Redcoat

By Louis Tridico

A British diplomat is murdered in the French Quarter, run through with a sword. In his hand is a metal button from a 200-year-old British Redcoat’s uniform. The FBI and Scotland Yard suspect this is no random murder. A panicked city thinks a ghost walks among them. But the authorities aren’t so sure, and they turn to local historian Emma Eaton for help. She reluctantly pulls herself away from a major restoration project at a dilapidated plantation home. Joining her is her eclectic team of researchers: ex-NFL defensive lineman and archaeologist Gibraltar Jones, salty-tongued old nun Sister Gertrude, and dashing Scotland Yard Inspector Tony Spencer. As the body count rises, they begin to connect the murders to the fate of a missing British soldier from the Battle of New Orleans and to a prominent New Orleans family who may have secrets to hide. But as Emma unravels more of the mystery, it puts her closer to an unbelievable truth, and the point of the sword of The Redcoat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Louis Tridico
• Release date: Mar 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9780996061414

Louis Tridico

Louis Tridico grew up in Louisiana’s bayou and plantation country, listening to the swamp stories his father and uncles told. Some were even true. After graduating from LSU, he began his career in advertising, PR and political consulting. He also served a while as media spokesman for the East Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff’s Department. He currently lives in Texas as a Louisiana expatriate with his wife, two kids, two dogs and one box turtle. They make regular pilgrimages back to the swamps.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Outside New Orleans

January 8, 1815

4:30 a.m.

Lieutenant John Landsford was unsure if he would be shot in the back by an enemy or in the front by a friend. What he was sure of was that in the next hour he would be a hero or a corpse. He stopped running for a moment to catch his breath. His lungs stung as they gulped in the frigid night air. It carried the wet, earthy smell of swampland mixed with smoke from campfires. Sleet peppered his face, yet a trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek across his lips.

He was in open ground now, his only cover the low fog that blanketed the vast field. Unseen to his left, somewhere in the distance, was an impassable cypress swamp. To the right, the wide Mississippi River. The only way to get back to his unit was to cross the open terrain between thousands of men hell bent on killing each other.

Behind him were the American lines, stretching nearly a mile along the Rodriguez Canal. Ahead were his comrades-in-arms, the British expeditionary force led by Major General Sir Edward Michael Pakenham. The two armies stood eye-to-eye about five miles east of New Orleans – the city the Americans were prepared to defend, and the prize the British sought so desperately to possess.

Landsford strained his eyes toward the British lines in an effort to find the sentries he knew were looking his way. His unit, the King’s Fourth Regiment, was out there somewhere, along with the 85th Light Infantry and the 93rd Highlanders. What worried him most were the crack riflemen of the 95th regiment, whose sharpshooters were surely keeping a keen eye toward the enemy lines. The Americans at his back were also excellent with a rifle, especially those damned dirty-shirt frontiersmen Jackson had brought in from Kentucky and Tennessee.

Come on, lads. Give me a chance, Landsford whispered as if it were a prayer. He crouched low and his boot sank into the soggy ground with a loud sucking sound. He listened for an approaching patrol, but all he could hear were the icy pellets of sleet striking the farmland around him. There was another sound, too. Faint, yet distinct: the sound of two armies preparing for battle, the clink-clank of metal, the low murmur of thousands of men’s voices, laughing, praying, snoring. Horses snorting. It all blended together to the point where Landsford imagined two mythical beasts breathing heavily in the morning air, two huge dragons of death preparing to lash out at one another.

With him right in the middle.

If only he could send his thoughts directly into the mind of Pakenham, who was surely awake and preparing to order the attack at first light. If only the British commander could know what he knew, that the battle plan was flawed, destined for failure. And only Landsford knew why.

The fog swirled in the night breeze, quietly moving like death itself from the vast river and over the ground where in just a few hours men would fight and die. Landsford thanked the heavens. The fog would favor the attacking British, buying them precious time before the Americans could fire. It would also increase his chances of making it back to his regiment in one piece.

