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  City of Masks

  ( Cree Black - 1 )

  Daniel Hecht

  Daniel Hecht

  City of Masks

  1

  Cree — an unusual name. An Indian tribe, isn't it — up in Manitoba or someplace? Your parents named you after them?"

  "No. A nickname. Short for Lucretia, which by the time I was five years old struck me as too old-fashioned to live with. You're welcome to call me Ms. Black, Mr. Beauforte." Cree smiled but put enough of a point on the comment to suggest that more personal inquiries were unwelcome. So far, Mr. Beauforte's smug and insinuating manner had not exactly endeared him, or commended the Beaufortes as prospective clients, whatever Edgar said about cash flow.

  "No, 'Cree' — I like it. Very charming. Unusual." Ronald Beauforte nodded with satisfaction, as if pleased to find something to irritate her with. He was a handsome man with a brush of gray at his temples, dressed in a well-tailored charcoal business suit, top two shirt buttons undone, no tie. Now he sat back in his chair, legs crossed, pants cuffs tugged to reveal just so much of his argyles and no more, the steeple of his tanned fingers making a fine display of several fat gold rings. The Louisiana accent was not so deep: Clearly, he'd spent a good amount of time outside his home state, Cree decided, maybe an Ivy League education. When he'd first come in, Cree had noticed the appraising flick of his eyes over her body, the glimmer of appreciation. She was willing to give that the benefit of the doubt, but already the excess of relaxed confidence had begun to bother her.

  "Now, Cree, please explain just what it is you do. I confess I have never before had dealings with a… what would you call yourself? A ghost buster?"

  "I suppose that's one way of putting it — "

  "So, what, you're going to come to Beauforte House with those, what do they call it, ectoplasm tanks on your back, the space suits and what all? Like the movie?" He smiled a skeptical crescent of white with glints of gold at the back.

  Cree paused, trying to think of a way to take control of this conversation with any grace. And failing. Finally, she opted for the candid approach: "Listen, Mr. Beauforte, you're skeptical. You've made it clear that you've come to me only to honor your sister's request and that you consider her concerns foolish. That's fine, and, truly, I can understand why. But this is what I do for a living, you have my references and therefore know I am well regarded in my field. And you are here. So if you'd like to proceed, we'll need to discuss this on a serious and professional level. Do you think we can back up and try to get off to a better start?"

  It was a risky approach to an arrogant bastard. Edgar would be stinking furious if Beauforte stomped out of here. As he'd reminded her before he left: "Yes, Cree, our priority is research, but we are trying to fund our work through client fees, and right now we could use some revenue!"

  And, yes, the Beauforte family did look like a good candidate for the role of cash cow.

  But what the hell, Cree decided, you can't let people push you around. She took a breath and let her tone stiffen: "We can begin with your calling me Ms. Black."

  Beauforte's face twitched through an instant of indignation, but in the end the gambit seemed to work. One of the benefits of studying psychology: You could apply it to the living as well as the dead. Ronald Beauforte was, after all, the son of a powerful Southern matriarch, on some level still reflexively obedient to female authority and heir to some residual Southern custom of gallantry in dealing with the gentler sex. He straightened in his chair, dipped his gaze briefly, and nodded his acquiescence.

  "Ms. Black, my apologies. I have been told that I speak condescendingly at times, especially when I'm feeling a tad out of my depth. Thank you for reminding me of this failing, and do forgive me. Please proceed."

  A trace of the supercilious smile remained, Cree saw, showing he was humoring her — Ah do so like a little gal with spunk. But she nodded. It would have to do.

  "Thank you. As I told Lila, it's not an easy process to describe. Part of the problem is all the traditional folklore about ghosts, haunted houses, the 'undead,' and so on, which gets in the way because it colors people's perceptions of what they experience. My colleagues and I take a more systematic and scientific approach. We don't claim an objective understanding of human consciousness, or… the spirit, or life after death. But we do apply in-depth historical research, psychological analysis, empathic techniques, and, whenever possible, technological means to verify and identify what most people call 'ghosts.' Our goal is paranormal research, but we usually have access to the… the object of our interest… only when someone calls us in to get rid of it, so — "

  "Something of an irony in that, isn't there?"

