Chapter 23: Grave Secrets

The memorial for Jeremiah Tobias Whitaker III occurred in a small, worn Baptist church in a quaint village in the heart of Jefferson Parish. What struck Peter wasn’t the packed chapel or realizing he and Kathy were the palest there. It was the lack of sorrow. He felt guilty mourning his friend while others sang happily. His sadness was mixed with anger at being abandoned by another father figure. When he felt this, he buried it, ashamed of his unjust feelings toward someone who had only been good to him.

He wasn’t the only one who missed the clever black character. He glanced at the mysterious young woman opposite Kathy. He’d met Magdelaine Desormeaux when he arrived in New Orleans and was taken to a jet where she awaited him. She struck him as a soft-spoken, handsome woman of mixed race. Her African American roots contrasted with Eastern European or Mediterranean traits, giving her an exotic look. Her skin was lighter than those related to the late financier but darker than Kathy’s mahogany tone. Her youthful face showed profound wisdom and quiet strength beyond her years. He felt a connection, briefly, as if his older self recognized a kindred spirit. She greeted him with equal familiarity, clasping his hands and kissing his cheek. Her accent was French Creole, similar to Jeremiah’s, but more elegant.

“Why the long faces, children?”

He blinked and saw a vibrant, large black woman facing him. Her skin was dark as molasses, and her eyes gleamed like obsidian in her round face. He recalled the brief introduction outside the church when she greeted them.

“Ms. Willoughby,” he replied, dipping his head.

“Please, Cher. Call me Bianca,” she smiled, revealing bright white teeth. “Or Bea.”

“Thank you, ma’am. We appreciate your hospitality and candor during this time of—”

“This is a celebration of life, Cher,” she replied emphatically, touching the arms of the women beside him and drawing them into an almost physical group hug. “Do not mourn the passing of that dear man ... rejoice in what he left behind.”

Yeah, like me.

Despite his unspoken thoughts, he saw something flash in her eyes as she blinked at him. It wasn’t kind. He felt a chill as if she had just reprimanded his self-pity with a flying bitch-slap. Kathy glanced up at him, sensing the change through the hand she held throughout the service.

“Tears may cleanse or poison the soul,” the woman stated coolly. “Tears of joy shared in life’s celebration can be as precious as diamonds in the heart.” She looked at them with a penetrating gaze. “But to weep tears of bitterness for one’s pitiful sense of loss—that, Cher, is self-serving and an ugly slight towards the memory of a man who lived to care for those he loved.”

Peter swallowed uncomfortably and accepted her rebuke. He took a deep breath and straightened his back. The women beside him subconsciously followed suit.

“That’s better,” Bianca said, flashing her bright teeth. “Now come, children.” She spun them around and pushed them toward the entrance. “Y’all ain’t experienced a true Cajun life celebration until you’ve filled your body and spirit with our fine fare and song!”

For the next few hours, they were indoctrinated into a world not shared with ‘outsiders’ in modern society. In a clearing surrounded by bald cypress, fragrant magnolia, and stately red maples, they enjoyed southern creole delicacies, lively music from three fiddles, and a banjo. Peter experienced jambalaya, crawfish etouffee, gumbo, and dozens of sides. He fell in love with bread pudding and amused everyone with his antics when he sampled an innocent-looking and colorful dish called Maque Choux. His face turned red from the spiciness of the andouille sausage and colorful peppers, and he dug at his collar, gasping for air.

Maggy and Kathy looked on with concern, rubbing his back and fetching him drinks while several elderly attendees laughed at his panicked expression.

“Whooee! Baby Jane!” one fellow called out as he slapped his knee, showing a wide, toothless grin. “You ‘bout kilt’ dat white boy wit ya mock-shoe.”

Once he could breathe again, he smiled tearfully at the delighted group and refrained from judging more dishes by their innocent looks.

“Thanks for coming,” the portly white man said, welcoming Peter, Maggy, and Kathy to his spacious office. He introduced himself as Stan Eldridge, an attorney, and executor of Jeremiah’s estate. The office was high up in the stately American Tower in downtown Shreveport. He led them to comfortable seats by a large window with a city view and served coffee and tea. Peter found it odd to get such personal attention from a wealthy lawyer, but he kept his peace as they engaged in small talk, which eventually circled back to the meeting’s purpose. Stan grew solemn, standing by the window with a thick crystal glass of liquor.

When he spoke again, it was as if a façade had been stripped away, and he had assumed the personality of a less distinguished southern gentleman. “If y’all look yonder, cross the river, you can see Bossier High School,” he drawled, causing Kathy and Peter to glance at each other. “S’where me an JW call our roots.”

“I didn’t know you and Jeremiah were childhood friends,” Maggy said softly from her seat, speaking to the man’s back. “He never mentioned you.”

