CHAPTER TWENTY

“Mr. Comeaux? Mr. Lawrence Comeaux?” asked Grace, walking toward the man on the porch. It was a beautiful shotgun-style cottage in the Garden District. It was painted light pink with white shutters, baskets of begonias hanging from his porch.

“That’s me,” he smiled. “I don’t do interviews if you’re a reporter.”

“Oh, no, sir,” she smiled. “My name is Grace, and this is my husband Eric. Ghost. That’s his nickname.”

“Well, Grace and Ghost, welcome to my front porch. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

“No, sir. We brought our own,” smiled Ghost, lifting his thermal mug in a salute. His beloved wife had discovered years ago that he rarely was able to finish his coffee before something went terribly wrong. She bought dozens of thermal mugs for him, ensuring that his coffee was always hot.

“Please, sit. I do love the mornings after a good rain. Everything is so alive, fresh,” he smiled.

“It is,” nodded Grace. “Mr. Comeaux, you wrote a book about Jonathon Tiestemone.”

“I did indeed. Are you one of the eight people who purchased it,” he chuckled. Grace and Ghost smiled at the man.

“We did purchase it, but we have some questions. Why did you choose to write about him?”

“Well, my great-great-great-grandmother was Cressa Comeaux. She kept a journal or, I should say, many journals. I was reading it one day when I was in college, just bored out of my mind, I suppose. Anyway, there were several pages about the new man in town that every woman wanted. Count Jonathon Tiestemone.” He smiled, nodding at them.

“Was she in love with him?” asked Ghost.

“I’m not sure love is the right word. I think she, like most of the young women of the era, was looking for a wealthy husband. She married later and was very happy. Had seven children.”

“You use her maiden name,” smiled Grace.

“Odd story, my great-great-great-grandparents had the same last name. They weren’t related, thank God, but they did have the same name.” Grace and Ghost nodded.

“Sir, we found a diary as well,” said Grace, clearing her throat. “It was the diary of a woman, Lilliana Marceaux. In it, she said that she was to be married to the Count but had to attend a ball to be introduced to him.”

“I often wondered her name,” smiled the man. “My ancestor never said the name. Never wrote it in her diary. She only said that she had attended a ball in his honor at a mansion. She said that all the women were hoping for a dance with him, but he only had eyes for her.”

“Her? Lilliana?” asked Grace.

“I don’t know. I can only assume. The ball was large. Very large. In her diary, my ancestor said that he danced with but one woman, and the whole of New Orleans knew that she would be the one he married.”

“But I don’t think they married,” said Ghost.

“No. They did not.” He stood, opening a glassed bookcase. Carefully, he removed a weathered book, handing it to Ghost. “I’ve always saved the pages where she wrote about that night. The lights, the sounds, the food. It was all incredible, apparently. Then she speaks of how happy the Count was and the young woman.”

“It’s strange she didn’t mention her name,” said Grace.

“I found that strange as well, but later in the diary, you see that she heard the young woman had been murdered. The Count, grief-stricken, buried her and immediately left for Europe. He would remain unmarried for nearly twenty years before marrying another woman.”

“We heard the same thing,” said Ghost.

“Apparently, this other woman was quite homely. I know that’s not kind of me to say, but I believe it’s important. The woman at the ball was beautiful. Young, healthy, everything he wanted in a wife. This woman was quite the opposite. They did end up having one son, but he died quite young.”

Ghost and Grace nodded, already knowing that information.

“He was sad his entire life having lost the only woman he ever truly loved,” said Lawrence. “It breaks my heart. She was so young and beautiful but apparently terribly na?ve.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Grace.

“Look at the fifth, no sixth page after where your finger is,” he said. Grace flipped the pages, looking down at the text.

“It was heartbreaking to hear of the news of Lilliana’s death. I didn’t know her well, but she was lovely, although na?ve. The hurtful way she was treated by the Duplessis sisters was horribly rude. Poor thing didn’t even realize they were being cruel to her.”

“What does all that mean?” asked Ghost.

“Well, it took me some time, but every young lady in the day kept a diary. The Duplessis sisters were no different. Both of them wrote nearly the identical thing. Apparently, they’d seen Lilliana a few days before the ball, walking with her aunt. They scorned her dress, feigning compliments. One of them said the fabric was the prettiest she’d ever seen coming from a secondhand fabric shop.”

