(Road Trip continued)
With a heavy sigh, Jim stood and turned for the door.
“Where are you going?” Trixie asked.
“Out to search the car for the artifacts,” he replied without a backward glance. The remaining five Bob-Whites silently followed the tall redhead out the door.
In the hotel parking lot, the group gathered at the back of their station wagon. Honey had designed and made a cover for the “trunk” area of the wagon so they could leave some of their belongings in the car, but out of sight. It was the most likely place for Liz to hide the artifacts. The rest of the car was clean – out of necessity. With seven people and their luggage, space was at a premium.
Jim unlocked the trunk door and rolled back the cover. “I guess the best way to do this is one package at a time,” he said pulling out the closest bag and opening it.
In just a few minutes time, there were seven small piles on the pavement next to the car; one for each BWG’s souvenirs since they’d returned from Australia.
“We have enough t-shirts to open our own shop,” Mart noted wryly. “Surely there’s nothing left in there.”
“Yeah, it’s a good thing we already posted some boxes back to Sleepyside,” Trixie said as she crawled into the car. “There’s got to be – wait!” She stuck her hand in the space between the back seat and the flat part of the trunk area. “Look –“ she held up two crumpled bags. Trixie handed one bag to Honey and opened the other one herself.
“Oh, my goodness…I think this is it!” exclaimed Trixie.
“In this bag, too,” Honey said. “Guys, put the stuff back in the car and let’s take these inside.”
Back in the girls’ room, the six gathered around a bed while Trixie and Honey laid out the bags’ contents. Two clay figurines stared up at the Bob-Whites.
“What are they?” Diana asked. She turned and looked at Mart. He shrugged, his brows drawn together in thought.
“Mart, don’t tell me that the ONE time we need you to be Mr. Know-It-All, you’re Mr. Know NOTHING!” Trixie groaned and buried her face in the bed pillow.
“I’m sorry, Trix. I didn’t know that knowledge of the beliefs and ideologies of the Southwestern Native Americans was going to be an integral piece of our summer vacation.” Mart turned one of the figurines over in his hands while he talked. “They DO look old. I’m sure this is what Dan’s captors were looking for.”
“You’re probably right, Mart,” Brian looked up from a map he had spread open on the desk top. “It’s about 300 miles to St. Louis. If we leave now, we can be there before it gets dark. Or, we can stay here and go down tomorrow.” He looked over at his siblings and friends. Five voices answered in unison – “Let’s go!”
Later that evening
The setting sun turned the Gateway Arch, rising tall above the Mississippi River in St. Louis, from silver to orange to pink as the Bob-Whites approached the city from the north.
“Oh, my goodness, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Honey didn’t really expect an answer. “I wish St. Louis would hold better memories for us. I always think about that horrible Pierre Lontard….”
Brian squeezed her hand. “It all worked out all right then, and it will be okay this time, too.” He tapped Jim’s shoulder from the middle seat and pointed out the front window. “That’s the exit for our hotel.” Jim pulled off of the interstate and continued to follow Brian’s directions, finally stopping in front of a small hotel called The Clubhouse Inn and Suites.
Daniel Stuart was waiting for the Bob-Whites in the lobby of the hotel. He raised one hand in greeting as he signed off and closed the cell phone he was holding in his other hand. Clipping the phone into the holster at his waist, the FBI director surveyed the tired-looking group. “I’m glad you called me from the road instead of trying to handle this on your own,” he said. “Let’s get you settled into your rooms. Jason Running Bear should be here soon. He’s an assistant chief of the Tucson band of the Zuni. From what you’ve told me, he thinks you have a couple of Zuni war-gods in your possession.”
Daniel helped the Bob-Whites carry bags into two adjoining rooms near the hotel’s swimming pool, and then went to wait for Jason Running Bear back in the lobby. It was about 30 minutes later when a soft knock sounded on the door to the girls’ room.
Trixie poked her head into the boys’ room. “Someone’s here,” she announced before turning back to see Honey open the door. A tall, handsome man followed Daniel into the room. At the same time, Jim, Brian and Mart entered from the adjoining room.
“Jason, I’d like you to meet the Bob-Whites of the Glen,” Daniel said and quickly made the introductions.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Jason said as he shook hands with each of them. “Daniel has told me about your friend being held for the ransom of some artifacts. May I see what you’ve found?”
Honey moved to the dresser and opened the top drawer. From between layers of immaculately folded t-shirts, she pulled the brown paper bags that held the figurines.
“Good thing Honey has them,” Mart remarked sotto voice. “I’m betting Trixie’s clothes are still crammed in her suitcase.” Red-faced, Trixie shot her brother a withering look and self-consciously pushed the aforementioned suitcase under a bed and out of view.
Jason took the proffered bag from Honey and moved to the desk. He turned on the light and carefully opened the bag.
“Are they Zuni war-gods?” Trixie asked. “Do you know why Liz stole them?”
“Trixie, be patient,” Brian gently chided. “Let Mr. Running Bear have a good look at them first.”
Without looking up, Jason said, “Please call me Jason.” He slowly examined one figurine, then another, turning them over in his hands and peering closely at them. After several quiet minutes even the ever-patient Honey seemed about to burst.
“Please, Mr. Running…..Jason,” she pled. “Are they the stolen artifacts that we heard about?”
Serious black eyes looked into hazel ones. “They do appear to be authentic,” he said. “I’ll have to have our shaman look at them, but I believe they are some of the missing artifacts.”
“So what do we do NOW? We’re supposed to give them to Liz Dickinson the day after tomorrow so that we can get Dan back,” Brian turned to Daniel Stuart. “Do you have a plan, sir?”
The FBI man looked around the group. “I do have a plan. What do you say we get something to eat and talk about it.”
“I like the way you think, Sir,” Mart piped up. “I, for one, ruminate better after mastication.”
Jason cocked an inquiring eyebrow toward Daniel. The director sighed and shook his head. “This one,” he answered the look, “this one needs to come with his own translator.”
“I simply mean…” Mart was stopped short by Daniel.
“I think better on a full stomach, too, Mart. Now, how many pizzas does it take to feed the lot of you?”
Two hours and three extra-large pizzas later, a plan was formulated. Jason Running Bear left with the figurines for safekeeping and authentication. His tribe’s shaman was to meet him in St. Louis early the next morning.
Daniel Stuart left with an admonition: “Please, PLEASE stay out of trouble for the next couple of days.” The Bob-Whites assured him that they would stay around the hotel until the time came to meet Liz at Artistic Endeavors.
Unused to inactivity, the Bob-Whites found waiting – even for only one day – to be an arduous task. They wandered back and forth between the two rooms through the open adjoining door. Both television sets were on – one tuned to ESPN; the other to HGTV. Mart was dissatisfied with both choices. Not even Diana, who usually championed Mart’s every cause, would agree to his request for “Iron Chef”.
