Longer than he intended.

None of them had been up to the third floor yet. After taking the grand stairway to the second floor, he briefly checked each of the rooms on the front end of the house, and came around to the middle section, and the stairway there. He went up to the third level. Thankfully, the middle section was one big expanse of space. With remnants from the decades that the house had stood.

No one had gotten up here yet to start on the cleaning. The area was rife with dust; it almost felt as if he took a step back into a different time. Dressmakers' dummies were along the wall, near one of the three dormer windows. Jackson checked them; the alarm wires were in place. Clothing on the dummies ranged from an antebellum ball gown to a World War II–era swing skirt.

A huge old sewing machine was in another corner, and a wire crate held toys from eons past, wooden soldiers, dolls that might have been collectibles, croquet mallets, balls and wickets. More—he couldn't discern everything in the container.

He walked through the low hallway at the one end, arriving at the area over the ballroom, and discovered that it had been set up as a row of dormitory-style rooms, and he assumed that the rooms had been slave quarters for the household staff at one time, and servants' quarters at another.

It was slow going, but he checked each of the dormer windows. He walked back through the main storage room and through the low-ceilinged hallway to the last ell; here, he found just two rooms, both of them large, and both of them empty. But the alarm wires were in place, and the windows were secure. He walked back down to the second floor and went through all the motions, finally reached the first, and checked that all the windows not facing the courtyard were secure.

The place was huge. Despite the fact that the police had searched the premises, and despite the alarm system, Jackson still wondered if there hadn't been a way for someone to slip in—uninvited, and unknown.

Back in the ballroom he discovered that his crew had been busy. There was a set of television screens arranged at the far end of the room, cables, cords, lights and more equipment aligned against the wall.

“We're trying to decide which rooms should get the cameras first,” Angela told him. She stared at him peculiarly.

“What?” he asked.

“You look like a ghost yourself,” Whitney said, giggling.

“Like you've been playing in a pail of plaster,” Jake added.
“You went up to the attic? I'm guessing there hasn't been a cleanup crew there.”

He groaned and looked at his arm. The sleeves of his cotton shirt were white.

Once again, the doorbell rang and he walked to the door, expecting the remainder of the team.

A tall, slender woman of African descent stood there as straight as a ramrod, and as ancient as one. She frowned, seeing Jackson, and murmured something that seemed to be a prayer against curses.

Angela swiftly came running to the door, catching the woman's hand. “Hi, I'm Angela. Jackson is just dusty—can we help you?”

“Gran-Mama!” Whitney cried. “You're early.”

Jackson spun back to look at the old woman. Angela had reached out a hand to invite her in.

“Who are you?” Jackson demanded.

“I am Mama Matisse. Whitney didn't tell you that she asked me to come?” the woman asked. “Whitney, child! I don't come where I'm not invited!”

“Gran-Mama,” Whitney began, her face chalky, “I just haven't had time to talk to them yet.”

“No, she didn't,” Jackson said. “You're a priestess? A voodoo priestess?”

“Yes. But I am also Whitney's great-grandmother,” the woman explained.

Jackson wasn't sure whether or not to be indignant at her demeanor. But he had the feeling that this woman could help them, and that the wisdom in her eyes ran deep. He bowed his head slightly. “Whitney didn't mention you, but, please, yes,
stay, help us.” He cast Whitney a frowning glare; she lifted her hands helplessly.

“Gran-Mama—Mama Matisse—was friends with both the maids who worked here. And she knew Regina and the senator. I thought you might want to hear what she can tell us,” Whitney said.

Jackson nodded at her. “I'll run up and take a two-minute shower. Mama Matisse, Whitney will take you into the kitchen and get you some coffee or water or whatever. Please?”

“I am here to help you,” Mama Matisse said with tremendous dignity. “I will do my best. You see, the police have not much cared for what I've had to say, but I can tell you this—the very day that Regina Holloway died, her maid, Rene, came running over to tell me that there were ghosts in this house. There were ghosts, and there is tremendous evil, and whether or not they are one and the same, that you must discover.”