Landsford moved carefully toward faint lights in the distance. Probably lamps in or around officers’ tents, he thought. Fires were kept to a minimum in the British camp, especially after a daring night raid made by Jackson and a large contingent of his troops a few weeks before, just as the first wave of British troops were arriving close to the city. The attack had caught the British completely by surprise, and the engagement had resulted in fierce hand-to-hand combat in the dark. The battle lines had become so mixed and confused, it had been nearly impossible to determine friend from foe. The British and Americans had mutually withdrawn, but casualties had been heavy. Although neither side had attained any tactical advantage from the skirmish, it had unnerved the senior British officers. They were all veterans of the fight against Napoleon’s armies, and were used to a set of rules governing opposing armies. But these Americans fought a dirty kind of battle, more ruthless and cunning. Their commander, Major General Andrew Jackson, was aggressive and unpredictable. His army was made up of American army regulars, local militia, and volunteers from other states, as well as Choctaw Indians. It was those Indians that frightened Landsford, too. On more than one occasion, they had probed the British lines, killing a number of sentries in the process. Back in Europe, it was understood that armies did not attack each other’s sentries, especially at night. Not here. They were indeed in a strange country, where their rules no longer applied.

Landsford knew this better than anyone.

When Pakenham had arrived on Christmas day, it had boosted the morale of the cold, wet British troops. He was young, only 38, and the brother-in-law of the Duke of Wellington. Pakenham had fought well against Napoleon’s armies, and he exuded supreme confidence that he would prevail over the Americans. After all, there had been so many victories during this latest war with the former colonies. It was that confidence that also worried Landsford. Pakenham had a nasty streak of arrogance and impulsiveness in him. A deadly combination in the wrong kind of fight.

Landsford crouched again. Something small and fast ran by him. Whatever it was, it wasn’t he that had frightened it. Rather, it seemed to be in the process of crossing Landsford’s path as if it were running from something else. The hairs on the back of his neck were on end, and he stopped his breathing to listen. Yes. Something was off to his right, something big moving stealthily in the frigid, fog-shrouded night.

The only weapons Landsford carried were a knife sheathed in his belt and his sabre. There had been no time to grab a rifle. He pulled the knife out and found cover behind a small tree, praying he could avoid a confrontation within earshot of enemy lines.

Although his eyes were accustomed to the dark, he still could not see what or who approached him. Whatever it was, it moved slowly and deliberately like some kind of predator. Landsford wasn’t sure what kind of wild animals lived in the Louisiana frontier, or whether any of them were big enough to kill him. Part of him hoped it was an animal. At least it would be neutral in this battle. Landsford heard whispering and his heart sank. A moment later, he could make out the gray forms of three men. As they moved closer, he could see that two of them were Choctaw Indians, probably scouts. Their long, black hair, deerskin cloaks and colorful beads were distinctive and made them easy to spot. With them was a taller, gaunt man whose shabby appearance made the Indians’ dress look as formal as any dandy attending a ball in London.

An American patrol, no doubt, sent out to locate the boundaries of the British lines or capture a sentry if possible. Or perhaps they were sent only to kill and take weapons. Landsford held his breath, although he felt the rapid beating of his heart would surely be heard by the three men.

One hundred yards away, James Wilson of the British 95th held his sentry position and stared intently toward the American lines. With him were two other riflemen, chosen for their keen eyesight and steady nerves. They watched as a fog rolled in from the river and covered the open ground. The haunting vapor captured what pitiful light it could from lamps and small fires on both sides of the lines and reflected it. Wilson at first thought dawn had come early as one by one, shapes began to appear in front of him. He could now see farther into the open field as faint outlines of small trees and palmetto revealed themselves like ghostly apparitions.

One of the men hunched down slightly behind a fallen tree and gripped his rifle.

Easy boys, Wilson whispered, although he himself felt nothing of the sort. If he could see farther, so could the Americans, and he had no doubt some of their patrols were out there somewhere. He had already lost a number of men to those patrols, throats cut in the night quietly and effectively. He turned to look behind him, thinking death stalked him from that direction. But all he could see was more fog and the light of a few oil lamps in the distance.

Sir, there. Do you see them? The young soldier pointed in the distance where an unnatural swirl of fog indicated something was moving.

Indeed, Wilson whispered. Three of them. Stand ready, gentlemen, he ordered. He pulled his rifle up and rested it on the fallen log. His two comrades did the same. Choose your target.

With a volley of sharp cracks the rifles spewed flame and lead. The noise shattered the unnatural silence of the early morning, and some wild animal or bird in the nearby swamp shrieked its disapproval.

Landsford prayed the men would go by him, but they seemed destined to cross his path. They were only a few yards ahead when he heard the rifles. At first he thought that perhaps the battle had begun, but the noise stopped after only a short volley. The two Indians and the American dove for the ground and then scampered away unhurt. Landsford realized he hadn’t taken a breath, and then gulped air like a drowning man, exhaling a frosty cloud of vapor that merged with the surrounding fog.