“They never make anything a normal person would eat,” she said by way of explanation. “I mean really, Mart, not even your cast iron stomach could handle liver-flavored ice cream.”
“Ice cream! I’d give my left leg for some ice cream!” Mart shook said leg in Diana’s direction. He opened the top drawer of the bedside table, pulled out the phone book and flipped to “I” in the yellow pages. “Can’t we get out of here for just a little while? Look, this place called Ted Drewes has frozen custard. Maybe someone at the front desk can give us directions.”
Fifteen minutes later, armed with directions – and a high recommendation – from the concierge, they headed out for Ted Drewes Frozen Custard. When they arrived, each window already had a line. They queued up and examined the menu. At the window, six orders were given – each for a different frozen delight. They sat at picnic tables, enjoying their concretes and sundaes in the warm afternoon sun. The group was quiet except for various murmurs of “Taste mine” and “Wow, that’s good!”
Back at the hotel, the Bob-Whites made an early night of it. Tomorrow would be a busy day and they needed their sleep.
Meanwhile…
A tired and emotionally beaten Dan Mangan waited to be rescued. He knew in his heart of hearts that the Bob-Whites would find him.
He thought back to the morning he’d been kidnapped. That goon had insisted that the BWGs had some kind of valuable Indian artifacts in their possession. Dan smiled a bit at the memory of Diana jumping up to fight the kidnapper. It was something that Trixie would have done. He’d never expected it of the more genteel Diana.
Dan’s thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door to the room in which he was being held captive. As far as Dan was able to deduce, there were only two people involved -- the man who’d wrestled with him and Diana and his henchwoman. They’d been very careful not to us their names in front of him, so Dan had taken to calling them Boris and Natasha. The only thing missing was the bad Russian accent.
This was Natasha. She carried a bag and cup bearing the McDonald’s logo. The scent of breakfast food gently assaulted Dan’s senses and his stomach growled in response.
“So, tough guy, you’re hungry, are you?” Natasha sneered and jerked her head toward the table in the corner of the room.
The room was mostly barren with only a threadbare mattress thrown on the floor and a table with no chair. The table was bolted to the floor – as if anyone would want to steal a table that looked like it had 40 years worth of graffiti carved into its wooden top and another 40 years worth of gum stuck to its underside. There were no windows. The only light was from a single bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling. There was a fitting for a globe that had been long since broken. The door to the bathroom was knobless.
Already betrayed by his hunger, Dan perched on the edge of the table and peered into the bag that Natasha tossed at him.
“This is your big day – if your friends come through,” Natasha snickered. “If not – well – it’s been nice knowin’ ya.” An evil laugh passed her lips.
Dan swiped at his greasy mouth before answering. “I don’t know what you think we have, but I know the Bob-Whites won’t let me down.” Head bent over his breakfast, his dark eyes rose to meet hers. “And then you’ll wish you hadn’t messed with us.”
Natasha laughed, again. “Give me a break. You’re a bunch of college kids. Goody-goodies. You never should have gotten messed up with Liz Dickinson. Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to pick up hitchhikers?”
Before Dan could reply, the door to the room swung open, startling both of them.
“C’mon,” Boris ordered. “Breakfast time is over. Let’s see if your little birdie friends are going to save you – or leave you to rest at the bottom of the Mississippi.”
At Artistic Endeavors Art Studio
Liz Dickinson paced near the displays of her art work. Native American faces gazed out from exquisite paintings. The soothing colors of the desert invited the observer in – made them feel the warm, dry climes of the Southwest. Liz was always nervous when she opened a new show. This time was different, though. These pictures mocked her. The eyes of an old Indian woman chided her from the canvas. The sacred places she’d seen in Arizona and painted in Chicago haunted her night and day.
She regretted stealing the Zuni war gods – but what choice had she been given? They’d threatened her PawPaw…they said they were watching his house in New Orleans and if she didn’t deliver, they’d kill him. They knew his name, his address; other things that made her believe them. But, PawPaw had died while she was hitching back to Chicago. She’d been picked up by that group of rich college kids and when they stopped for gas, she’d phoned PawPaw. Her uncle had answered the phone and told her that PawPaw had quietly passed in his sleep, so there was no need to turn the artifacts over.
She’d hidden the war-gods among the belongings of…what had they called themselves? Some kind of bird…Bob-Whites, that’s what it was. They seemed like nice kids. “I wish I hadn’t had to involve them,” Liz thought. PawPaw’s funeral and preparing for this exhibit had done little to assuage her feelings of guilt. She turned away from her paintings at the sound of her name.
“Liz,” her assistant, Marcia, hurried toward her. “Mr. Sands is ready to open the doors. Are you ready to meet your public?”
Liz took a deep breath, closed her eyes and slowly let the breath out. When she opened her eyes, she flashed a smile at Marcia. “Do I look all right?”
“Perfect,” Marcia smiled back as the bell on the front door tinkled and the first of the patrons entered the studio.
A small crowd waited on the sidewalk outside Artistic Endeavors. At 10 o’clock in the morning, the temperature was already hot and the air thick with humidity. Amidst the anxious art aficionados were four people less interested in the art and more concerned with the artist herself.
Jim held a bag in one hand and Trixie’s small, sweaty hand in his other hand. Nearby two FBI agents kept close watch on the crowd. The top of Trixie’s head barely reached Jim’s shoulder and she stood on tiptoes to scan the crowd. With a heavy sigh she dropped to flat feet. “I can’t see anything. And it’s so hot out here,” she groaned. “Do you see Dan?”
“No, but I don’t expect to,” came Jim’s answer. “We won’t see him until we give Liz the bag.” Jim waggled the bag in his hand. He dropped his voice to a whisper and bent to speak near Trixie’s ear. “These fake war-gods that Jason brought us look so much like the real thing, I’m sure Liz won’t know the difference.”
Trixie’s reply was aborted by the ringing of the studio’s door opening. Jim gave her hand a quick squeeze as they followed the crowd into the refreshingly cool air of Artistic Endeavors.
In a van parked down the street, Boris watched the crowd enter the studio. Glancing into the rearview mirror, his eyes met the reflection of Dan’s eyes. The younger man’s left ankle was shackled to the leg of the seat on which he sat.
“I hope your friends are trust-worthy,” the captor said into the mirror before opening the van door and crossing the street to walk toward Artistic Endeavors.
Dan muttered something at Boris’ retreating form. “What’s that, cutie?” Natasha asked from the seat next to Dan.
“Nothin’,” was the short answer.
Inside the studio, Liz smiled and greeted well-wishers. Marcia was busy arranging sales and Jack Sands, the studio owner, wandered through the crowd talking to friends and customers. All were blissfully unaware of the drama about to unfold.
Jim and Trixie waited more or less patiently for a chance to speak to Liz. They stood in front of the same painting of the Indian woman that Liz had been contemplating earlier.
