Page 48 of One Last Regret

She nods. “Sorry. I meant to give it to you in person, but I was worried what you would think of me.”

Better than I would learning that you invaded my privacy.

That thought is followed immediately by guilt. After all, I’ve made a career out of invading the privacy of my employers, and it’s my snooping through the Lacroixs’ attic that causes this mess with the music to begin with.

When I don’t reply right away, she says, “Well, it’s true. Every word of it.”

“The journal?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s true. He…”

She takes a deep breath and smooths her dress. “Marcel was a passionate man. Fiery. Intense. That’s why I fell in love with him, although I suppose in awe of him would be more accurate. When he was in the middle of a mania, he had an energy about him that was just indescribable. I was swept up.”

She flips her hand, “Anyway, we married, and the passion continued into our marriage of course. I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. I don’t really care for music. I suppose I’m insane for admitting that.” She laughs nervously. “The wife of the greatest jazz pianist of the past fifty years, and I’m admitting that I don’t care for music.”

I don’t know how to respond to her. She seems to be loosely following a thread, and I fear if I speak, I’ll snap it. So, I say nothing, and eventually, she continues.

“Eventually, I stopped caring for him too. I…” She sighs. “That’s not true. I never stopped caring for him. I just resented his passion. I grew older, and we had Etienne and Sylvie, and I was ready to be a family and leave the business to others. You wouldn’t believe how cutthroat it is, Mary. How vicious. It makes no sense to me. It’sjazz, for Heaven's sake. How many people even listen to jazz anymore? Who are we showing off for?"

She shakes her head and looks at the piano. I resist the urge to follow her gaze.

“But Marcel…” She lifts her hands and lets them fall onto her lap. “He didn’t care about the business either. He didn’tcare aboutuseither. He cared about the music. He cared about doing something momentous. Transformative. It wasn’t enough for him to be the best. He had to change the fabric of reality. I know you read that, Mary, but can you imagine my reaction when he said those words to me? When he actually told me that he wanted to change the world by writing ajazzcomposition? It’s… ludicrous, it’s insane!”

I speak for the first time. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“But hedidit!” she hisses, staring at me with wild eyes. “That’s what’s really crazy! Hedidit! He said that he was going to open a door between this life and the afterlife, and hedid! I still remember the first time he played that song. I swear I saw her. I saw her, Mary.”

My blood freezes. “Saw who?”

“Her. The Angel of Death.”

I sigh and lean back on the couch. Josephine mistakes my reaction and insists, “I swear it! And then each time he played, something bad would happen! A speaker would explode, there would be a fire in the club, his car wouldn’t start… And eventually, people would die.”

She leans forward. “Marcel wasn’t the only one to die from this song. Neither were Claude and Audrey.”

“Audrey killed herself,” I say tersely. “Unless you were lying about that.”

“I wasn’t lying. But her death came about as a result of Cluade’s death, and Claude was murdered by this music!”

I stand abruptly. “Mrs. Lacroix, I am tendering my resignation effective immediately.”

She recoils as though slapped. “What?”

“I’m leaving. I can’t do this. I…” I take a breath and compose myself. “I am aware of the power that Marcel’s legacy has over this family, and I confess that I also felt as though I was under a spell cast by Gabriel’s performance ofVie Apres a la Mort.ButI am a grown woman, not a child, and I can’t believe that a jazz composition has somehow opened a portal to the world of the dead, nor can I believe that it has cursed people to die.”

“Then how do you explain what you’ve seen? What we’veallseen?”

“Mass hallucinations brought on by grief. We were all in highly suggestible states and ready to believe the most fantastic explanations so that we might havesomeanswer, even if it was a foolish one.”

“But why wouldyougrieve? You didn’t know Claude or AudreyorMarcel?”

“I grieve my sister.”

She blinks. “Your sister?”

I sigh. "I came to New Orleans to look for signs of my sister, who disappeared thirty years ago. I found a playbill from twenty-nine years ago for a jazz show in New Orleans. My sister played jazz saxophone. I… I thought that it was a sign. But that was foolish of me. I am a sensible woman, and I allowed myself to behave insensibly. I came here and unfortunately found myself surrounded by grieving people who were also behaving insensibly. None of that is your fault, but it's the truth. We're not compatible because this house needs a voice of reason, and none of us can be that voice. I tried, but as you've pointed out, I'm also seeing things that aren't there, things thatcan’tbe there. Your children need someone who can keep them grounded in reality. I implore you to find someone somewhere who can accomplish that. But it’s not me. I’m sorry.”

She stares at me for a long moment. Then she says in a brittle voice. “I see. Very well. I will leave you to tell the children.” She stands. “They’ll be quite disappointed, but that’s life,oui?” She smiles bitterly and with more than a hint of contempt. “I wish you well, Mary Wilcox.”

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