Mama Matisse drew a long bony finger down her teacup as she sat at the kitchen table. “Whitney asked me to come here today because of the maids—and because I was here, and worked with Regina Holloway,” Mama Matisse explained.

“You worked with her?” Angela looked from Mama Matisse to Whitney.

“Regina Holloway was very fond on my great-grandmother, and believed in her wisdom,” Whitney explained.

Mama Matisse nodded gravely. “The maids will not come back in this house, Trini or Rene,” she assured Angela. “They are afraid. They have taken money from the senator to live on while they look for new positions. They need to keep working in this city, so if you were to try to call them and ask them questions, they would not come to you with a ghost story. They don't mind if I speak to you in their stead. If you question them, if the police question them again, they will not speak about the
ghosts, and that is all that there is to it. But they have talked to me, and I don't believe they care that I talk to you.”

“Thank you,” Angela said.

“They are afraid that people will think that they are crazy,” Mama Matisse said. “
Loco
, as Trini says,” she added.

“My great-grandmother is considered to be extremely wise,” Whitney said. “Many, many people come to her. Whether they are voodooists, Jewish, Buddhists, Christian or whatever.”

“I promise you, we're not going to repeat anything that you say,” Angela assured her.

Mama Matisse looked at her. “If you were to repeat what I say on behalf of the maids, it wouldn't matter. I have said it, and not them.”

Angela nodded. Mama Matisse did not easily trust people, but Whitney had asked her to come, and so here she was.

“The women, both Rene and Trini, worked here the day that Mrs. Holloway died,” Mama Matisse said.

“Did they tell you that they saw something?” Angela asked.

“Yes, they saw a ghost. Or they thought they saw a ghost. He was in the hallway, Trini told me. They saw a man, and then he disappeared. They didn't tell Mrs. Holloway. She had said that she didn't believe in ghosts. And the man disappeared, so he couldn't have been real. Mrs. Holloway had told them that she was going to lie down. They later heard that she was dead, that she had killed herself, going over the balcony. They were very upset.”

“Of course,” Angela murmured.

“I didn't believe it,” Mama Matisse said. “I didn't believe it a minute when they said that she committed suicide. Neither did her maids. She was Catholic. She went to church every
Sunday morning, and sometimes, during the week. Her faith was strong. To a Catholic, it's a grave offense to God for us to take our own lives.”

“But she was very upset about the loss of her little boy, right?”

“She was sad, yes,” Mama Matisse said. “So sad—I was here when the senator told his wife that they always wanted more children, and that they would try again, that they would have several. Mrs. Holloway told him that they couldn't replace Jacob. The senator said no, they would never try to replace him. But they had always wanted more children and they would try. And she said that yes, she loved children, and she loved him, and that she would fix up the house, and that one day, they would have a family. And they talked about all the needy children in the world, and maybe they would have a child, and adopt a child.”

“That doesn't sound like someone about to commit suicide,” Jackson said from the doorway to the kitchen.

He had showered away the dust, and appeared clean, striking and confident as he came in to join them. He was casual, pausing to pour himself a cup of coffee before taking a seat across the table from Mama Matisse. “She sounds like the nicest woman imaginable. What about the other people in their lives? Those closest to them? What about their day-to-day lives?”

“I don't know about their day-to-day lives, Mr. Crow,” she said. Angela didn't remember that Jackson had ever introduced himself, but Mama Matisse knew who he was. “I haven't been here before on a day-to-day basis. I can tell you this—Mrs. Holloway had many friends. But she needed time to be alone—because people kept telling her how sorry they were about her son.”

“We really need to speak with the maids,” Jackson reminded.

Mama Matisse merely stared at him.

“I'm sorry. I'm grateful that you're here.”

“The maids will not speak to you. They will not speak to anyone anymore. They talked to the police, and they have nothing more to say. They are afraid. They have their lives to live.”

“If this case ever goes to court—” Jackson began.

“Do you think that everything is solved in a court, Jackson Crow? I think that you know differently,” Mama Matisse said.

