Masquerade (29 page)

She remembered the threat Emil had made, swearing he'd see him in his grave. "How? Did Adrienne's grand—"

"No one knew for sure—except Brodie and old Emil. They say he died of yellow fever. Old Bronze John, they called it back then. Maybe he did. That summer of eighteen fifty-three saw one of the worst yellow-fever epidemics ever to hit New Orleans. Somewhere around fifteen thousand died from it, although some claim the figure was more than twenty thousand. Upwards of sixteen hundred died the same week in August that Brodie did. There were so many bodies needing to be buried, officials didn't bother with death certificates. Which is why there's none showing the cause of Brodie's death. And by then there weren't enough gravediggers to keep up with all the work. Coffins were stacked up like crates in a warehouse. The situation got so desperate they dug trenches and dumped the bodies in common graves. That's where Brodie ended up—in an unmarked grave. It was a terrible, terrible time."

"And Adrienne?"

"She and her family escaped it. Like always, they left the city the first of May, before the fever season arrived. She knew what was going on here. The whole world knew. People from all over the country sent gifts of food and money," Nattie said, then paused. "Adrienne never married. Wore black the whole of her life—for her brother, folks claimed, but I think she wore it for Brodie too. Every All Saints' Day, she went around and placed flowers on the common graves of the yellow-fever victims—because she didn't know which one Brodie was in. Old Emil couldn't have liked that, but I guess by then she didn't care whether he did or not. Old Bronze John took Father Malone too. And five years later Horace Tate was killed when the boiler on a riverboat exploded. He'd been on his way to visit his family in St. Louis."

"And Adrienne ended up as the sole administrator for her son."

"That's right. And that's how Emil Jardin ended up running the Crescent Line—and the Union blockade during the Civil War. Made a fortune at it, too. Why, it wasn't nothing for one of his ships to net almost a half a million dollars in
one
round trip. And the war went on for four years, with the ships making anywhere from five to ten trips a year. Most Southerners lost everything they had in the war, but old Emil Jardin got rich—or Jean-Luc did, since it was really all his, and old Emil didn't live long enough to enjoy much of it. He died in eighteen-seventy, after Jean-Luc turned eighteen."

"Then the Jardins were the war profiteers," Remy mused absently, and she leaned against the curved back of the loveseat. "I wonder how Cole found that out? I suppose if he went far enough back in the company records he would have found a copy of the document transferring all Brodie's interest in the Crescent Line to Jean-Luc. Maybe there was even some mention of his death in eighteen fifty-three—long before the Civil War started."

But it didn't explain why he had dragged Brodie Donovan's portrait out of storage and hung it in place of her grandfather's. He had to know it would upset her family, especially her father— which meant it had been a deliberate act. Why would Cole want to deliberately antagonize him?

"Are you still going to take that shower and change?" Nattie wanted to know.

"Yes." She nodded, still preoccupied with her thoughts.

"I'll lay you out some clean towels, then."

As Nattie headed for the adjacent bathroom, Remy rolled to her feet, restless again. She crossed to the French doors, unlocked them, and stepped onto the front gallery. Like twin sentinels, the two magnolia trees stood guard over the front lawn, magnolia trees that Adrienne had suggested Brodie plant.

Remy paused for a moment, then walked to the railing, its delicate ironwork a tracery of leaves and flowers. She let her gaze wander over the lawn, the wrought-iron fence that surrounded it, and the quiet street beyond.

Catty-corner across the street, a navy-blue sedan was parked at the curb. Remy noticed the driver sitting behind the wheel, her eye drawn by the incongruity of his dark hair and neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, which looked more salt than pepper from this distance. He appeared to be writing something. She guessed he was a salesman. At that moment, he looked up. Realizing that he'd seen her, Remy turned from the railing and walked back to her room, not wanting her presence to be taken as an invitation for him to come pitch his wares.

As she entered the room, she glanced at the antique tester bed and stopped, suddenly wondering if Adrienne and Jean-Luc had lived in this house after Emil Jardin died. She was certain they must have. How else could it have become the family home? And if it had been haunted with memories for Brodie, how much more haunted it must have been for Adrienne.

