Few places are better backdrops for Gothic mystery than Louisiana, and what could be more Gothic than a haunted mental facility formerly known as the Louisiana Hospital for the Insane? When crime boss Frankie Castellano learns he has a half-black sister who was a patient at Pinebridge Mental Hospital, he hires French Quarter P.I. Wyatt Thomas to find her. When Wyatt travels to the bucolic central Louisiana town of Pinebridge to investigate, he begins losing his grip on reality. He soon realizes there's a thin line between truth and illusion. Krewe of Illusion is available for presale on Amazon and will be released in June. Here are the first three chapters of Krewe of Illusion. Hope you love it.

 Krewe of Illusion

 

A novel by

Eric Wilder

 

Chapter 1

 

A

 glorious spring had arrived in New Orleans.Jazz Fest had just concluded as I sat at the bar of Bertram Picou’s mostlyempty drinking establishment on Chartres Street in the French Quarter. Someoneentered the bar that I recognized. Seeing me, he smiled and walked over. It wasFrankie Castellano, looking wealthy in thousand-dollar shoes and a suit worthmore than most people make in a year.

Frankie was one of the mostpowerful mob bosses in the South and was often referred to as ‘Don of theBayou.’ He had dark hair and eyes and a receding hairline. His bulldog-likeface made him look angry even when he was smiling.

“How you doing, Wyatt?”

“I’m good, Frankie. Howabout you?”

“Me too,” Frankie said.“May I join you?”

“Pull up a stool,” I said.

Frankie sat and said,“Where’s Bertram?”

He laughed when I said,“Probably on his way to the bank since he made so much money during Jazz Fest.”

“Me, Adele, and Toni justcaught the last act of Jazz Fest.”

“Are they with you?” Iasked.

“Over on Royal Streetwindow shopping.”

I ducked under the bar andsaid, “Then you probably need a drink. Scotch?”

When Frankie saw the bottleI poured from, he said. “Good memory. Monkey Shoulder is my favorite brand.”

I handed him the scotch andsaid, “You’re here for more than a drink and to test my memory. How can I helpyou?”

“A little problem I needsomeone to look into.”

“Glad to help, though youusually call Tony on such matters,” I said.

Former N.O.P.D. homicidedetective Tony Nicosia had retired from the force under duress and was now,like me, a private investigator. I’d worked for Frankie in the past, thoughalways alongside Tony Nicosia.

“Tony and Lil are onvacation in Italy,” he said.

“I just finished my lastcase a few hours ago, and my dance card is open,” I said. “Tell me how I canhelp?”

“Locate a missing person.”

“I can do that. Who do youwant me to find?”

“My sister.”

“I’ve known you for a longtime, Frankie. I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Neither did I until a fewdays ago.”

“Maybe you’d betterexplain,” I said.

“This past Mardi Gras, Iwas king of the Krewe of Illusion. You familiar with it?”

The Krewe of Illusion wasone of the oldest and most exclusive carnival clubs in New Orleans. It wasrumored that only the city's richest and most powerful men ever ruled as Kingof Illusion, and then only after donating a cool million bucks. Frankie’s questionmade me smile.

“Of course. My grandfatherwas King of Illusion once.”

It was Frankie’s turn tosmile. “I keep forgetting your granddad was governor and the most powerful manin Louisiana.”

“Unfortunately, none of itrubbed off on me.”

“It sometimes doesn’t payto keep a high profile,” Frankie said.

I understood what Frankiewas insinuating. My grandfather was indeed powerful and had paid for his powerby being assassinated in the capitol rotunda. I skipped over Frankie’sreference.

“Sorry I interrupted.Please continue your story,” I said.

“The Krewe has specificrules, and having Adele as my queen wasn’t an option. The committee choseHarper Devereaux to serve as queen. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

“Me and everyone else inNew Orleans,” I said.

Harper Devereaux was aquintessential New Orleans socialite, a young woman as gorgeous as she waswealthy. The Devereaux family was among the wealthiest and most powerfulfamilies in New Orleans.

“Trust me when I tell youthe amount of time Harper and I had to spend together didn’t endear me withAdele.”

“I can imagine.” WhenFrankie killed his scotch, I said, “Another?”

“Please.”

I stood across from him onthe other side of the bar and refilled his glass straight from the bottle.

“Was Miss Devereaux the onewho informed you about your sister?” I asked.

 “Yes.”

“Please explain how sheknew about her.”

“Harper is a philanthropistwho does extensive charity work and is on the Louisiana Office of BehavioralHealth board. One of the mental health facilities is the Pinebridge MentalHospital. Heard of it?”

“I had an aunt who spentsome time there,” I said.

“And?”

