Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [6]
2
We followed the Levert sisters down the streets of Natchez, a small but bustling town that had once played a vital role in the history of the Old South. During the War Between the States, the two river towns of Vicksburg and Natchez offered control of the Mississippi River, a waterway vital to the survival of the Confederacy. Thousands of lives, both Union and Confederate, were lost in battles to take the mighty Mississippi.
Prior to the war, more millionaires lived in Natchez than any other Southern town, save New Orleans.
We left the business district and drove through a residential area, where the homes of the affluent graced huge lots. Victorian houses with gingerbread trim were tucked back on gracious lawns landscaped with huge camellias and azaleas. Time had not forgotten Natchez, but it had kissed it gently. The grace and charm of a lost era hung just out of reach.
The road curved and wound up a high bluff. At the crest was Briarcliff, a dark and brooding stone triple-decker with a widow’s walk. Barthelme Levert had made his fortune on the water, so it stood to reason his home would have the architectural trappings of a seaman’s abode, yet something about Briarcliff made me think of the moors and a tragic lord.
The cliff was a sheer drop down to Natchez and the Mississippi River. Even on a hot summer day, a breeze off the river was brisk enough to cool my sweaty face as I climbed out of Tinkie’s Caddy.
“Briarcliff is something else,” Tinkie said. “I wonder if the ghost-hunting teams for those televisions shows have been told about it. A village of lost spirits could be here.”
I agreed. A haint might comfortably take up residence. For Jitty, it would be a move to upscale digs. The thought made me smile.
The sisters pulled under a portico on the side of the house. I pictured Monica as the hunter of the pride. Eleanor … I wasn’t sure about her. My aunt Loulane, who raised me after my parents’ untimely deaths in an auto accident, might say “still waters run deep.” How deep was Eleanor?
“Come in,” she said. “I realize we never had tea. Let me put on a kettle.”
We entered the house via a mudroom that fed into a spacious kitchen. Natural-wood cabinets gleamed from oil and care. It reminded me how I’d neglected the maintenance at Dahlia House. How had Jitty failed to nag me about it?
“Oolong?” Eleanor asked as she turned on the gas stove.
“Perfect,” Tinkie said, using her spike heel to bring me back to the present.
“Perfect,” I agreed, trying not to wince from Tinkie’s assault on my foot. “Where’s the window the burglar used?”
“I’ll show you while Eleanor makes tea.” Monica led the way through a well-appointed dining room and a hallway filled with portraits of women, all beautiful, young, and smiling. “Barthelme’s wives,” Monica said, waving a hand dismissively. “All too delicate or too dumb, depending on which story you want to believe.”
“They all died before they had children,” Tinkie said carefully.
“Folks thought Barthelme was cursed,” Monica said. “Some said he was sterile and blamed his wives.”
“And that he murdered them?” I said. That had been broadly hinted on Internet Web sites.
“Then he met Terrant Cassio, the daughter of a Boston banker. She was his sixth and last wife. Terrant bore twin daughters within the first year of their marriage.” Monica’s smile was smug. “Twins run in the family.”
“But the Levert name? How do you have it if the only heirs were girls?”
“In each generation, the heir of Briarcliff takes the Levert name. It’s tradition.”
“What happened to Terrant’s children?” Tinkie asked.
“Barthelme died not long after the babies were born. He fell from the cliff, delirious with a fever.” Monica pushed open the door to a parlor. She stopped in her tracks. Gauzy drapes covering the windows danced and capered on the breeze as if possessed.
Goose bumps marched along my arms, and Tinkie’s eyes were huge.
Monica froze for only a few seconds. She rushed forward and slammed the windows shut. “This has to end. I closed that damn window