DIE TO YOUR OWN TUNE by Rebecca McKinnon The Third Octavia Fields Mystery
It's another musical season at Aerie Pines and while Octavia Fields has arrived later than usual her staff and best friend should know that time is flexible for her. Yet Mairi and Xavier seemed perturbed, Piper seemed miffed, and all three seem to be hiding something! Only Detective Price seems honestly happy to see her. Octavia is in for an unpleasant surprise when violist Tamsin Reed enters her store. A nemesis from her youth, Tamsin hasn't mellowed with age casting aspersions upon Octavia before Octavia throws her out of her shop. Tamsin isn't the only bad penny to show up as Octavia's ex-boyfriend is conducting and he fully believes that Octavia is, not only still his girlfriend, but his fiancée! What could be worse? Maybe finding another dead body.
I absolutely love the Octavia Fields Mystery series and was absolutely delighted by this third entry. A nasty villain who turns out to be the victim, a deluded ex, and a tramp throwing herself at Jake make for some drama! But better than the drama is the humor. Octavia's thoughts kept me laughing and I found myself smiling nonstop as I read this funny mystery that was still heartwarming.
Octavia Fields is an unusual woman who moves to the beat of her own drum... or viola. I love that she accepts who she is and doesn't feel the need to change. What's even better is that Jake not only understands this, but supports her! I was almost as surprised as Octavia when he suggested she help in the investigation and was pleased that she recognized the importance of that acceptance as well as her own limitations. I love their relationship and look forward to watching it grow. I also like how she's finally standing up for herself to her employees-they should be lucky they still have jobs, not only with their attitude, but the fact that financially the shop is still struggling.
With delightful characters, lots of laughs, and an intriguing mystery DIE TO YOUR OWN TUNE is a pitch perfect mystery.
After months of giving into her wanderlust, free-spirited violist Octavia Fields is ready to get back to her Aerie Pines music shop. But she hasn't even had a chance to unpack before running into her teenage nemesis, who's there to solo with the Aerie Peaks Symphony. Things get even more interesting when Octavia learns the conductor is none other than her ex-boyfriend, who seems to think they’re engaged.
After finding her nemesis dead, Octavia jumps barefoot-first into another investigation. But Detective Dreamy isn't about to let her investigate alone — he knows her knack for attracting trouble. And he wants to keep an eye on the ex who’s twisted being separated for a year into an engagement.
When Octavia’s asked to step in as the new soloist, she has to balance investigating with rehearsals. And what should be an honor puts Octavia directly in the spotlight — and possibly the killer's crosshairs. With tension mounting both on stage and off, Octavia realizes someone might be tuning up for an encore performance.
She needs to unmask the killer before the final curtain falls and Octavia takes the deadliest bow of all!
About Rebecca McKinnon
Rebecca McKinnon enjoys playing with her imaginary friends and introducing them to others through her writing. She dreams of living in the middle of nowhere, but has been unable to find an acceptable location that wouldn’t require crossing an ocean.
I'm pleased to welcome Melodie Campbell to Cozy Up With Kathy today. Melodie writes the Merry Widow Murders Mystery series. THE PHARAOH'S CURSE MURDERS is the most recent book in the series and was released yesterday! This is a new series for me, so I'm behind. Following our interview you will find my review of the first book in the series. Stay tuned for reviews of the books that follow!
Kathy: The THE MERRY WIDOW MURDERS takes place at the end of the 1920s. Why choose this time period for your series?
MC: I wanted to focus on a time of optimism for women. In Britain, women had just gotten the vote, and you’ll find this series – and this book in particular – has as its theme, Justice for Women.
This is the book I’ve waited all my life to write, for that reason.
Kathy: Historical mysteries require an extra special brand of research. What's your favorite method to research this time period?
MC: Oh, the research! I read, and read, and read. Most particularly, I read books written in the period, as opposed to simply about the time, for mores and fashions and etiquette. I am also a fan of fashion, and had great fun delving into the fashions of the time, down to the details of individual designers and what was new for the season. (I modeled in my younger years.)
For the ship, I actually stayed on the Queen Mary in Long Beach, to experience living on a ‘between the wars’ ocean liner.
Kathy: The first book in the series, THE MERRY WIDOW MURDERS, finds Lucy Revelstoke, unconventional widow of a young British lord and daughter of a Canadian mobster twice removed, is crossing the Atlantic on a state-of-the-art ocean liner. Have you ever taken a cruise?
MC: Yes! More than one. And I stayed on the Queen Mary as mentioned above. I’m a life-long sailor, and live right on Lake Ontario, forty feet from the shore. As I write this, I’m looking out on the sparkling water, which is one of my greatest loves. I hope readers can feel the ocean, when you read these books.
Kathy: The second book in the series, THE SILENT FILM STAR MURDERS, involves another transatlantic crossing, this time with stars of the silver screen. While not a silent movie fan, I am a huge fan of films of the 1930s and 40s. Do you enjoy films of a certain era?
MC: Oh, we share that! If I was listing my favourite movies, probably The Thin Man would be at the top. And My Man Godfrey, To Have and Have Not, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, Philadelphia Story – Stop me, or I’ll go on forever 😊
Kathy: Your most recent book in the series is THE PHARAOH'S CURSE MURDERS. This time the ship contains teams of rival archaeologists. I love Egyptology and am fascinated by Ancient Egypt. Were you a fan before writing this mystery?
MC: Kathy, I dressed my Barbie dolls up as ancient Egyptian queens! I mummified Ken doll with toilet paper. Yes, I was enthralled with the period growing up, and devoured Elizabeth Peter’s Amelia Peabody novels when they first came out. (You will find an Easter Egg in THE PHARAOH'S CURSE MURDERS about that!) To do it right, I took a 48 week course in Egyptian history just before writing this book. It truly was a labour of love for me.
Kathy: What first drew you to historical mysteries?
MC: First, I love to read them. Second, I had finished a humorous contemporary series about a mob goddaughter who didn’t want to be one, but kept getting pulled back in to bail out her inept family (THE GODDAUGHTER'S REVENGE). A top newspaper book reviewer in Canada said to me, “Why don’t you write about Gina Gallo’s grandmother next?” I loved the idea, but wanted to make it in the 1920s, so that made it her great-grandmother. From the days of prohibition. My own family got their start bootlegging, as it happens <wink>.
Kathy: Do you write in any other genres?
MC: My first series was Romantasy – Rowena Through the Wall. I’ve also written a sci-fi, and two contemporary romances. But most of my books (14) are mysteries. All are humorous, some are downright loopy.
Kathy: Tell us about your series.
MC: I got my start writing stand-up, so all my books are humorous.
The Merry Widow Murders series, Including THE PHARAOH'S CURSE MURDERS:
This series is classic golden-age, fair-play mystery. The Toronto Star compared me to Agatha Christie, and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine said “Christie-meets-Wodehouse.” In 1929, Lady Lucy Revelstoke and her pickpocket-turned-maid Elf are confronted with murder aboard a transatlantic ocean liner, and must solve the crime before the killer strikes one of them!
The Goddaughter Series – including the award-winning THE GODDAUGHTER'S REVENGE:
This series features a mob goddaughter who doesn’t want to be one. But as she tells her boyfriend Pete, “You don’t get to choose your relatives.” The six books are capers, and The Toronto Sun called me Canada’s “Queen of Comedy” because of them.
Kathy:Do you have a favorite character? If so, who and why?
MC: Elf! Lady Lucy Revelstoke’s sidekick. Elf was raised on the streets of New York, can pick anyone’s pocket, and specializes in knife throwing. But best of all, she’s Lucy’s best friend, and I wish she were mine. Elf says all those things out loud that I’m thinking, but would never say.
Kathy: Did you have a specific inspiration for your series?
MC: Oops – I think I already answered that. I do go on…
Kathy: What made you decide to publish your work?
MC: I won my first award at the age of 18. I had 60 short stories published in magazines and anthologies, so I can’t remember a time I wasn’t writing. I moved to writing primarily novels 20 years ago, and was lucky enough to get a traditional publisher right away, probably due to the number of short stories I’d already had published.
Kathy: If you could have a dinner party and invite 4 authors, living or dead, in any genre, who would you invite?
MC: Agatha Christie, top of the list! Mary Stewart, Elizabeth Peters/Barbara Michaels, Douglas Adams.
Kathy: What are you currently reading?
