Vieux Carré Voodoo (25 page)

Frank nodded. “I don’t want to just sit around here in the
dark.” He hugged me again. “Come on, babe, let’s go find a sacred sapphire.”

NINE OF WANDS

Eventual victory, but more fighting must be done

We grabbed our raincoats and umbrellas. We each slipped our
guns into inside pockets of our coats—better safe than sorry—and headed out into
the downpour.

New Orleans has always been at the mercy of the weather, and
I don’t mean just hurricanes. As so many pointed out after the levees failed and
ninety percent of the city filled with water, much of the city is either at sea
level or below. When a lot of rain comes down in a short period of time, the
streets and gutters fill with water. This was one of those rainstorms. As I went
out the back door, the rain pouring off the roof made it look like the back
stairs were inside a waterfall. The cold wind had picked up and it howled as it
roared around the building. I thought about suggesting we wait for the storm to
pass—but decided against it.

As awful as the weather was, I figured it would protect
us—who’d want to try to follow us around in such a downpour?

And it wasn’t a bad thing to get a jump on everyone else.

We kept Frank’s car in a parking lot a few blocks away, in
the Faubourg Marigny. The gutters were so full of water the sidewalk’s edge was
starting to submerge. I flipped up the collar of my raincoat. The balconies were
leaking, and the wind was blowing the roaring water from the roofs on us. Before
we even got to the corner, the part of my jeans exposed below the bottom of my
coat was soaked through. My sneakers and socks were also sopping wet. The light
at Esplanade was red, and the passing cars were driving slowly, their windshield
wipers desperately trying to keep up with the downpour. We stood back a little
from the corner to avoid the walls of water thrown up by tires. Finally the
light changed and we dashed across the street. Just past the fire station,
Decatur made a sharp ninety-degree turn to follow the bend in the river. The
parking lot was on the next block, across the street from the Lesbian and Gay
Community Center. The wind kept trying to rip my umbrella out of my hands, or to
flip it inside out. I tucked my head down to try to keep the rain out of my
eyes. My hair was sopping, and water was dripping down my back. Decatur was
filling with water, and lightning forked through the dark sky. The deafening
roar of thunder followed almost immediately. We finally made it to Frank’s
little classic red MG convertible and climbed in. Frank revved the engine, and
he zipped out of the parking spot and headed for the gate. He swiped the parking
pass, and the gate rose. He swung out onto Decatur Street.

“Follow Decatur through the Quarter,” I directed. The
windshield was fogged up. Frank turned the defroster to high, clearing a space
at the bottom of the windshield. My teeth were chattering from the cold. Decatur
was clogged with cars, all driving about five miles an hour. I hummed with
impatience. We reached the statue of Joan of Arc. Just ahead was Jackson Square,
and I craned my head to see—and yes, there was a break in the buildings where
you could see the spires of the cathedral.

I looked at the riddle again and grinned. Okay, the first
few clues were easy—but it was nice to confirm my deductions. “We’re on the
right track,” I said over the roar of the defroster, “but who’s
the orphan’s
friend
?”

Frank shrugged.

We finally made it through the Quarter and stopped at the
light at Canal. “Go ahead and cross Canal,” I ordered. “Then when you get to
Poydras turn right, and then left at the next light—that’s Magazine Street.”

I sighed as Frank followed my instructions. The little car
sped through the rain, and Frank maneuvered around cars driving at a crawl. “The
way people drive, you’d think it never rains here,” Frank complained as we
waited for the turn signal at Magazine and Poydras to turn green.

Magazine Street’s gutters were under the water, which was
rising almost to the bottom of the parked cars. Traffic was moving at a crawl,
and instead of using both lanes, the cars were moving in the center—straddling
the white line to avoid the deepening water on either side.

“Turn right on Calliope, and take the first left after
that,” I said. Calliope was the feeder road that ran alongside I-90—and was
also, come to think of it, one of the Muses. “Magazine in the lower Garden
District always floods.” And sure enough, when we got caught by the light at
Calliope, Magazine Street looked like a river on the other side of the
underpass.

