A Masquerade of Saints (Saints Mystery Series Book 3) Page 7

  “Were you looking for me?” I asked.

  She met my eyes and got choked up. A tear slid down her cheek. It was tinted with eyeliner and left a black streak on her face. “I am so sorry. We thought you were dead. I questioned myself at times, but everybody told me I was having trouble coping.”

  “When we talked at the hospital you sounded like you were mad.”

  She walked to the door, opened it and looked down the hall and up the stairs. She turned and locked the door behind her, “I was quite mad at Edward. When the police first told us you had died they showed us a picture of you. The girl in the photo didn’t look anything like you. Her skin was purple, her hair was the wrong color and her nose and lips looked bloated. The police told me the features were distorted from the time you spent in the water, but I didn’t believe it. Edward assured me that it looked like you and would never let me question it out loud. I sincerely regret that I did not look into the matter further. I am mad at him and at myself that I let him dictate what to feel about you.”

  I heard footsteps down the hall. Marlene’s eye grew wide and she quickly unlocked the door and returned to the seat beside me.

  She whispered, “Keep this to yourself please, dear.”

  “I will,” I replied and watched the door open.

  A stout, dark haired man entered the room. His features were thicker than mine. I thought I must have completely taken after Marlene because with him there was no resemblance at all.

  His face didn’t show even a hint of a smile as he held his hand out to shake mine. I stood to take it and he said, “Edward Baxter.”

  Without looking at me he turned and walked behind the desk on the other side of the room. He opened a drawer took out a plastic bag and walked over to me. The bag held two cotton swabs and two vials of liquid.

  Marlene shifted in her seat and looked angrily at him, “Is this necessary right now, Edward?”

  He looked to me and said, “There are practical considerations and real legal ramifications if you are Helene. We need to know for sure who you are.”

  He looked seriously at Marlene who waved her hand in front of her face as if it was nothing.

  He passed the bags to Marlene and me and then said, “Scrape the inside of your cheeks with these.”

  “I don’t want anything from you,” I said.

  “Sure you don’t,” he replied.

  I stuck the swab in my cheek and ran it along the inside. It left an odd smell in my mouth and I ran my tongue over the spot hoping to clean up the chemical-like odor. After I pulled the swab out of my mouth Edward stepped forward and pointed to the vial. Once my swab and Marlene’s were safely tucked into their containers he took them and placed them back in his desk.

  “Don’t you need a swab?” I asked.

  He replied, “No need. We know I am not related to you.”

  Marlene jumped out of her chair. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you don’t have to tell her like that, Edward. You are so cold sometimes.”

  “She asked me,” he shouted. “And I told her the truth. I thought it would be nice to get the truth around here for a change.”

  She replied, “You could give the poor girl a minute before you spill all of our family secrets.”

  She turned her attention to me, “Yes, it’s true. You came along before Edward and I were wed. A handful of people remember the particulars, but we have kept it from George and Elaine. They have no idea about that history, and I would like to keep it that way.”

  “If I’m not related to you,” I looked at Mr. Baxter. “Then you don’t have to worry about me taking your money.”

  Marlene let a devilish smile cross her face. Then she turned to look at me and said, “The money is mine dear, and Edward gets no say in what I do with it.”

  Dinner

  Mr. Baxter left the room after he had his swabs and said he would see us again at dinner. I licked the inside of my cheek, which tasted funny, and I suddenly remembered what Madame Du’Ponde told me about being careful and washing my hands. I had just willingly stuck a cotton swab, marked with my name, in my mouth. I excused myself to the bathroom, rinsed my mouth and washed my hands.

  When I left the bathroom, Marlene was waiting for me in the hallway.

  “It’s time for dinner, dear.”

  When we walked out of the library the lights in the house had been turned down and purple lights shone in through the front windows casting the room in a violet glow. As we walked by Marlene said, "Each room is bathed in the different colors of Mardi-Gras. The dining room is in green and the parlor will be gold.”