MC: EVERYONE IN MY FAMILY HAS KILLED SOMEONE – by Benjamin Stevenson (an Australian author)
Kathy: Will you share any of your hobbies or interests with us?
MC: Sailing, knitting (I know – don’t those two go together!) Baking, reading, of course. Love animals, especially dogs. I also like cars. My first was a Triumph Spitfire, and my second, a Lotus Europa. I’ve had 2 corvettes, but I love roadsters best.
Kathy: Name 4 items you always have in your fridge or pantry.
MC: Ricotta cheese (I seem to collect husbands with Celtic last names – Campbell/O’Connell- so many readers don’t know I’m Italian, like my protagonists!), real cream for making rose tomato sauce for pasta, homemade raspberry jam, and Asti-Martini or prosecco.
Kathy: Do you have plans for future books either in your current series or a new series?
MC: Yes! I’m just finishing up book 4 in the series, THE KENNEL CLUB MURDERS. (I do love dogs.) My publisher deadline is May, and it will be out April next year.
Kathy: What's your favorite thing about being an author?
MC: The people I’ve met along the way. Readers, book lovers, other writers – at conferences, by email, in person at the author events I do…in cities and small towns. I love being with other book-lovers.
THE MERRY WIDOW MURDERS by Melodie Campbell The First Merry Widow Murders Mystery
A voyage back to England aboard the Victoriana should be a relaxing time for Lady Lucy Revelstoke. A dead body dumped in her stateroom the first evening aboard quite dampened that notion. Was this a personal message, something related to her past, or was her room just a handy location. With her maid and sidekick, Elf, Lucy intends to use the knowledge instilled in her as a youth to track down a cunning killer.
I absolutely adored THE MERRY WIDOW MURDERS. With quick wit, impeccable plotting, and intriguing characters I was completely immersed in this novel. Vivid descriptions made it easy for me to picture myself aboard this luxury ocean liner in 1928.
My favorite part of the first Merry Widow Murders Mystery was the characters, each with an interesting backstory that really fleshed them out. I particularly like the fact that all of the women were strong, intelligent people. No wall flowers here, from minor characters to Lucy and Elf. They can handle themselves and, though it's nice to have a decent chap, it's certainly not necessary. It also goes to show you should never underestimate a woman. The final line found a broad grin on my face!
Embark on a delightful transatlantic voyage in THE MERRY WIDOW MURDERS where mystery, murder, and humor combine to create a captivating start to a wonderful series!
After the loss of three of his five children to yellow fever Tobias
Whitney sold his bookshop and lived in a miasma of grief. Taking a job
as sexton at St. Louis Cemetery No. 2 Tobias tends to the graves,
appreciating the silence and solitude despite the stench of a New
Orleans summer in 1831. Noticing a bow on the nameplate of one of the
mausoleums Tobias intends to repair it, but finds it hollowed out and a
journal inside. Written in French, a language he is unable to read,
Tobias shares his discovery with his wife. With Mary Catherine
translating, the journal tells the story of Jean Lafitte written by his
step-brother Dominique You. Even better than the adventure yarns he
usually reads, Tobias learns that Lafitte did not die when everyone
believed. The journal reveals many secrets about the legendary man, but
will it also lead to treasure?
I found LAFITTE LIVES to be a fascinating and enjoyable read. However, it's not a mystery in the traditional sense. There's not a crime which Tobias sets out to solve. Rather it's an adventure story with mysterious elements. Indeed, most of the mystery isn't faced by Tobias, but rather the readers themselves. The brilliance is that you don't even truly realize all of the mysteries until the very end, when things click and you enjoy several aha moments!
There are two stories at play here, the life of Jean Lafitte and the story of Tobias and Mary Catherine. I really like both of the Whitneys, but especially the spitfire that is Mary Catherine. Smart, caring, with a fiery temper she will fight for her family as she yells at them. She understands the subtleties of human nature and uses that knowledge to help Tobias, in more than just her translations. While her role is much smaller, I also really like Olivia and how Voodoo is portrayed.
An adventure yarn within a historical mystery LAFITTE LIVES combines the facts, legends, and myths of the legendary pirate with the lives of an Irish family in 1830s New Orleans making a tale both thrilling and captivating. Just remember, never trust a pirate.
Secrets can’t stay buried forever—but maybe some should.
In bustling, multicultural 1831 New Orleans, Tobias Whitney, the sexton of St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, uncovers a journal sealed inside the tomb of Dominique You—war hero of the Battle of New Orleans, privateer, and half-brother of the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. Convinced that the journal holds the key to Lafitte’s lost treasure, Tobias turns to his sharp-witted and outspoken wife, Mary Catherine, to translate its cryptic French passages.
Tobias and Mary Catherine discover secrets they could not have imagined—secrets that could change their lives forever. But is it really the truth? As the journal warns, Never trust a pirate!
Lafitte Lives blends meticulous historical research with a page-turning mystery, bringing the legend of Jean Lafitte to life while telling the redemptive story of Tobias's grief and Mary Catherine's quest to help him overcome it.
Praise for Lafitte Lives:
"Lafitte Lives is an incredible, unforgettable adventure from start to finish. Christi Keating Sumich brings history and mystery vividly to life in this expertly crafted novel. A true treasure for any reader." ~ Nicole Beauchamp, author of Haunted French Quarter Hotels
"In August 1831, Tobias Whitney, Sexton—caretaker—of St. Louis Cemetery No. 2 in New Orleans, makes a startling discovery. Hidden in a hollow space in a mausoleum is the diary of Dominique You—half-brother of Jean Lafitte. The diary offers a first-hand account of Lafitte’s life after his reported death in 1823. As the title implies, Lafitte Lives. Find a comfortable seat, grab your favorite beverage, and let your imagination loose as Christi Keating Sumich delivers an engaging tale of the infamous pirate and patriot who may—or may not—have faded into the swamps and bayous of south Louisiana." ~ Michael Rigg, Author of the New Orleans-based medicolegal thriller, Voices of the Elysian Fields
"Lafitte Lives is a ripping good pirate yarn surrounded by a touching story of family heartbreak and healing, all wrapped up in a tantalizing mystery. Steeped in rich period detail, it’s a tale filled with secrets and surprises readers won’t see coming. After all, never trust a pirate!" ~ J.R. Sanders, author of the Shamus Award winning Nate Ross series
The worst part of the job was the smell. A decaying human body releases an oddly distinct scent. It is a horrid mixture of rotting eggs and cabbage, mothballs, feces, and an off-putting garlic-like odor, depending upon the gases released at each stage of decomposition. Being an observant sort of chap, Tobias Whitney was well-versed in the stink of human decay able to discern how far along a body was in the process of decomposition based on the particular aroma the tomb was emitting. It might be a cloying reek or a putrid stench. The time of year was a contributing factor. The hot, humid summer months were the worst. So much rotting flesh in one place combined to produce a nauseating medley of noxious aromas so foul that even Tobias, who spent his days in the cemetery, felt his stomach churn as he inhaled the soupy air.
Tobias had smelled foul odors before, of course. Anyone who lived in New Orleans long enough had. At this time of year, the privy behind his cottage was the stuff of nightmares. A body could get used to almost anything, though. Tobias had taught himself to focus instead on the delicate, honeyed scent of the flowering sweet olive bushes planted in the courtyards of homes all through the Vieux Carré, or the French Quarter as the Americans called it, for the express purpose of making the stench of so many privies in such close proximity more bearable.
Similar aforethought had gone into the landscaping at St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, where Tobias had been sexton for nearly three years. Unfortunately, the ethereal scent of fragrant flowering bushes and trees planted along the perimeter and throughout the cemetery grounds was far too subtle to mask the stink. It invaded his nose and marched its way down to his mouth. He let out a breath he’d been holding and put his sleeve against his nose as he inhaled. He spit to rid himself of the foul taste. Both actions proved futile. It was no wonder. The body interred within the tomb he was cleaning had been laid to rest less than a year before, and the tomb's inhabitant to his right was an even fresher burial.
As sexton, he was responsible for maintaining the cemetery. Some months were busier than others, and August was keeping him at sixes and sevens, between all the yellow fever burials and the rains making a mess of the cemetery pathways. The cemetery had flooded recently, causing the crushed oyster-shell gravel to flow in rivulets between the above-ground tombs and collect in the lowest spot. Unfortunately, the lowest spot was the site of a recently built tomb.
