Wind frothed white caps atop the muddy Mississippi River as a paddle wheeler thudded against the dock fronting the Willows Plantation. Jason Fasempaur and Mama Mulate watched from the upper deck as ducks lifted from the water, flying farther south.
“It’s beautiful, and I’m freezing,” Mama said, pulling a shawl around her neck.
“I told you to bring a warmer coat.”
“I’d feel lots better if you’d tell me why you insisted we visit so soon after the holiday. You still haven’t shared your story.”
“Maybe because it’s too fresh on my mind, and I have a few unresolved questions. That’s why we’re here.”
“At least tell me what Wyatt looked like.”
Jason squeezed her hand. “He was at least ten years younger and tied his long hair in a ponytail. I wanted him to come with us; he would have no part of it.”
“This place has dark and foreboding memories for him.”
“And I think I know why.”
“Then tell me.”
“Before we leave, you’ll know everything I know.”
Mama had to shake her head. “There are New Year’s festivities all over town, and we’re missing the Sugar Bowl.”
“We can play catch-up when I get some answers.”
“Visiting the Willows is going to give you those answers?”
“I sincerely hope so.”
“How?”
“Patience.”
“Hard to do with cold wind frosting my eyelids,” she said.
A gusty breeze tousled Jason’s hair as he started toward the ramp with Mama in tow. Now, most football fans were trying to sober up enough to attend the big game. The small group following Jason down the gangplank had ventured south for other reasons. Exploring a historic cotton plantation was one of them.
A blue tram sat parked at the foot of the ramp, a young woman dressed in antebellum attire waiting until everyone had secured a seat.
“Welcome to the Willows. My name is Sarah, and I’ll be leading your tour.”
Jason,” Mama said. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Our tour guide looks exactly like someone I met in old New Orleans. Her name was also Sarah.”
The electric-powered tram snaked through towering oaks and manicured hedges bordering the path, replete with Greek statuary, leading to the Willows. The tram unloaded in front of a veranda encircling the front of a large house.
“There was no air conditioning when this plantation was operational,” Sarah said. “During hot summer nights, the occupants of the house would sit in these rocking chairs on the veranda, sipping something cold.”
The group followed her up the steps and through the oak and cut glass doors of the house, into the foyer. Warmth radiated from a large fireplace when she opened the doors to the main living area.
“The house is decorated much as it was in 1840, the chandeliers and mirrors imported from France.”
Mama gazed at Jason when he nodded his head. “You visited this plantation?”
“Matthieu’s father killed himself. We were in New Orleans when they summoned us.”
“One of the former owners, Boone Courtmanche, committed suicide in his wife’s bedroom, and she was present when he died,” Sarah said. “His spirit still haunts the plantation. Some visitors occasionally catch a glimpse of him in the mirror behind us.”
The group turned to see the mirror on the wall. A gray-haired woman’s hand went to her mouth.
“I saw him!”
The group began murmuring, though no one else professed to seeing anything in the mirror other than their own reflection. Having seen it all before, Sarah was grinning.
“It’s quite common that some can see Monsieur Courtmanche and others can’t.”
Leaving the hallway, Sarah led the small group into the rustic kitchen.
“One of my ancestors was a cook for the family that once owned this plantation.”
Sarah gave him a quizzical glance when Jason asked, “Was she also named Sarah?”
“Why yes,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Wild guess.”
The tour continued to the rear veranda, landscaped backyard, overseer’s quarters, and finally, upstairs to the bedroom of Matthieu’s mother. It was mostly unchanged since the last time Jason had last seen it. He saw a reflection in the gilded mirror on the wall opposite the bed. No one else seemed to notice.
“This was the bedroom of Mathilde Courtmanche,” Sarah said. “She died in that bed.”
“Did she kill herself, like her husband?” a visitor asked.
The question brought a smile to Sarah’s pretty face. “She died at the ripe old age of nearly a hundred. Why do you ask?”
“I thought the Courtmanche family had lost the plantation.”
“That almost happened. It didn’t because Mathilde’s son Matthieu regained control of it, some say with the help of the voodoo woman Marie Laveau.”
“Is this where her husband killed himself?” a young woman with a New York accent asked.
“Yes. There is a stain on the flocked wallpaper behind you. It’s the exact spot where Boone Courtmanche shot himself.”
