Fletcher Cain & The Casket Girl's Shadow
Part I: New Orleans, 1737
It was late October 1737 in the bustling city of New Orleans. Only the main streets leading to the Mississippi River port and the St. Louis Cathedral were made of cobblestone; the rest were mud. Marguerite Moreau should not have been alone. More importantly, she should not have sneaked out of the Ursuline Convent in the middle of the night.
She was one of the "Casket Girls," chosen by the Bishop to come to New Orleans and be married off to a local merchant. Though "chosen" wasn't the right word—she had been dragged from her home forcefully, placed in a paddy wagon, and shackled to fifty-seven other young women on a freighter ship. Half died of disease; others were violated by the captain and his crew. Marguerite had been fortunate in her misfortune; falling ill early in the journey meant none of the men wanted anything to do with her. A small blessing for being on death's doorstep.
She had managed to survive long enough to be dragged off the ship and dropped at the convent's doorstep along with the other sick women. Although the Nuns were furious and wrote to the bishop, nothing was done. The nuns did what they could to nurse these women back to health. Out of fifty-seven women, only eight survived.
Although the nuns were kind to them, they were also bound by their duty and unwilling to compromise when it came to teaching the Casket Girls to become "marriage material." They had to instruct them in manners and how to run a household. The nuns were strict with their lessons and often disciplined the girls harshly if they stepped out of line.
There was one nun different from the rest. Sister Mei-Lin was an outcast. The other nuns kept her in the garden, away from everyone else. A former slave from Mongolia who had converted to Christianity, Mei-Lin fascinated Marguerite after she witnessed the woman split logs with a single swing of an axe.
At first, Mei-Lin was curt with Marguerite, but the girl persisted. After time, the nun relented, allowing Marguerite to perform chores around the garden. Once she gained the woman's trust, things changed. Mei-Lin harbored a profound distrust of men and was willing to teach Marguerite how to defend herself—using a knife in combat, how to kick and punch, utilizing objects in the environment as weapons, how to break limbs, and escape an attacker's grasp.
One day during training, Mei-Lin approached Marguerite.
"I know you won't stay here much longer, so I give you these few things," said the woman, presenting Marguerite with a razor-sharp dagger, a smaller blade, a garrote disguised as a necklace, and hairpins with concealed blades.
"Any man try to take you. Use these things to end them."
"They are wonderful. Thank you," said Marguerite, grateful for both the gifts and the knowledge.
Marguerite appreciated the nuns for saving her life, but she was not content with the man chosen to be her husband. Her objections meant nothing in a society where women were considered property. She had fallen for a local blacksmith, who was to meet her this night at the cathedral. Together, they planned to sail off on a merchant ship to the Caribbean to start a new life.
To reach her destination, she would have to pass through the shadier part of town, littered with taverns and brothels. She knew the alleyways well enough to avoid attention. Marguerite wore a cloak that covered her from head to toe, along with a walking stick and a wooden necklace with a cross. She disguised herself as a monk—a clever ruse, as few would bother a monk, particularly since they weren't allowed to speak.
As she made her way through the narrow passageways, she couldn't shake the feeling of being followed. Beneath her cloak, she carried a sickle. Having witnessed enough of men's cruelty, having lost many friends to their evil ways, she refused to become a victim tonight.
Marguerite quickened her pace and abruptly sidestepped into an adjacent alley. She knew it was a dead end, but she also knew of a place to hide, and she wanted to confirm these men were following her. She broke into a run. At the end of the alley was a small square opening with several crates and refuse behind which she could conceal herself. She selected a small stack of crates near the entrance. Footsteps grew heavier just around the corner as the men pursuing her began running to match her speed. They reached the dead end, stopped, and looked around.
"Well, my dear. You didn't fool me with that monk's disguise. I recognized those women's shoes from a mile away, not to mention the scent of perfume. Monks usually stink, as they rarely bathe," said the leader of the three thugs.
How could I be so stupid? Marguerite thought. She had been too excited to meet her lover, too eager to impress him, that she had forgotten to complete her disguise properly. Now she had no choice but to take drastic action and put herself at risk. But she would rather die than give herself to these men.
"Why don't you save us the trouble, my dear? If you come out now, we'll go easy on you. We won't even hurt you... much." The thug laughed maniacally, joined by his two companions.
She had to act immediately while the three stood close together, laughing hysterically and patting one another on the back.