A pink-palmed hand waved in front of her face. Startled, Remy blinked and focused her gaze on Nattie's high-cheeked face. "Sorry, I didn't see you."

"I guessed," she said dryly. "The towels are all laid out for you, and your robe's hanging on the back of the door."

"Thanks."

"What's wrong?" Nattie frowned at her in puzzlement. "You looked like you were in some kind of a trance."

"I was thinking about Adrienne, remembering how much she liked the social life back then— and how much she pitied her Tante ZeeZee. Yet she ended up just like her, a spinster—alone. I wonder where she found the strength to do it."

"Honey," Nattie said, offering another one of her sad and sage smiles, "A woman is like a teabag—you never know how strong she is until you get her in hot water."

Remy laughed, yet she had the feeling that somewhere nearby, trouble seethed. Where and of what kind, she couldn't remember. But she needed to be there. Why? To prevent what? To stop whom?

 

 

 

 

20

 

 

The museum complex on Jackson Square wasn't the place. At least her visit to it hadn't given her any indication that it was. Remy stood at one of the desks in the museum's office area, closed to the public, and absently twined the telephone receiver's coiled cord around her forefinger.

Gabe's voice came over the line. "If you're calling to tell me you're too tired to go to the museum this afternoon, I'm not surprised—considering how early you were up this morning."

"Actually, I'm calling from the museum."

"You're there?" She could hear the frown of surprise in his voice. "I thought you were coming to my office at two-thirty so we could go together."

"I was." After spending all morning wandering the house, she'd been on the verge of going crazy from inactivity. Then her brother had called around lunchtime to let her know he'd talked their father out of sending her to that clinic outside of Houston. In passing Remy had mentioned she was thinking about going to the museum later on, and Gabe had immediately insisted on going with her. At the time, she'd agreed. It wasn't until later that she'd known she would prefer to see it alone— with no one to distract her with talk—so she could be open to any impressions, any memories, any sense of trouble. "I was too restless sitting around the house, so I left early and came here to look around on my own."

"Then you've already been through everything."

"Yes." She couldn't keep the dispirited tone from her voice.

"You seem . . . discouraged. Weren't you able to remember anything?"

"Unfortunately, no," she said on a sigh. Nothing had been familiar to her—not any of the layouts, not a single exhibit, not one member of the staff, nothing.

As she idly scanned the bank of television monitors, part of the museum's security system, on the opposite wall, she noticed an older man standing near the traveling exhibit. With his dark hair and distinctively whitish beard, he looked exactly like the man she'd seen in the car in front of her house. Obviously she'd been wrong to assume he was a salesman. He must be a tourist. It was odd, though, that he was wearing a suit and tie. Most of them dressed much more casually, especially in the daytime. And he certainly wasn't very interested in the exhibit. The way he was looking around, Remy had the impression he was searching for someone.

"What are your plans now?" Gabe asked, distracting her attention from the black-and-white monitors. "Are you going to stay there for a while, or head home?"

"I don't think so. I'll—"

"Don't tell me. I think I can guess," he broke in. "You're going to Canal Place and see if you can buy out Saks and Gucci's this time."

He sounded so certain that Remy frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"Because you always go on a shopping binge when you're depressed."

"I do?"

"You do," he declared, with an undertone of amusement. "I'd offer to carry your purchases for you, but I've got some paperwork I should catch up on. Why don't we meet at La Louisiane for drinks at, say . . . about four-thirty? That'll give you almost three hours to shop."

"All right," she agreed, though she had no desire to go shopping.

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line, as if Gabe sensed her reluctance. "Remy . . .you aren't going to get yourself lost or—wander down to the docks again, are you?"

"No. I promise." She smiled at the phone.

"Good. I'll see you at four-thirty, then."

"At La Louisiane," she confirmed, then hung up the receiver when the line went dead. "Thanks," she said to one of the staffers, who nodded in response.

As Remy started to leave the museum's administrative offices, a young woman in her early twenties came bounding up to her, her dark hair cut in a short, sleek bob with a full fringe of bangs. She stopped abruptly, exclaiming in delight, "Remy! When did you get back?"

