Page 10 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception (A Midnight House Mystery #1)
SIX
The New Orleans Public Library's main branch on Loyola Avenue smelled like old books and forgotten stories. It was exactly the kind of place where you could lose yourself in newspaper archives for hours without anyone bothering you, which was exactly what Maggie and I needed.
"Remind me why we're not just googling this," Maggie said, settling into a chair at one of the ancient computer terminals in the reference section. She’d taken off her hoodie to reveal a T-shirt that read "I Survived My Last Murder Investigation.” I'd had it made for her after our first successful podcast episode.
I wasn’t sure if the message now was precipitous or a bad omen.
Considering I was wearing an Elio’s Wine Warehouse branded T-shirt—our go to place for stocking our liquor shelves in college—I wasn’t sure either of us looked like legitimate researchers.
"Because newspaper archives online only go back so far, and because Francine disappeared during Mardi Gras when half the reporters in the city were probably too drunk to spell her name right.
" I pulled out my notebook, which a proper paper one, because sometimes you need to actually write things down by hand.
“Can you imagine trying to find your friends at Mardi Gras back then without cell phones? You could have gone three days without finding them.”
“That’s probably why no one took Francine Darrow’s disappearance all that seriously.”
The librarian, a woman in her sixties with silver hair and cat-eye glasses, looked up from her desk. "Y'all researching the Darrow girl? Dang, that’s a name I haven’t heard in ages."
Maggie and I exchanged glances. "You remember her?" I asked.
"Honey, I went to Tulane with her. Can’t say I knew her real well, but it scared all of us girls.
Worst nightmare to imagine going missing during Mardi Gras.
I worked part-time here when I was getting my own degree and she came in here a few times looking for old city records and family histories.
" She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Police never did find her, but between you and me, they didn't look very hard either. "
"Why not?" Maggie asked, pulling out her phone to record.
The librarian glanced around, then lowered her voice.
"Because she was asking the wrong questions about the right people, if you know what I mean.
Girl was trying to trace property ownership in the Quarter, specifically looking into which buildings had been bought and sold during urban renewal projects. "
My stomach did a little flip. Could this be more deliberate than a girl suddenly getting dragged down an alley during a raucous parade? Was it intentional instead of a crime of opportunity? "What kind of urban renewal projects?"
"The kind that displaced a lot of poor folks and made certain developers very rich. Francine was particularly interested in a company called Pelican Development Group." She paused. "Course, that's all ancient history now. Why are y’all looking into this case?"
“We have a podcast.”
She snapped her fingers after reading Maggie’s shirt. “You’re Murder Maggie! I recognize your voice. Love your show, girls.”
“Thanks.”
“Let me know if you need any help.”
“We appreciate it.”
After the librarian wandered off to help someone find the bathroom, Maggie and I dove into the microfiche files with the enthusiasm we usually reserved for wine during movie marathons.
The first mention of Francine's disappearance was buried on page seven of the Times-Picayune , February 25th, 1984: "Local Student Missing After Mardi Gras Celebration. "
The article was frustratingly brief. Francine Darrow, 23, a graduate student at Tulane University, had last been seen leaving a private party in the French Quarter on February 22nd. Friends described her as responsible and careful and not the type to wander off or go home with strangers.
"Look at this," Maggie said, pointing to a paragraph near the end. "It says she was staying at 'a local bed-and-breakfast' but doesn't name Maison de Minuit specifically."
"That's weird, right? Why be so vague? Unless they just didn’t bother to ask."
We kept digging. Over the next few weeks, there were two more mentions of Francine's case, each one shorter than the last. By March, the story had disappeared entirely from the papers.
"It's like everyone just... stopped caring," I said.
"Or someone made them stop caring," Maggie replied darkly. “But then again, those were the days when every child's disappearance was blown off as just a runaway. Imagine the response to a woman in her twenties.”
The really interesting stuff came when we started looking up Pelican Development Group.
The company had been incredibly active in the early 1980s, buying up properties in the Quarter and the Marigny at below-market prices, often from families who'd owned them for generations.
According to the business pages, Pelican specialized in "heritage tourism development,” so basically, they bought historic properties, renovated them into luxury accommodations, and charged tourists premium prices to sleep where pirates and voodoo queens allegedly once lived.
