CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“One down. Six to go,” smirked Angel.

“You boys headed to Natchitoches today?” asked Gaspar.

“Nine and I are going up there to see what we can find. Mr. Moore’s farm isn’t even a farm any longer. It’s an apartment complex. Sad if you ask me.”

“It is sad, but it’s been more than a hundred and forty years,” said Gaspar. “Just see what you can find in the archives. There has to be something about him disappearing, other than everyone thinking he’d left his wife.”

“Listen,” said Ian. “I know it was a long time ago, but be careful. We have no idea what we might run into. There could be a bunch of angry ghosts waiting to defend their position for all we know.”

“Well, that makes me feel warm and fuzzy,” smirked Nine.

“Nine.”

“I know. I know anything is possible. Don’t worry, old friend, we’ll be careful. Let’s go, Angel boy. Natchitoches is a good drive from here.”

As it turned out, it was nearly five hours to Natchitoches. Between Lafayette and Natchitoches, there wasn’t much of anything. Just highway. With a population of less than twenty thousand, the historic city still proudly displayed the New Orleans-style French townhomes and their pride, Oakland plantation.

The parish library was open but very small, not giving Nine and Angel any warm and fuzzy feelings. A middle-aged man was seated at the desk reading a book.

“Good afternoon,” said Angel. The man looked up, nodding at them.

“We’re looking for any newspaper clippings you might have from around the time of the train that came through here with Hayes while he was running for president.”

“That’s pretty specific,” smirked the man. “They’re all on microfiche. Haven’t had a chance to get them into digital form yet. You’ll find it on the machines in the back against the wall.”

“Thank you,” said Nine. The two men walked toward the machines, finding three of the five out of order. They smirked at one another, taking a seat.

It was pretty simple to find the dates they needed. They started two days before the trains were scheduled to come through, then followed the timeline to a week after.

“Find anything?” asked Angel.

“Maybe,” frowned Nine. “There’s an article about a parish meeting where Mr. Moore got very angry, shaking his fist at a Thomas Holthaus. Apparently, Holthaus was trying to convince the parish to force several farmers to sell so that they could build a larger roadway between Lake Charles and Natchitoches.”

“Let me guess,” said Angel, “Mr. Moore’s farm was right in the path.”

“Yep.”

“When did that occur?”

“Five days before his death.” Angel nodded, turning his screen to Nine.

“Take a look at this. It says that Mrs. Moore died suddenly the same day as her husband allegedly left her. They even say they think she died from grief.”

“Bullshit. I’m going to bet someone knew he was the holdout on this land.”

“Was he? Maybe we should check with the others listed as property owners,” said Angel.

“Excuse me, sirs? We’re closing. I’m afraid you’ll have to pick this up tomorrow.” Nine let out a long breath, nodding at the man.

“Thank you. Is there a hotel nearby? Just something with a clean bed and good food?” he asked.

“Chateau Saint Denis Hotel is going to be the nicest one. It’s downtown, has a great restaurant, and it’s walking distance to everything, although we don’t stay open very late around here.”

“That’ll do,” smiled Nine. “Thank you.”

The Chateau Saint Denis Hotel was designed in the same French style as most of the Quarter. The rooms were spacious and beautifully decorated. Grabbing their go-bags from the truck, they put their things away, placed the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the doors, and left for dinner.

A few doors down was the Creole Box.

“Looks good to me,” smirked Angel.

“Smells good to me,” said Nine. They took a seat near the windows facing the street, careful to watch the doors as always.

“Get you boys somethin’ to drink?” asked the waiter. He was an older male, probably in his sixties.

“Just lemonade for me,” said Angel.

“Same,” said Nine.

“Recommend the gumbo. Some of the best in the area. Chicken fried steak is good, make the gravy myself.”

“You own this place?” asked Nine.

“For nearly forty years now. It was my grandmother’s place before me. I’ll be right back with your drinks.” A man and woman stood, waving to the older man.

“See ‘ya in a few days, Justin.”

When he came back with the drinks, the men ordered their meal then asked if the old man could spare a few moments.

“Ain’t no one else here,” he smiled. “Don’t expect they will be. I usually close early on Tuesdays.”

“You should have said something,” said Nine. “We can take our order to go.”

“No, no. Not necessary. Once Gemma is done with cookin’, we’ll be good.”

“This is going to seem like a strange question, but do you know the story of Dunston and Millie Moore?” asked Angel.

“Sure,” he smirked. “Everyone swears they see Millie’s ghost wandering down the street looking for her husband. Sad story. Why do you ask?”

“Would you mind telling us what you know about the story?” asked Nine.

“Sure. Not much to tell. He came into town to see the presidential train, like everyone else around here. Millie stayed back. They were both in their early eighties or so, but she was feeling pretty poorly. They had a sweet black lady, Sadie…”

“She was my great-grandmother!” yelled Gemma from the kitchen. Angel and Nine raised their brows as the woman brought out the plates of food. “Eat. I wanna hear this.”

“Anyway, he left her to come into town to see the train, run some errands, that sort of thing. Never got home. No one knew where he went, but everyone was pretty certain that he wouldn’t have left his wife. They’d been married more than fifty years. Seems foolish to leave a woman after all that time.”

“We read in the papers in the library that he’d caused a stir about the roadway coming through his farm,” said Angel.

“That’s the truth,” said Gemma, “but lots of folks opposed it. The farms they were tryin’ to buy up were poor folks. It wasn’t like the big mega farms around here now. They were offerin’ money that good folks couldn’t look away from. Except Dunston. He was stubborn. Said no amount of money could replace more than fifty years with his wife.”

“You’re asking a lot of questions about a man that’s been dead nearly a hundred and fifty years,” said Justin.

