Page 21 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception
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."