"Here's something," Maggie said, pulling up a society page from March 1984.
"Pelican Development Group hosted a charity gala at the St. Louis Hotel to 'celebrate the preservation of New Orleans' unique cultural heritage.
' Check out the guest list. I can’t believe they used to report on stuff like that. "
I scanned the names. Most I didn't recognize, but a few jumped out: several city council members, the mayor, a handful of prominent local businessmen, and Claude Broussard, listed as "NOPD liaison for neighborhood development initiatives."
"Hollis's father," I said.
"Yeah. And look at this." Maggie pointed to another name on the list. "Beau Williams Sr."
"Beau's father too."
We stared at each other across the computer terminal.
“Why are Hollis’s uncle and his father both named Claude?” I asked, apropos of nothing. “Are they really brothers both named Claude?”
It seemed like that would be very confusing.
Maggie let out a cackle. “I have no idea. Is Father Claude Hollis’s great-uncle?”
“Maybe. I’ve always wanted to ask Hollis but it seems rude. Besides, Southern families are proud of their quirkiness.”
"Okay, so back to the important thing. The guest list," Maggie said slowly. "So we've got the fathers of two of our current players attending a party thrown by the same development company that Francine was investigating. A month after she disappeared."
"Could be a coincidence.”
"Could be. Politicians and the police were always in bed with each other. Figuratively. Or possibly literally."
That made me snort. “Was Francine really investigating though or just curious? I doubt big wigs would care about what a young woman was doing."
“It’s just noteworthy. Let’s leave it at that.”
We printed out everything we could find and headed to our next stop.
The House of Voodoo on Bourbon Street.
Not because I particularly believed in voodoo—though growing up in New Orleans had certainly opened my mind to possibilities—but because the owner, Celeste, had been one of Aunt Odette's closest friends.
The shop was exactly what tourists expected: dim lighting, mysterious herbs hanging from the ceiling, shelves lined with candles, crystals, and items that might have been ancient artifacts or more likely reproductions from a novelty warehouse in China.
The air was thick with the scent of patchouli and something else I couldn't identify but that made my sinuses tingle.
“I can’t stand patchouli,” I murmured to Maggie. “It makes me gag.”
She shot me an amused look. “Some spiritual medium you are.”
“Because I don’t have the gift, in spite of what my aunt said.”
Celeste emerged from behind a curtain of beads at the back of the shop. She was a woman in her seventies with dark skin and sharp eyes. As long as I’d known Celeste, she’d used a wooden walking stick with a snake on its head. As a child, it had scared me to death.
Honestly, it still did.
But Celeste was always warm and welcoming and her dresses always sat on her like a blanket, which had been comforting when I was younger.
"Harper, love," she said, pulling me into a hug that smelled like sandalwood. "I’ve been wondering when you'd come see me. Your auntie's death still sits heavy on this city."
Turned out, her hugs and blanket dresses were still comforting. I felt tears prick in the back of my eyes. Grief has a funny way of sneaking up on you. I didn’t realize how much I had been missing Aunt Odette until right then.
“How are you?” I asked her as I pulled back and swiped at my eyes.
“I’m getting along. You listen to the spirits and the body and the heart and you do okay.”
I noticed there was no mention of the brain. Logic wasn’t highly respected in these particular circles.
"You remember Maggie, right?”
“Yes, yes.” Celeste gave Maggie an arm squeeze. “You look well.”
“Thank you, it’s good to see you again.” Maggie smiled at her in return.
“Celeste, I need to ask you about something. Did you know Delia DuMont?"
Her expression darkened. "That woman had no business coming back here. I told Odette forty years ago that girl was trouble, and I was right."
"What kind of trouble?"
Celeste gestured for us to follow her to a small table in the back corner of the shop. She pulled out a well-worn deck of tarot cards and began shuffling them with the practiced ease of someone who'd been reading fortunes since long before I was born.
"Mary Vallon was her real name and she had the gift, but she was reckless with it.
Kept pushing into spaces she shouldn't, trying to talk to spirits that didn't want to be bothered.
" Celeste laid three cards face down on the table.
"Your aunt tried to guide her, teach her proper respect for the boundaries between worlds.
But that girl was all ambition and no wisdom. "