I poured Frankie morescotch. “The hospital doesn’t have a stellar reputation,” I said. “Maybe thingshave changed, but patients were once treated like inmates. Beatings, mentaldeprivation, and maybe even torture occurred. Want to hear more?”

“Your aunt?”

“She survived,” I said. “Iremember some of her stories. Was your sister at Pinebridge?”

Frankie nodded.“Apparently,” he said.

“Was she a patient?” Iasked.

“My father wasn’t a verysavory person.”

“I understand,” I said.“You just want to know the truth.”

Frankie nodded again. “Canyou help me?”

“Do you know your sister’sname,” I asked.

“Bella Donna Castellano.”

“Any idea when she wasborn?” I asked.

“No clue,” he said. “Rightnow, you know as much about my sister as I do.”

I grabbed my cell phone andsaid, “I’ll check my database.”

“You have a database?”

“We P.I.s can’t tap intothe database used by law enforcement. There are several extensive informationaldatabases available for the rest of us.”

After a minute, Frankiesaid, “Well?”

“Your family has no birthrecord of a female named Bella Donna Castellano,” I said.

“Impossible,” he said.“What database are you accessing?”

“It’s called Tracker, acomprehensive database for P.I.s,” I said.

Frankie smirked and said,“Maybe you’d better trade it in for one that works.”

“Bella Donna is yourhalf-sister,” I said.

“That’s crazy,” Frankiesaid. “My parents never divorced.”

“You and Bella Donna havethe same father but different mothers.”

“Let me see that,” he said.

When I handed him my phone,showing him the birth certificate of Bella Donna Castellano, he stared at it.

“What’s this supposed tomean?” he asked.

“Your dad had a mistressnamed Hattie Depoy. She was black and lived in the Lower Ninth Ward. BellaDonna was born in 1952. Your dad was only seventeen then and hadn’t marriedyour mother yet.”

“What happened to BellaDonna?” Frankie asked.

“Hattie was from Arkansasand moved back there, taking Bella Donna with her.”

“Then how did she end up inthe Pinebridge Mental Hospital?”

Frankie was agitated, and Ipoured him more scotch.

“Don’t know,” I said.

“Is Bella Donna stillalive?” Frankie asked.

I shook my head and said,“I can find no death certificate.”

Frankie downed his scotchand said, “I want you to go to Pinebridge and find out what my half-sister wasdoing there.”

“Because you think yourfather is somehow involved?”

“Paco was a mean oldbastard,” Frankie said. “I know how bad he treated Mama and me.”

“Bella Donna could bedead,” I said. “Pinebridge has a bad reputation. Many of their patients werenever accounted for, and some say they were buried in unmarked graves.”

I nodded when Frankie said,“Pinebridge was that bad?”

“There are all sorts ofunconfirmed allegations of rape, bondage, torture, and even murder,” I said.

“How the hell did they getaway with that?” Frankie asked.

“Mental illness, untilrecently, has been a taboo subject. Therapeutical treatments such asfull-frontal lobotomies were green-lighted because not even medicalprofessionals knew for sure what they were doing. Bad things were swept underthe rug, and no one wanted to take responsibility.”

“If Bella Donna is alive, Iwant you to find her. She’s my sister, even if she is half-black.”

“I’d like to interviewHarper Devereaux. Can you arrange the meeting for me?”

“Why do you need to talk toher?”

“She’s on the board ofdirectors and can give us access to the Pinebridge facility without questions.”

Frankie grabbed his cellphone. After a short conversation, he said, “Harper will speak with you. Canyou go now?”

“Of course,” I said.

Frankie clutched my wrist.“You’re a former lawyer, and I know this goes without saying. . .”

“Whatever I learn, I won’tshare it with anyone other than you. You have my word.”

“Thanks,” Frankie said. Hepulled out his checkbook, wrote me a check, and handed it to me. “This is onlya retainer. Feel free to bill me for any expenses you may incur.”

Frankie smiled when I said,“I’ve worked for you before, and you’ve always been more than generous. Give meMiss Devereaux’s address, and I’ll head her way.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Canyou pour me one more scotch before you go?”

I sat the bottle of MonkeyShoulder on the counter in front of him. “I’ll go you one better.”

***

The value of houses in theQuarter ranges from expensive to don’t ask. Miss Devereaux’s domicile was, ‘Youwon’t believe me if I tell you.’

I found Harper Devereaux’shome near the corner of Ursulines Avenue and Royal Street. It was a statelymansion with a stucco-over-brick façade the color of buttercream. Tallshuttered windows opened onto a wrap-around balcony overlooking Ursulines.

I rang the doorbell, halfexpecting a butler to answer. Instead, Harper Devereaux, dressed like a runwaymodel, appeared at the door, and I had to catch my breath.

“I’m Wyatt Thomas,” I said.“Frankie Castellano just called about me.”