The light changed and Frank turned, swinging out into the
left lane. We got caught again at the next light, and I looked to my left. “You
don’t think Prytania is going to flood, do you?” he asked, concern in his voice.
He’d gotten caught in one of our flash floods in the car once and it cost almost
seven hundred bucks to get it running again.

“Well, I don’t think Prytania floods,” I replied, trying to
remember. I hadn’t owned a car since I dropped out of college and moved back to
New Orleans, so I never paid much attention to that sort of thing. “I think it’s
a high street.”

Camp Street and Prytania met underneath I-90, merging into
one street on the downtown side. The light turned green and he turned. There was
a small little park right there, shaped like a piece of pie as the two streets
drew nearer to each other. “Stop!” I shouted.

Frank slammed on the brakes and pulled to the side of the
road. “What are you doing?” He looked at me as I opened the car door.

I reached behind the seat for the umbrella I’d stashed back
there. “I know I’m right,” I grinned at him, “but I need to look at the park to
make sure.”

He sighed and opened his car door once I had the umbrella
open and walked around to that side. The park was small and surrounded by an
iron fence. At the rear stood a huge live oak, its branches dripping water on
the flowers and bushes inside the fence. There was a statue of a matronly
looking woman sitting in the park, with her left arm around a little girl who
stood at her side looking up at her. There was a historical marker plate mounted
on the fence.
Urns in Margaret Place to honor Waldemar S. Nelson, donated by
his employees July 8, 2000.

That wasn’t helpful, but there was another one on the other
side. I splashed through the water over to it.

It read:
For a gracious lady, fence donated by Waldemar
S. Nelson and Company, Incorporated 1994.

“Damn it,” I cursed under my breath. This was no help. I was
just about to suggest we just get back in the car when I noticed yet another
marker on a stand at the edge of the pie shape where the two streets joined at
Calliope. I dashed up the granite walk edged with red bricks, with Frank on my
heels.

I gave a fist pump and shouted “Yes!” after I finished
reading it.

MARGARET’S PLACE AND WALK

Margaret’s Place and Walk honors Irish immigrant
Margaret Gaffney Haughery (1813–1882), who devoted her life to orphaned children
and the needy. An orphan herself, Margaret lost her husband and baby to illness.
Although illiterate, Margaret established a bakery and a dairy and became quite
wealthy. Her wealth funded seven orphanages, which she founded with her friend,
Sister Regis and the Daughters of Charity. The names of her orphanages are shown
in the pavement leading to her statue, sculpted by Alexander Doyle of New York
in 1884. The funds for the statue were raised by subscription after Margaret’s
death. The statue was located within sight of the New Orleans Female Orphan
Asylum (demolished 1965) and the Louise Day Nursery, which she helped to found.

“The orphan’s friend.” Frank grinned.

I was fairly dancing with excitement by now.
“And the
Muses lines up to sing with the breeze?”
I pointed up Prytania Street.
“They’re right up there.”

Frank looked and shook his head. “What are you talking
about?”

“This neighborhood is the lower Garden District, that’s what
most people call it,” I explained. “But haven’t you ever noticed the weird
street names whenever you head up St. Charles?”

Realization dawned in Frank’s eyes. “The Muses.”

The first streets on the uptown side of I-90 were named
after the Muses. Clio, Erato, Melpomene, Euterpe, Terpsichore, and Polymnia. “I
know we’re going the right way, Frank,” I said as we walked hurriedly back to
the car. My feet and legs from the knees down were soaked, and the wind kept
trying to rip the umbrella out of my hands.

He checked for oncoming traffic, and we started up Prytania.
I grinned as we passed the streets of the Muses—but once we passed Polymnia I
told him to pull over. “I
knew
we were going the right way,” I said. “
The
blonds from the sea
! There they are!” The Norwegian Seamen’s Church was a
small, nondescript building with the Norwegian and American flags hanging out
front. “Pull over.”

Frank pulled over into a space on the side of the road.
“This is it,” I said. The three flags in front of the small building were
hanging limply in the pouring rain. “The sapphire must be hidden inside the
church.”