  She walked me down the hall and past a wide staircase to the dining room. Her white dress picked up the purple color, and when we walked into the dining room her dress appeared to turn green. When we entered, most of the guests were already seated at a table set for more people than I could count. Mr. Baxter was seated at the head of the table, with two empty seats to his right. At first our entrance went unnoticed, then Marlene cleared her throat and attention in the room turned to me. They were all dressed in floor length gowns and tuxedos. It was a black tie affair, and I was wearing little more than a cocktail dress. I was severely underdressed and with everybody looking at me I started to feel naked.

  “This is her, everybody, our little girl,” she said smiling at Mr. Baxter. “She goes by Fanchon. Please everybody, help her feel welcome.”

  The room was silent save for the sound of our heels as we clacked along the hardwood floor to the empty seats at the end of the table.

  All of the women looked perfect. They had large jewels on their necks, and their hair was pinned up. I had let my dark wavy hair run wild and knew it would look untamed in this company.

  I took the empty seat farthest from Mr. Baxter. Marlene sat next to me. The room was still and quiet while we moved our seats closer to the table. To my right was a young woman with features similar to mine, including the dark hair. It was meticulously pinned back, but I could tell without gel her hair would look like mine. I estimated her age to be at least five years younger than me. When I sat she did not turn to face me, nor did she make any attempt to introduce herself.

  “We are kicking off Mardi Gras,” Marlene said to me. “We always host a dinner to welcome all of our guests to the house. We manage to go out to a few balls during the season, though this year we will likely only make it to the Endymion ball, because of my health. You are of course, welcome to attend with us if you like.”

  “I would like that,” I told her.

  The room grew silent again, and I noticed everybody was still looking at me. I felt like they were waiting for me to say something. Finally, the silence broke when a swinging door at the back of the room opened and a group of tuxedo-clad men came forward carrying bottles of wine and trays of soup. A balding man at the other end of the room struck up a conversation and the rest of the room erupted in spontaneous chatter.

  I turned to the girl next to me and said, “Hello. I’m Fanchon.”

  She looked at me laboriously and said, “Elaine.”

  She turned her face forward again and pulled her white linen napkin from her gold-rimmed plate. She placed the napkin in her lap. I did the same. Across the table sat a young, but heavy, dark-haired man. He reached his hand out to me and said, “Name’s George. I guess I might be your brother.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

  He asked me questions about where I had lived and how I liked New York. He only asked polite questions. In turn I asked him about himself. I learned that he had studied business law at an Ivy League university. He was currently employed at a big firm downtown. Elaine did not interject herself into the conversation for a long time until she finally asked, “Did you go to college, Fanchon?”

  She asked the question as if she thought the answer would embarrass me.

  “I did. I studied music,” I told her.

  She simply said, “Oh.”

  Marlene chimed in, “Fanchon plays t
he piano like you, Elaine.”

  Elaine looked at me as if she was bored and said, “Really? How long have you been playing?”

  I thought back. “I was home schooled until I was twelve and never saw a real piano until I started middle-school. The first instrument I had was a little brown recorder that I played songs on, like “The Kookaburra” and “Oh! Susanna.” When I went to middle school I took my first music class. My middle school teacher pulled me aside and told me she thought I had a natural ability. She took it upon herself to sit with me through her open period and lunch break to teach me how to read music. Rivet and Paulina never approved and never bought me an instrument of my own or paid for lessons. When I was in high school I started work at a retired plantation. There was a pianist there on weekends and at special events, and my manager let me practice with him. I learned about showmanship and timing from him. Even after I went to high school my middle school teacher continued our lessons. She helped me prepare for my college auditions, though she claimed I had surpassed her long before. I was accepted to the music program at Loyola and after that I had four years of intensive training.”

  Marlene’s face beamed with pride.

  Elaine simply said, “What is that, ten years? I have been playing for about twenty years, with the best music tutors in the south.”

