Chapter 9
“It’s begun.”
“Can I get you anything else, Mrs. Beauregard?” Katherine said, handing her the morning Sentinel newspaper.
Ethel looked at her and said, “Sit down and have some of your delicious breakfast with me.”
Floored by the invitation, Katherine, using her very best English, knowing how much Ethel hated to hear the English language butchered, said, “Ma’am? Are you feeling okay this morning?”
“Katherine,” Ethel began, “from this day forward, I want us to have our meals together.”
“Ma’am?”
“You heard me. I want us to have our meals together from now on. Morgan too, if he’s willing to listen to two women enjoy life without men interrupting the tranquility. You two are just about all I have left in this miserable world. And I want you to call me Ethel when we’re on the Beauregard grounds. When we’re out, we have to remember our places, okay?”
Still stunned by her sudden transformation from a haughty aristocrat to a meek human being, which was nothing short of a miracle, Katherine repeated, “Ma’am? Are you feeling okay?”
Ethel smiled for the first time since the Beauregard men died. “Why, I’m wonderful, Katherine. Just wonderful.”
“What will people say, ma’am?”
Ethel’s smile vanished. “This is my house now, Katherine. And I’ll do what I damn well please in it! Now . . . get some breakfast and come out and eat with me.”
Puzzled, Katherine did as she was told, albeit hesitantly, thoroughly questioning all she’d heard as she went back into the kitchen. Hmm, what’s come over Mrs. Beauregard? Has she finally lost her mind like so many of the other women in the Beauregard family? Is she on the verge of killing herself like they did? She’s always been so refined, someone to be looked up to. On the other hand, I might as well enjoy this while it lasts. I always wanted to be treated like family.
Meanwhile, on the east terrace, Ethel opened up the newspaper and thumbed through it, occasionally stopping at an article, reading the first line or two. Seeing nothing interesting, she moistened her thumb and continued to work her way to the society section where she read the following headline: PROMINENT BEAUREGARD LEGACY EXTENDS ALL THE WAY TO SABLE PARISH.
As Ethel read the blistering article, the words seemed to leap off the pages. The scandal was coming, she knew, but still, to be blindsided like this with no warning was unforgivable.
The article read:
Flagrant miscegenation! There seems to be no end to the revelations concerning the Beauregard and Wise families, if you can call them that. This reporter isn’t sure the word “family” applies, however. So let’s begin this piece with a question: What do the super wealthy Beauregards and the dirt poor, nearly indigent Wise families have to do with each other? Apparently a lot! It appears that the recently deceased Nathaniel Beauregard is the father of Marguerite Wise. If the name (Marguerite Wise) sounds familiar, it should, folks, as this poor, unfortunate Negress was murdered last summer and her killer was never brought to justice.
Miss Wise, a resident of dilapidated Sable Parish, was found a couple of miles from a Cajun restaurant, ruthlessly beaten beyond recognition. By whom, we still don’t know. However, this reporter told you nearly six months ago, prior to the riot, that several days after, notorious Klansman, Richard Goode, was murdered in like manner, and that the two murders seemed to be linked, due to their marked similarity. Well, it looks like I was way off the mark, folks. I thought I was on to something, and I was apparently wrong. I apologize profusely. Here’s my new theory. (This time, it’s not just conjecture and speculation as our friends over at the Raven, the Negro newspaper, asserted shortly after my first article.)
It turns out that Marguerite’s daughter, who, according to a confidential source, was brutally raped last night, Christmas night, to the shame of her rapist (not that there’s a good time to rape, mind you) was working undercover as the maid for the affluent Beauregard family. If you haven’t just skimmed this article, you now know what that means. It means that Marguerite’s daughter was working for her white relatives, and they had no idea who she was. Friends, are the hairs on your neck standing tall? Mine are! Did the Beauregard family somehow learn the wicked truth? According to my source, Marguerite’s daughter dropped the proverbial atomic bomb that faithful Thanksgiving Day when all the Beauregard men met their maker.