Harper Devereaux wasstunningly beautiful. I’d seen her pictures on society pages, but they did herno justice. Long auburn hair draped her shapely shoulders and brown designerlow-cut sheath. Her smile told me she understood her appearance's effect on me.

“Come in, Mr. Thomas. Wecan talk in the den.”

The parquet floors, wickerfurniture, and hanging ferns in the foyer were perfect. Harper Devereaux smiledagain when she saw me looking.

“Your house is beautiful,”I said.

“Circa 1810 Creolecottage,” she said. “I picked the property up for a song and did extensiverenovations.”

“I can see you have.Impressive.”

I followed her to her den,which looked out into a courtyard through a floor-to-ceiling picture window.The door to the courtyard was ajar, and the babbling fountain filled the roomwith soothing vibes.

“The den is my favoriteroom,” she said. “It’s my haven from stress and life’s chaos.”

“I see why.”

A large white couchdominated the room, and the white cat lying on it didn’t move when HarperDevereaux sat beside it. I took a comfortable rocker near the couch.

“Now, Mr. Thomas, how can Ihelp you?”

“Please, call me Wyatt,” Isaid.

“Absolutely, and you cancall me Harper. How do you know Frankie?”

“Frankie’s wife Adele andher father Pancho owned an Italian restaurant in Metairie I frequented. I knewAdele and Pancho before I met him.”

“I see,” she said. “Can Iget you a drink?”

“I’m an alcoholic,” I said.

Harper smiled when shesaid, “A French Quarter P.I. who doesn’t drink? How tragic. Do you mind if Imix something for myself?”

“Absolutely not.”

Harper was young, probablyin her late twenties or early thirties, though she moved across the room likean A-list actress. She wheeled her antique liquor cart to the couch and mixedus each a lime and soda water.

“Cheers,” she said.

“You have an eclecticselection of liquor,” I said.

“Everyone in my familydrinks, and they all have expensive tastes. When they visit, I try toaccommodate their favorites. What was your favorite alcohol before you gave updrinking?”

“I’d degenerated to thestage that I would drink almost anything short of battery acid, but my favoritealcohol was scotch.”

She showed me a bottle inthe cart. “Have you ever tried Monkey Shoulder?”

“Never did,” I said. “Is itgood?”

“I don’t drink scotch,” shesaid. “You’re not here to talk about alcoholic beverages.”

“Frankie Castellano’s likea bulldog when he wants something. You ignited his fuse when you told him hehas a sister he knew nothing about.”

“I probably should havekept the information to myself,” Harper said.

“Frankie hired me toinvestigate. He’ll never be happy until he knows.”

“Pinebridge is a medicalfacility. I’m on the board, and there are HIPAA rules I have to follow.”

“Frankie’s family, and hehas a right to know,” I said.

“Probably so,” she said.“Where do I begin?”

“His sister’s name, forstarters.”

“Bella Donna Castellano.”

“How did you learn BellaDonna was a patient at Pinebridge?”

“The present administratorof the facility is a close friend of mine. She told me.”

“What’s your friend’sname?” I asked.

“Celeste Gauthier,” Harpersaid.

“I’d like to interviewher,” I said. “Can you arrange it?”

“Pinebridge is a day’sdrive from here in Central Louisiana.”

“I’ve been there,” I said.“My aunt was a patient there for a while.”

“Then you know the facilityhas a bad reputation,” she said.

I nodded. “Mental illnessis a social stigma. At least we’ve advanced beyond referring to mental healthfacilities as insane asylums.”

“Amen to that,” she said.

 

Chapter 2

 

I

t was mid-afternoon in the French Quarter,the sound of a passing horse-drawn carriage rumbling outside on the street.

“I’ve been planning a tripto Pinebridge. You can ride with me if you like.”

“Wonderful,” I said. Livingin the Quarter, I don’t need a car much.”

“When we get to Pinebridge,I'll take you wherever you need. If you stay longer than me, you can rent acar.”

“That’ll work,” I said.

“When did you want to go?”she asked.

“Soon as possible. I’llneed to pack and see to my cat.”

“You have a cat?”

She smiled when I said,“Just like every intelligent person I know.”

“Bring her with you. Sheand Silky will get along famously.”

“You sure?”

Harper put Silky into a catcarrier and said, “My car’s parked in the back.”

“Aren’t you going to pack?”I asked.

“I own a cottage inPinebridge,” she said. “I have clothes there.”

Harper’s car was a RangeRover. It had all the expensive amenities, and I could only imagine how muchshe had paid for the vehicle. I didn’t ask.

“Where to, Wyatt?” sheasked.

“Bertram’s bar on ChartresStreet. I have an apartment on the second floor.”

Bertram’s wasn’t far fromHarper’s house on Ursulines. When we arrived, she parked on the street outsideand exited the big SUV.