He looked toward his lines in an attempt to find the location of the sentries but could see nothing. This would be a dangerous time for him, for the sentries had surely seen the Americans and would be on alert. But he could not stay and hide. Duty required him to get back, and it was that duty which overrode his fear.

Landsford stood up and continued his way toward the British lines. It couldn’t be far now. The sleet stopped and a breeze separated the fog momentarily. That’s when he saw the position of the sentries. And they saw him.

Landsford was about to shout out his name, but the word never escaped his throat. A rifle round slammed into him and knocked him off his feet. He lay on his back, the pain hot and searing. He stared up at the swirling fog and tried to speak. The words continued to form in his mind but went no further.

This cannot happen. I am Lieutenant John Landsford of His Majesty’s Fourth Regiment and I have urgent news for General Pakenham. Please, take me to him before it’s too late. You must postpone the attack. There is a better way.

Landsford tried to stay conscious, to somehow move toward his goal, but he could do neither. Once again, he tried to speak, and this time a word did manage to make it out of his mouth. It wasn’t an order, or a warning, or even a prayer. It was a woman’s name.

"Charlotte."

I think you got him, sir, the young soldier said. Shall we go retrieve him?

Wilson peered across the open field and thought a moment. The fog closed back in after its momentary respite and the darkness somehow grew deeper.

No. It could be an ambush in the making, boys, he replied. Go back and report that we made contact with another American scouting party. Tell them at least one is dead. With luck, there’ll be many more in just a few hours.

Wilson sighed heavily, wiped the sweat from his forehead and settled in behind the log.

Damned Americans.

Chapter 2

New Orleans, Present Day

The old man walked slowly along the dark, deserted street of the French Quarter, careful to avoid the occasional buckle in the sidewalk that was hard to see in the gloom. The dampness of the humid spring night added a slick sheen to the walkway.

The Quarter is so European, he thought. So Old World. The street was narrow, and the architecture dated to the 18th and 19th centuries, with balconies above with railings made of intricate wrought iron. If it were not for the cars parked along the shallow curb, he would have indeed felt as if he had been transported back to the 1700s. The side street was still, with the exception of a cat that darted from an alley to his right. It made no sound as it ran to its next meal, or maybe a warm place to spend the night.

The soft, sweet sound of pure jazz still resonated through the Quarter. Its distant, muted tones held the light, happy melody of a saxophone and bass, with a lively high hat for company.

Sir William Landsford, Earl of Cheltenham, most recently posted to the new British Consulate in New Orleans, stopped walking and let his head tilt back slightly. A faint smile formed on his lips as his eyes closed, savoring the music as if it were a fine port. He loved this city with its rich Continental underpinnings mixed with the American South’s old-world gentility. It was at once civil, crude, raucous and refined, but certainly more alive than most American cities, even after the devastation that Mother Nature had thrown at her over the years.

It was after 2 a.m., and the air was cool and liquid, with a southerly breeze that carried a hint of salt from the Gulf. Landsford’s old bones creaked their disapproval, but he ignored the arthritis and made his way back to his car parked in a public lot off of Decatur Street, down by the river. He knew a shortcut that would help avoid the rowdier streets of the Quarter and get him to a warm bed sooner.

Even before his posting here, Sir William had been a regular in town. His reasons were personal. For a number of years he had come to New Orleans in search of the fate of an ancestor, Lieutenant John Landsford, presumed killed in action during the Battle of New Orleans in 1815. William’s ancestry was a tidy lineage dating back to the twelfth century, and with the exception of the young lieutenant, all were present and accounted for. But there had been no record of when or how John Landsford had died or where he was buried. There had been no dispatches, no after-action reports as to the fate of the young man. What lists of the dead the Earl could find held no mention of Landsford, although many of his unit’s comrades were tallied among the dead. There had been an appalling number of officers who had died, from General Pakenham on down, but nowhere could he find Lieutenant John Landsford’s name.

The Earl’s colleagues, as well as his family, thought he was overly obsessed with the mystery. But he believed it was a noble quest, albeit a frustrating one. For years he had pored over documents, studied accounts of the battle and walked the killing fields himself. But still, no John Landsford. He had vowed to the dead man that before he died, he would find out the truth.