The cemetery consisted mainly of above-ground tombs, whose care kept Tobias busy, though he remained fascinated by the structures. Above-ground burials were the custom here, in part due to the French and Spanish colonists who settled in New Orleans, and for more practical reasons. Guthrie Toups, the octogenarian and retired sexton whom Tobias replaced, had justified the tomb burials in the most colorful fashion.
“These tombs are your bosom friend.” He had waved his gnarled hand about, indicating the structures surrounding him, as he shuffled through the cemetery with Tobias on one of his final days on the job. “Smell like shite in summer but keep the floaters pinned down.” When Tobias failed to comment, Guthrie explained.
“Used to be, I worked at St. Peter Street Cemetery. All those souls went right in the ground. Two times I recall the rainwaters floodin’ the place somethin’ fierce. Coffins poppin’ up like gophers in springtime. Some washed down the street, right up to folks’ houses. When the lids came off, now that was a sight!” A shudder wracked Guthrie’s gaunt frame, rippling through his threadbare coat. “Took us weeks to round up the coffins. And then to find out who belonged where! Can’t put a body back in a hole when you don’t know who he is and which hole is his,” Guthrie shook his head. “Damn shame. You think lookin’ after these tombs is trouble until you gotta put coffins back whence they should never have been disturbed.”
Guthrie, who insisted on being called by his Christian name, had been gone from the cemetery for three years and from the world for two. Technically, he had never actually left St. Louis No. 2. He was enjoying his eternal rest, only one row of tombs over from where Tobias was currently toiling. Tobias considered whether Guthrie’s take on the tradeoff of floaters versus smell was valid. “Shite” seemed far too euphemistic a way to describe what was assailing his senses. Had the souls surrounding him been laid to rest underground, there would be no discernible odor, even in the August heat. However, in addition to being above ground, the vaults in St. Louis No. 2 were not airtight, a necessity since exposure to the elements ensured the bodies would decompose in a timely fashion. Following the bevy of recent rainstorms that Tobias’s wife referred to as “gully washers,” an additional component of stale, stagnant water added to the cemetery effluvium.
"God's teeth!" declared Tobias in frustration, blowing out a breath of putrid air as he gazed at the dispersed gravel and mud piled up along the front and sides of the low-lying tomb. He continued raking, attempting to redistribute the mud-soaked mess along the paths that separated the tombs. It was slow going. The puddles of standing water made the task challenging, and, of course, another drenching rain would produce a similar mess. It was the sort of mindless labor that allowed a person time to think, though Tobias, as of late, preferred not to indulge his brain in aimless wandering. It inevitably led back to dark and painful places. Instead, he compensated by replacing his internal monologue with the voices of others, imagining how they might describe what he was presently seeing. It engaged his mind and allowed him to distance himself from his thoughts. He often remembered the tombs' description, construction, and proper care, as Guthrie had first explained them to him. Even now, he could so vividly recall the old man’s gravelly voice, brittle as the oyster shells underfoot.
“Needed these tombs, the city did. So many coming to New Orleans after Jefferson bought her up, and so many dying here. Nowhere to put a cemetery unless you want to go digging graves in a swamp!” His guffaw had echoed off the tombs.
When Guthrie first began his tutelage, Tobias doubted that he could absorb any new information, so clogged was his brain with other thoughts. Still, the details distracted him. He yearned to learn all he could about the cemetery and the tombs where the bodies rested. He was fascinated, he feared morbidly so, with the amount of sadness one place could contain within its walls. Tobias could sense the pain and loss felt by the loved ones of St. Louis No. 2’s inhabitants, the heaviness of their collective grief threatening to crush him at times. He felt the familiar weight bearing down on him as he looked to his left, at the open tomb whose faceplate had been removed in anticipation of its next occupant, a newly deceased young woman who would be interred there tomorrow. The tomb was empty now, as she would be the first inhabitant.
He took a moment to wipe his brow and allowed himself to be transported back to the first time he had viewed an open tomb.
“‘Nother good thing ‘bout tombs is how many bodies you can stuff inside,” Guthrie had explained.
Tobias had to bend his lanky frame nearly horizontal to match the smaller man’s permanently hunched posture, but by doing so, he could peer into the yawning darkness of the tomb, the unnatural stillness of the space raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
“This one’s a single vault,” Guthrie said. “When the first one of the family dies, we put him in there, coffin an’ all. When the next one goes, that first one gets taken out of the coffin, and what remains of him gets put down in the caveau.” He motioned to the dark, far reaches of the tomb, beyond and below, where the coffin was to be placed. “And so it goes ‘til all the family is holed up in their tomb together. Here’s hopin’ they get along, cuz that’s some close quarters!” Guthrie punctuated this with a cackle and a bony elbow to Tobias’s ribs.
Guthrie’s litany of anecdotes and explanations encompassed nearly every inch of St. Louis No. 2, including the perimeter walls of the cemetery itself, comprised of stacked tombs that Guthrie had told him were called ovens.
“Cuz they look like ovens put one atop the other, and they heat up the bodies faster than cookin’ ‘em. That’s a good thing when you need to get a lot of bodies buried all at once.”
Guthrie’s mood had turned somber, the smile leaving his face. “I can remember stacking bodies up in ‘24 and ‘25 when Yellow Jack came for so many, and there was nary a place to put ‘em. Brought ‘em to the cemetery by the cartload and dumped ‘em right outside the cemetery gates, they did. Left those poor souls rotting in the sun, spreading their miasma over the city like a damned blanket. Least these ovens do the trick!”
The thought of yellow fever victims drew an involuntary shiver from Tobias, even this day, in the summer heat. Guthrie’s voice in Tobias’s head was sometimes the only company he had, not that he was complaining. Tobias craved solitude and was thankful to have this job. It paid a decent wage, enough for his family to live simply but comfortably, and perhaps best of all, it allowed him time to read.
He looked wistfully at his favorite reading bench, positioned in a particularly serene spot deep within the cemetery. The only sounds were the cooing of doves and the whining buzz of cicadas, so incessant this time of year as to become background noise. He felt the book’s weight in his pocket, ever-present and beckoning him to take a break. His vision blurred. He wiped the sweat from his forehead yet again to prevent more of it from dripping into his eyes. He yearned to lose himself, if only for an hour or so, in the all-absorbing action-adventure stories he loved so dearly. For the past few years, escaping from the world had become necessary for his survival. Strange, he often mused, that spending his days surrounded by the dead would be the only way he could cope with the living. Strange, but understandable, given what happened to him three years ago.
With a stubborn shake of his head, he said aloud, though no one else was around, “Not ‘til I put this tomb to rights.” Most families who owned vaults cared for them or paid the cemetery to perform the maintenance, which at the very least required replastering and whitewashing the brick from time to time. Even though the cemetery was relatively new, consecrated only eight years ago, he could already see the ravages the subtropical climate wreaked on those tombs without a caretaker to maintain them.
“Orphan tombs, these ones are,” Guthrie had said of the tombs left to crumble. “Got no livin’ kin to care for ‘em.” He had shaken his head, the wiry gray hairs swaying with the movement. “A whole family gone and no one to remember them.”
Tobias considered Guthrie’s words as worked this day. As he raked, he looked over his shoulder at one such orphan tomb and read aloud the inscriptions on the faceplate, “Constance Bulwark, born 1770, died 1824. Faithful wife, loving mother. ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’ Jeremiah Longstreet, born 1758, died 1827. Honest in labor, kind in spirit. May his soul rest in peace.” To preserve the dignity of the inhabitants within, he cleaned and made minor repairs to the orphan tombs, though it was technically beyond the purview of his duties. “You’ll not be forgotten,” he assured them before turning his attention to the task at hand.
The tomb before him was not an orphan, as the cemetery was contracted to maintain it, but it might as well have been. Its inhabitant had received no visitors since he was laid to rest. Still, this particular tomb had intrigued Tobias since its construction last November. Like most in St. Louis No. 2, it was brick. While not as extravagant as some tombs Tobias had seen, he found the elevated parapet facade aesthetically pleasing in a simple, elegant way. However, the feature that most fascinated him was the nameplate commemorating the occupant, Dominique You. You was a Freemason, as such, his tomb sported the square and compass symbol prominently carved into the top of the marble nameplate. Below the name was an inscription in French. Tobias was Irish and could not discern the writing, but he knew from the accounts he had read in the papers that the inscription was from Voltaire’s La Henriade:
Intrepid warrior on land and sea
in a hundred combats showed his valor.