“Aren’t you afraid you’llbe towed?” I asked.

“I’m a Devereaux,” shesaid. “It will be here when we return.”

I drew a deep breath,wondering how anyone could be so confident. Her money, I thought as we enteredBertram’s. The establishment was rocking, and Bertram was mixing drinks at thebar. When he saw Harper and me enter the front door, he motioned for us to joinhim.

“Where you been?” he said.“And who is this gorgeous woman with you?”

“Frankie hired me to do ajob for him. I must pack a few clothes because I will be out of town for a fewdays.”

“Want me to take care ofthat mangy cat of yours?”

“She’s going with us?”

“What did Frankie hire youto do?” Bertram asked.

“Confidential, Mr. Nosy,” Isaid.

“You can tell old Bertram.It won’t get farther than this bar,” he said.

“Frankie swore me tosecrecy and would kill us both if he knew I’d told you anything.”

“Whoa! I don’t need to knowthat bad.”

“Harper Devereaux, meetBertram Picou, the owner of the best bar in New Orleans.”

“Can I get you something todrink, pretty lady?”

“Ginger ale,” she said.“Wyatt and I have a lot of miles to cover, and I don’t drink and drive.”

“Can you put it in ago-cup?” I asked. “It’s getting late, and I need to pack.”

Bertram poured Harper aginger ale and a lemonade for me.

“How long you going to begone?” he asked.

“Until I solve Frankie’smystery,” I said.

I nodded when he said,“Then keep me posted.”

Harper followed me upstairsto my apartment on the second floor. Compared to her stately mansion, mine waslittle more than one room comprising a bedroom and a kitchenette. My cat Kisseswas asleep on the bed.

“Oh, what a beautiful cat,”Harper said. “What’s her name?”

“Kisses.”

“What happened to hertail?” she asked.

“Born that way. Guess she’sprobably part-Manx.”

“Love your littleapartment,” she said.

“It’s comfortable and all Ineed. Kisses loves the balcony and so do I.”

“Don’t apologize,” shesaid. “People would kill to live in the heart of the French Quarter and have aview like you do.”

Cars passed on the streetbelow, rowdy college students shouting obscenities at the pigeons.

“Thanks,” I said. “How faris it to Pinebridge?”

“Two hundred miles, aboutthree hours of driving time for most people, less than that for me.”

“Should I increase myinsurance before we go?”

“You’ll be fine,” she saidwith a grin. “I’m a good driver.”

“Then I’d better hurry.Fast or slow, it’ll be dark when we get there.”

When Harper and I descendedthe stairs with my suitcase and cat carrier, Bertram’s bar was filled with newcustomers.

Bertram waved and noddedwhen I said, “See you when I see you.”

Harper’s expensive RangeRover was waiting for us in one piece, an N.O.P.D. cop standing beside it onthe sidewalk making sure of it. He smiled, saluted, and opened the door forher.

“I’m impressed,” I said.

After loading my bag andthe carrier with Kisses, she drove away and headed for I-10. We were soon onour way to Baton Rouge, the swampy lowlands characterizing the Bonnet CarreSpillway prevalent on both sides of the highway.

“We’ll head north afterreaching Opelousas,” she said. “Relax. We’re a long way from there.”

Relaxing wasn’t difficultin Harper’s opulent Range Rover. Cats that don’t know each other are oftenstandoffish, if not outright hostile. Silky and Kisses were exceptions and tookto each other quickly.

I had questions for Harper,though I refrained from asking her. Frankie didn’t want me to discuss the casewith anyone, and I thought I knew why. Despite Harper and Frankie's forty-yearage difference, I had a hunch they’d had an affair, maybe even an ongoingaffair. It would explain the bottle of Monkey Shoulders Harper kept in her den.

Affairs are very personaland most often secretive for apparent reasons. It seemed to me Harper hadshared her affair with Frankie with Celeste Gauthier, the administrator of thePinebridge Mental Hospital. If not, how did Ms. Gauthier even know about FrankieCastellano to the extent she told Harper about her discovery?

The reason might have beenthat Harper and Frankie had been the king and queen of the Krewe of Illusion.Maybe. I decided to ask her when the time was right.

My thoughts were shatteredwhen Harper asked, “Don’t you ever talk?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Years ofsingle living ruined me for small talk.”

“How did you become aprivate investigator?”

“I was a French Quarterlawyer, though years of alcohol abuse ended my marriage and legal practice. Iwas disbarred. When Bertram finally fished me out of the gutter, dried me out,and gave me a place to stay, I needed a job. P.I. work came easy for me.”

“You never tried to getyour license back?”

“I think about it from timeto time,” I said.

“And?”

I smiled and said,“Thinking about it is all it has ever come to. What about you?”