  “Elaine!” Marlene said sharply. Then softened her voice and said to me, “I think it’s wonderful that you are a musician. It’s such a remarkable feat that you found a talent through all that you had been through. You are a survivor, Fanchon.”

  George jumped in. “You should play for us after dinner.”

  “I will,” I said.

  Elaine said, “You can only play if you have something macabre. We have a theme, and we stick to it.”

  “She can play whatever she likes,” George said.

  “I have prepared a piece especially for this night, as has mother. I don’t think Fanchon should play whatever she feels like because she is crashing our party. I spent the entire month perfecting my,” she turned to look at me and raised her eyebrows as she said “Tocatta and Fugue.”

  I think the mention of her piece was intended to impress me but it only made me laugh. It was a song I used to play on the floor piano at F.A.O. Schwarz in New York. When Elaine mentioned the song it brought back memories of playing that tune for people who visited the toy store.

  Elaine saw my smile and snapped at me, “Is that funny to you?”

  “A little,” I said. “I haven’t played that song with my hands much. I used to play it at a department store in New York with my feet.”

  Elaine laughed and said, “Playing with your feet, what a great use of your talent.”

  The other guests near us chuckled and I realized she thought I meant I played with my toes. I opened my mouth to correct her and was cut off when the first course of food was placed before me.

  The rest of the room had already started eating while I observed the green and red soup in front of me. I picked up my spoon and held the soup to my lips. I was startled to find it cold and sweet.

  Everybody else seemed to know what it was and enjoyed it, but I sat my spoon at my side and took sips of water instead.

  Elaine saw my full bowl and chuckled just loud enough for me to hear.

  The second and third courses were just as unpalatable to me. The second was brown circles that tasted like plain jelly. The third looked like toast with orange fish eggs on it. Finally, the fourth dish came and I found something I could eat, lobster.

  I finished it, leaving nothing but shell behind, then remembered I was supposed to be washing my hands at regular intervals. Normally, I would not follow the advice of a psychic, but Madame Du’Ponde had done me right so many times that I had to listen. I excused myself from the table and made my way down the hallway towards the kitchen and back to the bathroom. I sniffed my hands to make sure there was nothing on them. It did not seem there was yet any reason to be washing my hands.

  The wait staff took all of the food from the same tray so if somebody intended to poison me they would have to mark the dishes somehow. I had paid close attention to the meals and none of the dishes looked noticeably different.

  When I came back to the table Marlene asked if everything was okay. I told her I was fine. I continued to carefully watch the handling of my food. I lifted each plate sat in front of me and bent low to look at the plates and glasses around me. I bent low to look at Elaine’s plate through one course and when she asked me what I was doing I sat up and said nothing. No one person seemed assigned to me or anybody else.

  As the night went on I got more relaxed about my dishes and felt comfortable that I was not going to be poisoned with food. I felt silly thinking about it. I was marring my first meeting with my family by being on the lookout for poisoned food, because a psychic told me to wash my hands.

  By the end of dinner the conversation in the room had loosened up. People were growing friendly as Mr. Baxter’s wine collection shrank. Everybody was drinking wine or scotch. George and Elaine drank martinis. It seemed Marlene and I were the only abstainers. She could not drink because of her kidneys, and I couldn’t drink because I didn’t like wine, martinis or scotch.

  After dessert Marlene stood to invite everybody to the ballroom. I left feeling uneasy. There was still food on my plate, and it felt unnatural to me to leave my dishes at the table. I was the last one to exit, and I noticed and as soon as everybody else was out of the room the ladies from the kitchen descended on the room and started cleaning. Even they were dressed more formally than me. I stood in the doorway to watch them clean and none of them acknowledged my presence.

  I turned to leave the room and caught a few stragglers from the party moving past the staircase to a room next to the library. This room was larger than the library and had more windows, though it also had a fireplace. I laughed at the thought of how many fireplaces there were in the house. There is hardly ever a need for a fire in New Orleans. That night was no exception; even with the air conditioning in the house you could feel the moisture in the air. A fire in that house would be a ridiculous notion 360 days of the year.