This new Bayard without reproach or fear
Could have witnessed the ending of the world without trembling.
Dominique You was an infamous privateer and, some say, the half-brother of the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. Tobias had read all about the adventures of the two buccaneer brothers in the weekly broadsheets he purchased. Lafitte had been killed in 1823, the same year St. Louis No. 2 opened. But while Lafitte’s whereabouts in the years before his death remained a mystery, Dominique You had lived out his final years in New Orleans, keeping a tavern and serving on the city council. He may have been a privateer, but he was also a war hero, having served valiantly as a gunner in the Battle of New Orleans, warding off a British invasion of the city by commanding a company of artillery composed of fellow pirates.
Stories about Dominique You and Jean Lafitte were legendary around New Orleans and made the adventure novels Tobias read pale in comparison. Tobias vividly recalled his excitement when Dominique You was buried right in front of where he was now standing. Although You died in a state of penury, the people of New Orleans did not forget his heroism. He was given a lavish funeral at the Cathedral of St. Louis, with full military honors, the likes of which the city had seldom seen. Throngs of mourners had followed the coffin to the cemetery. As the sexton, Tobias had been there to witness it all.
Many brought flowers to lay on his tomb, chrysanthemums or early-blooming camellias. Others brought magnolia leaves, fashioned into wreaths or dried herbs tied into bouquets with bits of ribbon or string. There were also rosaries, little vials of holy water, candles, and voodoo tokens left on You’s tomb. The mourners were as varied as the offerings they brought, well-dressed gentlefolk alongside the more common sort. They were all here for the same reason: to pay their respects to the man who helped save the city from the British fifteen years before.
Tobias had caught snippets of conversations all around the tomb. One, in particular, stayed with him. A group of rough-looking men, ill at ease in their mourning attire, had gathered at You’s tomb.
One of the men said, “Sailed with him, I did. No finer man you'd want at your side when things turned hairy. I’d trust him with my life."
"As would I," his mate agreed. "Fought beside him, too. Best cannoneer I ever saw. That’s why the general said he’d storm the gates of hell with Dominique as his lieutenant!”
Tobias had been particularly impressed with this, considering General Andrew Jackson was now president of the United States. He watched as they poured a slug of rum next to the tomb. It soaked into the gravel, leaving the scent of molasses and cloves lingering in the air like a final tribute. Tobias wondered with a shudder if these men were pirates themselves.
He’d had little time to dwell on it, as a Mason engaged him in conversation shortly after Tobias overheard this exchange. The man donned a fine wool suit, well cut and fashionable, with a frock coat that gracefully skimmed the back of the knees of his trousers. Tobias usually donned a working man’s attire for his days in the cemetery, loose-fitting tweed trousers and a jacket, although on this day, he donned a suit. It was one he used to wear as a shop owner before he became a cemetery sexton, though now he donned it only for Sunday Mass. His wife, Mary Catherine, would have his hide if he showed up to work on the day of an interment of such prominence in anything less. Tobias felt rather nattily clad until he beheld the sartorial superiority of the man. Despite their difference in clothing, the Freemason was eager to engage Tobias in conversation, and Tobias found this agreeable.
Funny how he spoke to almost no one these days, save his family and his close friend, the proprietor of his beloved bookshop, Chapter and Verse. Yet within the walls of the cemetery, he came back to life, if only for a short time. He felt at home here as much as he did in his cottage on Bienville Street. Though he knew precisely why this was, he found it a disconcerting aspect of his personality that he was more comfortable with mourners than with those unaffected by death.
“Not a business in New Orleans stayed open today. Everyone’s here to pay their respects,” the man told Tobias. “I suppose you heard the cannons fired for him?”
Tobias assured him that he had, and added that he’d also noticed the flags flown at half-mast.
The Mason nodded.
“He was a proud man, Dominique You.” The man seemed uneasy in the cemetery, as Tobias found most people to be. He suspected the Mason’s attempts to converse stemmed from a compelling need to fill the silence. Tobias noticed the man’s unconscious fidgeting with the intricately designed collar that nestled just below the tie on his starched white linen shirt, the adornment an indicator of his status among the Brotherhood. He spoke with a French accent, and his eyes told the story of a man who accepted the inevitable tribulations of life while still finding joy in living. Tobias was immediately envious of him.
“Had not a penny to his name at the end but did not tell a soul of his troubles.” The man gazed wistfully at Dominique’s tomb.
Tobias would have left him to his thoughts, but he continued. “We would have come to his aid, I can assure you of that. But Dominique was never one for charity. Tough old sailors rarely are. At least we could honor him in this way.” With a tip of his top hat by his white-gloved hand, the man moved on, presumably finding Tobias too taciturn.
Yet for all the military fanfare and grandeur surrounding the funeral, now, a mere nine months later, the tomb lay quiet. Tobias had seen no visitors at the tomb since that day. Dominique You had never married, and although he had been a rather upstanding citizen in the twilight of his life, he did not appear to have close friends, at least not that Tobias had seen. Close friends visited a grave from time to time, but not even his brothers from the Masonic lodge had come. And those had been the folks most upset by his death, at least if public grieving was any indication. Then again, Tobias had seen a lot of grief in his tenure at the cemetery, and it had been his observation that even members of the sterner sex could make an enormous fuss over the coffin and then never come back.
The people who looked the most distraught, as if they did not care to go on living, usually got over it by morning. It was the ones who never took their eyes off the coffin, even as it made its way into the vault, that you could be sure would put flowers there for years. Real grief was mostly invisible. It consumed a person from within, leaving only an outer shell that appeared to the world as a whole being, but was hollow inside. Tobias ought to know. He recognized it in others because he was just a shell himself.
Tobias wondered once again why the Freemasons had chosen this spot for You’s tomb. It seemed a poor location in the cemetery to build a tomb, but it was not Tobias’s place to say so. It was kind of the Freemasons to construct it for their brother, even if they had decreed it was to be sold in fifty years. This stipulation did not surprise him, as he knew people sometimes purchased tombs this way. The odd part to him was that an entire tomb would be dedicated to only one person when many held multiple family members.
Tobias would have thought a single man with no surviving family, and one who did not have much money, would not need a whole tomb to himself. But perhaps his contribution as a war hero had moved some hearts to loosen their purse strings and fund this stand-alone vault. This was a monument to Captain Dominique You, and Tobias would do his part to honor his memory by mucking out the mess around the man’s final resting place.
He finished raking the gravel around the front, repositioning it as best he could amid the puddles that stubbornly lingered even with the scorching August sun. Now he moved to the side of the tomb, where the ground was slightly lower, causing even more water to pool. He could not do much else until the water drained, which might take a while in New Orleans. In the meantime, he could wipe away some of the mud that had splashed onto the tomb from the rainstorm. He pulled a clean rag out of his pocket and decided to concentrate on the nameplate on the front of the tomb.
It was then that Tobias noticed the oddest thing—the marble plate was not flush against the bricks. Tobias chided himself for not observing this before, but as he studied it closely, he realized that it appeared to be placed properly from the front. It was not until he looked from the side that he could see the marble stone was bowing. This was indeed curious, as he himself had placed the outer tablet. As sexton, it was part of his duties to affix the plate upon the bricks after the body was interred and the tomb bricked up.
He had seen marble bow when exposed to extreme heat, but thick nameplates typically did not deform so quickly. It was a blessing in disguise that the rain, which would inevitably flood the cemetery in the summer months, had necessitated him spending time around this tomb, allowing him to observe it more closely. Had the Freemasons chosen a more optimal spot to place the tomb, it might have been many years before he had noticed this subpar workmanship. And since the inhabitant had no living family members, it might not have been until the fifty years were up and the sexton opened the tomb for a new burial that the faulty nameplate was discovered.
But surely, he would have noticed if something was amiss with the marble. He leaned in for a closer inspection and blinked rapidly. He thought perhaps it was a trick of the bright sunshine, but as he stared at the marble slab, he discerned a hairline fracture running the length of the stone. Dominique had been interred less than a year ago. This nameplate should not display such signs of degradation. Had he somehow damaged the stone when bolting the nameplate onto the brick vault? Utterly perplexed, Tobias pondered what he should do. He was exceedingly curious whether his workmanship was to blame for the bowing and cracking or if it was a defect in the stone itself.