“What about me?” she said.

“You seem happy livingalone. Have you ever been married?”

When Harper answered myquestion, I could tell by the tone of her voice she hadn't taken offense.

“The right person has nevercome along,” she said. “Besides, I have Silky, and we’re happy.”

“What prompted Celeste totell you about Frankie’s sister?”

My question surprisedHarper, and I could tell she was displeased that I had put her on the spot.

“Celeste knew that Frankieand I had been king and Queen of Illusion. She thought I would be interested. Iwas.”

“Mardi Gras ended inFebruary. You and Frankie are still friends?”

“Frankie’s the mostpowerful man I’ve ever met,” she said. “He’s an extraordinary human being, andit’s an honor for me to call him a friend.”

Harper smiled when I said,“Frankie told me his wife was jealous of you.”

“Did he now? I can see why.We spent lots of time together, sometimes until late at night.”

“Did you and Frankie havean affair?” I asked.

“Inappropriate question,”Harper said.

I decided not to pursue thesubject. “What’s Pinebridge like?”

“Hilly with lots of pinetrees. There's not much there except for the hospital and the college. Theparish was dry until a year ago. Now, they have a café in the square calledRaven’s Roost that Celeste and I like. It has a bar and shaded seating on the patio.”

“Then you and Celeste aremore than just business associates.”

“You called Bertram nosy.That’s like the pot calling the kettle black,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s aP.I.’s lot in life to ask questions.”

“It’s okay. Celeste caresfor the cottage I own in Pinebridge. She lives there, and we’re roommates whenI visit.”

I had fallen asleepsometime after we’d turned north at Opelousas. I opened my eyes when Harperawakened me with a shake of my knee. It was dark.

“Wake up, sleepy head.We’re here,” she said.

“Sorry I fell asleep onyou,” I said.

“No problem. There aremotels ahead. Name your poison.”

“Is there someplace closerto the center of town? I like to walk when I can.”

“There’s an old two-storiedhotel downtown near the hospital and the college,” Harper said. “It’sfamily-owned and anything but modern.”

“Sounds like it’s right upmy alley,” I said.

“I’ll drop you at the frontdoor and wait until you check in, and then we can visit the hospital,” shesaid.

She laughed when I said,“Celeste works this late?”

“She’s a workaholic.”

Dark streets typical of asmall Louisiana town marked the outskirts of Pinebridge. On our way to the towncenter, we passed motels, fast-food establishments, used car lots, andappliance stores. The town square was different, with a historic courthouse nearits center. The little town was old and dominated mainly by two-storybuildings. Harper pulled the Range Rover into the entrance to the PourteauHotel.

“Leave the cat carrier.Kisses can stay at my house. I’ll wait in the car while you check in,” shesaid.

Pourteau’s had a welcomingwaiting room and a smiling woman behind the counter when I entered.

“Help you?” she said.

“I need a room. I don’tknow for how long. Can I keep the check-out date open?”

“You bet,” she said.“Seventy dollars a night. We have a complimentary breakfast beginning at six inthe morning.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

She handed me a key andsaid, “Room 201 on the second floor. The best view in the hotel.”

“Great,” I said.

The room was small butclean and serviceable. The single window looked out over the town square. Iclosed the curtain, sat my suitcase on the bed, and went downstairs.

When I opened the door toHarper’s Range Rover, she said, “How’s the room?”

“Good,” I said.

“I called Celeste. She’swaiting for us at the hospital.”

“Great,” I said.

“Let’s stop by my house anddrop off the cats. Silky has spent lots of time there. They’ll have the run ofthe place and will love it.”

Harper’s little house wasanything but. The single-story Louisiana ranch-style house stood alone on abluff overlooking the Red River.

She grinned when I said,“Little?”

“I had a local architectdesign it based on Louisiana delta homes,” Harper said. “You won’t believe thedeck that overlooks the river.”

Harper pulled the RangeRover into the house’s three-car garage. When we took the cat carriers into theden, Harper turned on the lights. Silky and Kisses exchanged nose rubs withCeleste’s big Persian when we opened the doors to their carriers.

“Your house is awesome.Kisses may want to stay forever,” I said.

Harper checked the waterand food in the bowls beside the oversized fireplace.

“They’ll be fine. Let’s goto the hospital.”

The Pinebridge MentalHospital was nearby, and Harper parked in the lot in front. The modern façadewas an addition to what I could see, even in the dark, was a much olderfacility. The person at the front desk recognized Harper, smiled, and gave usthe high sign. I followed her down a darkened hallway to Celeste’s office. Whenwe opened the door without knocking, Celeste got out of her chair and embracedHarper.

Celeste proved asattractive as Harper, only older. Her long hair was darker and I guessed herage at forty-something. She was dressed in faded jeans and a pale blue sweater.From the duration of the embrace, I was aware the two women truly liked one another.