“You know, for a riddle, this is pretty easy,” Frank replied
as he waited for a car to drive past. A torrent of water splashed across our
windshield. “I mean, think about it, Scotty. Don’t you think this is kind of
easy?”

“It isn’t easy,” I replied. I opened my door and shut it
again immediately. The water in the gutter was almost to the bottom of the car.
There was no way I was getting out on that side—and we couldn’t leave the car
here for long. I looked out the window.

A huge brick complex about five stories tall took up the
entire block—but there was a paved area behind it—maybe for deliveries. “Pull up
there—we can leave the car there for a little while.”

“I don’t want the car to be towed,” Frank protested.

“Frank, who is going to call a tow truck in this mess?
Besides, tow trucks are going to be busy for a while with swamped cars,” I
insisted. “But if you want to stay here with the car—”

He pulled up into the paved area and switched the car off.
“I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the car,” he said. “You go see what you can
find out there.”

I got out of the car and opened the umbrella. The wind
almost took it out of my hands, but I got a better grip. The road was clear so I
splashed across the street. There were two red doors about five yards apart. The
one the right had a window in it, so I assumed that was the main entrance. I
walked up the stairs. There were some windows running between the doors, and I
peered into them. There were a few tables inside, glass cases on the walls, but
I didn’t see anyone. I turned the knob and pulled.

It was locked.

Right next to the door, inside a glass case, was listed the
name of the pastor and the hours.

It was closed on Mondays.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” I swore. I stood there for a
minute, thinking. There was no doorbell—but next to the windowless door I could
see one. I dashed across the well-manicured lawn and up the steps and pressed
the bell. I could hear it ringing inside. I pressed it again, and was just about
to give up when the door opened.

“I’m sorry, young man, but we are closed.” The older man who
was standing just inside the door spoke with the singsong intonation of
Scandinavians. His skin was very pale, and behind his spectacles his eyes were a
very light blue. His hair was completely white and cut short. He was wearing a
Tulane sweatshirt and a loose-fitting pair of jeans.

“I’m sorry to bother you—”

His eyes widened and he smiled. “You’re Scott, aren’t you?”

My jaw dropped. “Yes, but how—”

“Please, come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

I closed the umbrella and stepped inside. He was already
walking down the hallway in his house shoes. He stopped when he reached a door,
and gestured for me to enter. I stepped into a small room that was set up as an
office. An ancient PC was sitting on the desk. Shelves of books lined the walls.
There was a cross hanging on the wall directly behind the desk. “Tch, tch, you
are soaked through,” he said. “May I get you something warm to drink?”

“No, thank you.” I unbuttoned my coat. It was very warm in
the room. “How did you know my name?”

“I am Oleg Sjowall.” He shook my hand. “We have a friend in
common.” He sat down behind the desk. “Benjamin.” He peered at me over his
spectacles. “He sent me a rather cryptic e-mail yesterday morning, along with a
photograph of you.” His eyes twinkled. “He wanted me to give you a message.” He
chuckled. “No explanation, of course, but that was Benjamin all over.” He opened
a desk drawer and started rummaging through it. “I would imagine he is playing
some kind of joke on you—he loves that sort of thing, but then if you know him
you already know that—oh, yes, here it is.” He handed me a folded slip of paper.
“I was to give it to you, and you only. He said others might come asking—but if
someone I didn’t recognize asked about him, I was to deny I knew him.” He leaned
back in his chair. “That Benjamin! I am of course happy to do a favor for a
friend, but so mysterious.” He shook his head.

I swallowed. Obviously, he didn’t know Doc was dead. “I’m
sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Sjowall, but Benjamin died yesterday.”

“Ah.” He leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. “I
am very sorry to hear that.” His lips moved silently, and I bowed my head when I
realized he was praying. After a few moments, he said, “I hope he finds peace.
He was a very troubled man. Is there going to be a service?”

“I’m sure,” I replied, realizing as I said it how lame it
sounded. “Do you have a card? I’ll have my parents get in touch with the
information.”

He smiled sadly and handed me his card. I slipped it into my
pocket. “Well.” I stood up. “Thank you for giving me the message.”