“She looks so sad,” Trixie said gazing at the woman’s face.
“Yeah,” Jim answered. “Liz is really good. Too bad she’s a thief and a kidnapper.”
Finally, the crowd around Liz dissipated. With a nod toward the FBI agents, Jim and Trixie moved to confront the artist. Liz’s eyes grew wide with recognition and surprise as the two Bob-Whites approached her.
“Wow,” she said smiling and reaching out her right hand to shake hands, “what a great surprise to see you here.”
The smile died on her lips and she dropped her unshaken hand at Trixie’s greeting.
“You’re the one who wanted us here. Now, where’s Dan?”
“What do you mean?” A frown creased Liz’s brow. “I haven’t seen Dan since I left you in El Paso.”
“Cut the act,” Jim growled. “We got the message from your goon to bring the war-gods to you here. We’ve got them,” he held up the bag. Although Jim’s voice was low, there was no mistaking his tone when he said – “Tell us where Dan is. NOW!”
“I told you – I don’t know where Dan is and I don’t want those war-gods!”
“She’s right,” a deep voice said from behind Jim. Liz’s face paled as Boris stepped toward the three of them. “Ms. Dickinson double-crossed me. She was supposed to bring the Zuni war-gods to me, in exchange for her grandfather’s safety. The old coot went and died on us, though, and Ms. Dickinson felt she didn’t have to hold up her end of the deal. Ergo – Plan B.”
“You’re scum!” Liz kept her voice low and steady. Anyone observing the little group would have no idea of the gravity of the conversation.
“Be that as it may,” Boris grinned back at her, “your friends here have what I want and I have their tough little friend.”
“Where is he?” Trixie spoke through clenched teeth and moved in close to Boris.
“You’re a feisty one,” Boris glared down into angry blue eyes. “Where are my artifacts?”
Jim stepped between Trixie and Boris. The three of them all but ignored Liz. “I’ve got them right here. We’ll gladly give them to you, but we want Dan.”
Boris smirked and flipped open a cell phone. He punched in a number. “It’s me. Yeah, I’ve got ‘em. Bring the van around to the alley door. I’ll meet you there.”
Liz led the way to the back of the studio and through a storage room. Boris opened the door into the alley just as the blue van rolled to a stop. Natasha jumped down from the driver’s seat and, leaving the van running, crossed to the other side of the van to open the door.
“Dan!” Trixie cried and tried to push past Boris.
“Hang on there, little lady,” Boris grabbed her by the wrist. “You get your buddy when I get my artifacts.”
“Take your hands off her,” Dan growled from inside the van.
“You heard him – get your dirty hands off her.” Jim forced his way between Boris and Trixie, forcing the older man to let go of her wrist. Then he shoved the paper bag at Boris hitting him hard in the chest. “Here are the war-gods. Now let Dan go.”
Boris opened the bag and looked inside. “Ugly little fellas, aren’t they?” He laughed and motioned toward Natasha. “Let the kid go.” As Natasha unlocked the shackle and freed Dan, Boris got into the driver’s seat. Dan slowly got out of the van and was immediately accosted by a joyful Trixie, who wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.
“Nice doin’ business with ya,” Boris called as Natasha climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door.
As the van pulled away, two cars screeched to a stop at either end of the alley, blocking the way in and out. Jim pushed Liz, Dan and Trixie back into the studio as FBI agents jumped out of both cars with their guns drawn and loudly identified themselves.
Later that evening
Mart pushed back from the table and patted his stomach. “Man, this St. Louis barbeque is some satisfactory fare!”
Dan laughed, “Dude, I’ve missed you.”
Liz spoke up from across the table. “I just can’t tell you all enough how sorry I am. If I had known all of the danger you’d be in, I never would have left those war-gods in the station wagon.”
“Really, Liz,” Dan looked up and down the table at his friends, “we don’t blame you.” The Bob-Whites nodded in agreement.
“I just think that Jim and Trixie were so brave to face up to that horrid man,” Diana said.
Trixie blushed to the roots of her sandy curls. “It’s not hard to be brave when Jim’s around. Plus, we were wired for sound. The FBI was listening to everything we said. You were brave, too, Diana, fighting off that jerk back at the hotel.”
Now it was Di’s turn to blush. “I was just doing what any one of you would have done. One for all, you know.”
“I wish there was some way I could try to make this all up to you,” Liz frowned and picked at the fries left on her plate. Then, she brightened. “I know! How soon do you have to be back in New York?”
Brian spoke for the group. “We still have some time left before school starts. It seems like we started out on this road trip years ago, though.” The other six Bob-Whites nodded in agreement.
“Oh,” Liz’s face fell. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get home. I just thought you might like to spend a few days in New Orleans. My PawPaw’s house is in the Garden District and there’s plenty of room for you there.”
Mart’s ears perked up at the mention of New Orleans. “New Orleans is a gastronomic delight!”
“Mart Belden, you can’t possibly be thinking of food after all the ribs you just ate! I swear your legs must be hollow!!” Honey laughed at the insatiable young man.
“Hey, I’m a growing boy!” he retorted.
“Yeah,” laughed Dan, “but aren’t you supposed to grow UP, not OUT?”
“Back to the subject at hand,” Brian interjected, “we couldn’t possibly impose….”
“It wouldn’t be an imposition at all,” Liz said. “My uncle lives in the house – it’s been in our family since before the Civil War – and he travels all the time for his job. The house is fully staffed with people who have nothing to do while he’s away. Really, you’ll keep them from expiring from boredom.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” Jim said.
“We drove through New Orleans on our way to San Antonio,” Brian remembered. A dark shadow passed over his handsome features. “We barely noticed; we were so worried about Honey….”
“And, that turned out all right, too,” Honey smiled at Brian and patted his hand.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to visit New Orleans,” Di sighed. “The architecture is beautiful.”
“And, it’s haunted,” Trixie said gleefully.
“And, there’s FOOD!” Mart’s eyes all but rolled into his head.
“I guess it’s settled, then,” Jim said. “We’d love to spend a few days in New Orleans.”
Notes:
The basic disclaimer. The Bob-Whites don’t belong to me. I’m not profiting from their use. Some of the characters herein belong to other “Road Trip” authors. Jason Running Bear is mine.
Big thanks to Diann for taking the time to edit for me. I really appreciate it! Louis sends his love to Moosey J .
And, extra big thanks to Zap for being so patient with me.
My knowledge of St. Louis is limited to driving through it back and forth between New Orleans and Minnesota, reading “Mystery on the Mississippi” and the 3 days spent there for Trixie Camp 2004. I apologize for any misrepresentation. As you can see, I chose not to make the city much of a character in this section of the Road Trip.
The Gateway Arch was completed in 1965, the same year that KK’s “Mystery on the Mississippi” was first published. The Bob-Whites didn’t visit the Arch in the book.