“Celeste, this is WyattThomas. He’s a private investigator from New Orleans.”

When Celeste shook my hand,I said, “Pleased to meet you.” 

Celeste’s office seemedmore like that of a corporate bigwig than a Louisiana public servant. She satbehind her big oak desk as Harper, and I took seats in two of the spaciousoffice's expensive chairs.

“I’m so glad you made it inone piece,” Celeste said. “I worry every time Harper is on the road.”

“You’re not my mother,”Harper said. “I’m a great driver.”

“I can attest to that,” Isaid. “This facility is awesome, and my spine tingled when we walked down thehall. I hope you don’t have to spend much time here after dark.”

“It comes with theterritory,” she said. “I’m used to the ghosts.”

Celeste’s words had barelydied away when we heard an unearthly wail through the cracked window in heroffice.

“More than ghosts,” I said.“That sounded like a big cat.”

 

Chapter 3

 

C

eleste hurried to the window and slammed itshut with more force than was probably necessary.

“We aren’t far from theKisatchie National Forest. Swamps and woodlands thick with pines surroundPinebridge. Some people call it the pine curtain. If you let yourself getcaught up in the sounds of the night, it’ll drive you nuts.”

“This place is noticeablyold,” I said. “Can you fill in its history for me?”

“The facility, originallycalled the Louisiana Hospital of the Insane, has a sordid history. Sufferingpeople were sent here because there was nowhere else to put them. Medicaltreatments were either non-existent or bordering on the medieval.”

“We’ve come a long way,”Harper said.

“Thank God for that,”Celeste said. “This facility has less than a hundred patients and is a mereshadow of its former self. During its heyday, it had hundreds of patients fromevery part of the state. It was self-sufficient with a dairy, a hundred-sixty-acrefarm, a cathedral, and a cemetery.”

“Can you arrange a tour forme?” I asked.

“Of course,” Celeste said.“Most old outbuildings are no longer in use and in disarray. It isn’t a placeyou want to visit after dark.”

Before I could reply,someone began banging on the door. Sensing something neither Harper nor I did,Celeste hurried to the door and flung it open. A dark-haired young man dressedin jeans and a tee shirt stood in the doorway, obviously shaken from his distressedexpression.

“Billy, what’s the matter?”Celeste said.

“Trouble,” the young mansaid.

Celeste stood six inchestaller than Billy. Grabbing his shoulders, she shook him until he stoppedstammering.

“It’s okay. What’s wrong?”

“Mr. Marshal,” Billy said.“He’s bleeding.”

“What happened?” Celesteasked.

“Something terrible,” Billysaid.

“Where is he?”

“The cemetery,” Billy said.

Billy became even morenervous when Celeste asked, “What were you doing in the cemetery?”

“Noises,” he said.

“You mean like the noisesour patients make at night?”

Billy shook his head. “Morelike the scream of a woman.”

“Take me to him,” Celestesaid. “Harper, there’s a flashlight on my desk.”

Harper grabbed theflashlight and we followed Celeste and Billy out of the door. We’d gone no morethan ten feet when Celeste halted.

“We’re taking a shortcutthrough the psych ward, and you need to be warned. In this confined space, eventhe faintest sounds echo off the walls. Haunting noises punctuate the silence,each more unnerving than the last. Sometimes, it’s enough to scare the hell outof you.”

When Celeste entered acombination on a keypad to open a heavy metal door, it took less than a minuteto understand the reason for her ominous warning. Even in the dimly litcorridor, it was impossible not to see the faces of the tormented souls peeringfrom behind the tiny barred windows of their padded cells.

The plaintive cries ofpatients lost in the labyrinth of their minds wailed a heart-wrenching chorusof anguish reverberating off sterile walls, a chorus that lingered like amournful lament. Some voices were barely more than whispers, fragile echoes of fracturedsouls, their pain palpable. Harper clutched my hand and squeezed.

“I hate the sounds theymake,” she said. “I don’t know how Celeste tolerates it.”

Frenzied screams shatteredthe uneasy calm, signaling a moment of crisis. Footsteps echoed down anotherhallway and the metallic clinking of restraints and the rhythmic thud of heavydoors being locked. Whispers of fragmented conversations and delusionallaughter, devoid of joy, were a chilling reminder of the thin line betweensanity and madness.

Harper released my handwhen Celeste used the keypad to open the psych ward’s exit door. I could stillhear the cacophony of the tortured souls even after the metal door shut behindus with a dull thud.

As Celeste, Billy, Harper,and I emerged from the dilapidated rear of the old mental institution, the airhung heavy with the oppressive weight of the night. The moon, obscured by thickclouds, cast an eerie glow upon the desolate landscape, cloaking the abandonedoutbuildings and gnarled pine trees in shadow.