  Cree liked him a little better for having noticed. "Definitely. The majority of our clients are people like your sister — troubled by inexplicable and frightening presences and wanting to be shut of them. So, yes, on one level, I suppose we are 'ghost busters.' We prefer to think we alleviate hauntings. Hopefully for the benefit of the haunting entity as well as the living."

  "And 'we' are — ?"

  "Myself and two associates. You met Joyce Wu, my assistant, in the outer office. My partner, Edgar Mayfield, is in Massachusetts conducting a preliminary review of a case. Sometimes we bring in consultants or network with various research institutes. But we're a small firm."

  "'Partner' as in business partner only or — "

  "That's correct."

  "Mm." Beauforte sorted that away. "And just what are 'empathic techniques'?"

  Except for the near foray into Cree's marital status, these were all reasonable questions for a prospective client to ask, and Beauforte's inquiring about the empathic issue spoke well of his intelligence. But his tone irritated Cree. Every word seemed honed to show her he felt above all this, was going through it for form's sake only.

  "Again, it's difficult to explain. One thing we've learned is that hauntings are not experienced by everyone — there needs to be some particular psychological vulnerability, sometimes a special connection to the situation, on the part of the person experiencing the haunting. That's why one person can experience something and another person, in the same room, experience nothing. It's very, very subjective, a matter of each individual's psychological and neurological states. So one of our goals is to share our clients' emotional state, which increases the likelihood we'll experience what they do and allows us to learn more about the nature of the haunting. We want to know what that special link or vulnerability is and why it's troubling. And if there is another entity involved, we try to share its experience, too — to learn what happened to that person, why his or her revenant is compelled to do what it does. We try to learn what it wants."

  " 'Revenant'?"

  "Just another word for 'ghost.' Someone lingering in some form after death."

  It was all getting to be a bit much for Beauforte, and he shook his head, openly incredulous. "So you are, in effect, what… something of a psychotherapist for ghosts?"

  Cree just gave him a bright smile. "Yes. That's a fine way to think of it, yes.

  "I had heard, of course, about this New Age thing in Seattle, but — "

  "I'm originally from back east."

  Beauforte seemed to need a moment to digest what he'd heard. Tapping his fingers together, he looked around the office, then gazed through the windows that took up most of the southwest wall.

  Cree gave him time, tried to see things through his eyes. Outside, the rooftops of Seattle sloped away to a terrific view of water and mountains. Elliott Bay and the Sound were a somber deep blue today, and beyond them the Olympic range was majestic and aloof, but the sky was an exuberant, playful blue scattered with clouds that seemed sculpted with sheer whimsy.

  Beauforte was frown
ing slightly, as if engaged in some internal calculus that gave him difficulty, but perhaps he wasn't really such a smug bastard. His skepticism was understandable; likewise his unfamiliarity with Psi Research Associates' methods. He had every right to vet what he considered a wacky Seattle outfit before handing over money — there were plenty of idiots and con artists in the field. And however dubious, he was going through with it, honoring the request of his sister Lila, who had called Cree last week, sounding very distraught and desperate. Clearly there was more to him than the persona he apparently felt he had to project.

  Cree hoped their offices made an appropriate impression on a potential cash client. They'd had the walls resurfaced and painted last week, which gave the place a crisper look, more professional and credible. When all was said and done, she thought the third-floor, three-room suite represented PPJV well: the reception room and front office, Ed's big lab-cum-tech warehouse at the back of the building, and this, Cree's office, a gracious, high-ceilinged corner room with hardwood floors and mahogany wainscoting. And of course the priceless windows. Sandwiched between First Avenue and Post Alley, the old brick building was not in terrific repair, but it had come through the recent earthquake with little more than cracks in the plaster. The other occupants were low-key — a law office and an architectural firm — and Cree felt it was an appropriately professional, discreet headquarters for a firm like PRA. Even with the rent reduction given by the landlord, Ed's rich uncle, they were paying more than they would for comparable facilities elsewhere: The view was expensive. But for Cree the good light, the big sweep of land and sea, were necessary antidotes to the other side of the profession.