“Shit, I hate mean women,” said Grace.

“Indeed,” smirked Lawrence. “Further in the diary, after her death, Fredericka said her death had been in vain since the Count had left New Orleans alone.”

“That sounds vaguely like an admission of guilt,” said Ghost.

“I could not agree more, but I wasn’t able to find any other information.” He stared at the couple, then leaned forward. “Why are you so interested in this?”

“Let’s just say we specialize in solving cold cases, and this is one that needs to be solved.”

“Well, my advice would be to visit this man,” he said, handing them a paper with an address scratched on it. “He’s the ancestor of the Duplessis sisters and still owns their diaries. I think there’s more in there, but he would only give me a short period of time to review them. Charlene Duplessis married a man thirty years her senior. He was rotund, shall we say. He was so abusive to her during intercourse she couldn’t have children. She died while lying beneath him.”

“Jesus,” muttered Ghost. “Was he tried?”

“Of course not,” frowned Lawrence. “He claimed his wife would not submit to her wifely duties. Fredericka married four times.”

“Four?” asked Grace.

“Yep. Each one dying of a mysterious illness, leaving her wealthier and wealthier. I’d say that’s a smoking gun,” said Lawrence. “Did I get that phrase right?”

“You got it perfectly right,” smirked Ghost.

Marvin Duplessis lived in the one house in the unincorporated area of Maurepas, Louisiana. It wasn’t fancy, but it was a nice three-bedroom brick home with black shutters. Finding him in the directory had been difficult, but thank goodness Code had discovered a phone number and called ahead.

“Good morning,” said Grace, smiling at the man. He seemed to relax, realizing it wasn’t a man coming to look for him. Then he saw Ghost and frowned.

“Good morning,” he said cautiously.

“No need to feel threatened,” smiled Ghost. “We’re just here to ask you some questions about an ancestor of yours. Fredericka Duplessis, and her sister, Charlene.”

“Okay,” he frowned. “I don’t know how much I can tell you. They both left behind diaries, but most of it makes no sense to me. Charlene died young. She had an abusive husband, and he killed her while they were in bed. Sorry, ma’am.”

“It’s alright,” smiled Grace. “We heard the same thing. That must have been awful for her. I think we’d like to learn more about Frederika.”

“Well, she was something else. Four husbands, all died, and she was left with everything. She had seven children between the four men, and they got nothing when their fathers died. Fred was definitely a strong woman.”

“Fred?” frowned Grace.

“That’s what she wanted to be called,” said Marvin Duplessis. “Wanted everyone to treat her like a man, respect her like a man. From what I can gather, she was an angry, bitter woman.”

“But if she had all those husbands and their wealth, why would she be so angry and bitter?” asked Ghost.

“I think the man she wanted didn’t want her. She never got over that.”

“Would this be the Count?” asked Grace. He eyed the two individuals and nodded.

“Yep. That would be him. No matter what Fred tried, she just couldn’t get his attention. She was a good-looking woman, but for whatever reason, he had his eyes on someone else.”

“Lilliana Marceneaux,” said Ghost. Again, the man eyed them suspiciously, nodding. “She must have been something else.”

“Have you never seen the painting?” asked Marvin.

“What painting?” asked Grace. The man disappeared into the house, coming out a few moments later. He was carrying a large, framed painting. As he got closer, they realized it was a print.

“I damn sure couldn’t afford to buy the real one, but this is the ladies auxiliary of New Orleans. They had this painting commissioned to commemorate their first-ever Christmas for the Orphans fundraiser. That’s Charlene and Fredericka in the center.”

“They’re both lovely,” smiled Grace.

“They were, but the blonde is Lilliana. She looks like a fairy princess. I can see why a man would want to marry her.” Ghost and Grace smiled at the identical features of the woman they’d met already.

“Is it my imagination or is Fredericka scowling at her?” asked Ghost.

“Nope, it ain’t your imagination. I guess the painter got tired of asking her to look his way. But you can see it plain as day. She did not like that young woman.”

“Mr. Duplessis, I know this could be painful for you, but is there any way that you’d allow me to see her diaries?” asked Grace. He stared at the woman, sliding the painting back inside the door. “I promise, I won’t copy them, I won’t give them to anyone. I just want to find out what happened to Lilliana.”

“I think I can help you with that.”