Of course, McDonald’s is a giant corporation. No profit is made from the use of their name.
I had to do a bit of sleuthing to find an Indian artifact that could be hidden in the Bob-White wagon. Basically, I did a search to find the Indians that might be in the area and found the Zunis. Next, I had to find something small that could be worth a lot of money. Hence, the war-gods.
Boris and Natasha are the villains from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons.
The Clubhouse Inn and Suites was where we stayed during Trixie Camp. I wasn’t able to find a way to fit the sweaty, pot-smoking crowd at the reggae festival into my story…
Early the next morning…
While Jim settled their account with the desk clerk, the rest of the Bob-Whites loaded the station wagon.
“I’m glad we were able to ship all our souvenirs home from here,” Honey said as she tucked her suitcase into a small space in the back of the car.
“How did we accumulate so much stuff?” Trixie wondered out loud.
“We have been all over the country since we came back from Australia,” Honey answered.
“It’s going to cost a fortune to print all the pictures I’ve taken,” remarked Trixie. “I’ve had to download my memory card four times!!”
Climbing into the car, Honey noted, “But we’ve had the summer vacation of a lifetime! We’ve been to so many places and met so many people! Despite the couple of bad things that have happened, we’ve really had a wonderful time.”
“That’s true.” Mart slid into the car next to Honey. “I, for one, would never have dreamed we could fit so many escapades into such an ephemeral period. It’s the stuff of movies and novels!”
“I think the very most exciting thing we did was to help the F.B.I. capture those KGB guys in Wisconsin,” Di piped up from her seat on the other side of Mart. “Meeting Trixie’s Lucy friend, Anna, was perfectly perfect.”
“Football in Australia,” Dan and Mart said at the same time.
“What are you talking about?” Jim asked as he took his place behind the steering wheel and adjusted the rearview mirror.
“Our favorite things, so far, from our never-ending summer vacation,” Honey replied.
“Gosh,” Jim said. “I don’t know if I can pick just one thing. We’ve been to so many fantastic places since we left New York. There was…D.C., Williamsburg and Alexandria.” The tall redhead tapped the steering wheel bullet-pointing each of the Bob-White’s destinations.
“Knoxville,” Trixie took over from Jim, “Montgomery – which was great until Honey was kidnapped – San Antonio – where Brian was arrested for possession…”
“That was definitely one of the low points of the trip for me,” Brian said. “Let’s see, after San Antonio we went to Dallas; where we got Honey back from the Russians AND found out that Mrs. Wheeler had been a CIA agent.”
“I hated that Daddy almost didn’t let us go on from there,” Honey said. “I’m so glad Mother convinced him otherwise. If she hadn’t, Trixie and Jim wouldn’t have met that Shaman in Gallup…and we wouldn’t have been able to go to Provo and Salt Lake City. “
“Brother DeForrest was interesting, wasn’t he?” Mart interjected. “Even I have to admit that Beatrix may have unearthed a true mystery there. I wonder if we’ll ever find out what happened to the senior Mahonri?”
“I don’t think we will, Mart,” Trixie answered. “But, if he WAS a ghost…well, wow. Just wow.”
“Los Angeles was fun,” Honey said. “Meeting Mark at Six Flags in Santa Clarita was kind of kismet, don’t you think?”
Brian bristled slightly – uncharacteristic behavior from the normally stolid Belden – “He certainly did seem quite taken with you.”
Honey giggled and turned slightly red. “Well, he IS cute!”
Dan, looking to impede further talk from the girls on the cuteness of any of the other guys they’d met on their travels, said, “I can’t believe we went all the way to Australia!”
“Hmmmmm…” Di said. “The Aussie footballers were cute, too, weren’t they?”
There was a collective groan from the four Bob-White guys.
“Honestly,” Mart said, “one would surmise that the Bob-White females had never been subjected to the abundantly handsome and testosterone-filled presence of the male constituency of the Bob-Whites of the Glen.”
“Hmmph,” Di answered, “Martin Belden, I’m not exactly sure what you just said, but I think you need to pull your ego in just a smidgen.”
Mart blushed slightly at Di’s putdown. As soon as she realized she might have hurt the blonde Belden boy’s feelings, Di recanted, “Oh, Mart, there’s nothing wrong with your ego! Truly! It’s no where near as big as your appetite!!”
It may have been a back-handed compliment, but it did the trick. Mart laughed despite himself.
“It was great that we got to see more than just Melbourne while we were in Australia,” Dan said.
“Yes,” Diana said. “Wasn’t it lucky that we got to meet Harrison’s cousin, Tania?”
“And, don’t forget the Mystery Flight that Jim won!” Trixie was always quick to point out the accomplishments of her co-president. “Perth was great…plus we got to meet Lizzie and Eloise.”
“It was sure good to see Uncle Monty in Arizona when we got back to the States,” Di mused. “I wish he’d come visit more often.”
Jim checked the traffic in the rearview mirror. “Arizona also gave us Liz. Then, we lost her in Las Cruces. If we hadn’t been followed by the KGB, we probably WOULDN’T have met Cheddarcliffe. I mean, Anna.”
For a few moments there was silence in the car as the Bob-Whites thought back to the way they ambushed the former KGB agents with the help of Anna’s crew at McDonald’s.
“I didn’t really enjoy Chicago,” Di broke the silence. “I mean, it started out really nice, but…”
“Yeah,” Dan agreed and ruffled Di’s dark hair from the seat behind her. “Chicago and St. Louis aren’t high on my list of favorite places, either.”
“But, all’s well that ends well,” Diana smiled. “And, now, we’re on our way to New Orleans.”
As the overloaded station wagon zipped along the interstate, the conversation turned to the things the Bob-Whites wanted to see and do in New Orleans.
“I wish we had more time to spend there,” Brian said. “It would be great to help with rebuilding either in New Orleans or along the Mississippi Gulf Coast.”
“I’m glad we raised so much money for the victims of Katrina with our fundraiser,” Trixie said, “but it always feels so much better to physically help.” Six heads nodded in agreement.
The time flew as the Bob-Whites continued to reminisce about the adventures they had already had and wondered what fun might be awaiting them in New Orleans. Their conversation was interrupted by Mart’s loudly grumbling stomach. He was happy to point out that they were nearing Memphis and had covered half the distance between St. Louis and New Orleans.
“I guess that means we should stop in Memphis for lunch,” Dan laughed. “If you turn onto Union Street, Jim, we’ll drive past Sun Studios, where Elvis Presley recorded his first song. See, there it is,” he pointed out the window at the small brick and white building – the word “Sun” over the door in neon.
“That’s so cool!” Di said. “It’s such a little, unassuming looking place. Who would think someplace like this would launch the career of the “King of Rock and Roll”?”