But tonight he had taken a break in his search, and decided to indulge his passion for jazz. There was a new little club on Chartres he had heard about, and he had been eager for the experience. The walk wasn’t any good for his 81-year-old bones, but the music more than made up for it. It had been a perfect evening. He would sleep late, shuffle some papers at the office, then lunch Uptown with that professor from Tulane.

He felt rather than saw a presence somewhere behind him. A disturbance in the air. Someone walking maybe a half block to his rear, but at a slightly quicker pace. Not hurrying, but purposeful. He heard a distinct tink tink sound of metal tapping concrete. The Earl turned and caught a glimpse of a man with a cane perhaps 50 feet behind him. He was only a shape, silhouetted by lights in the distance. The Earl’s fight or flee alarm went off in his head, but was replaced with the rational thought that a single old man with a cane walking through the French Quarter posed no threat. It wasn’t like there were a couple of young hooligans stalking him.

The killer was close now, gaining ground on the old man. He had stalked the Earl for three days, observing his movements and habits, careful to stay a discreet distance away. This late-night jaunt to the jazz club had presented him with a perfect opportunity, made even more so by the Earl’s foolish turn down a dark side street. He tapped his weapon on the old sidewalk, purposely making the metallic sound to get the Earl’s attention. The Earl’s head turned his way momentarily and the killer smiled. Murder without a bit of terror was such a waste of time, he thought. Time to move closer.

The Earl instinctively moved to his left, to let the man pass him on the right. Contrary to how an American would do it. He still couldn’t get used to driving on the right side of the road. The tink tink sound got louder as the man approached the Earl, and then he passed him without so much as a hello or pardon me. The man wore some kind of dark trench coat. A little much for a spring night, the Earl thought. He watched the man pull away into the darkness between streetlights. But a moment later the next cone of illumination hit him, and the Earl noticed something strange about the cane. It was very thin and metallic, an odd feature for something meant to support a man’s weight.

The Earl also noticed that the man had slowed his gait, and that he was now gaining on the stranger. Perhaps he was tiring of his walk, and that like the Earl, the cool night air was having an effect on the old man’s ancient joints. Once again, the man passed into darkness just as the Earl stepped into the dull orange glow of a streetlamp. For a moment, he lost sight of the man until he moved into darkness again and his eyes readjusted to the faint light.

That’s when he nearly ran into the mysterious figure, who had turned and now faced the Earl.

The shock of nearly colliding with the man was quickly surpassed by something that stopped the Earl dead in his tracks. It was what the man was wearing. At first, the Earl thought the man was a doorman from one of the hotels, dressed in a fancy red coat with big brass buttons, perhaps on his way home after a long shift.

But it was the sword the man was brandishing that quickly made that thought disappear. And it was the sword that made the coat more recognizable. It wasn’t a hotel doorman’s colorful jacket. It was a uniform. A military uniform from a long time ago. It was an image the Earl had seen in countless paintings at clubs in London, in history books and in movies. Even in his own home.

What…? was the only word the Earl could say before the man took a step and plunged the sword into his chest. The breath caught in his throat as the burning pain fired through him. The man was now close to him, and the Earl gasped. His attacker seemed to have no face, yet the man whispered something, but the Earl could not make it out. What little light there was began to fade from the edges of the Earl’s vision, and his knees buckled. His last thought was a question. The man who had killed him held him in an embrace, almost affectionately, as he lowered the Earl to the sidewalk. Why would someone who cared for him do such a horrible thing? He felt somehow betrayed, but by whom?

The killer eased Landsford onto the sidewalk. The Earl’s eyes were still open, but the only thing he could now see was eternity. He placed his foot on the old man’s chest and pulled the sword out cleanly. It made a liquid swishing sound, as if the act released the dead man’s soul. He wiped the blade on the Earl’s coat, stood erect and glanced around. No one was on the street. The nearest people were two blocks away, a rowdy group of conventioneers staggering to their next stop for the night. They crossed the street perpendicular to the one the killer was on and disappeared.

He took a deep breath and inhaled the cool humid air. He felt calm, in control and powerful. His heart pumped regularly, but not at a high rate. But damned if he still didn’t feel a rush, an exhilaration like none he had ever felt before.

I could get used to this, he thought.

Of course, he would have to.