Marguerite unclasped her necklace, wrapping it several times around her hand, and in the other drew out the large dagger. She jumped atop the crates and leaped. As she descended, she swung her necklace, which wrapped around one man's throat. She tugged it tightly, securing her hold. With the same momentum, she slashed her blade across another man's throat, cutting so deeply it nearly severed his head. He collapsed, gurgling and choking on his own blood.
The leader regained his senses quickly and swung at her, but her reflexes were too quick. She dodged, then sidestepped behind the man she was choking with her garrote necklace. She swept her foot under his ankles, causing him to fall into the boss's feet, nearly knocking him down. The leader managed to stay upright and drew his sword, but he was too late. Marguerite sank her dagger between his ribs. His eyes widened with shock as he tried to raise his sword to strike her, but she pulled out her dagger, and the life left his eyes as he fell dead.
The third man still struggled to free himself from the garrote, but Marguerite pulled harder, placing her foot on his chest for leverage. The man struggled and squirmed, but his efforts were futile. She didn't release her hold until she was certain he was dead.
Marguerite examined her hands and cloak. She was covered in blood. She looked around at the men she had just killed, remorse and guilt washing over her. Soon, these men's friends would come looking for them. She had to leave town quickly. And John, her love—she felt a wave of pain. She couldn't drag him into this. They would hunt him down too.
She began to tear up, then collected herself. "No time to cry for feelings," she told herself. "Only time to act." She drew a deep breath and released it. Sister Mei-Lin had once told her of a voodoo priestess living a few miles outside town, someone to seek in times of trouble. Marguerite wiped away a tear and disappeared into the shadows, hiding in alleys and doorways.
Marguerite Moreau was never seen or heard from again.
Part II: New Orleans, Present Day
Fletcher Cain disliked taking missing person cases. By the time they reached him, the subject had usually been missing for more than seventy-two hours, which often meant Fletcher found himself discovering bodies rather than rescuing the living. He made an exception this time because Gwen, his girlfriend, knew the family. The Landrys' youngest daughter, Rebecca, had last been seen walking toward her home, heading south on State Street from Ursuline Academy, an all-girls Catholic high school. She was a senior who had just turned eighteen.
As Fletcher walked down State Street, retracing Rebecca's steps, he noticed several police vehicles parked outside a home, including the coroner's van. "This is not good," he muttered.
He recognized one of the patrolmen putting up crime scene tape.
"Hey, Gregory."
"Fletch?" The officer looked up. "Nice to see you. It's been a while. How's retirement treating you?"
"What did he do that makes you think he deserved it?"
"Extensive rap sheet. Arrested multiple times for assault, suspected of several murders—all his cases thrown out on technicalities. Finally got convicted of rape and aggravated assault. Served only five years before getting paroled. After just a few weeks of being home, he went back to his old habits. He was suspected in several recent rapes, but the DA and detectives couldn't find enough evidence. Finally, a few victims came forward and identified him from photos. Just after they secured a warrant to arrest him and search his house, he turned up dead."
"Is that Jeff Landry's daughter?"
"Yes."
"I know that family. Haven't spoken to them in some time, but I'll stop by their house and see if I can help. Last time I saw her was at her dad's fifty-fifth birthday party about three months ago. Sorry, I know that's not much help."
Fletcher shook his head, clenching his teeth as anger coursed through him.
"I asked that man if there was trouble at home, and he flat out lied to me," he said. "I guess I'll have to go back to his house and see what else he's hiding. Damn, this makes me angry."
"Sounds like the only person today I've seen come to his senses. It's a good idea."
---
Fletcher and Gwen drove up to the Landrys' home in Gwen's Chevy Volt. Fletcher didn't like driving much and was more than happy when Gwen offered to drive. He also needed time to think. The house stood off the corner of State and Ferret Street—a nice, quiet neighborhood less than half a mile from Rebecca's school.
"Ground control calling Fletch." Gwen interrupted his thoughts. "Are you there,
Fletch?"
"I'm sorry, Fletcher," said Jeff. "From now on, we'll tell you everything."
---
It wasn't until the next afternoon that Fletcher visited Trisha. He had the Landrys call ahead to let her family know he was coming. Her house was much smaller than the Landry’s'—an old, typical shotgun house. Shotgun houses were narrow, single-story homes with rooms arranged in a line and doors at each end, built in the 19th century and designed for hot climates like New Orleans, where air could flow straight through from front to back. This one, however, had been renovated and modernized with climate control.
Fletcher knocked, and Trisha's mother answered.
"Hello, ma'am. My name is Fletcher Cain."
"Of course, the Landrys told me you were coming. You can call me Sabrina. You have questions for Trish?"
"Yes. Anything she knows could be helpful."