  Whatever he'd been thinking about, Beauforte seemed to have come to some decision. "So how's it work?" he asked. "You just come on down there, take a look, do some kind of… exorcism… or what?"

  "Well, we start with just what we're doing, an initial conversation. If you or your sister think you'd like to proceed to a preliminary review, you pay us a retainer, and then we go to the location. We tour the site, conduct interviews with witnesses, and do some historical research. Once we have an idea what we're dealing with, we design a strategy tailored to your specific situation. This can range from us doing nothing — if, for example, we discover that all you've got is squirrels in your attic — to an intensive process that can take many weeks. For that, we have a standard contract that clearly defines our fees. Really, it's not so different from contracting with, say, an interior decorator."

  This was putting as mundane a face on it as she could manage in good conscience, verging on an outright lie. In fact, an in-depth investigation and remediation often turned into a wrenching experience for both client and researcher.

  Beauforte chuckled sourly. "It's not squirrels in my attic, thank you. It's my sister who's got the squirrels." He tapped the side of his head with one finger. "No disrespect intended, Ms. Black, but as I've made clear, I do not believe in any of this business. Hell, if you live in New Orleans, you know every damn house is 'haunted' — at least according to the tourist brochures. It's a whole local industry. And as far as that murder, there isn't a house in that town hasn't seen something sensational over the last couple hundred years." He looked down at his hands, frowned at some imperfection and picked at it. "I don't mean to sound flippant. Fact is, we — my mother and myself and Jack, that's Lila's husband — we're worried about Lila. She's been very upset since her… episode. Unstable. We persuaded her to see a psychiatrist, but it isn't helping."For the first time since he'd been here, Beauforte sounded as though he might be sincerely concerned.

  "Why don't you tell me more about the situation? Lila was reluctant to go into any detail over the phone. You mentioned a murder — what's that about?"

  Beauforte took a deep breath and recovered from his lapse into candor and compassion. He checked his watch, gave his head a toss that suggested both impatience and resignation. "Our family home was the, ah, site of a rather famous murder. I'm surprised Lila didn't mention it when she spoke with you." He snorted, then went on with histrionic sarcasm: "And I suppose it's the tormented spirit of the victim that roams those dark halls — "

  "Mr. Beauforte."

  One eyebrow came up. "Sorry. But be forewarned, that's probably just about what Lila's gonna tell you."

  "And I'll look forward to hearing her point of view when I interview her. Maybe we ought to just start with the basic information. The house — 1 gather it's been in your family for a long time — ?" Cree readied a legal pad and poised a pen over it.

  Once he got going, Ronald Beauforte managed to tell her a great deal. The house had been built in 1851 in New Orleans's Garden District by Jean Claire Armand Beauforte, a wealthy sugar producer and military officer who later distinguished himself as a general for the Confederacy. During the Civil War, the house was seized by Union troops under the terms of a law that permitted the Army to occupy absent slave-owners'property. When hostilities ceased, it was restored to General Beauforte's family for another generation, but they sold the house in 1897, after which it was owned by a succession of progressively poorer families. Like most historic buildings in New Orleans, its condition mirrored the economic hardships of the region, the long swoon from Reconstruction right on into the Great Depression. So the house endured many years of improper maintenance and neglect and then stood abandoned for another decade until 1948, when it was repurchased by Ronald Beau-forte's father, great-grandson of the famous general. By that time the roofs were practically falling in, the plaster raining from the walls, the sills gone to wet rot; a big live oak had come down in a hurricane and damaged one wing. Beauforte's father spent a small fortune restoring and modernizing the house, slave quarters, and carriage house. According to Ronald, many historic houses in New Orleans shared a similar arc of interrupted ownership, decline, and restoration.