The man snorted and turned back, “Course not. We hated each other!”

“So why did he choose you as the executor of his estate?” Kathy asked. Jeremiah’s will was read two days ago, on December 27, after his memorial service and Celebration of Life. The following day, he was laid to rest in an ancient, above-ground crypt. It was a small ceremony with only Peter, Maggy, and the minister. Once the iron doors were closed, they were welded shut for eternity.

Stan had presided over his will reading with friends, clergy, and acquaintances, and Kathy whispered into Peter’s ear in the back of the room, “Dude looks like Ned Beatty in ‘Deliverance.’” Peter got the title for Jeremiah’s black Cadillac El Dorado and a heavy gold ring with an obsidian stone carved with a curious symbol. Maggy was given his Renton townhouse.

The attorney snorted again and tossed back his drink in a single swallow. “S’not like he had a choice.” He grimaced and shuddered from the strong alcohol. “But them’s bygones,” he continued as he poured another. “We got along well enough in the end. Not that it mattered.”

“Why are we here, Mr. Eldridge?” Maggy asked abruptly, setting her teacup on the thin coaster beside her. “Jeremiah’s Estate was cleared the day before yesterday.”

Stan turned and regarded her with a humorous glint in his eye. “Direct and subtle as a sore tooth,” he chuckled, “Just like he described you, Ms. Desormeaux.”

She bristled at his candor.

“Ah, if I had his gift for choosing trustworthy assets, I wouldn’t be surrounded by enemies!”

“I ... beg your pardon?” she blanched, trembling with anger at his words. Peter settled her with a touch of his hand. His gesture was not lost on the shrewd man standing apart, who nodded subtly.

“Mr. Eldridge,” he stated in a tone beyond his seventeen years. “I assume you brought us here for a reason other than to annoy my colleague and insult our departed friend.” He rose to his feet, putting the man on notice that his next words would decide their continued presence.

The portly attorney stared back at him smugly before tossing back his second serving. Again, he shuddered and set the glass on a nearby table. “Very well, then. I will ask the two of you to accompany me into my private office to conclude Mr. Whitaker’s final business.”

“I’m not following,” Peter replied irritably. “I thought his estate was settled.”

“His estate ... yes,” the man replied as he turned toward a raised panel door between two heavy bookcases. “His other concerns remain to be discussed and disseminated as well as a few ... other issues.” He turned and glanced at Kathy. “My apologies, Ms. Parsons, but I must ask you to remain out here for now.”

Peter and Maggy began talking over each other, demanding clarification, while Kathy returned to her seat on the over-upholstered chaise lounge.

“Sorry buddy, Kathy is a big part of my life, even if we aren’t married—”

“Even if you were married, she wouldn’t be in this meeting,” the man retorted. “What you choose to share with her afterward is of no concern to me.”

“Then we’re done here,” the boy snapped and turned to leave.

“What do you mean ‘other concerns?’” Maggy demanded.

Stan Eldridge regarded them with a knowing (albeit arrogant) expression. “Surely you didn’t think he would drag you into that viper’s nest of greed and malignant curiosity just to bequeath you his home,” he nodded to her. “And you a Cadillac and a ring?” he peered at Peter. “You brought it, right?”

Peter recalled the fancy breakfast service in the lounge of the ritzy hotel they stayed at last night. Maggy appeared, looking flustered, and informed him of the meeting. While enjoying his coffee, he noticed a small, folded note on the saucer, the one-line message: ‘Bring the ring’. Instead of a signature, a tiny rough sketch loosely resembled the symbol carved into obsidian. Peter thought it resembled a pizza with a large wedge cut from the bottom, offset from the remaining circle.

He studied the man across the room and felt Kathy’s hand touch his. He glanced down and found her gazing at him calmly. “It’s okay, babe,” she stated softly. “I’m fine waiting here.”

He relaxed his clenched jaw and nodded for Maggy to follow the man into his secret office, which was little more than a lavishly appointed closet. There was an ornate desk with two plush chairs, a sizeable glass-covered display case, and a solid-looking safe. Eldridge let them enter before him and shut the door. Peter sensed a faint rushing sound when he flicked a wall switch nearby.

“What’s that buzzing?” Maggy asked as he stepped behind the desk and gestured to the two seats.

“A sophisticated electronic countermeasure to foil surveillance,” he replied. “No need to check someone for wires or cameras once they enter this room because they become useless. Please have a seat.”

The small desk was clear except for a recessed cross-cut shredder protruding from the wall side of the top. Peter allowed her to take her the inner chair before taking his own. The attorney across from him held out his hand expectantly. Rather than being coy, the younger man reached into his coat pocket and produced the old ring, placing it in his outstretched palm.