Jim turned the corner at Union and Beale Street. “I guess the best thing would be to just park in a lot and walk,” he said. “Is that all right with everyone?”
Jim’s question was answered by a resounding chorus of “Yes!”, “You bet!”, “Sure!” and “I’m hungry! Just park the car!”
As they continued down Beale, the Bob-Whites rolled down the windows in the car and perused the restaurants. Outside the King’s Palace Café, beneath a red and white striped canopy, a lone black man stood playing a trumpet. In the window behind him, a sign proclaimed “Best Gumbo in Memphis”.
“Oh, let’s eat there,” Trixie exclaimed. “It looks so….” Her voice trailed off as she searched for the right word.
“Quaint,” Honey supplied.
Jim pulled into a parking lot several blocks away from the restaurant. As they walked, Jim drew the other Bob-White’s attention to the sidewalk. “Look,” he said, “it’s like Grauman’s Chinese Theatre…only for famous Memphis musicians.” He pointed to a slab of sidewalk where a musical note, engraved with the name “W.C. Handy”, was embedded. “Does anyone know who he is?”
All eyes turned to the resident jazz expert. Dan merely shrugged. They continued on – now and then recognizing a name; however, most were unknown to the young rock ‘n roll bred group. They passed a small park that was home to a bronze figure of a man holding a trumpet. The plaque proclaimed this to be “W.C. Handy – Father of the Blues”. “Well,” Mart said to no one in particular, “I guess that answers THAT question!”
When they arrived at the restaurant, they were seated immediately. The décor inside was dark – almost pub-like. Red and green cloths covered the tables. The walls were plastered with framed pictures and posters of local musicians…some autographed, some not.
“What can I get y’all to drink,” the young waiter asked in a soft Southern drawl. Four Cokes, two Diet Cokes, and a strawberry pop were ordered and quickly delivered.
“Everything looks so good,” Trixie said. “Does anyone know what they are going to order?”
“They have something called a “King’s Feast”,” Brian noted. The low light in the restaurant caused the handsome medical student to squint a bit as he read the menu. “We could get the one that serves 6 and supplement it with a couple of appetizers.”
It took a few minutes, but finally the group decided to order fried green tomatoes (“It sounds SO southern,” Di had exclaimed), the King’s Specialty Shrimp (“How can you go wrong when bacon is involved?” was Mart’s input), and stuffed mushroom caps (“Yuck!” Trixie wrinkled her nose at the thought of eating the fungus – even if cheese was also involved) in addition to the King’s Feast of BBQ ribs, BBQ pork shoulder, gumbo, crab cakes, voodoo potatoes, and coleslaw.
When the food arrived, except for the occasional utterance regarding the superb palatability of the food from Mart – and the agreement of his friends and siblings – all conversation stopped. Thirty minutes later, there was nary a speck of food left on the Bob-Whites’ plates.
“No derision meant to Moms, or to the cooks at Manor House and Lynch Estate, but that may have simply been one of the paramount meals of my short existence,” Mart proclaimed as he wiped a lingering spot of BBQ sauce from the corner of his mouth with the green cloth napkin that had previously lain in his lap.
“If you continue to eat like that,” Brian said, “you WILL have a short existence.”
“I think ALL of us can feel secure in the knowledge that our memberships in the “Clean Plate Club” will not be revoked any time soon,” Jim laughed. The waiter approached the table and asked if they had left room for dessert. He was met by a round of groans…and one “Well, what have you got?” Mart was out-voted, Jim paid the bill, and the group headed sluggishly for the car.
“What do you say we take time to see Graceland, as long as we’re here?” Dan cocked an eyebrow toward the downtown billboard announcing the exit for Elvis Presley’s mansion. “I know I could use the exercise.”
“Young Elvis was so dreamy,” Di sighed, a far away look in her eyes.
“Well, if he ate like we just did,” Trixie rubbed her very full belly, “it’s no wonder old Elvis WASN’T so dreamy!”
Shortly, the Bob-Whites were standing in front of the gates of Graceland.
Honey, her brow creased in concentration, studied the white columned building at the top of a curving drive. “It’s certainly not as big as I was expecting,” she noted.
“Well, Honey,” Mart spoke up as the other’s nodded their agreement of Honey’s assessment, “it’s a lot smaller than Manor House, and Lynch Manor. Obviously, it only has two stories, if you don’t count the basement, and it’s less than 18,000 square feet in size.”
Trixie studied her middle brother for a moment before shaking her head. “I don’t know how you do it,” she muttered.
“Do what?”
“Know something about EVERY thing!” she answered in a tone not so much of disgust but more of something akin to awe…which she would never actually admit to her verbose brother.
At the gate each of the Bob-Whites was handed a walkman and headphones for the self-guided tour. They then spent the next two hours wandering through the “visitor’s” areas of the house: the music room, the television room, the kitchen, the dining room, the billiard room, and the infamous jungle room. They wandered through the trophy room, past Elvis’ gold records and many of his heavy, bejeweled costumes. Finally, they ended up in the eerie quiet of the meditation garden where Elvis and his parents were buried.
After they turned in their headphones, they talked about the tour as they walked back to their car:
“Can you believe how bright the TV room is? Yellow and blue?”
“I was amazed at the green shag carpeting on the walls and ceiling in the jungle room!”
“Do you think we could fit a 15-foot sofa in the clubhouse?”
“I wonder who exercised the horses?”
A quick stop at one of the many souvenir shops along Elvis Presley Boulevard and then the group headed south for New Orleans!
New Orleans
Two days after they left St. Louis, the Bob-Whites arrived in New Orleans. Interstate 10 took them past the airport and toward the Central Business District.
“Look at the cemetery!” Trixie exclaimed, as white mausoleums appeared on either side of the highway. “We’re going to do a tour, right?”
Honey shivered next to her best friend. “Ugh! Trixie, that’s morbid!!”
“It’s not really, Honey,” doctor-to-be Brian answered. “Because New Orleans is below sea level, they don’t bury their dead in the ground. The tombs are famous. Beautiful.”
Closer to the Central Business District, the SuperDome loomed on the skyline. Scrubbed clean now, it had been the site of much unrest and mayhem in the days following Hurricane Katrina. Jim followed the directions that Liz Dickinson had given him to St. Charles Avenue
Oak trees lined both sides of the avenue, guarding the old, stately homes that had managed to survive a century or more of heat, humidity, hurricanes, termites, and Louisiana politics. Though smaller than the Wheeler’s home by half, Liz’s family home had “lived” through more than 50 years of American history by the time ground was broken for Manor House. Both homes had played host to the rich and famous of their respective communities long before their current inhabitants had been born.