Let’s reexamine these cases, shall we? Marguerite Wise, murdered on a lonely road in the middle of the night. Richard Goode, murdered at his farm—castrated! All the Beauregard men, dead—one right after another.
The common link, you ask?
Marguerite Wise’s daughter!
Another common link—no one ever gets arrested in either family.
Why?
If all the players in this ridiculous play were rich white folk, well, you know how that goes. But Marguerite Wise and her daughter are Creole (that’s what we call them when they’re mixed. *wink*wink*).
Folks, if that isn’t enough, how is it that Sharon Trudeau and an innocent bellhop are murdered down in Fort Lauderdale and no one is arrested in that case either? What’s going on? Now, some of you smart folks who have been paying attention to this entire article are thinking, what does Sharon Trudeau have to do with any of this? Well, friends, I’ll tell you. Sharon Trudeau was Marguerite’s daughter’s stockbroker!
It turns out that all the money was recovered except for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And guess who lost that much money—nearly to the cent? You guessed it! Marguerite’s daughter!
Again, friends, I ask you, why hasn’t this seventeen-year-old been at least questioned? But before we even ask that question, let’s ask this one first: How did a Negro teenager get that kind of money in the first place? And how on God’s green earth was she able to purchase a home and live among the so-called Negro elite in Ashland Estates, where the homes start at fifteen thousand dollars? Let’s not forget that Marguerite lived in rundown Sable Parish.
I could be wrong, but I think we can safely say Marguerite didn’t leave her daughter much of anything. Otherwise, why would Marguerite live in Sable Parish if she had the means to move to a better neighborhood? What then? Insurance money? Please! I’ve seen the policy. It was worth fifteen thousand, but Marguerite’s daughter had moved uptown before her mother’s death. Call me stupid, but I don’t think you can collect death benefits without a death certificate.
Where did this Negro kid get two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?
More important, who had that kind of money to give her?
Further, who would be motivated to give it to her?
You see where I’m going with this, friends?
The super rich Beauregards are the only people who have that kind of money and the motivation to pay off the mother to keep her quiet. However, that raises a whole lot more questions, doesn’t it? Who really killed Marguerite Wise that night? Was it Richard Goode? If so, was he paid to do it? If so, it would explain the fierce whipping he gave her first, wouldn’t it?
Again, why no arrests?
How does the woefully inept New Orleans Police Department explain why the daughter hasn’t been arrested or at least questioned? They don’t, folks. Mum’s the word over there. I know because I asked them. Sounds to me like a lot of money has been passed out in those thick yellow envelopes mobsters get from the shop owners they extort in The Quarter. Did I say mobsters? J. Edgar Hoover said there is no Mafia. And we know Mr. Hoover can’t be wrong, can he?
The last time I questioned what was going on, one of the bloodiest riots in our nation’s history ensued. White women and children were killed, and no one was arrested. Friends, the bodies are piling up. Who’s next?
Just as Ethel finished the article, Katherine returned to the terrace with her breakfast and sat next to her. Feeling like a kid on Christmas morning, Katherine heartily ate the food she cooked, enjoying every delicious mouthful. But in her periphery, she noticed that Ethel wasn’t eating and was no longer reading. She was just sitting there, staring over tall shrubs into the next yard, where Mrs. Mancini was staring back at Ethel and holding up a copy of the Sentinel. Mrs. Mancini was gleefully smiling, unable to contain the immense pleasure that bubbled within.
Ethel exhaled loudly and said, “It’s begun.”
The article might start a series of events that would lead the police to my front door if Johnnie ever told the police I killed my husband and would have killed her too. How I missed that little bitch I’ll never know. I pointed the gun right at her head and pulled the trigger. Now all my fears are about to be realized. That’s the real reason I wanted Katherine and Morgan to have breakfast with me. I might need them to testify on my behalf if this thing ever sees the light of day.
Still confused about Ethel’s generous offer, her previous ebullient demeanor and now her sudden silence, Katherine thought it best to continue eating quietly.