He knew he should probably wait until he had help, but his inquisitive nature got the best of him, and he rushed off to retrieve his wrench. Removing the large bolts holding the nameplate in place would not be an easy job to perform by himself. He half-expected that he would not be able to loosen them at all, but was relieved and more than a bit surprised to find them coming loose without even having to apply heat. He knew the stone would be too heavy to maneuver on his own, but he planned to slide it down to the ground once it was free from the brick on the front of the vault. With less effort than should have been required for such an undertaking, Tobias freed the marble slab and eased it down about a foot until it rested upright against the tomb. To conduct a proper inspection, he would need to see the back of the slab. The stone was indeed heavy and should have been cumbersome for two men to handle, yet Tobias was able, with some difficulty, to lay the slab on the ground so that the back was visible.
He instantly understood why he was able to maneuver it unassisted. The back of the marble had been carved out, and the stone, too thin in the center to withstand the intense heat, had bowed as a result. The thinned-out stone also accounted for the hairline fracture Tobias had noticed. This nameplate was not the solid, thick slab he had affixed to Dominique’s vault nine months ago. The slab had been altered and reattached, unbeknownst to him. Tobias did not need to ponder why someone had done this because nestled within the carved-out space was a book.
***
Excerpt from Lafitte Lives by Christi Sumich. Copyright 2026 by Christi Sumich. Reproduced with permission from Christi Sumich. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Christi Keating Sumich holds a PhD in history from Tulane University and a master’s degree in English. Her research field is seventeenth-century disease and healing.
Christi’s writing combines her fascination with history with her love of the mystery genre. Her debut novel, Lafitte Lives (Level Best Books, March 2026), is a historical mystery centered on her ancestor, the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. She is also the author of the Old New Orleans Bookshop Series, mysteries featuring characters from Lafitte Lives. The Swamp Ghost is the first book in the series (Level Best Books, September 2026).
Christi is also part of a writing team with her mother, Sharon Keating. They are the co-authors of Hauntingly Good Spirits: New Orleans Cocktails to Die For (Wellfleet Press, 2024) and The Brandy Milk Punch (Louisiana State University Press, 2025), part of the Iconic New Orleans Cocktail Series.
I'm currently reading Lafitte Lives by Christi Keating Sumich. This historical mystery was released earlier this year.
After the loss of three of his five children to yellow fever Tobias Whitney sold his bookshop and lived in a miasma of grief. Taking a job as sexton at St. Louis Cemetery No. 2 Tobias tends to the graves, appreciating the silence and solitude despite the stench of a New Orleans summer in 1831. Noticing a bow on the nameplate of one of the mausoleums Tobias intends to repair it, but finds it hollowed out and a journal inside. Written in French, a language he is unable to read, Tobias shares his discovery with his wife. With Mary Catherine translating the journal tells the story of Jean Lafitte, written by his step-brother Dominique You. Even better than the adventure yarns he usually reads, Tobias learns that Lafitte did not die when everyone believed. The journal reveals many secrets about the legendary man, but will it also lead to treasure?
I'm pleased to welcome Christi Sumich to Cozy Up With Kathy today. Christi's latest release is LAFITTE LIVES.
Kathy: LAFITTE LIVES tells the story of Tobias Whitney and his wife Mary Catherine who discover the journal of Dominique You—war hero of the Battle of New Orleans, privateer, and half-brother of the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. Do you keep a journal?
CS: Sort of—I keep a running commentary in my head of what I’m doing and how I’m feeling. (It’s weird, but I’ve always done it, so it comes naturally now.) I did keep a physical diary when I was younger. I should probably go back and read it sometime. The last time I glanced at it, I remember thinking it was the cringiest thing I had ever read.
Kathy: Tobias believes the journal holds the key to Lafitte’s lost treasure. Have you ever gone treasure hunting?
CS: Only if you count searching for shells on the beach!
Kathy: Historical mysteries require an extra special brand of research. What's your favorite method to research this time period?
CS: I have a PhD in history, so the research component is critically important to me. When I began researching Jean Lafitte, it quickly became apparent that Lafitte scholars disagree on even the most basic aspects of his life, such as where he was born, when he was born, and when he died. I read the scholars who disagreed most vehemently about his life and juxtaposed their accounts to decide which I wanted to go with. This is where writing fiction feels freeing because I can pick and choose the accounts that best help me tell the story I want to tell.
Kathy: Before writing this novel did you know a lot about Lafitte? Was there anything in your research that really surprised you?
CS: I did. It’s hard to grow up in New Orleans without knowing about Jean Lafitte. There are streets, bars, hotels, and towns named after him. Plus, according to family legend, Lafitte is an ancestor. My mother’s grandmother was a Saint Amant and owned land in Barataria, supposedly land inherited from Captain Jean Lafitte, through an illegitimate branch of the family.
I also grew up with documents written by Jean Lafitte hanging up in my parents’ house. My paternal grandfather had done some business in London and was repaid with papers written by Jean Lafitte, which he gave to his daughter-in-law (my mother) because of her supposed connection to the man. My parents had them framed and hung them on the wall in our dining room. When I asked about them, my parents told me they were “a legal contract to do something illegal.” The papers delineated the terms and conditions under which one of his privateering captains could commandeer ships. They outlined in meticulous detail what would happen and how the spoils would be divided, leaving nothing to chance.
Those papers were in the background of my life as I was growing up. They were written in French, so I couldn't understand them, but I can still picture his signature and the date, 1805. They came to symbolize mystery and adventure for me.
What surprised me the most about my research was the lack of consensus about his life. I have come to the conclusion that, as a privateer, it was in his best interest to have the details of his life remain murky. As a character says in the book, his name is his treasure, and he does not wish to share it. Jean Lafitte did an excellent job guarding that particular treasure.
Kathy: What first drew you to historical mysteries?
CS: I absolutely love history. I think it’s fascinating, which is why I decided to become a historian. I also think the way history is presented can make all the difference in engendering a love of history in others. I’ve always approached teaching history with this idea in mind. To me, novels are magic—they transport us to another time and place. Historical mysteries combine the elements I most love about reading and history. We get to glimpse another era and see the world from a completely different perspective. There’s something about that perspective shift that actually changes the way we view our own loves and the time period we are living in. Did I mention it’s magical? On top of that, we get to solve a mystery! It’s the perfect genre.
Kathy: Do you write in any other genres?
CS: Yes! In addition to my scholarly work, I have written two cocktail history books with my mom. Hauntingly Good Spirits: New Orleans Cocktails to Die For (Wellfleet Press, August 2024) and The Brandy Milk Punch (Louisiana State University Press, March 2025), part of the Iconic New Orleans Cocktail Series. They are both New Orleans-themed. We had so much fun researching and writing them!
Kathy: Tell us about your book.
CS: In 1831 New Orleans, Tobias Whitney, the sexton of St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, uncovers a journal sealed inside the tomb of Dominique You—war hero of the Battle of New Orleans, privateer, and half-brother of the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. Convinced that the journal holds the key to Lafitte’s lost treasure, Tobias turns to his sharp-witted and outspoken wife, Mary Catherine, to translate its cryptic French passages. Tobias and Mary Catherine discover secrets they could not have imagined—secrets that could change their lives forever. But is it really the truth? As the journal warns, Never trust a pirate!
Do you have a favorite character? If so, who and why?
CS: I feel like I should say no, because it’s like picking a favorite child, but I do. It’s Mary Catherine Whitney. I really loved writing her. She's spunky, but she has heart. (And for the record, I do not have a favorite child, although I admit to liking one better than the others depending upon the day.)
Kathy: Did you have a specific inspiration for your series?
CS: Those mysterious Lafitte papers hanging in my parents’ dining room were my inspiration. When I wrote LAFITTE LIVES, I intended it to be a standalone. After I finished it, I couldn't shake the sensation that I wasn't done with the characters. I guess it would be fair to say that Mary Catherine inspired the Old New Orleans Bookshop Mysteries. They take place immediately after the conclusion of LAFITTE LIVES and focus on Mary Catherine and her mystery-solving abilities. The first one is THE SWAMP GHOST. It will be released in September.
Kathy: What made you decide to publish your work?
CS: After my mother and I wrote our cocktail books, I wanted to try my hand at fiction. I always knew I would try the traditionally published route because it was the only path to publication I had experience with. I wanted to get my story out to as many people who might enjoy it as I could. Had I not found a publisher, I would have self-published it. I was determined it would not live on my computer forever!
