CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Alright,” said Ghost. “We have three more. Charity Van Etten, Buck Stuart, and Dunston Moore.”

“Buck Stuart might be the easiest to solve,” said Bull. “He died in the early fifties while down here trying to sell his racehorses. He camped out, not wanting to spend money on a hotel. He had a wife; her name was Vera. Strange thing was, he was born without his left hand, so he couldn’t fight anyone off very well. He was definitely vulnerable. Stranger thing – in ghost form, he has his hand back.”

“What about the wife?” asked Gaspar, turning to Code.

“She was in the 1960 census, living in Woodville, Mississippi by herself. It was an apartment above a garage.”

“They had a horse farm,” frowned Whiskey. “What happened to that?”

“Hold, please.” Whiskey frowned at the man, shaking his head. “Damn. She filed for bankruptcy in 1957 and was removed from the property shortly thereafter. The bank bought the loan and then sold it to a Hollis Norton.”

“By any chance, is it still owned by the family?” asked Bull.

“As it happens,” smiled Code. “It is. Hollis Norton, III. Owner of Norton Racehorses and Stables. I think we might find something worth looking into.”

“Wait,” said Lauren. “Where was Hollis Norton, the elder, when Mr. Stuart was killed? Was he working? Did he own any land?”

“Great question,” smiled Trak, kissing his wife. Code nodded, pecking away on the computer.

“It was a great question. Hollis Norton went AWOL from the Army in 1944. He was found, tried, and spent six months in a military jail. After he got out, he had trouble finding work, but eventually started working, oh shit.”

“So help me, God, if you say he was working at the Stuarts’ farm, I’m going to be pissed,” said Whiskey.

“Get ready to be pissed. He had been working there for two years. I think we need to ask Buck about him. Once the bank took the loan, it was another year before Hollis bought the farm, but he had a fairly hefty down payment for the time. Almost ten thousand dollars.”

“Where in the hell did he get that kind of money?” asked Bull.

“Let’s go find out,” said Whiskey. “We’ll stop and speak to Stuart first, then head up to Woodville after we review these last few. Probably a two-hour drive or so, but we can make it there and back in one day.”

“Be careful,” said Gaspar. “This might have happened eighty years ago, but if it’s a family secret, someone may still be trying to cover it up.”

“I’m gonna help this man get back to his wife,” said Bull. “No one, not even the Hollis family, will stop me from doing that.”

“Dunston Moore died in 1876. He was from Natchitoches, Louisiana. He’d gone into town to see the presidential electoral train between Hayes and Tilden.”

“He said he was worried about getting back to his farm because his wife wasn’t well. They’re both elderly or were. Someone named Sadie was watching her for him. He remembered the train being dressed in red, white, and blue. He even remembered that Tilden had a lazy eye,” said Nine. Angel nodded, continuing.

“After that, he went to the general store to get some things and then mailed a letter to his sister. Then he went to get some lunch from the hotel. As we were speaking to him, he turned to look toward the river. We noticed he had a knife sticking out of his back.”

“Well, I’d say we’ve found the cause of death,” said Baptiste. “But if it was still in his back, then he must have been left to rot where he was. Why?”

“It’s a great question,” said Nine. “He didn’t have a lot of money. Rode into town with a small wagon and horse. If they robbed him, they didn’t get much.”

“Code? Do we have a date of death for his wife?” asked Angel. “Her name was Millie. Maybe Mildred.”

“Millie Moore. Eighty-three. Died, huh, that’s strange. She died the same day Mr. Moore went into town to see the train.”

“What did she die from?” asked Nine.

“It says a heart condition, but no idea what that means,” said Code. “She was buried two days later, even though they couldn’t find Mr. Moore. Neighbors believed he was so distressed that he might have gone off and harmed himself.”

“Not likely with a knife in his back,” said Angel, frowning at the room. “Who would want to kill a couple in their eighties who didn’t have shit?”

“Not sure, brother,” said Nine, “but I want to find out. I want to find out so he can get home to his wife. The bigger question might be how he got from Natchitoches to Lafitte with a knife in his back.”

“Maybe he was placed in the river?” said Erin.

“That’s a long way to float downriver. He’d have been close to the Red River and would have floated seventy miles toward the Mississippi and then to here. Not impossible, but you would have thought he’d be eaten by gators or spotted by someone.”

“Well, he’s here, on this property, and we’re going to find out what happened to him,” said Gaspar. “Head up to Natchitoches and see what you can find in the files up there. There has to be something.”

“Last one,” said Gaspar. “Charity Van Etten, twenty-six-year-old female, unmarried. She remembers being in the city with her Aunt Gertie. She said they shopped, ate, went on a boat ride, but that was all she remembered.”

“She wasn’t married, which raised flags for me,” said Alexandra. “In that time period, she would have been expected to marry. She said that her aunt and uncle wouldn’t allow her to marry and that her aunt was responsible for her dowry and trust fund.”

“A trust fund baby?” said Nine, raising his brows.

“Yep.”

“The aunt and uncle were the ones controlling all the money and controlled it for all their nieces and nephews,” said Alexandra. “She remembered going to mass at St. Louis Cathedral, and it was very cold. She’s still wearing her jewelry, so I can’t believe it was a robbery. They were staying at Bienville Hotel. It’s on the historic registry, so we might be able to find a record of their stay.”

“Here’s the really interesting shit,” said Gaspar. “Her uncle was part of Vanderbilt’s firm. They didn’t travel in the same social circles, but he was definitely a part of the elite in New York. I did ask if she was supposed to marry one of the sons or grandsons, and she said she was not. She’s a beautiful young woman but, apparently, had no suitors at all. Doesn’t that seem strange given her supposed wealth and connections, and she’s a beautiful young woman?”

“Very strange,” said Alexandra.

“I hate to make this worse,” said Code, “but just after Christmas, it was announced that the niece of Gertrude and Thomas Van Etten had killed herself after having suffered from an illness of the mind her entire life.”

“Mental illness?” frowned Alexandra. “I don’t believe it. She’s as sane as you and me.”

“That might not help her case, baby,” smirked Gaspar. His wife frowned at him, and he nodded, sobering.

“That young woman is not mad unless death has made her suddenly sane. We know that does happen because Trak made peace with his mother who was quite normal when she appeared to him. I know that we don’t know everything about this kind of thing, but I can’t believe she was mad. I don’t believe it.” Miller nodded.

“Then we need to find out what Aunt Gertie had to gain if she were dead.”