Chapter 27
By Thanksgiving, my dream of endless days of blissfully doing nothing productive had changed, and Sarah and I had become stir-crazy and eager to escape the small space of the apartment.
Even Mardi seemed despondent, his plumed tail, usually held proudly aloft along his back, now hanging low and limp.
The weather had been chilly and damp, which meant we couldn’t entice him to spend more time outside than was necessary for him to do his business before he pulled at his leash to return inside.
After a nap following our feast of Jolene’s turkey casserole and homemade buttermilk biscuits and almost an entire pecan pie (pronounced puh-CAHN by Jolene, who was the authority on such things), we opened our eyes to sunshine in an almost perfectly blue midday sky, temperatures hovering in the low sixties.
Mardi began pawing at the door, and I watched with envy as Sarah stood and shrugged on her sweater.
“I’m coming, too.” I pushed myself up to a sitting position. “If you’ll bring my scooter down the stairs, I can go down on my rear end, step by step.”
At her look of doubt, I said, “It’s just my ankle, Sarah. The doctor didn’t say anything about not getting fresh air. I just need to keep my weight off of it.”
“That’s not—”
“I know. I’m supposed to be keeping it elevated. It will be—sort of—on the scooter. And we won’t be gone long—promise. I’ll put my leg up as soon as we get back. We can just go around Tulane’s campus, since there are smooth paths everywhere and you won’t have to lift me out of any potholes.”
“That’s not what I was worried about.” Her eyes traveled to my head. “Your hair…”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll wear a hat. And I think you’ve been hanging around Jolene too much.”
After Sarah had helped me bundle up in a thick sweater, jacket, hat, and gloves, I positioned myself at the top of the stairs and began the process of descending, Mardi considerately matching my slow progress.
I’d made it to the landing when my phone rang.
I was so grateful for the reprieve that I didn’t check to see who was calling before I answered it.
“Is this Nola?” came Uncle Bernie’s familiar voice. “Did I interrupt you in the middle of a run?”
“No,” I panted. “I mean, yes, this is Nola. But no, I’m at my apartment.”
“Good. I was hoping I could stop by. I’ve got some interesting information about the house on Esplanade that I wanted to share.
I could probably tell you over the phone, but I’m going through a bout of cabin fever and would welcome an outing.
I didn’t want to bother Beau so soon after the funeral, but I didn’t want to wait, so I thought I’d try you. ”
I remembered that Jaxson’s parents were on a Caribbean cruise for the holiday, and that must have left Bernie and his wife to their own devices. Since they didn’t have children of their own, Thanksgiving must have been lonely.
“Believe me, I get it. My sister and I have been cooped up here, and we were just getting ready to go for a walk through campus while the sun is shining. If you give me about an hour, I can meet you here at my apartment. Your wife is welcome to join us.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you. But how about meeting on that bench behind Gibson Hall where we met last time with Jaxson? Since campus is deserted, I can have my friend Frank park in the circle in front, and then I can walk around the building. The wife says I need to get more exercise anyway.”
We made plans to meet in thirty minutes, and Bernie was already waiting when Sarah and I made it across campus to the bench in the small memorial garden. A giant live oak shaded the area, but Bernie sat on the end of the bench bathed in a swatch of warm sunlight.
“Hello, Bernie,” I called out. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
He grabbed his cane to stand. I hopped off my scooter and situated myself next to him on the bench so he wouldn’t feel obliged to get to his feet. I gave him a peck on the cheek because he looked lonely, sitting by himself, with only trees for company. I looked around. “Where’s your wife?”
“She wanted to stay home and tidy up. I can be a bit of a slob, I guess.”
“I can see why you and Nola are friends,” Sarah said as she placed the scooter on the smooth paver in front of me and propped my ankle on top of it.
“Ignore her,” I said.
“Good to see you, Sarah,” Bernie said with a smile. “And here we are again, working together to solve a mystery. Just like in a Nancy Drew book.”
“Or Hardy Boys,” Sarah amended. “Since you’re a guy.”
He chuckled. “Maybe we should write our own series.”
Sarah nodded, but I noticed that her gaze kept drifting over his shoulder. Even Mardi’s attention seemed focused on something behind Bernie. I turned to look but saw nothing except empty air.
“What happened to your leg?” he asked.
“Oh, just a minor accident. I’ll be fine in no time. The doctor just wants me to stay off of the ankle for a bit, until it’s better.”