Kathy: If you could have a dinner party and invite 4 authors, living or dead, in any genre, who would you invite?
CS: I’m a huge Faulkner fan, so he would be on my list. I don't care much for Hemingway's work, but I think he would be fun at a party, so he could come. Then I would say Anne Rice, so we could chat about New Orleans. Finally, Theodor Seuss Geisel (Dr. Seuss), because he’s iconic, and I could thank him in person for writing GREEN EGGS AND HAM. It’s the book that taught me how to read. I memorized the story, then matched the words in my head to the ones on the pages.
Kathy: What are you currently reading?
CS: I just read PENDERGAST: THE BEGINNING by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. I love the series! I am very late to the party, but I just read REMARKABLY BRIGHT CREATURES. It blew me away.
Kathy: Will you share any of your hobbies or interests with us?
CS: Besides reading, I love to travel. Exploring a new place, learning its history, and seeing the world from a new perspective are so appealing to me. But I'm an enigma, because I’m also a homebody. I love a family game night or an afternoon in the pool with my favorite people.
Kathy: Name 4 items you always have in your fridge or pantry.
CS: Eggs, tortillas, berries, coffee
Kathy: Do you have plans for future books?
CS: Absolutely! I’ve finished THE SWAMP GHOST and am working on the third book in the Old New Orleans Bookshop Mysteries. In addition to those, I have written the first in a series of paranormal culinary cozy mysteries with my mom. They are set in modern-day New Orleans, but each has a historical element (that’s the paranormal part). I’ve really enjoyed writing the humor and including recipes. We have an agent for that series, so we’re not sure who will publish it or when it will come out, but we are working on books two and three right now.
Kathy: What's your favorite thing about being an author?
CS: Working from my chair in the living room or, when the weather is nice, on my back porch, with my two dogs and my cat cuddled up next to me. I love writing. I suppose it may get tedious at some point, but I look forward to opening my laptop and getting to work. I’m still amazed at the stories and characters that come out of my head. Transforming a blank Google Doc into a novel is nothing short of magic. I am so grateful to be given the chance to do it!
Secrets can’t stay buried forever—but maybe some should.
In bustling, multicultural 1831 New Orleans, Tobias Whitney, the sexton of St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, uncovers a journal sealed inside the tomb of Dominique You—war hero of the Battle of New Orleans, privateer, and half-brother of the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. Convinced that the journal holds the key to Lafitte’s lost treasure, Tobias turns to his sharp-witted and outspoken wife, Mary Catherine, to translate its cryptic French passages.
Tobias and Mary Catherine discover secrets they could not have imagined—secrets that could change their lives forever. But is it really the truth? As the journal warns, Never trust a pirate!
Lafitte Lives blends meticulous historical research with a page-turning mystery, bringing the legend of Jean Lafitte to life while telling the redemptive story of Tobias's grief and Mary Catherine's quest to help him overcome it.
Praise for Lafitte Lives:
"Lafitte Lives is an incredible, unforgettable adventure from start to finish. Christi Keating Sumich brings history and mystery vividly to life in this expertly crafted novel. A true treasure for any reader." ~ Nicole Beauchamp, author of Haunted French Quarter Hotels
"In August 1831, Tobias Whitney, Sexton—caretaker—of St. Louis Cemetery No. 2 in New Orleans, makes a startling discovery. Hidden in a hollow space in a mausoleum is the diary of Dominique You—half-brother of Jean Lafitte. The diary offers a first-hand account of Lafitte’s life after his reported death in 1823. As the title implies, Lafitte Lives. Find a comfortable seat, grab your favorite beverage, and let your imagination loose as Christi Keating Sumich delivers an engaging tale of the infamous pirate and patriot who may—or may not—have faded into the swamps and bayous of south Louisiana." ~ Michael Rigg, Author of the New Orleans-based medicolegal thriller, Voices of the Elysian Fields
"Lafitte Lives is a ripping good pirate yarn surrounded by a touching story of family heartbreak and healing, all wrapped up in a tantalizing mystery. Steeped in rich period detail, it’s a tale filled with secrets and surprises readers won’t see coming. After all, never trust a pirate!" ~ J.R. Sanders, author of the Shamus Award winning Nate Ross series
The worst part of the job was the smell. A decaying human body releases an oddly distinct scent. It is a horrid mixture of rotting eggs and cabbage, mothballs, feces, and an off-putting garlic-like odor, depending upon the gases released at each stage of decomposition. Being an observant sort of chap, Tobias Whitney was well-versed in the stink of human decay able to discern how far along a body was in the process of decomposition based on the particular aroma the tomb was emitting. It might be a cloying reek or a putrid stench. The time of year was a contributing factor. The hot, humid summer months were the worst. So much rotting flesh in one place combined to produce a nauseating medley of noxious aromas so foul that even Tobias, who spent his days in the cemetery, felt his stomach churn as he inhaled the soupy air.
Tobias had smelled foul odors before, of course. Anyone who lived in New Orleans long enough had. At this time of year, the privy behind his cottage was the stuff of nightmares. A body could get used to almost anything, though. Tobias had taught himself to focus instead on the delicate, honeyed scent of the flowering sweet olive bushes planted in the courtyards of homes all through the Vieux Carré, or the French Quarter as the Americans called it, for the express purpose of making the stench of so many privies in such close proximity more bearable.
Similar aforethought had gone into the landscaping at St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, where Tobias had been sexton for nearly three years. Unfortunately, the ethereal scent of fragrant flowering bushes and trees planted along the perimeter and throughout the cemetery grounds was far too subtle to mask the stink. It invaded his nose and marched its way down to his mouth. He let out a breath he’d been holding and put his sleeve against his nose as he inhaled. He spit to rid himself of the foul taste. Both actions proved futile. It was no wonder. The body interred within the tomb he was cleaning had been laid to rest less than a year before, and the tomb's inhabitant to his right was an even fresher burial.
As sexton, he was responsible for maintaining the cemetery. Some months were busier than others, and August was keeping him at sixes and sevens, between all the yellow fever burials and the rains making a mess of the cemetery pathways. The cemetery had flooded recently, causing the crushed oyster-shell gravel to flow in rivulets between the above-ground tombs and collect in the lowest spot. Unfortunately, the lowest spot was the site of a recently built tomb.
The cemetery consisted mainly of above-ground tombs, whose care kept Tobias busy, though he remained fascinated by the structures. Above-ground burials were the custom here, in part due to the French and Spanish colonists who settled in New Orleans, and for more practical reasons. Guthrie Toups, the octogenarian and retired sexton whom Tobias replaced, had justified the tomb burials in the most colorful fashion.
“These tombs are your bosom friend.” He had waved his gnarled hand about, indicating the structures surrounding him, as he shuffled through the cemetery with Tobias on one of his final days on the job. “Smell like shite in summer but keep the floaters pinned down.” When Tobias failed to comment, Guthrie explained.
“Used to be, I worked at St. Peter Street Cemetery. All those souls went right in the ground. Two times I recall the rainwaters floodin’ the place somethin’ fierce. Coffins poppin’ up like gophers in springtime. Some washed down the street, right up to folks’ houses. When the lids came off, now that was a sight!” A shudder wracked Guthrie’s gaunt frame, rippling through his threadbare coat. “Took us weeks to round up the coffins. And then to find out who belonged where! Can’t put a body back in a hole when you don’t know who he is and which hole is his,” Guthrie shook his head. “Damn shame. You think lookin’ after these tombs is trouble until you gotta put coffins back whence they should never have been disturbed.”
Guthrie, who insisted on being called by his Christian name, had been gone from the cemetery for three years and from the world for two. Technically, he had never actually left St. Louis No. 2. He was enjoying his eternal rest, only one row of tombs over from where Tobias was currently toiling. Tobias considered whether Guthrie’s take on the tradeoff of floaters versus smell was valid. “Shite” seemed far too euphemistic a way to describe what was assailing his senses. Had the souls surrounding him been laid to rest underground, there would be no discernible odor, even in the August heat. However, in addition to being above ground, the vaults in St. Louis No. 2 were not airtight, a necessity since exposure to the elements ensured the bodies would decompose in a timely fashion. Following the bevy of recent rainstorms that Tobias’s wife referred to as “gully washers,” an additional component of stale, stagnant water added to the cemetery effluvium.