Jackson stared back at her. Angela was certain that he had reacted inwardly, but, as usual, she saw nothing change in his expression.

“You are right. You can't always force the truth in court,” Jackson agreed. “So, please, tell me, who was closest to them. Tell me what you can. David Holloway is a politician, so his life is full of people, but tell me what you know about his relationships.”

“Let me think about those around him… There is Mr. DuPre, and Senator Holloway's secretary, Lisa Drummond. Lisa Drummond protects the senator at his office. Martin DuPre tries very hard to be the go-between. He protects the senator's time. The senator still appears to be reeling from what has happened. He is dependent on those around him. He must have an aide. He is proud of Mr. DuPre, and thinks that one day he will step into politics on his own.”

“Actually, I'm curious. The government is in Baton Rouge. Why was the senator so determined to have a wonderful home
in which to entertain in New Orleans, do you know?” Jackson asked.

Mama Matisse smiled. “That is no mystery. New Orleans is their home. There need be no other explanation. They had an apartment in Baton Rouge, of course,” she said.

Jackson said, “Well, of course. I'm sorry. Of course. And Baton Rouge isn't so far, right?”

“It's just eighty miles,” Mama Matisse said. “But that's why Senator Holloway has a chauffeur. He works in the car when he drives there and back.”

“But he must have stayed over in Baton Rouge often enough,” Jackson said.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Did Mrs. Holloway stay here alone when he was gone?” Jackson asked.

“Yes, many times. Of course, the senator was home a lot. The first week they moved in, the state legislature wasn't in session,” the old woman told him. “You must understand, while I knew Mrs. Holloway I was not her spiritual adviser. She had her priest, but she did have me do a banishing spell.”

“A banishing spell?” Jackson asked.

“Yes, as a precaution against all evil,” Mama Matisse said. “But you must remember that Regina Holloway clung strongly to her own faith. Father Adair came and blessed the house. However, this is New Orleans, and she was part of the fabric of the city. A banishing spell is not black magic. Black magic is when you wish someone ill.”

Whitney cleared her throat and told them, “My great-grandmother does banishing spells often. And when you do a spell, it has to be done the right way. You are always careful not to wish anyone ill. If you wish a ghost to leave, you wish
that the ghost finds peace, and you hope that leaving is what will bring the ghost peace.”

Mama Matisse nodded solemnly.

“I see,” Jackson said.

Angela wasn't sure that he really “saw” anything, but she didn't say so. Instead, she asked, “So, she wasn't afraid of the house?”

Mama Matisse shook her head slightly. “No, I do not believe that she was afraid of her own house.”

“What about the chauffeur, Grable Haines? Is he still with the senator, and did he drive for Mrs. Holloway as well?” Jackson asked.

“To the best of my knowledge,” Mama Matisse said, “Mrs. Holloway never drove, and she only got into a car when she was going someplace with the senator. Friends picked her up sometimes, but otherwise, she did everything in the French Quarter. She liked a hat shop on Royal Street… She bought groceries just down on Royal, too. She liked to walk to Jackson Square, and go sit in the cathedral. She didn't like to leave the area… She hated cars.”

“Because her son was killed in a car?” Angela asked.

Mama Matisse lifted her hands with a shrug. “So one might think. She didn't own a car. She just rode with the senator when he wanted her with him. So, that means, if she had to go somewhere, she went with the senator—and Grable Haines. Oh, I believe she liked Grable. Everyone likes him. He is a handsome man,” Mama Matisse said. She leaned closer across the table toward Jackson. “But, sometimes, a man can be too handsome. Too many things in the world come too easily to him.”

“I understand,” Jackson said.

Mama Matisse smiled. “You understand, but you don't accept many things,” she said.

Jackson smiled at her; they were challenging one another, Angela thought, and yet, it also seemed that they respected each other innately.

“Do you think that a
ghost
killed Regina Holloway?” Angela asked.

Jackson flashed Angela a quick look. “I'm asking,” she said quietly. “Just asking. Do
you
think that a ghost might have killed her?”