Chapter 3

Emma Eaton stared at the decrepit old plantation home and fought a sudden urge to turn and run. The thing sat dead in the woods, overgrown with vines and covered with low- hanging tree limbs, as if the magnolia, ash, willow oak and sweet gum had all come together to hide the embarrassment from the world. Despite its condition, the Greek revival architecture still held a power and magnificence, even in death. The lichen-covered columns that surrounded the two-story structure on four sides stood straight and true, even though parts of the exterior walls were missing, and the roof had collapsed. At the right angle, one could see completely through the house, which had now become a very large sanctuary for wildlife. Two mockingbirds fought an aerial duel inside the once spacious parlor, their sharp cries of anger piercing the tomb-like silence.

Emma held her ground on the narrow path that led straight up to the wide front gallery. Her arms were folded across her chest, one hand dangling a half-empty Diet Pepsi. She was dressed in faded jeans and an old Foo Fighters concert T-shirt. A pair of sunglasses sat on top of her head, holding back shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair that caught the dappled sunlight through the thick canopy of trees. She stared intently at the carcass of the old home, her eyes slowly drifting up and across the second-floor gallery.

I can list it for maybe $25, Allie Rousseau said.

Emma turned to her. Fix ‘er upper, huh?

Tear ‘er downer.

Don’t you have someplace to be? Emma said to her friend.

I’m here for moral support. Or to help you escape.

Too late. I signed up for this nightmare already.

"I’m also here for some of that," Allie said. She pointed off to the right of the old home, where two small bulldozers were clearing dead trees and brush. Two shirtless young men were at the controls, deeply focused on the task at hand.

"Yeah, that," Emma said. Our illustrious general contractors.

Why are those assholes driving bulldozers? Shouldn’t they have their people doing that?

I’m certain Mitch and Zip’s bid was low because they’re going to do as much of the work themselves, Emma said. So there you are.

Scary thought. But they are a couple of bookends of hotness.

Mitch Verret and Zip Carmouche had a small construction company that won the bid to restore the plantation home. Emma and Allie knew both of them from college, and Emma had worked with them on some small projects over the last few years. They also ran in some of the same circles socially, but to date, their relationships had been professional. But Allie was right, they were both easy on the eyes. Mitch was tall and lean, with longish sandy-brown hair. He’d played some football at LSU, and he was still in great shape. Zip was about the same height as Mitch, a bit more muscled, with dark hair that was cut shorter than Mitch’s. Yep, the view would be good for a few years around here, she thought. Emma knew they really wanted the Gladewood restoration. It would be good publicity for their company.

Emma turned back to what was left of the house. At any other time, she would have held a morbid interest in what happened to the plantation home. Just another curious tourist who came upon a decaying relic of the past. But that wasn’t the case here. She belonged right where she stood. She was the unfortunate soul who had to oversee the restoration of the thing to its original glory, and at the moment, she felt clueless about how she was going to make that happen, on time and under budget.

Emma let out a couple of sharp, humorless laughs. I give it a week before they figure out I’m a complete idiot.

"You are a complete idiot. And you’re way overestimating yourself again. I’m thinking they’ll know at least by tomorrow," Allie said.

Thanks, bitch, Emma said. Are those your real boobs?

Don’t change the subject. Allie said. She stood in total contrast to Emma’s current state of dress. She had on a gray skirt, white silk blouse and a $1,000 pair of Gianvito Rossi pumps. Her long black hair, big dark eyes and slight Cajun accent served her well in her real estate business. She specialized in upscale homes all over southeast Louisiana, from New Orleans to Baton Rouge. Let’s go get a drink before my next appointment, she said.

I just had breakfast.

Allie looked at her watch. Oh, yeah. Mimosa, then? Bloody Mary?

I’m gonna have to stay sober for the next five years, I think, Emma said. Lock up the Chardonnay.

Yeah, right. After you start this shit, you’ll need a truckload.

Probably.

Allie eyed the ruins. So, after you finish this, are they gonna put it on the market? Seriously, I got people who’ll buy a place like this.

How much?

Heck, I don’t know. Big place like this, historical significance. Maybe ten million?

Seriously?

Easily, Allie said.

And you knock back, what, a 6% fee? Six-hundred grand?

Negotiable on a place like this, Allie said.

Well, that’s a relief. Still enough to get you an ass-lift, or whatever. Besides, I doubt my boss will be in the mood to sell it after dumping a crap load to restore it.

Allie smiled and winked at her. You never know what a fat profit will do to guys like that.

I don’t think he needs the money, Emma said.