"God's teeth!" declared Tobias in frustration, blowing out a breath of putrid air as he gazed at the dispersed gravel and mud piled up along the front and sides of the low-lying tomb. He continued raking, attempting to redistribute the mud-soaked mess along the paths that separated the tombs. It was slow going. The puddles of standing water made the task challenging, and, of course, another drenching rain would produce a similar mess. It was the sort of mindless labor that allowed a person time to think, though Tobias, as of late, preferred not to indulge his brain in aimless wandering. It inevitably led back to dark and painful places. Instead, he compensated by replacing his internal monologue with the voices of others, imagining how they might describe what he was presently seeing. It engaged his mind and allowed him to distance himself from his thoughts. He often remembered the tombs' description, construction, and proper care, as Guthrie had first explained them to him. Even now, he could so vividly recall the old man’s gravelly voice, brittle as the oyster shells underfoot.
“Needed these tombs, the city did. So many coming to New Orleans after Jefferson bought her up, and so many dying here. Nowhere to put a cemetery unless you want to go digging graves in a swamp!” His guffaw had echoed off the tombs.
When Guthrie first began his tutelage, Tobias doubted that he could absorb any new information, so clogged was his brain with other thoughts. Still, the details distracted him. He yearned to learn all he could about the cemetery and the tombs where the bodies rested. He was fascinated, he feared morbidly so, with the amount of sadness one place could contain within its walls. Tobias could sense the pain and loss felt by the loved ones of St. Louis No. 2’s inhabitants, the heaviness of their collective grief threatening to crush him at times. He felt the familiar weight bearing down on him as he looked to his left, at the open tomb whose faceplate had been removed in anticipation of its next occupant, a newly deceased young woman who would be interred there tomorrow. The tomb was empty now, as she would be the first inhabitant.
He took a moment to wipe his brow and allowed himself to be transported back to the first time he had viewed an open tomb.
“‘Nother good thing ‘bout tombs is how many bodies you can stuff inside,” Guthrie had explained.
Tobias had to bend his lanky frame nearly horizontal to match the smaller man’s permanently hunched posture, but by doing so, he could peer into the yawning darkness of the tomb, the unnatural stillness of the space raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
“This one’s a single vault,” Guthrie said. “When the first one of the family dies, we put him in there, coffin an’ all. When the next one goes, that first one gets taken out of the coffin, and what remains of him gets put down in the caveau.” He motioned to the dark, far reaches of the tomb, beyond and below, where the coffin was to be placed. “And so it goes ‘til all the family is holed up in their tomb together. Here’s hopin’ they get along, cuz that’s some close quarters!” Guthrie punctuated this with a cackle and a bony elbow to Tobias’s ribs.
Guthrie’s litany of anecdotes and explanations encompassed nearly every inch of St. Louis No. 2, including the perimeter walls of the cemetery itself, comprised of stacked tombs that Guthrie had told him were called ovens.
“Cuz they look like ovens put one atop the other, and they heat up the bodies faster than cookin’ ‘em. That’s a good thing when you need to get a lot of bodies buried all at once.”
Guthrie’s mood had turned somber, the smile leaving his face. “I can remember stacking bodies up in ‘24 and ‘25 when Yellow Jack came for so many, and there was nary a place to put ‘em. Brought ‘em to the cemetery by the cartload and dumped ‘em right outside the cemetery gates, they did. Left those poor souls rotting in the sun, spreading their miasma over the city like a damned blanket. Least these ovens do the trick!”
The thought of yellow fever victims drew an involuntary shiver from Tobias, even this day, in the summer heat. Guthrie’s voice in Tobias’s head was sometimes the only company he had, not that he was complaining. Tobias craved solitude and was thankful to have this job. It paid a decent wage, enough for his family to live simply but comfortably, and perhaps best of all, it allowed him time to read.
He looked wistfully at his favorite reading bench, positioned in a particularly serene spot deep within the cemetery. The only sounds were the cooing of doves and the whining buzz of cicadas, so incessant this time of year as to become background noise. He felt the book’s weight in his pocket, ever-present and beckoning him to take a break. His vision blurred. He wiped the sweat from his forehead yet again to prevent more of it from dripping into his eyes. He yearned to lose himself, if only for an hour or so, in the all-absorbing action-adventure stories he loved so dearly. For the past few years, escaping from the world had become necessary for his survival. Strange, he often mused, that spending his days surrounded by the dead would be the only way he could cope with the living. Strange, but understandable, given what happened to him three years ago.
With a stubborn shake of his head, he said aloud, though no one else was around, “Not ‘til I put this tomb to rights.” Most families who owned vaults cared for them or paid the cemetery to perform the maintenance, which at the very least required replastering and whitewashing the brick from time to time. Even though the cemetery was relatively new, consecrated only eight years ago, he could already see the ravages the subtropical climate wreaked on those tombs without a caretaker to maintain them.
“Orphan tombs, these ones are,” Guthrie had said of the tombs left to crumble. “Got no livin’ kin to care for ‘em.” He had shaken his head, the wiry gray hairs swaying with the movement. “A whole family gone and no one to remember them.”
Tobias considered Guthrie’s words as worked this day. As he raked, he looked over his shoulder at one such orphan tomb and read aloud the inscriptions on the faceplate, “Constance Bulwark, born 1770, died 1824. Faithful wife, loving mother. ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’ Jeremiah Longstreet, born 1758, died 1827. Honest in labor, kind in spirit. May his soul rest in peace.” To preserve the dignity of the inhabitants within, he cleaned and made minor repairs to the orphan tombs, though it was technically beyond the purview of his duties. “You’ll not be forgotten,” he assured them before turning his attention to the task at hand.
The tomb before him was not an orphan, as the cemetery was contracted to maintain it, but it might as well have been. Its inhabitant had received no visitors since he was laid to rest. Still, this particular tomb had intrigued Tobias since its construction last November. Like most in St. Louis No. 2, it was brick. While not as extravagant as some tombs Tobias had seen, he found the elevated parapet facade aesthetically pleasing in a simple, elegant way. However, the feature that most fascinated him was the nameplate commemorating the occupant, Dominique You. You was a Freemason, as such, his tomb sported the square and compass symbol prominently carved into the top of the marble nameplate. Below the name was an inscription in French. Tobias was Irish and could not discern the writing, but he knew from the accounts he had read in the papers that the inscription was from Voltaire’s La Henriade:
Intrepid warrior on land and sea
in a hundred combats showed his valor.
This new Bayard without reproach or fear
Could have witnessed the ending of the world without trembling.
Dominique You was an infamous privateer and, some say, the half-brother of the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. Tobias had read all about the adventures of the two buccaneer brothers in the weekly broadsheets he purchased. Lafitte had been killed in 1823, the same year St. Louis No. 2 opened. But while Lafitte’s whereabouts in the years before his death remained a mystery, Dominique You had lived out his final years in New Orleans, keeping a tavern and serving on the city council. He may have been a privateer, but he was also a war hero, having served valiantly as a gunner in the Battle of New Orleans, warding off a British invasion of the city by commanding a company of artillery composed of fellow pirates.
Stories about Dominique You and Jean Lafitte were legendary around New Orleans and made the adventure novels Tobias read pale in comparison. Tobias vividly recalled his excitement when Dominique You was buried right in front of where he was now standing. Although You died in a state of penury, the people of New Orleans did not forget his heroism. He was given a lavish funeral at the Cathedral of St. Louis, with full military honors, the likes of which the city had seldom seen. Throngs of mourners had followed the coffin to the cemetery. As the sexton, Tobias had been there to witness it all.
Many brought flowers to lay on his tomb, chrysanthemums or early-blooming camellias. Others brought magnolia leaves, fashioned into wreaths or dried herbs tied into bouquets with bits of ribbon or string. There were also rosaries, little vials of holy water, candles, and voodoo tokens left on You’s tomb. The mourners were as varied as the offerings they brought, well-dressed gentlefolk alongside the more common sort. They were all here for the same reason: to pay their respects to the man who helped save the city from the British fifteen years before.
Tobias had caught snippets of conversations all around the tomb. One, in particular, stayed with him. A group of rough-looking men, ill at ease in their mourning attire, had gathered at You’s tomb.
One of the men said, “Sailed with him, I did. No finer man you'd want at your side when things turned hairy. I’d trust him with my life."
"As would I," his mate agreed. "Fought beside him, too. Best cannoneer I ever saw. That’s why the general said he’d storm the gates of hell with Dominique as his lieutenant!”