Dickinson House sprawled over a corner lot in the Garden District. It was easy to see how this area of town had received its name. Many homes, especially those with big lots had beautiful gardens and landscaping all around their outer perimeters. The sidewalks showed the effects of the century-old oak trees; they buckled in places where roots grew further than the confines of the median between sidewalk and street allowed. The Bob-Whites were greeted by one of the house staff and shown to the rooms on the second story where they would be staying. After freshening up, they met back on the first floor where Liz’s uncle was waiting for them in the library.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to meet y’all,” Mr. Dickinson said after introductions had been made all around. He was barely taller than Trixie, and had the dark-haired, brown-eyed appearance of the people who are known as Cajuns. “I’m very grateful for all y’all did to help Liz.”
“We were glad to be able to help her, sir,” Jim answered.
“And especially glad to know that she wasn’t a thief!” Trixie interjected.
Mr. Dickinson laughed at Trixie’s honesty. “I’m glad she isn’t a thief, too. Although, she wouldn’t have been the first in the family, but that’s a story for another time. What are your plans for your time here?”
“We’d love to have a couple weeks to explore the city and do some work for Habitat, but we really only have two or three days to spend here. We need to get back to New York before school starts,” Brian answered.
“We’d be most grateful,” Mart interjected, “if you could propose the spectacles you feel it is imperative a day-tripper scrutinize.”
Trixie shot her almost-twin a scathing look. “You have to excuse my brother, Mr. Dickinson. He thinks using big words impresses people. He forgets that we know him and it’s way too late to try to impress us.”
“Please, call me Frank, or, if it makes you more comfortable, Mr. Frank. You’ll want to visit the French Quarter. As far as tours go, I understand the haunted history tour is good, and a cemetery tour is a must…” he paused to consider what else might interest his houseguests.
“Cuisine, Mr. Frank. If you might suggest the establishments with the most authentic and delectable samplings of your city’s renowned cuisine.” The look on Mart’s face was beatific.
“And, someplace to hear some New Orleans jazz would be awesome,” Dan added.
“Shopping!” Di and Honey said in the same breath, then “Jinx!”
Seven grumbling Bob-White stomachs determined that lunch would be first on the agenda. At Mr. Frank’s suggestion, they decided to have lunch at a restaurant called Mother’s, and then spend the afternoon in the French Quarter before meeting their host for dinner.
Luckily, the lunch rush had already passed by the time the group parked the wagon and walked along Poydras Street to the restaurant. One could almost miss the fact that the non-descript building on the corner was a restaurant if they weren’t looking for the tiny sign swinging above the door at the top of three steps.
As he was (always) the most hungry, Mart stood at the front of the line to order. “I’d like the Ferdi po-boy, red beans and rice, and bread pudding,” he responded when asked for his order.
“Dressed?” asked the young man behind the chest high counter. Mart looked doubtfully down at the t-shirt and jeans he wore. It seemed appropriate attire for what would best be described as a hole-in-the-wall (if there were a wall…and a hole).
“I was when I left the house,” he said.
“No, mister,” explained the young man, “when you order a sandwich “dressed” means with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise.”
“Oh, then, yes!”
Carrying his utensils, soda (or “cold drink” as the girl at the register called his Coke), and a straw, Mart secured a large round table while the rest ordered. One-by-one their names were called as their orders were prepared and plates were handed across the counter in a very self-serve manner. Mart had to make two trips and, in the end, actually passed the large serving of bread pudding around the table to share.
“Wow,” Brian pushed back from the table and patted his stomach, “that was good!”
“It was – and now it’s a good thing we’re going to do some walking,” Honey replied.
A few minutes later, Mart was maneuvering the station wagon in a U-turn on Canal Street and turning into New Orleans’ famous French Quarter. Traffic on Decatur Street was light, but slow moving. Horse drawn carriages were to blame for the latter and a lack of tourists for the former. Still, parking on the street was not available, so Mart parked in a lot next to the Jax Brewery complex.
“Do we have a strategy?” Trixie asked her friends as they opened their French Quarter map over the hood of the car and huddled around.
“Why don’t we see about the haunted history tour,” Jim always paid close attention to his co-president’s desires. “Here’s Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar,” he pointed to a spot on the map. “Mr. Frank said the tours leave from there. Why don’t we walk that way and see when the next group leaves.”
As luck would have it, a group was gathering for a tour as the Bob-Whites arrived at the tiny bar on Bourbon and St. Philip Streets. A sign on the outside of the building declared Jean Lafitte’s to be one of the oldest buildings in the Mississippi River Valley. The haunted history tour was conducted on foot through the streets of the French Quarter. Besides the many stories of hauntings, the tour guide, a man in his mid-fifties who said his name was Zeke, provided a running commentary that included New Orleans history in general. He was happy to answer any questions the group had.
Zeke walked the group down a few blocks to Bourbon and Orleans where he pointed across the street to the Bourbon Orleans Hotel. “Now, see here,” he said to the group who huddled close so they could hear everything he had to tell them, “this here’s the Bourbon Orleans Hotel. The oldest part of this building is the ballroom, which was built in the early 1800s. It was opened by an entrepreneur called John Davis. He specialized in providing entertainment that catered to the well-to-do in New Orleans…the ton of society. Back in the day, it was known as the Quadroon Ballroom. Young quadroon girls were brought here, usually escorted by their mothers, to be sold as mistresses to wealthy, white “gentlemen”.”
“What is a quadroon, Mr. Zeke?” Diana politely asked.
“A quadroon, pretty girl, is someone born to one parent who is half white/half black and one parent who is white. These girls would be able to “pass” as white…they were not slave girls, but, rather, free women of color.”
He continued on, “As things tend to go, Mr. John’s luck would eventually turn, and the building was acquired in 1881 by the Sisters of the Holy Family, an order of African-American nuns. The sisters had their convent and ran St. Mary’s Academy for Girls from this location for nigh on 80 years. It was only after they moved that the building here became a hotel. Now, it is known to be very haunted…mostly by ghosts of children, but oftentimes one can see the image of a gowned woman dancing across the ballroom floor.”
“Gleeps!” A bit of a shiver ran down Honey’s back and she unconsciously moved closer to Brian.
Zeke chuckled at Honey’s reaction. “Miss, that’s one of the tamer tales you’ll hear this afternoon!”
The Lalaurie House on Royal Street was another stop on the tour. “This house belonged to a beautiful society woman and her husband, who was a doctor. Invitations to their lavish parties were considered very desirable. However, Miss Delphine and her husband had a very dark side. They owned hundreds of slaves and rumor has it that they were a very cruel master and mistress. One night, a fire broke out in the kitchen when the good doctor and his wife were out. Luckily, the fire was quickly squelched. Unluckily, for the Lalaurie’s, it was discovered that the fire was set by the slave who was chained to the kitchen floor. Later, the bodies of dozens of slaves were found in an upstairs room…chained to the wall, the floor, tables. It appeared that experiments had been conducted on some. The Lalaurie’s couldn’t recover their place in society and fled to Dr. Lalaurie’s homeland of France.”