  Aside from the unnecessary fireplace the room was white stained with a luminous lacquer that made the walls shine. The ceiling held ornate carvings, with flowers and cherubs; all accented with gold filigree. The windows were flanked with floor to ceiling drapes of white, with a gold brocade pattern. The room was bathed in gold from the lights outside of the windows. The room was bright but did have a macabre feel, highlighted by the many gold candelabras dripping with wax.

  The centerpiece of the room was the white grand piano, also topped with an elaborate candle tree. Elaine had already found her way to the piano and had draped the long black train of her dress on the side of the bench so it showed the intricate lace pattern on the hem.

  She waited for me to enter the room and gestured for me to sit in a seat where she had a view of me while she played. I had a feeling she was challenging me. She straightened the music in front of her and laid her hands on the piano. She made sure to make all of the theatrical motions that accompany the dramatic piece. It was a piece that lent itself better to an organ in my opinion, but it was beautiful. Elaine’s playing was capable but not exceptional. She slurred through some of the more difficult passages and every time she fudged she seemed to look at me to see if I noticed. I showed her no indication, but I heard every mistake.

  After her set everybody in the room clapped, as did I. Her playing was perfectly adequate for a person playing for fun.

  Marlene walked over to me and invited me to play next.

  “You can play anything you like, dear,” she said. “Nobody would have expected you to prepare a piece.”

  Elaine stood from the piano, her chest rising and falling as she worked to catch her breath. Without looking at me she picked up her music and said, “We keep a few sheets in the bench or you may choose something from our selection in the library.”

  “No n
eed,” I said.

  I walked past her and sat at the bench. I knew just what I was going to do: the set the piano player at the plantation used to do on Halloween.

  I spoke from my diaphragm letting my voice fill the room as I said, “This is the Danse Macabre from Saint-Saens. Legend has it that death appears at midnight on All Hallows Eve and calls the dead from the graves. They rise from the ground as skeletons and when he calls for them to dance he plays for them the Danse Macabre. To feel the full weight of the story, picture the dead rising from the ground and dancing along to the melody. Remember that tonight you are listening to music that was only meant for the dead to hear.”

  I had practiced that song over the course of two years at the plantation and knew it inside and out, though I had never spoken the words from the introduction before.

  I watched Elaine sit in the seat I had just left, leaving her directly in my line of vision. I watched her grab a martini from the side table, take a sip then stare at me.

  I placed my hands to the keys and closed my eyes to start the slow intro, just a series of 12 single notes. I opened my eyes when I ran my hands all the way down the keyboard for the first big pass. I knew my articulation was spot on, and I watched Elaine toss back the martini as I went into the theme. I played the elaborate song moving my fingers swiftly, pulling my hands back and flourishing at just the right notes. I could feel all of the focus in the room directed at me and drew energy from it to keep up my momentum. When I reached the crescendo each person in the room was leaning closer to me and Elaine was looking at the floor. I hit the very last note and the room was silent. The only sound was my attempt to catch my breath. I looked at the faces and saw most of them plastered with high eyebrows, except for Marlene. She was crying. When she noticed me looking at her, she vigorously clapped and the rest of the guests followed suit. Everybody who had been seated stood, except Elaine.

  I took a bow and wiped the back of my hand on my forehead. It came away coated in perspiration. I stood a little taller in that moment, but it was short lived. After the clapping Marlene sat at the piano and played an uncomplicated version of Moonlight Sonata, heavy on already memorized chords. The room fell back into the din of quiet conversation while she played. Her hands shook with each pass. I watched her try to keep time with her foot and when she wavered, her foot would twitch. Her frustration played out on her face, and I knew her ailments must be worse than she let on. Everybody clapped for her, though even the lay ear could hear the mistakes in her rendition.