Tobias had been particularly impressed with this, considering General Andrew Jackson was now president of the United States. He watched as they poured a slug of rum next to the tomb. It soaked into the gravel, leaving the scent of molasses and cloves lingering in the air like a final tribute. Tobias wondered with a shudder if these men were pirates themselves.
He’d had little time to dwell on it, as a Mason engaged him in conversation shortly after Tobias overheard this exchange. The man donned a fine wool suit, well cut and fashionable, with a frock coat that gracefully skimmed the back of the knees of his trousers. Tobias usually donned a working man’s attire for his days in the cemetery, loose-fitting tweed trousers and a jacket, although on this day, he donned a suit. It was one he used to wear as a shop owner before he became a cemetery sexton, though now he donned it only for Sunday Mass. His wife, Mary Catherine, would have his hide if he showed up to work on the day of an interment of such prominence in anything less. Tobias felt rather nattily clad until he beheld the sartorial superiority of the man. Despite their difference in clothing, the Freemason was eager to engage Tobias in conversation, and Tobias found this agreeable.
Funny how he spoke to almost no one these days, save his family and his close friend, the proprietor of his beloved bookshop, Chapter and Verse. Yet within the walls of the cemetery, he came back to life, if only for a short time. He felt at home here as much as he did in his cottage on Bienville Street. Though he knew precisely why this was, he found it a disconcerting aspect of his personality that he was more comfortable with mourners than with those unaffected by death.
“Not a business in New Orleans stayed open today. Everyone’s here to pay their respects,” the man told Tobias. “I suppose you heard the cannons fired for him?”
Tobias assured him that he had, and added that he’d also noticed the flags flown at half-mast.
The Mason nodded.
“He was a proud man, Dominique You.” The man seemed uneasy in the cemetery, as Tobias found most people to be. He suspected the Mason’s attempts to converse stemmed from a compelling need to fill the silence. Tobias noticed the man’s unconscious fidgeting with the intricately designed collar that nestled just below the tie on his starched white linen shirt, the adornment an indicator of his status among the Brotherhood. He spoke with a French accent, and his eyes told the story of a man who accepted the inevitable tribulations of life while still finding joy in living. Tobias was immediately envious of him.
“Had not a penny to his name at the end but did not tell a soul of his troubles.” The man gazed wistfully at Dominique’s tomb.
Tobias would have left him to his thoughts, but he continued. “We would have come to his aid, I can assure you of that. But Dominique was never one for charity. Tough old sailors rarely are. At least we could honor him in this way.” With a tip of his top hat by his white-gloved hand, the man moved on, presumably finding Tobias too taciturn.
Yet for all the military fanfare and grandeur surrounding the funeral, now, a mere nine months later, the tomb lay quiet. Tobias had seen no visitors at the tomb since that day. Dominique You had never married, and although he had been a rather upstanding citizen in the twilight of his life, he did not appear to have close friends, at least not that Tobias had seen. Close friends visited a grave from time to time, but not even his brothers from the Masonic lodge had come. And those had been the folks most upset by his death, at least if public grieving was any indication. Then again, Tobias had seen a lot of grief in his tenure at the cemetery, and it had been his observation that even members of the sterner sex could make an enormous fuss over the coffin and then never come back.
The people who looked the most distraught, as if they did not care to go on living, usually got over it by morning. It was the ones who never took their eyes off the coffin, even as it made its way into the vault, that you could be sure would put flowers there for years. Real grief was mostly invisible. It consumed a person from within, leaving only an outer shell that appeared to the world as a whole being, but was hollow inside. Tobias ought to know. He recognized it in others because he was just a shell himself.
Tobias wondered once again why the Freemasons had chosen this spot for You’s tomb. It seemed a poor location in the cemetery to build a tomb, but it was not Tobias’s place to say so. It was kind of the Freemasons to construct it for their brother, even if they had decreed it was to be sold in fifty years. This stipulation did not surprise him, as he knew people sometimes purchased tombs this way. The odd part to him was that an entire tomb would be dedicated to only one person when many held multiple family members.
Tobias would have thought a single man with no surviving family, and one who did not have much money, would not need a whole tomb to himself. But perhaps his contribution as a war hero had moved some hearts to loosen their purse strings and fund this stand-alone vault. This was a monument to Captain Dominique You, and Tobias would do his part to honor his memory by mucking out the mess around the man’s final resting place.
He finished raking the gravel around the front, repositioning it as best he could amid the puddles that stubbornly lingered even with the scorching August sun. Now he moved to the side of the tomb, where the ground was slightly lower, causing even more water to pool. He could not do much else until the water drained, which might take a while in New Orleans. In the meantime, he could wipe away some of the mud that had splashed onto the tomb from the rainstorm. He pulled a clean rag out of his pocket and decided to concentrate on the nameplate on the front of the tomb.
It was then that Tobias noticed the oddest thing—the marble plate was not flush against the bricks. Tobias chided himself for not observing this before, but as he studied it closely, he realized that it appeared to be placed properly from the front. It was not until he looked from the side that he could see the marble stone was bowing. This was indeed curious, as he himself had placed the outer tablet. As sexton, it was part of his duties to affix the plate upon the bricks after the body was interred and the tomb bricked up.
He had seen marble bow when exposed to extreme heat, but thick nameplates typically did not deform so quickly. It was a blessing in disguise that the rain, which would inevitably flood the cemetery in the summer months, had necessitated him spending time around this tomb, allowing him to observe it more closely. Had the Freemasons chosen a more optimal spot to place the tomb, it might have been many years before he had noticed this subpar workmanship. And since the inhabitant had no living family members, it might not have been until the fifty years were up and the sexton opened the tomb for a new burial that the faulty nameplate was discovered.
But surely, he would have noticed if something was amiss with the marble. He leaned in for a closer inspection and blinked rapidly. He thought perhaps it was a trick of the bright sunshine, but as he stared at the marble slab, he discerned a hairline fracture running the length of the stone. Dominique had been interred less than a year ago. This nameplate should not display such signs of degradation. Had he somehow damaged the stone when bolting the nameplate onto the brick vault? Utterly perplexed, Tobias pondered what he should do. He was exceedingly curious whether his workmanship was to blame for the bowing and cracking or if it was a defect in the stone itself.
He knew he should probably wait until he had help, but his inquisitive nature got the best of him, and he rushed off to retrieve his wrench. Removing the large bolts holding the nameplate in place would not be an easy job to perform by himself. He half-expected that he would not be able to loosen them at all, but was relieved and more than a bit surprised to find them coming loose without even having to apply heat. He knew the stone would be too heavy to maneuver on his own, but he planned to slide it down to the ground once it was free from the brick on the front of the vault. With less effort than should have been required for such an undertaking, Tobias freed the marble slab and eased it down about a foot until it rested upright against the tomb. To conduct a proper inspection, he would need to see the back of the slab. The stone was indeed heavy and should have been cumbersome for two men to handle, yet Tobias was able, with some difficulty, to lay the slab on the ground so that the back was visible.
He instantly understood why he was able to maneuver it unassisted. The back of the marble had been carved out, and the stone, too thin in the center to withstand the intense heat, had bowed as a result. The thinned-out stone also accounted for the hairline fracture Tobias had noticed. This nameplate was not the solid, thick slab he had affixed to Dominique’s vault nine months ago. The slab had been altered and reattached, unbeknownst to him. Tobias did not need to ponder why someone had done this because nestled within the carved-out space was a book.
***
Excerpt from Lafitte Lives by Christi Sumich. Copyright 2026 by Christi Sumich. Reproduced with permission from Christi Sumich. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Christi Keating Sumich holds a PhD in history from Tulane University and a master’s degree in English. Her research field is seventeenth-century disease and healing.
Christi’s writing combines her fascination with history with her love of the mystery genre. Her debut novel, Lafitte Lives (Level Best Books, March 2026), is a historical mystery centered on her ancestor, the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. She is also the author of the Old New Orleans Bookshop Series, mysteries featuring characters from Lafitte Lives. The Swamp Ghost is the first book in the series (Level Best Books, September 2026).
Christi is also part of a writing team with her mother, Sharon Keating. They are the co-authors of Hauntingly Good Spirits: New Orleans Cocktails to Die For (Wellfleet Press, 2024) and The Brandy Milk Punch (Louisiana State University Press, 2025), part of the Iconic New Orleans Cocktail Series.