Everyone turned to look at the reddish blemish on the lime green wallpaper where Sarah was pointing.
“Is it a blood spot?” an older man in a corduroy sports coat asked.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “And something even stranger happened in this very room.”
“Tell us,” a woman said.
“Boone Courtmanche wasn’t the only person to commit suicide here. Another owner did as well. Believe it or not, both of their bullets ended in exactly the same place.”
The man in corduroy was shaking his head. “No way.”
“Oh, yes,” Sarah said. “The spot you see is the commingled blood of the two dead men.”
“Why do you leave it there?” the person’s bespectacled wife asked.
“Former owners have removed it several times. It always reappears.”
“Surely you’re pulling our legs,” a woman asked.
“No ma’am, I’m not. You may touch it if you wish. I promise it will remain unchanged.”
“What was the name of the second man that committed suicide in this room?” Jason asked.
“Jeb Thomas, son of a former governor of Louisiana. The Governor owned this property, briefly changing the name to the Thomas Plantation. He left it to his son Jeb in his will. It was in the process of being repossessed when he killed himself.”
“Wyatt’s father,” Jason said in a whisper.
“When Matthieu Courtmanche regained possession of the Willows he freed the slaves, and it was never again a cotton plantation.”
“Did Matthieu ever marry?” Mama asked.
“His wife died of consumption at an early age. He never remarried though it is rumored he was quite the lady’s man. He had no heirs.”
“How did he and his mother survive?”
“They somehow managed. Matthieu sold the plantation when his mother died.”
Jason grabbed Mama’s elbow when Sarah left the room, along with the sightseers, to continue the tour.
“Guard the door while I do something,” he said.
“What?”
“Bear with me,” he said as he maneuvered a French pastoral picture on the wall.
Mama watched him swing the hinged picture away from the wall to reveal a hidden safe. He twirled the tumblers, opening the safe and removing an envelope yellowed with age and sealed with red wax.
“What is it?”
“I’ll explain later. Let’s get out of here before someone realizes we’ve left the group.”
Jason had already closed the safe, pivoted the picture back into place, and stuffed the envelope into his coat pocket. The mirror glowed as he followed Mama to the door.
“Au revoir, Mathilde,” he said before exiting into the hallway. “Rest in peace.”
The group had finished its tour of the house, most of them crowded into a room converted to a gift shop, buying postcards and souvenir key chains. Sarah was chatting with a couple in the foyer. No one seemed to notice Mama and Jason bounding down the stairs.
Within an hour, they were back on the paddle wheeler moving slowly up the river to New Orleans. Mama and Jason were finally alone at the rail near the rear of the boat, the rest of the group opting for the warmth of the visitor’s deck. The winter sky grew dark, the sun close to sinking into the depths of the mighty river. Lost in thought, Jason smiled when Mama elbowed him.
“Are you ready to tell me what you took from the safe?”
“Nothing that wasn’t mine,” he said. “The letter is addressed to me.”
She glanced at the signature on the envelope when he pulled it from his jacket and handed it to her.
“Oh my, it’s like a message from the dead.”
“On the contrary. Matthieu was alive when he wrote the letter.”
“What does it say?”
“Wyatt and I departed before the curse could be lifted. Even though history reveals what happened to Matthieu and his family, it tells us nothing of the curse. This letter does.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
Jason returned the letter to his jacket. “Though I’ve known you less than a week, I have seen your Vodoun powers in action. Madam Aja has so much knowledge she should be a national treasure. I met Doctor John, the most powerful hoodoo man the Big Easy has ever known. He placed a curse on Matthieu and Zacharie Patenaude. A curse made with twenty coins of gold.”
Mama turned her gaze to the rapidly setting sun. “Then it is unbreakable and Wyatt still cursed.”
“Nope. New Orleans had someone even more powerful than Doctor John.”
Madam Marie Laveau,” Mama said. “How did she do it?”
“By convincing Patenaude to confess his mortal sins before the whole congregation attending midnight mass at St. Louis Cathedral. Matthieu’s letter confirms he did exactly that.”
“Don’t stop now. I’m dying to hear the rest of your story.”
“And a long one it is, my dear, best saved for a dreamy night on your back porch, along with a bottle or two of the best Bordeaux France can provide.”