I could feel Sarah’s eyes boring into the side of my face but I ignored her. “So, what do you have?” I indicated the manila folder in Bernie’s lap.
He handed it to me. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to decipher any of this, but I thought you might like to have it anyway.
If your dad ever decides to write a book about the murders at the house on Esplanade, he’ll be wanting this.
It’s the DNA tests they did on the stains your construction guys found under the rug in the upstairs room. ”
“Thank you.” I flipped through the pages of what looked like hieroglyphics and technical jargon before closing the folder. I’d give it to Beau to see if any of it would make sense to him. “I didn’t realize you were a fan of my dad’s books.”
“Jaxson got me started—he’s a true fan. I’m pretty new to the club, but I have to say that a lot of the old cases you’ve been working on would be perfect subjects for his future books. I think having an old and crusty retired police detective as a character could add a lot of flavor, too.”
I grinned. “I’ll let him know. Would you mind summarizing what you learned about the bloodstains? I’m afraid my line of work doesn’t include crime-scene analysis, and I doubt watching a lot of true crime counts.”
He grinned. “Bottom line, the stains are human blood. Unfortunately, the sample is too old and degraded to extract any viable DNA. A cleaning agent such as bleach might have been used at some point, which would make DNA collection nearly impossible.”
I leaned against the back of the bench. I had hoped, for Sarah’s sake—and my own—that we’d get the answers needed to set free the spirits of the little boy and the woman who’d been protecting him.
I especially wanted to send the dark spirit back to where it came from.
Of course, the bloodstains might not be related to any of the spirits, but, as my dad had drilled into me over and over, there was no such thing as coincidence.
“That’s disappointing. I’d really hoped this would lead us somewhere.”
“Now, hang on. I’m not done yet. I said the bloodstains weren’t able to give us any information. However, it’s usual in cases of violent death—as this appears to be, with such a large blood spill—for there to be other sources of DNA.”
“Like saliva,” Sarah said. “And hair.”
“Bingo. Good job, young lady.”
Sarah smiled proudly. “Thank you. Nola and I have been bingeing Cold Case Files on Netflix.”
“Your hard work is showing.” He winked at her.
“They were able to retrieve hair samples from the cracks in the wooden floor beneath the stain. The strands were contaminated with blood, so it appears that the hair could have come from the victim. We can also use the process of elimination to identify the source by getting hair samples from people who were known to be in the house. So, Sarah, what part of the hair might contain DNA?”
“The roots,” we said in unison.
“He wasn’t asking you,” Sarah said.
“Yeah, sorry. I got carried away.”
“You are both right,” Bernie said magnanimously. “But the hair samples we retrieved didn’t have roots attached. In the absence of DNA, what else might hair found at a crime scene tell us about the victim?”
Sarah thought for a moment. “Well, the color and length could be used for victim identification. And if it’s curly or straight.”
Uncle Bernie nodded. “Correct. Go on.”
“It could tell us the person’s race. Or if the person colored their hair,” I said.
“All correct.” He looked at us expectantly. “What else?”
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “They could tell if it wasn’t human, right? Like, if it came from a doll. Or a dog.”
“Or…”
There was a long silence. “A wig!” Sarah and I shouted at the same time.
“Another bingo for both of you. It appears the hair is synthetic, like that found on dolls and in some wigs. One with short, brown hairs, to be more specific.”
“So the victim or someone else associated with the crime scene wore a wig,” I said.
“Possibly,” Bernie replied. “The good news is that this new clue might lead to reopening the case.”
“But how long will that take?” I asked.
He shrugged his large shoulders, the buttons of his corduroy jacket straining from the pressure. “You know how it is. Current cases keep the NOPD pretty busy, so it won’t be a priority.”
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t get a head start on the investigation, right?” I asked. “I could talk to the previous owners and ask them if they know anyone who wore a wig.”
“Nobody’s stopping you.” He looked at his watch.
“I have to go now—I told Frank I’d meet him in ten minutes, and it’s going to take me that long to walk around to the front of the building.
” Using his cane, he pulled himself up with a little assistance from Sarah.
“Ladies, it has been a pleasure, as always. I’ll let you know if I find out anything else, and I’ll ask you to do the same. ”
“Of course,” I said. “Would you like me to share what you just told us with Beau, or do you want to tell him yourself?”