The Cottoncrest Curse Read Free Page B

through the large front doors and examined the bloody head lying on the floor at the foot of the stairs. The cut that had severed her neck was cleanly made. There were no ragged edges except below the nape where Bucky had twisted. No ragged lines evidencing a sawing motion. The Colonel Judge had done this in a single stroke.
    How the old man could have held Rebecca, who was almost forty years his junior, while he did the cutting was puzzling. Why didn’t she break free of his grasp? Did she allow the Colonel Judge to do this? What was her final thought?
    Raifer took a rag Jenny had gotten for him and wiped the blood off the face. There was no way to tell what Rebecca had been thinking. Her nose was broken and squashed to one side. One eye was partially out of its socket. When Bucky fell down the stairs, her head had been smashed numerous times, as the bloody blotches on the wall paid witness.
    Raifer walked up the long, curving staircase to examine the headless body on which the Colonel Judge’s body rested. She was wearing a crinoline hoopskirt and double petticoats under a silk brocade dress. Here and there, where the blood had not completely soaked through and turned everything shades of crimson, he could see the color of the fabric. White petticoats. Blue dress. Her left wrist, twisted at an odd angle to the torso, was encircled with a silver bracelet. Her shoes were still laced. The blood had drained from her body, coating the staircase. Her legs, now visible with the hoopskirt askew and the petticoats awry, were a porcelain white, as perfect as if sculpted by the finest artist.
    Raifer shook his head as he climbed up the few remaining steps to the landing. What a tremendous waste. When the Colonel Judge had brought Rebecca home, after their wedding in Philadelphia, he had given the most elaborate reception and feast in her honor—a grand in-fare—the likes of which had never been seen in this part of the state.
    The Colonel Judge had achieved his goal. People came from as far away as New Orleans. Some arrived in their fancy carriages, which required that they make the three-day journey up the River Road on the east bank of the Mississippi River, then take a ferry to the west bank to cross over to Petit Rouge Parish. Others, emerging from their grand staterooms aboard one of the few fashionable paddle wheelers that were still plying the Mississippi, were greeted by Marcus and the other boys at the dock in front of Cottoncrest. No shabby riverboats for these people; they traveled only in the grandest of style, as was befitting the great gathering and their host.
    Handwoven rugs from the Continent, rum from Saint Domingue, wine from France, new silverware from England. All had been brought in, boat by boat, coming from the port in New Orleans. Cattle and pigs had been slaughtered for the feast. Hunters were paid to bring in ducks and deer and turkey. The kitchen staff was not big enough to handle it all. House servants from the neighboring plantations had been lent to Cottoncrest to assist. Elaborate desserts were prepared, from ornate cakes to custards and pies to mousses served in multicolored miniature baskets woven from the candied peels of lemons and oranges. Old Marcus had supervised it all behind the scenes.
    Raifer remembered the evening well. How could he not? It was only four years ago. The staircase and landing were garlanded with roses. The fragrance of flowers and perfume was everywhere. He remembered his first sight of Rebecca, a glittering presence among women dressed in their most elegant attire and wearing their most expensive jewelry. She outshone them all.
    Raifer, whose Sunday best clothes were clearly inferior to the fine tailoring sported by the other guests, had stood in a corner near the front door. He knew he had been invited because of his office as sheriff; otherwise, he would never have been asked by the Colonel Judge to attend. His family background was not grand enough.
    While