"She's just finishing some homework. I'll send her to the living room when she's done."
"You wanted to talk to me about Rebecca?" she asked.
Fletcher smiled and extended his hand. "My name is Fletcher Cain, but please call me Fletch. No 'sir' or 'mister' necessary." Trish smiled and shook his hand.
Fletcher and Trish sat in lounge chairs across from each other.
"Trish, I want you to know that what you tell me stays with me. No one else will hear about this conversation."
"Okay."
"The more honest you are, the more information you can give me, the better my chances of finding Rebecca. In fact—"
"I know where she is, and she's safe," Trish interrupted.
Fletcher was shocked by her candor. He jerked his head back slightly, confusion crossing his face.
"Yes, but I think you need to understand why Rebecca left," Trish replied.
"I know her parents were fighting, discussing divorce, and Rebecca and Cindy were arguing frequently as well."
"Stalked?" Fletcher asked.
"Yes, by three men. At first, she just noticed them watching her as she walked home from school one day and didn't think much of it. But these men kept appearing wherever she went—even at a café a few blocks from here where we sometimes have lunch. Then they showed up outside her house in a car, staring at the building. Rebecca noticed while doing homework one afternoon and ran downstairs, opening the front door. She was frustrated and wanted to confront them, but as soon as they saw her, they started the car and sped off."
Fletcher thought to himself: Smart girl. Really smart, and honest too. This kid is going to be somebody important someday.
"You're right," he conceded. "I can't do anything if she doesn't want to go home. But I need to find her and verify that she's safe and willingly staying wherever she is. Then I need to communicate that to her parents so I can get paid. But once I confirm she's okay, I won't give her location to her parents or anyone else. I respect a person's right to privacy."
"She didn't tell anyone about the attack?" Fletcher asked.
"She didn't trust anyone. But there's something else you should know."
"What's that?"
"The woman who approached Rebecca in the alley—Claudia—had recently befriended her. She's older, maybe early forties. She seems okay, but she's not my cup of tea."
"What do you mean?"
"She has some... interesting political views. She's a feminist—don't get me wrong, I am too—but she's extreme about it. The three of us were talking during lunch one day, and Claudia said something that bothered me. She claimed men were only good for sex and servitude, and since their brains are 'muddied by aggression and overproduced testosterone,' it was up to women to take control. She laughed afterward, pretending she was joking, but I couldn't shake the feeling that's how she truly feels about men."
"I'm going to assume this is who Becca is staying with now."
"Good work, Sherlock. A detective who can detect. Imagine that." Trish chuckled. "Sorry, I couldn't resist."
"What about school?"
"Believe it or not, she hasn't missed a day. Claudia drops her off at the academy and picks her up daily in her fancy Cadillac Escalade. I went to Claudia's for dinner the other night. Really nice house—big with a fancy yard, yet secluded behind a security fence with guard dogs. Trust me, this woman has money, and lots of it. She has a Kawai concert grand piano in her living room. Those pianos are extremely rare, custom-made, and cost well over a million dollars each."
Part III: The Moreau Estate
Fletcher took a taxi to the home of Claudia Moreau. It was a few miles away, just inside the French Quarter. The property was hidden behind tall oak trees and a large wrought iron security fence covered in vines. The house was barely visible from the street. Claudia had gone to great lengths to conceal her residence—or her gardener had.
"What do you want?" she asked, not bothering with pleasantries.
"Your parents hired me to find you. They're worried."
"Now they're worried?" Rebecca scoffed. "Where was their concern when I told them I was being followed? When I couldn't sleep because I was afraid those men would break into our house? Tell them I hate them, I'm never going back home, and you can get lost."
"Probably. Why?"
"Because I think one of them was Sam Walters. He was found murdered three days ago—throat cut, just like that gang member Claudia just killed."
Rebecca's eyes widened. "You think she—"
"I know she did. And I think she did it for you." Fletcher glanced toward where Claudia stood speaking with the police captain. "There's more to her than meets the eye, Rebecca. Much more. Be careful."
Fletcher met her gaze steadily. "I understand completely, Ms. Moreau.”
For just an instant, something ancient and dangerous flickered in her eyes—then vanished so quickly he might have imagined it. Her smile never wavered.
"Good day, Mr. Cain."
As Fletcher walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just had a narrow escape from something far more dangerous than gang violence. He would report to the Landrys that their daughter was safe.
Behind him, Rebecca and Claudia watched him go, their identical green eyes reflecting the fading light of the New Orleans afternoon.
Unfortunately Fletcher Cain would soon find out what Ms. Moreau was all about.