They always need the money.

Emma sighed and tried to conjure what the place looked liked in its prime. All her mind could do was pull up an image of an old oil painting the owners had commissioned long ago. As quickly as the image appeared in her mind’s eye, it vanished. All she saw was what it looked like today. The place was huge and dilapidated, an ancient antebellum plantation home whose splendor was as much a thing of the past as the people who had once lived here. The locals had known it for the last 200 years as Gladewood, the name given to it by the man who built the magnificent home in the early 19th century. Looking at it now, it was as if she had discovered some long lost temple in a faraway jungle, built to honor an unknown god.

Emma felt her stomach spasm slightly and she placed her hand over it the way a woman would at the first stirrings of a baby in her womb. But this wasn’t morning sickness. It was simple nausea, brought on by large butterflies flapping away inside her. They were the kind that fed heartily on the acid of stress.

She would go no farther along the path today, but that would change soon. This path led to her future, and quite possibly the beginnings of an illustrious career. Or more probably, total disaster.

Craptastic, she said. She ran her hand through her hair and felt the moisture of sweat on her scalp. She again squinted and tried to imagine the old plantation home completely restored, but the image would not come into focus. All she saw was a rundown relic being reclaimed by Mother Nature. It seemed Emma was destined to do battle with that old broad over the coming years and the prospect scared the hell out of her.

Emma was officially a restoration architect and historian, two skills well suited for the project at hand. Some people called her a forensic historian. Mainly, she gathered evidence and facts to figure out what happened during some event in the past, often using science to help. It wasn’t hard to see what happened here, though. Total neglect.

Despite her credentials, she knew there was just one small problem: she had never handled anything of this magnitude in her brief career. A swell dissertation no one had ever read? Check. Assisted on a couple of minor restorations? Check. In charge of a high profile, multi-million dollar project to bring back a cherished piece of Louisiana history? Not so much.

Yet here she was. When she had heard of the project, she knew she wanted to be involved. In her mind, she would be part of a team led by any of the South’s top restoration people. It would be exciting work, and she would learn a lot. Good for the resume, too. After the three or four years it would take to finish restoring Gladewood, she could move on to supervising her own projects. A nice, logical progression for her career.

Nothing about the Gladewood restoration would be normal, though. The state’s most prestigious organization for such projects, the Louisiana Historical Foundation, had famously passed on purchasing the property when it came up for sale. The group had restored many of the state’s grand old homes over the decades, but this time, they wouldn’t even make an attempt. In their expert opinion, the restoration would be too expensive, especially in this squishy economy. They also felt the home was too far gone. It would have ended there, except for a new foundation that had been started by a billionaire from Baton Rouge. A risk-taker by nature, he bought Gladewood for a song and would make this project his inaugural effort.

He learned quickly, though, that once the powerful Louisiana Historical Foundation had shunned Gladewood, so did all the A-list restoration experts and architectural firms. After that, he couldn’t find a project head, so he talked to some LSU faculty who suggested he take a chance on a rising star named Emma Eaton. She didn’t have much experience leading such a project, they said, but she was tenacious.

So here she was. A week into it and already freaking out. A slight movement at her feet caught her eye. A small box turtle, oblivious to Emma’s and Allie’s presence, ambled across the path on its way to whatever box turtles do in the springtime. Probably looking for Mrs. Box Turtle.

Better find a new place to hang out, buddy, she thought. Your world is about to change. The little terrapin disappeared into the brush as if he knew it was time to relocate the family before the bulldozers headed this way.

Emma shook her head. Let’s go.

Allie took one last look at the plantation home and shook her head, too. Hey, maybe a mani-pedi? I can call and get us in.

Emma kept walking. You’re not helping, she called back, and continued down the path.

And would you put it in Mitch and Zip’s contract that they must remain shirtless at all times?

I’ll get right on it.

The trail led another 50 yards to a clearing where the guest cottage stood. The large, planter-style home had been built in the 1880’s by the grandson of Charles Desormeaux, the man who had built Gladewood. It was set to the left and at a right angle to the big house so as not to block the grand old home. Unlike Gladewood, the guest cottage had been maintained all these years, continuously lived in by various Desormeaux descendants. It was those descendants who had led to Gladewood’s demise. Legal squabbles over ownership of the plantation caused a rift within the extended family, and clear title was never officially established. Highly publicized court battles over the last 40 years caused the place to be vacated, and while the lawyers got rich, the