"Last night," she replied, silently wondering who this girl was.

"How was the Riviera? I expected you to have a gorgeous tan that would make all of us poor working girls green with envy," she said, scanning Remy from head to toe. "That's a gorgeous outfit. Did you get it in France?"

"It was in my closet." She had no idea where she'd bought it.

"I wish I had your closet," she responded, casting an openly admiring eye over the hunter-green paisley jacket and blouse that Remy had paired with a navy skirt and red belt. "Have you got time for a cup of coffee or something? I've got about an hour before my tour gets here, and I'm dying to hear all about Mardi Gras in Nice. It can't possibly be as crazy as it is here."

"I'd love a cup—" Remy began, then stopped, a wry smile curving her mouth. "This is awkward. I'm sure I know you, but—I can't remember who you are. You see, I. . ." She hesitated, but there was no way to say it except straight out. "I have amnesia."

The girl gave a jaw-dropped look. "You're kidding."

"I wish I were."

"Oh my God, you're not kidding," she declared. "For heaven's sake, what happened? How? Oh, Remy, you've got to tell me all about it." She reached out to clutch at her hand, then laughed self-consciously. "I forgot. You don't remember me. I'm Tina Gianelli. We both started working here at about the same time."

With that, she caught at Remy's hand again and practically dragged her back to the employee area, sat her down at a table, and demanded again to know all about it. Remy briefly filled her in, keeping to the basic facts and concluding with, "I came to the museum today hoping something would be familiar, but when I wandered through the various exhibits, I felt like a stranger looking at things I'd always known about."

"In a way, you
have
been something of a stranger around here lately," Tina stated, combing her fingers through one side of her hair and giving it a flipping toss. "You're hardly ever here more than two or three times a week, and then only for a couple of hours. It's certainly not like it was in the beginning. Of course, the circumstances were different then."

" 'Different'? In what way?" Remy studied her curiously.

"You came to work here shortly after your fiancé drowned. I think you wanted to lose yourself in something, and the past probably seemed safe —without a lot of constant reminders of him, if you know what I mean," she said, then added quickly, "By that I'm not implying this was nothing more than distraction. You seemed to really enjoy working here. Heavens, when you weren't helping with the tours, you were persuading some family friend to either loan or donate an item to the museum—especially things for the eighteen-fifties house and the Mardi Gras exhibit."

"But you're saying that lately I've lost interest in my work here," Remy guessed.

"It isn't that you've lost interest, exactly. I've just had the feeling there isn't enough challenge here for you." She paused and cast a rueful smile at Remy. "I'm afraid I'm putting this badly, but—it's like you enjoy this as diversion, but it's not satisfying enough to be your life's work. Am I making any sense?"

"Possibly more than I realize," Remy murmured thoughtfully, then lifted her shoulders in a light shrug, "Who knows? This amnesia might turn out to be a good thing and make me take stock of my life and decide what it is I want— and don't want—to do with the rest of it."

"Wouldn't that be something? Truthfully, I've always wondered why you never got involved in your family's shipping business, but I suppose when you live with your family, you don't want to work with them every day, too," she said. Then she suddenly brightened. "I've got an idea—why don't you tag along on this tour with me? It might be just the thing to help you remember."

Remy glanced at the large wall clock. "I'd better not. I'm supposed to meet my brother for drinks at four-thirty—"

"You are! That's nice. Although I'll never understand why it takes some sort of crisis to shake a family up and make them pay attention to each other. I guess we get too caught up in our own lives. I remember when my mother was in that terrible accident last summer and my brother flew home. We sat down and talked—I mean really
talked
—for the first time in years. I learned so much about him that I never knew."

"Hey, Gianelli," a voice called from the doorway, "your tour's here."

"Already," she protested and flashed a look at the clock. "Wouldn't you know, they're early? Look, I've got to go," she said, pushing to her feet. "Give me a call, OK? And don't use amnesia as an excuse. My number's in your address book —under
G
for Gianelli."