We traversed an old cobbledpath, our footsteps muffled by the damp earth and shrouded in a mist thatseemed to rise from the very soul of the forsaken grounds. A chorus of chirpingcrickets and the flickering dance of lightning bugs provided the only semblanceof life amid the graveyard silence.

With each step, the senseof foreboding deepened, amplified by the whispered legends of the institution'stormented past that echoed through the wind-swept corridors of memory.

We followed Billy throughthe murky darkness, our nerves taut, every rustle of leaves, and the distanthowl of a nocturnal creature sending shivers down our spines.

We reached an old cemetery,a somber testament to the forgotten souls who had once wandered these hallowedgrounds in search of sanctuary. Amongst the weathered headstones, a chillingsight awaited us: a man's lifeless body slumped against a moss-coveredmonument, the jagged wounds upon his flesh a grotesque tableau of savagebrutality.

The moon broke free fromits cloud-shrouded prison, casting its pallid light upon the scene,illuminating the man's twisted visage in stark relief. His eyes, frozen in asilent scream, bore witness to the horrors he had endured in his final moments,while the zigzag lacerations that marred his skin spoke of a violence born fromthe depths of primal instinct.

As we stood there,transfixed by the grisly spectacle, a sense of dread enveloped us like asuffocating cloak. At that moment, amid the desolation of the abandonedcemetery, I realized that we weren’t alone. The darkness held secrets far moresinister than I dared to imagine.

I touched the man’s carotidartery.

“There’s nothing we can dofor him,” I said. “He’s dead.”

Celeste’s hand went to hermouth. “Oh, my God! Are you sure?”

She embraced Billy and theyboth began to cry when I nodded and said, “I’m sorry.”

What killed him?” Harperasked.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Callthe police.”

Within ten minutes ofHarper’s 9-1-1 call, we heard the sirens.

“What now?” she said.

“This is a crime scene,” Isaid. “Don’t touch anything.”

We waited in the darkness,none of us speaking until the lights of police cars stopped in the parking lotof the old cemetery. Officers with flashlights soon appeared through the mistthat continued to rise from the ground.

When a man in blue pants, akhaki shirt, and a dark blue windbreaker with a Rapides Parish Sheriff’s officeinsignia approached us, he said, “I’m Detective Willoughby. Where’s the body?”

Celeste pointed theflashlight to the headstone the body was propped against. As police officersbegan spreading out, a black woman dressed the same as Detective Willoughbymotioned us to follow her. We stopped when we reached her white SUV policevehicle with the flashing lights.

“I’m Detective Goodwine,”she said. “Give me your names and tell me what happened here.”

The name sewn on thewindbreaker read Det. Maya Goodwine. Her short hair was swept back enough toreveal blue zircon earrings and a diamond ear piercing at the top of her ear.Except for her watch, the earrings and the piercing were the only jewelry she wore.Detective Goodwine took notes when we told her who we were.

“Do you know the victim’sname?” she asked.

“Oliver Marshal,” Celestesaid. “He was the hospital’s janitor.”

“How long had he worked forthe hospital?” Detective Goodwine asked.

“Probably more than thirtyyears,” Celeste said. “He was working here when I became Administrator.”

“Who discovered the body?”she asked.

“Billy came to my officeabout thirty minutes ago and told us about finding Mr. Marshall’s body,”Celeste said.

Billy was even moreanxious, shaking when Celeste nudged him toward Detective Goodwine.

“What were you doing in thecemetery?” she asked.

Billy stuttered when hesaid, “I heard a noise. I went to see what it was.”

“Billy is the hospital'scaretaker. He lives in one of the unused hospital rooms outside the mainbuilding,” Celeste said.

“I was outside my doorsmoking a cigarette,” Billy said.

“Did you know thedeceased?”

Billy nodded and said, “Wewere friends.”

Detective Willoughbyappeared through the darkness and motioned Detective Goodwine to join him.Following a brief conversation, they returned to the SUV.

“What killed Mr. Marshal?”Celeste asked.

“We’ll know more after thecoroner has time to examine the body,” Willoughby said. “You are free to go,though Detective Goodwine and I may have more questions for you later.” When westarted to leave, he said, “Not you, Mr. Thomas.”

“We’ll wait for you inCeleste’s office,” Harper said.

When they were gone,Willoughby said, “You’re not from around here.”

I showed him my P.I. badgeand license, and he donned reading glasses for a better view.

“I’m here on assignment,” Isaid.

“Mind telling us what for?”Detective Goodwine said.

“I’m looking for a missingperson who may have been a patient here years ago,” I said.

Willoughby handed my badgeand license back to me. “I don’t know how far along on your assignment you are,but don’t leave the area without checking first with us.”

