The Cottoncrest Curse

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Authors: Michael H. Rubin

BOOK: The Cottoncrest Curse
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the
cottoncrest
curse

the
cottoncrest
curse

A NOVEL

Michael H. Rubin

LOUISIANA STATE UNIVERSITY PRESS
BATON ROUGE

Published by Louisiana State University Press
Copyright © 2014 by Michael H. Rubin
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
First printing

Designer: Laura Roubique Gleason
Typeface: Whitman
Printer and binder: Maple Press

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Rubin, Michael H., 1950–
   The Cottoncrest curse : a novel / Michael H. Rubin.
       pages   cm
  ISBN 978-0-8071-5618-6 (hardcover : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-8071-5619-3 (pdf) — ISBN 978-0-8071-5620-9 (epub) — ISBN 978-0-8071-5621-6 (mobi) 1. Curses—Fiction. 2. Prophecies—Fiction. 3. Historic buildings—Louisiana— Fiction. 4. Murder—Fiction. I. Title.

    PS3618.U297C68 2014
    813'.6—dc23

2013041472

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

To Ayan,

whose love, creativity, and support
make this book (and everything else) possible

Contents

Acknowledgments

PROLOGUE

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

PART II

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

PART III

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

PART IV

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

PART V

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

PART VI

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

PART VII

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

PART VIII

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

PART IX

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

PART X

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

PART XI

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

PART XII

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

PART XIII

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

PART XIV

Chapter 94

Acknowledgments

Many people have given me guidance and encouragement. Marc Staen berg's continuing enthusiasm and assistance have been invaluable, Michael Adams read early drafts of the manuscript and gave many helpful comments, and the late Les Phillabaum's confidence in the novel buoyed me. Special thanks to Frank Maraist and Brenda Bertrand for their assistance with Cajun French phrases and to Rabbi Harold Robinson and Dr. David Ackerman, Director of the Mandel Center for Jewish Education, for their assistance with the Hebrew and Yiddish. I appreciate all of their advice, and any errors that remain, whether in En glish, French, Hebrew, or Yiddish, are purely my own.

But most of all, I cannot acknowledge enough the contributions of my wife, Ayan. She worked on and refined the characters and plot lines with me in the daily discussions we had during our many, many early-morning walks, she tirelessly edited and reedited every draft, and she devised the name of the novel. This book is the result of her efforts as much as my own.

the
cottoncrest
curse

PROLOGUE

Today

Nobody blanched as she described the gruesome event. They were captivated.

“It happened right up here,” said the docent, a thick-waisted woman in an antebellum costume complete with lace collar, crinoline skirt, and double petticoats. The tour group, which had been wilting while standing outside Cottoncrest in the intense Louisiana heat and humidity, gratefully jammed into the wide hallway that ran through the center of the massive plantation home.

The docent signaled to the tourists to follow her as she ascended the curved interior staircase. “The main house has been restored—y'all come up single file, please—has been restored to how it looked in the 1890s, when Colonel Judge Augustine Chastaine, the son of the original owner, lived here.”

The docent paused, her back to the wall, carefully avoiding an area near the banister. “This is what y'all came to see, right here. Where the most notorious murder-suicide in Louisiana occurred. One step below where I'm standing. As you come up the stairs behind me, look… but don't walk… on these Plexiglas panels. This is where the Colonel Judge brutally slit the throat of his beautiful young wife, Rebecca, and then took his own life. Their intermingled blood soaked the wood, permanently discoloring it. Think of the tremendous amount of blood there must have been!

“But the deaths of Augustine and Rebecca Chastaine weren't the start of the famous Cottoncrest curse. And they weren't the end of it either.”

1893

He had just finished cutting her throat. He had done it so swiftly that she hadn't had time to make a sound. With pleasure he had felt his long blade slice through the muscles of her neck and throat, scrape against her spine, and cut into the bone. He was still holding her from behind as her head flopped backward onto his shoulder, coating his shirt with blood.

He let her body slide onto the stairs from the landing as the blood poured out of her once-beautiful neck. Her head, held onto her body only by a bit of spine and a few shreds of flesh, fell to one side and, with a thud, hit one of the fluted white balusters that held up the handrail. Her dark hair became a sullen red sponge. Her blue dress turned crimson. The steps became bloody pools.

He paused to admire his handiwork in the blue moonlight glow that filtered in through an upper window. He lit a match and checked his shoes to make sure there was no blood on them. His shirt was soaked with Rebecca's blood, but his shoes were clean.

He let the knife slide from his grasp and fall beside her body. It clattered as it hit the staircase. Then he reached for his pistol.

Jenny did not dare open the door leading into the central hallway at the foot of the stairs. Although it was dark, she did not want to light a candle. Not yet. In the hallway outside the door, the glow might be seen through the gap between the bottom of the door and the wooden floor.

Her heart was pounding. She had heard the noise clearly. A gunshot.

Jenny had been at the foot of Little Miss's bed, checking on her. Little Miss was sleeping soundly, oblivious to everything, as only the very young and very old can be when they retreat to their interior world. The gunshot did not disturb Little Miss.

Jenny pressed her ear against the door. Though she thought she had heard muffled noises after the gunshot, she could have been mistaken. There was silence now, broken only by the sound of crickets drifting in through the late-night air. It was almost as quiet as the meals that the Colonel Judge and Rebecca shared, where the only sounds were the clinking of silverware on porcelain plates. For the last few months, the Colonel Judge and Rebecca seemed to speak to each other only when absolutely necessary. They were like two wary creatures forced to coexist in the same cage.

No noise at all came from the hallway. Not the rustling of Rebecca's white linen petticoats or the delicate clicking of her narrow shoes on the wooden floor. Not the tapping of the Colonel Judge's cane as he limped along.

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