  Ronald and his sister Lila were both born into the big house and lived there until they left for boarding school and college and began their own lives. Their father died in 1972, but their mother stayed on there until her stroke in 1991. The house was empty for about a year, as Charmian Beauforte went through rehabilitation and tried to determine whether she could live in it again; finally, deciding she needed closer medical supervision and more modern conveniences, she opted to move to a retirement complex. They rented out the house for seven years, until the tenants encountered their "unfortunate circumstances." For eighteen months afterward, it had stood empty again until Lila Beauforte Warren, Ronald's sister, decided she wanted to move back in, reestablish the Beauforte name and bloodline on the historic premises.

  Cree jotted notes as Beauforte expounded, impressed by his knowledge of the house and its long history. She realized how little she knew of the places she'd lived — the apartments in Philadelphia, the suburban ranch houses, the student dives, the old farmhouse near Concord where she'd spent those happy years with Mike, even the little house she lived in now. Next to nothing. She wondered with some envy how it would feel to trace your roots so clearly to one locale, a single proud structure. To have your world pivot on such a durable axle. Depends on what kind of place it is, she decided.

  'Course," Beauforte finished, "Lila's plan has one little fly in the ointment — her damn ghost. She doesn't want to move in again if she has to cohabit with tormented spirits and the rest of it." Before Cree could formulate a question, Beauforte raised his hand. "And don't ask me about that. She swears it's haunted, she wants somebody to unhaunt the place. She found out about you guys on the Internet or someplace, and I was coming to Seattle on business and therefore got delegated to check you out. You want the fine print on the supernatural end of it, you're going to have to talk to her. She won't reveal the details, and anyway I'd refuse to dignify her claims by repeating them."

  "But you were going to tell me about the 'unfortunate circumstances'of your tenants."

  Beauforte checked his watch again and looked out the window as if to verify the time by the slant of light across the r
ooftops. "You no doubt heard about it in the news, even up here. The Templeton Chase murder?"

  "That does ring a bell, but — "

  "Well, we'd rented the house to this fella Templeton Chase — Temp popular news anchorman on a big New Orleans TV station. Pretty wife, well-off, seemed like a good tenant after Momma moved out to Lakeside Manor. So one fine day after they've been there seven years, Mrs. Chase comes home to find Temp in the kitchen shot in the head. Caused a big stir."

  "Right, I vaguely remember. So how'd it turn out?"

  "Well, later on, some dirt came out about Temp having some under-the-table connections with big crime elements, I can't remember all the details. So some people said maybe it was a whack j o b. " Beauforte's face darkened and became more guarded. "I don't know how the police are doing now, but for us, surprise, surprise — kill somebody in a house, high-profile grisly murder, your rental value really takes a dive. End result is, Beauforte House is sitting empty again, almost two years now. We cleaned it up good and did some remodeling, but after a year of advertising and no takers, we took it off the market. Can't say as I blame anybody."

  "I thought you didn't believe in ghosts."

  Beauforte cleared his throat. "Has nothing to do with ghosts. You want to sit your kids down to breakfast in that kitchen nook where somebody got his head blown off? Where they had to scrape Temp's brains off the wall?" His expectant look suggested that he'd deliberately tried to upset her with the gory details.

  Cree nodded. For a moment, inside, she felt the familiar empathic dip and swoop toward the chaos and darkness, the tortured psychic space that would surround the murder. She pulled out of the dive, looked quickly to the sunlit landscape to anchor herself. She wondered if Beauforte had seen her mood change.

  When she'd steadied, she decided to return the provocation. "Why not? Haul the corpse away, clean up the gore, even give the walls new coat of paint. Then eat your breakfast. Why not?"