The stories continued as the group made its way through the streets of the French Quarter. On nearly every block, Zeke would point out one or another building, or apartment, or hotel and tell the story of the people who had once inhabited the space as living beings and were, as yet, unable to leave the space as spirits. Even New Orleans’ famous St. Louis Cathedral had the ghost of Pere Antoine who wandered the alleyway alongside the church.
Stories of children’s ghosts playing in hotels brought tears to the kind-hearted Honey’s eyes. She had not had the happiest childhood. Her parents were often away on business and Honey was often in the care of nannies and governesses, or shipped off to boarding school. “It’s just so sad,” she exclaimed. “Surely these are just stories.”
“Sad, it is, miss,” Zeke smiled at her. “But, I’ve studied all of these hauntings, and except for one case, I’ve experienced them all myself. There is the story of a Confederate soldier who only appears to women who stay in a particular room at the Hotel St. Pierre. It seems that he is looking for his wife. You see, he’d gone off to war and been gravely wounded. Word got back to his missus that he’d been killed. She took up with the man who’d been the soldier’s best friend in life. After the soldier had been brought back to his good health, he returned home to find his wife in the bed of that best friend.”
“My wife and I spent several nights in the room and she assured me that the most frightening thing she saw the entire time was our bill at the end of our stay.” Laughter lightened the mood of the group as they came to a stop in front of a house on St. Ann.
“This was the home of one of New Orleans’ most well-known, and possibly most feared, residents, Marie Paris – otherwise known as Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen.” Zeke indicated a quaint little home on the street corner. “Marie was born to a white man and a free woman of color. She lived out the end of her life in this here shotgun house.”
Mart, always interested in architecture, interrupted their guide, “Sir, what is a ‘shotgun house’?”
“It was a very popular style of home during the Civil War, young man. It’s really just a long rectangle broken up into several rooms in a row. If you opened the front door, you could see straight through to the back door.”
Then, he continued on with his story. “Many people believe that Marie didn’t die in 1881; but her daughter, who was also named Marie, looked just like her and followed in her mother’s footsteps.”
“Marie Laveau is said to be entombed in St. Louis Cemetery #1. People write three x’s on the tomb and leave gifts in hopes that she will grant their wishes. You may wish to take a cemetery tour while visiting our fair city.”
“But,” Zeke warned, “the cemeteries are dangerous. You probably do not have to fear the spirits of those spending their eternal rest in the tombs, but crooks lurk in the cemeteries. Many unsuspecting tourists have been mugged in the shadows of a crypt.”
The tour continued on until the group stood across the street from Louis Armstrong Park. “In Marie Laveau’s day, the land across the way was known as Congo Square. As New Orleans was a mostly Catholic city in those days, the slaves were expected to convert to the religion of the master. This is where the practice of voodoo came into being. Practitioners used many Catholic ceremonies and rites as part of their voodoo ceremonies. Slaves would gather on Sundays in Congo Square to celebrate the Sabbath in their own way.”
“And that, my friends, concludes this tour. If you are so inclined, tips are most welcome. If you turn and follow this street back, you will find yourselves once again on Bourbon Street.”
The Bob-Whites gladly tipped the tour guide and made their way back to Bourbon Street.
“We still have three hours before we need to meet Mr. Frank at Masparo,” Jim said as they walked. “I know we were going to start on Bourbon and walk toward the car, but after two hours of walking, I could use a drink and a place to sit for a few minutes. Do you want to go back to Café du Monde and have some beignets?”
Jim’s suggestion was met with much enthusiasm, so they continued walking back toward Decatur and the green and white striped awning that marked the open air Café du Monde. They found two tables next to each other and ordered three orders of beignets and water all around.
“I’m glad I didn’t wear black today,” Diana commented as she picked up one of the powdered sugar laden fried donuts.
“Even if you had,” Trixie said, “you wouldn’t have a speck of powdered sugar on you. Look at me! I’m wearing white and I’m a mess!!” As if to punctuate her statement, an explosion of sugar erupted from the beignet Trixie was eating.
“If I lived here, I’d weigh so much,” Honey said from behind her own cloud of sugar dust. “I can’t imagine eating like this all the time!”
“You know,” Mart wiped sugar from his lips and took a drink from his bottle of water, “New Orleans is one of the fattest cities in the U.S. So much fried food – and the humidity kind of makes one lethargic…”
When the nine beignets had been devoured by the seven Bob-Whites, it was time for more sightseeing.
“I want to look at t-shirts and maybe get some beads for the twins,” Diana said, turning into one of the dozens of such stores on Bourbon Street. Beads hung on the wall and display towers all over the store. Though purple, green, and gold are the official colors of Mardi Gras, the beads came in every color of the rainbow. Some were plain, some had plastic animals or flowers or lips strung between the beads. Some had one big medallion in the middle. Most professional sports teams were represented, as well as quite a few college football teams. The Bob-Whites had fun picking out beads for friends and family. A few voodoo dolls and different types of hot sauce also made it into their shopping bags.
At the end of Bourbon Street, the gang crossed over to Royal Street. The group mostly window-shopped the antique stores and art galleries as they strolled down Royal.. Finally, they reached Jackson Square which is flanked on one end by St. Louis Cathedral and on the other end by Decatur Street. Around the perimeter of the square many artists and fortunetellers had set up tables and were hawking their wares and services. Brian and Mart steered their sister wide of the palm reader who called out to Trixie.
“Uh-uh,” said Brian. “That gypsy with the fortune in New York caused enough trouble. We’re not letting you anywhere NEAR a fortune teller here. We don’t need a mystery!!”
Crossing Decatur, they walked past the stores of the French Market. Drawn in by the smell of candy, they stopped to buy some freshly made pralines.
Finally, it was time to meet Mr. Frank for dinner. While many of New Orleans’ most famous restaurants stood in the Quarter, the Bob-Whites weren’t dressed for “high-end” eating. So, Mr. Frank had suggested that they meet at a family-owned casual Cajun restaurant called Masparo.
“Did you enjoy your afternoon?” he asked his guests, once they were all seated at a table near a window.
“Oh, yes!” Trixie answered first. “We went on a haunted history tour – it was really cool!”
Honey shivered as she remembered the stories they’d heard, “It was interesting, but sad – and kind of gruesome.”
Mr. Frank nodded, “Yes, our city has quite a history. If you want gruesome, you should hear about some of our politicians!”
After another delicious meal, Mr. Frank suggested that they walk the few blocks to Preservation Hall where they would hear some live local music. As they walked, Dan remarked on the height of the curbs.
“They are rather high,” Mr. Frank agreed, “but that’s because the streets flood so easily here. Since New Orleans is technically below sea level, the ground is very saturated. When it rains, sometimes the sewers have trouble keeping up, so the curbs are high.”