I nodded and started toleave when Detective Goodwine said, “One more thing, Mr. Thomas. You’re anexperienced investigator. Did you see or hear anything else that might be ofinterest?”

“We were in Ms. Gauthier’soffice. The window was open, and we heard what sounded like a large cat.”

“A tom cat?” Willoughbysaid.

“Bigger. More like apanther,” I said. “I only got a brief look at the body, but it seemed to melike a big animal, possibly a cougar or some other large predator, attacked andkilled him.”

Detectives Goodwine andWilloughby exchanged glances and then handed me their business cards.

“We’ll be in touch,”Willoughby said.

The back door to thehospital was locked, so I took a long walk back to the front door. Celeste andHarper were waiting for me in the lobby.

“Celeste and I are going tothe Raven’s Roost in town for dinner and drinks. Come with us. When we finisheating, I’ll take you to your room.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

Celeste unlocked the doorto a black BMW and said, “Meet you there.”

I climbed into thepassenger seat of Harper’s Range Rover, neither of us speaking until she pulledinto the parking lot of the little café.

“You won’t have to take meto my hotel,” I said. “It’s just across the street, and I can walk.”

She grinned and said, “Youmay need me to hold your hand.”

“Maybe,” I said.

The Raven’s Roost was anold building renovated into a modern café and bar. A pretty young waitressgreeted us at the door.

“I’m Kayla,” she said.“I’ll be waiting on you.”

Kayla led us to a cornertable where hanging ferns and large potted plants blocked our view from therest of the establishment. The bistro was ominously dark. When Kayla seated us,I learned why.

“Most of our clientele arecollege students,” she said. “Pinebridge University is a Baptist college, andthe administration doesn’t allow drinking hard liquor.”

“How shortsighted of them.”

Harper and Celeste orderedmartinis. I requested a glass of lemonade.

“Wus,” Harper said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I have notolerance for alcohol. I’d be dancing naked in the streets.”

“I’d pay to see thathappen,” Harper said. “Celeste and I will take care of you.”

“Until the police show upand throw us all in jail,” I said.

“Do you have an opinionabout who or what caused Mr. Marshal’s death,” Celeste said.

Kayla, our pretty waitress,appeared at our table without drinks before I could answer.

“Are we eating tonight?”

“Yes,” Celeste said.“What’s your special?”

“Chicken strips and creamgravy,” Kayla said.

“Not me,” Harper said.“What else do you have?”

“Our catfish platter,”Kayla said.

“That’s what I’ll have,”Harper said.

“Me too,” Celeste said.

“All the way around,” Isaid.

“And another round ofmartinis,” Harper said.

When our dinners arrived,Harper was on her third martini. I was starved and ate with relish, as didCeleste. Harper seemed more interested in getting a buzz on and not losing itby eating. Having been guilty of the same thing when I was overindulging inalcohol, I recognized the syndrome. She left most of her dinner on the plateand ordered another martini when Kayla arrived to clear the table.

Harper’s words were slurredwhen she said, “This town is fucked up.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Everyone is so uptight andafraid they will shame themselves or their families if they follow theirhearts.”

“A different ideology,”Celeste said. “Every place in Louisiana can’t be the same as New Orleans.”

“Right about that,” Harpersaid. “Downtown Pinebridge isn’t exactly Bourbon Street.”

In an attempt to change thetopic of discussion, Celeste looked at me and said, “You haven’t told us whatyou think of the death.”

“If I didn’t know better,I’d have thought a big cat killed him,” I said.

“Crazy talk,” Celeste said.

“Don’t say that,” Harpersaid. Wyatt is an experienced investigator, and he’s so cute.”

Harper spilled her martinion me when she crawled into my lap. I glanced at Celeste and saw her staring ahole through me. Getting out of her chair, she grabbed Harper’s hand and pulledher out of my lap.

“I’m taking you home,” shesaid. “You can get your car tomorrow.

Kayla was at the table whenCeleste led Harper out the door.

“Another lemonade?” shesaid.

“Please,” I said.

When she brought mylemonade, she said, “Those two are here a lot. They argue like an old marriedcouple.”

She nodded when I said, “Isthat what they are?”

“Why are you in town, Mr.Thomas?”

“It’s Wyatt,” I said. I’m aprivate investigator looking for someone who spent time in the PinebridgeMental Hospital. I’m looking for answers.”

“Celeste is theadministrator. “She’ll know.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“You think she’s coveringsomething up?” Kayla asked.

“The thought crossed mymind,” I said.

“My mom is the chieflibrarian at Pinebridge University. There’s nothing she doesn’t know aboutwhat’s going on in Pinebridge.”

“I’d like to meet her,” Isaid.

“How about dinner tomorrownight?”

 

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Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.