“I know it seems odd,” said Nine. “We run a security and investigation firm. Someone has asked us to solve some cold cases, and this is one of them.” They both nodded.

“Well, I would think this is pretty simple,” said Gemma. “He had what that company wanted, and the only way he could get it was to kill them both.”

“But wasn’t your great-grandmother with her?” asked Angel.

“She was, up until someone from town came out to the farm and said she was needed because a woman was in labor. My great-grandmother was a midwife. The only one for miles around.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know who came to get her, would you?” asked Nine.

“I’m afraid not. She had to leave Miss Millie, though. My mama said it haunted her mama until the end of her life, leaving that poor old woman to die alone.”

“What happened with the woman in labor?” asked Angel.

“That’s just it. She arrived, and the woman was just fine. Big as a house, but she wasn’t in labor. By the time she got back to Miss Millie, she was gone. They held off burying her for a day or so, but when her husband never returned, they went ahead and did it anyway. Never found him.”

“I’m like you,” said Nine. “I don’t believe a man married for that long suddenly decides to leave his wife.” The man and woman chuckled.

“Is that funny?” asked Angel.

“No. It definitely ain’t funny. But no one gave a damn when all that happened. Suddenly, Millie and Dunston were both gone, no children to claim the farm, and the parish takes it over, and guess who they sold it to?”

“The people building the road,” said Nine and Angel in unison.

“You’re smart boys,” smirked Gemma. “Let me leave you with a piece of my famous pecan pie and some homemade vanilla ice cream.”

“You’ve both been very kind,” said Nine. “I’m not sure what we’ll be able to prove here, but I’d like to give this couple some peace.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to prove,” said the man.

“I don’t understand,” frowned Nine. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, someone confessed to their murders about eighty-five years ago. Some old man who was dying and wanted to unburden himself before the good Lord shut the door in his face.”

“Then why does Millie still walk the streets?” asked Angel.

“A woman married to a man that long doesn’t want to be in eternity without him,” said Gemma with a sad smile. “I’d bet my paycheck that she’s still hoping he’ll return to her and they can finally be at peace together.”

“I wonder why Code didn’t find the confession?” asked Nine.

“I do make some mistakes. It was misprinted in the paper as Tillie and Dunton. But it’s there.” Angel and Nine cleared their throats.

“Look,” said Justin, “I don’t know if you boys believe in such things, but if you stick around outside your hotel tonight, you’re liable to see Millie.”

“Why at the hotel?” asked Nine.

“Because that’s where the railroad station used to be.”

The men finished their meal, leaving Justin and Gemma a hefty tip and a big thank you. As they walked back toward the hotel, they noticed that the town had pretty much closed their doors and rolled up the red carpets.

“So, they were both murdered and were separated by nearly two hundred miles, unable to find one another,” said Nine. “How do we fix this?”

“Maybe like we did with Buck. We bring his wife’s remains back to Belle Fleur.”

“No can do. That parish seems to not have their shit together. Or they didn’t. In the early 1940s, they built another roadway, directly over the old cemetery. No mention of what actually happened to all the remains.”

“Great. How do we transport a ghost?” They took their seats in the old white rocking chairs at the front of the hotel. It was hot and humid. Rain was definitely coming. As the lights of the small town dimmed, Angel nudged his friend.

“Nine? Are you seeing that?” he asked, pointing.

“I’ll be damned. Bet me a hundred that we just found Millie?”

“Nope.”

“Dunston? Dunston, where are you?” cried the old woman.

“Ma’am?” The figure stopped, frozen in her tracks in the middle of the street. She stared at the two men walking toward her as if they wouldn’t see her if she were quiet.

“Mrs. Moore? Mrs. Millie Moore, married to Dunston?” asked Angel.

“Y-you see me?” she whispered.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid we can. Are you Millie Moore?”

“Yes. Do you know where I can find Dunston?”

“In fact, we do, ma’am. We believe your husband was murdered by the same man that killed you. He didn’t leave you.”

“Oh, I knew that,” she smiled. “I was just worried for him. He’s never late. He never leaves me alone for long.”

“Yes, ma’am. He would never do such a thing,” smiled Nine. “Mrs. Miller, your husband is at our family property south of New Orleans. We’re not sure how to get you two in the same place again.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” she smiled. “If you give me permission, I can attach myself to you and drive with you. I’ve done it before, just to go out and see where the old farm was. It was sad. I didn’t like it much.”

“No, ma’am, I bet you didn’t. If you’re up for it, we’ll allow you to attach yourself to us, and we’ll take you back to Lafitte so you can be with your husband again.”

“I’m going to see him. I’m going to see my Dunston again,” she cried.

It was early the next morning when they started their trip. Just as she’d said, Mrs. Miller was able to somehow attach herself to the two men who could see her and ride comfortably in the backseat of the truck. She never said a word, never made a whisper.

Carefully watching as the sights flashed by her, staring at the cities and how the world had changed, she must have been in shock. When they pulled through the iron gates, she smiled, closing her eyes.

“He’s close,” she whispered.

“Yes, ma’am,” nodded Nine. “He’s very close.”

Before they could even park the truck, she was out, standing amidst the trees. Her eyes scanned the strange faces, then found the one she wanted.

“Millie? Oh, my God, Millie!” cried Dunston.

“Dunston!” Millie and Dunston embraced, kissing one another over and over again. His weathered hands held her ghostly form, and she relaxed in his arms. A century and a half of searching.

“Thank you,” he cried to Angel and Nine.

“You’re very welcome, Dunston. It was as you thought. Someone killed you and your wife all to get to the farm. The man confessed, but only on his deathbed. She’s been searching for you for as long as you’ve been searching for her.”

“We can go home now,” he said, nodding at the men.

“Yes, sir. You can go home now.”