“I told you, I wasn't here the day she died,” Mama Matisse said.

“But what do you think?” Jackson persisted.

“This is what they told me— Rene yelled for Trini. She was in the laundry room.” She pointed. The laundry room was a small area next to the kitchen, but the two rooms didn't attach. “Trini said that she came quickly, and she
thought
she saw a man, vanishing into thin air. She made a cross on her chest and they both prayed to the Virgin and came into the kitchen, but there was nothing in here then.”

“You're still not telling me what you think,” Jackson said, smiling.

“I think that evil can exist, that's what I think,” Mama Matisse said. “I can only tell you what they said to me. If it's true or not, I don't know. But, soon after this happened, it was time for them to leave for the day. Mrs. Holloway came to the door with them, and they left. They were very frightened. That's why they talked to me.”

“They never told Regina Holloway about the ghost?” Jackson asked.

“She said that she didn't believe in ghosts—the maids would
not have told her that they had seen one,” Mama Matisse said flatly, staring at Jackson.

“What about the alarm?” Jackson asked.

“They heard her set the alarm. She was always careful when she was alone.” Mama Matisse hesitated. “But…she didn't like the basement. She never went there when she was alone. She locked the door that led down to the basement.”

Jackson looked at Angela. She kept staring at Mama Matisse.

“Did she say why she was scared of the basement?” he asked.

Mama Matisse shook her head. “She just said that basements—and attics—were inherently strange places. They were like depositories for the past, and she just didn't like them.”

Jackson mulled that information over for a moment.

“She did believe, I'm sure, that she and the senator lived with a certain amount of danger and uncertainty because he was a politician.”

“Yes.”

Jackson then asked her, “Tell me about Senator Holloway's bodyguard, Blake Conroy.”

Mama Matisse sniffed.

“He should have been guarding Mrs. Holloway, maybe,” Mama Matisse said. “The girls told me that he was always eating. Making a big mess in the kitchen, and thinking that he could make a big mess anywhere that he went. He is a big man,” she added.

“Was he mean, or rude?” Jackson asked.

“It's rude to make a mess of a clean kitchen.”

Angela smiled; she saw that Jackson did, too.

“Did Mr. Holloway have a bodyguard just because he was a politician?” Jackson asked.

“Well, there are some people—and some groups—who don't like the senator,” Mama Matisse said.

“Do you know who? Can you tell me about them?” Jackson coaxed. He apologized. “You see, we love New Orleans, but you know so much more than we do.”

“Senator Holloway said all people did was fight when what they needed to do was figure out a solution. To live in our world, we had to learn to compromise. Senator Holloway likes to give speeches. He says that he believes in New Orleans and the state of Louisiana—it's a place for everyone to live, and to live together, and to remember the past so that we never repeat it,” Mama Matisse said.

“You don't sound as if you believe all that,” Jackson said.

Angela was surprised; she hadn't heard anything out of the ordinary in Mama Matisse's voice.

She shrugged. “He is a politician.”

“So, who disliked him? Who would want to hurt him?” Jackson asked.

“The Aryans, for one,” she said.

“Have they become a political group in this town?” Jackson asked.

“They are bigots, that's what they are,” Jake Mallory, who had been leaned against the counter, said irritably.

“They're Louisiana based, but they're an offshoot of a group that formed up in North Dakota. Most people around here ignore them,” Jake said. “They could make Archie Bunker look like a bleeding-heart liberal.”

“Archie Bunker?” Whitney murmured.

“Hey, don't you ever watch TV?” Jake asked her. “Archie
Bunker,
All in the Family
, a major television show in its social honesty, reflecting the changing times.”

“Hey, we can do television history at another time,” Jackson mimicked.

“Right. The Aryans do hate Senator Holloway,” Whitney said. She was next to Jake, and she lifted a hand dismissively. “They have a campaign against interracial marriage. Ridiculous.” She made a face. “I'd be a poster child for what not to do! They are convinced that we've diluted America, and that all mixed babies should be aborted.”