Three hours later a tired, but happy group turned in for the night – the sounds of New Orleans Jazz still ringing in their ears.
The next morning dawned bright, hot, and humid. Trixie scowled at her reflection in the mirror as her curls revolted against that humidity. Deciding she was fighting a losing battle, she finally pulled a brush through her hair and met the rest of the Bob-Whites downstairs.
“What’s on your agenda for today?” Mr. Frank asked his young visitors.
“We really have to get on our way tomorrow, even though we’d love to spend more time here,” Honey answered for the group. “And, there are so very many things we’d really like to see, but if we don’t go on a cemetery tour…”
“I’ll just die!” Trixie finished her best friend’s sentence.
“And, we’d hate to have to explain that to Mr. and Mrs. Belden.” Jim gazed fondly at his co-president.
“Also, we were hoping that we could take you to dinner this evening, as our way of thanking you for your hospitality,” Diana said, tactfully directing attention away from Trixie’s pinking cheeks. “Daddy made us reservations at Commander’s Palace. Luckily, we all packed one nice outfit in case we needed it. Would you please join us?”
It took a couple minutes to confirm all the plans, and then the Bob-Whites headed to St. Louis Cemetery #1 for a tour.
The group spent the next couple hours mesmerized by the tour guide’s stories and the history of the famed New Orleans Cities of the Dead. Standing next to the tomb with the three big Xs on it, Trixie tried as unobtrusively as possible to leave a few coins among the other offerings to the Voodoo Queen. Jim had been keeping an eye on his special girl, and smiled as he watched her dig deeply into the pocket of her favorite jeans, count the change in her hand, and try to determine whether or not forty-seven cents would be considered an insult that would only bring bad luck. Sidling up next to her quietly, Jim added the change from his own pocket to the coins in Trixie’s hand. Glancing up at him, Trixie had the good grace to blush at being caught.
“Hey,” Jim murmured close to Trixie’s ear, “I know I can always use a little extra luck. You and my sister have a way of getting into some dangerous situations, and if Marie Laveau can keep you safe, I’m all for it!”
The rest of the day passed quickly, as the Bob-Whites rode a St. Charles streetcar from the Garden District to the French Quarter and back. Using one of Mart’s many guide books, they took a walking tour of the Garden District, Mart pointing out Anne Rice’s family home, among other interesting residences.
It was a short trip from Dickinson House to Commander’s Palace. Mr. Frank’s driver dropped the friends in front of the green restaurant with the white trim and green and white striped awning. Diana went to the maitre d’ and requested the Lynch table for eight.
“Ah,” he said, smiling at the pretty young lady in front of him. “Your father requested the Chef’s Table for your group, Miss Lynch. Please follow me.” He led the group through the dining room, into the restaurant’s kitchen, where they were seated at two booths facing the busy, controlled chaos of the busy kitchen. They were barely seated when they were greeted by a man dressed in white, wearing the traditional chef’s tall toque on his head.
“Welcome to my kitchen! I’m Chef Tory. My staff and I will be caring for you this evening. You will be having a seven-course meal. If you see something go past, and if it looks like something you would like to try, please don’t hesitate to ask one of us. Do you have a special request for an entrée?”
Eight filet mignon were prepped per Chef Tory’s instruction and the feast began: three mini cups of soup were followed by a prawn appetizer. Oysters prepared three ways were next. Then, a comparison of truffle oils. The first entrée was a small filet of pecan-crusted redfish. The filet mignon was topped with shaved truffles. Finally, the dessert bomb was served. Seven plates, each holding a different dessert, were placed on each table. The plates were slowly passed around the tables and the evening came to an end as the last bite disappeared into Mart’s mouth.
“I take back what I said in Memphis,” Mart said, rubbing his full stomach. “THIS was easily the best meal I have ever been privileged to participate in. I am so happy I may cry tears of joy.”
“I think we need to stop and get your dad something special to thank him for this treat, Di,” Honey smiled at her raven haired friend. “Do you think Chef Tory would autograph a menu for us?”
The Chef happily obliged the request, signing eight menus for each of his dinner guests, and a ninth for the Bob-Whites to take home to Mr. Lynch.
Early the next morning, with promises to keep in touch with their host, the Bob-Whites left New Orleans and headed east.
Notes:
Thank you so much to Jill (franollie) and Ronda (rolyru) for their editing prowess! I really, really (that’s one for each of you!) appreciate you both taking time to read and comment on my stories. Any mistakes herein are mine. My most sincere apologies to Zap for holding up the Road Trip for so long.
Of course, the Bob-Whites do not belong to me. I’m not making any money, etc., etc.
I have been to Graceland and I have eaten at the King’s Palace Café. The food there IS delicious. The information about Graceland was gleaned from a couple places on the Internet. The most helpful being: www.elvis.com.au/presley/biography/elvis_presley_graceland.shtml . The parts of Graceland that are open to the public are the same today as they appeared at the time of Elvis’ death in 1977. So, much of the décor is – for lack of a better word – gawdy. Guests are not allowed on the 2nd floor of Graceland. While Elvis was alive, it was the space for family only.
Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar is where the ghost tour that I took in New Orleans met. For a picture, check www.virtualtourist.com and search on the name of the bar.
Some of the stories related by “Zeke” I’ve got in my memory, but couldn’t find any books or websites to relate the same stories or remind me of the locations. I used the book “ISPR Investigates The Ghosts of New Orleans” by Larry Montz, Ph.D. and Daena Smoller and did a whole lot of googling. I tried very hard to put the stories into my own words. Seriously, this tour was one of the most interesting “touristy” things I did while living in New Orleans. And, our tour guide stated to us what Zeke says in this story – he personally had investigated each of the haunted sites on his tour and felt that the hauntings were legitimate.
Very little is really known about Marie Laveau. It is believed that she was a practitioner of voodoo, but no one can really say for sure. After her husband died, Marie took a lover named Glapion. She had children by him and Glapion is still a very common name in New Orleans. Beside the memories from my own haunted history tour, I found the date of Marie Laveau's death at Wikipedia.
I have also eaten at the Chef’s Table at Commander’s Palace. Of course, being as the Bob-White’s are mostly underage, they did not partake in the seven-courses of wine that my friends and I did. And, there is only one table in the kitchen at Commander’s Palace that seats four. In order for all seven Bob-Whites and Mr. Frank to eat together, I embellished. My apologies to the Brennan family. Also, since it has been quite a few years, I don’t remember the exact courses we had – I know the 1-1-1 soups, the foie gras, the filet mignon, the truffle oils, and the desserts are spot on. In fact, we got an eighth dessert because I mentioned that we didn’t get the pineapple sorbet that was that day’s special dessert. Chef Tory McPhail was the Executive Chef when I ate there, and is still the EC today. My autographed menu is framed and hangs on the wall in my dining room.