"May a man live well-enough and long-enough, to leave many joyful widows behind him."- Roman Payne, "Cities And Countries"

19 décembre 1795
Firenze, Italie

Dearest Journal-Friend,

Today is a day of great joy in a life that has brought me little. Last night, la Madame Royale Marie-Thérèse was given her freedom. She is seventeen years of age now, only a small bit younger than me and so I feel as if I can understand her. People say that when she was told of the fate of her family, she wept and cried so hysterically that she collapsed to the ground and could not walk. Maman would not have approved, even if to some, she is now the honourable Reine de France. She survived only because she agreed never to seek such a title. Like me, she is to be handed off in marriage to a nobleman who supported le diable Robespierre and his people. At least, she will be given to one who pretends to do so.

I feel pity and sadness for her. She is the only one left and that only because of her age and usefulness as a bargaining chip. They murdered her family as they murdered mine and now she shall be condemned to the same fate. Madame Royale is a pious and intelligent girl, not any great beauty but with the same lovely blue eyes as her Maman--and mine, too. 

My eyes, they are darker and more intense, blue like a roaring ocean. Perhaps it is because I do not fall to the the ground and weep and cry. The last I did, it is the last ever. Now,  I do not feel sadness. I feel anger.

I wish to tell Madame Royale, if I could, the only reason we survived when no one else did is because we are useful. Men should never admit this. Instead, they should say they took pity and mercy on innocent young women. This is not so. There was no pity, no mercy. They took our families, our homes, our children, our titles, even our honour because we are of the age where we are too young for power and old enough to be bartered for power.

They need the next generation of those who will give birth to sons brought up to believe it is a sin to claim their rightful names, lands, and titles. Now that we have nothing, we are given survival as a reward for cooperation.

My brother Michel still lives because he too is le diable, a turncoat who should sell his own soul for his money and his life. He renounces our family name and title, calls our parents traitors, pretends to believe we all deserve our fates--even me, though I had so little choice in mine. I was simply the sacrifice he made.

No one told me what marriage was. I had to put on a pretense of innocence to satisfy my husband on our wedding night, and yet I was so much more innocent than I was led to believe. I do not know how men can look distinguished and yet be filled with depravity. I prayed for a husband who should be old and impotent and ignore me, and that he mostly does. Yet, he demands children. When his body does not react as it should, he beats me, ties me to things, sometimes makes it so there is an exec utioner's mask upon my face. It is only this and not beauty or desire that pleases him. I have learned that if I scream and plead, it is all over faster.

If he is angry that I did not please him enough, there is a cage. No one is ever meant to know about that. When Romano grows tired of beating me, he tells me I am ugly and undesirable and should never have children if I cannot make a proper wife. He puts me in the cage and commands I watch what he does to other young women who come to visit his chambers.

He likes them better because they do not know, and they cry properly. They do not fight back, and their eyes are not so angry.

I do not think I could harm a child before it is not yet a child, as I hear some women do. I think it is less of a sin to make certain one is never created. One of the ladies, a kind woman called Emilia, she has slipped me potions that go into my drink that ensure I shall never have a child with the monster. If he believes me barren, he may send me home.

The world needs no more devils.

All I ever think of is freedom, but freedom is not enough. I shall end my life by ending his, and then my brother, who knew the sort of man to whom he was giving me and felt nothing. Should I survive, I want only to these men dead. When the world is rid of devils in the skins of men of honour, I shall give myself to death freely.

There is no freedom. We are the only ones left, young women and powerless men who once had everything and serve as an example of such a sin. We are puppets with no homes and no families and no place in the world except where we are told.

I was told Romano would be my freedom, my protector, my redemption. Instead, I am learning every sort of depravity and weakness that runs through a man's corrupted soul. 

They say the war is over now, but non. For me, it is not. It will be over when I learn to kill and destroy as men do.

This is what I should tell Madame Royale, as rumours already fly that she is to marry the son of her father's traitorous brother. Although, the sins of a father do not lie at the son's feet, and perhaps he is kind and lost and alone and unhappy, as we all are. 

We are all that is left, yet no one cares for us.

Your most desperately angry and eternally loving,

Eleni

November 1st, 2015
Aubrey Parish, Louisiana

It was always the widows that were the hardest to take.

It was the wives, the mothers, the stoic matriarchs and tearful ingenues that threatened to break past the stony facade.

Especially if they had children, the reactions always ranged from shock and hysterics to a need to immediately protect the little ones. Some simply fainted dead away. The most difficult ones shook their heads, called him a liar, and tossed him out into the rain.

Colton Ormond had been the Chief Of Police in Aubrey Parish for well over two decades, though no one called him anything but Sheriff. During that time, he'd seen more than his fair share of dead bodies and paid too many condolence calls. It was usually a distressed woman with wide-eyed children looking at him in panic, wondering when Papa would be coming home.

He didn't even need to open his lips before they knew he never would. The mere presence of the Sheriff at the door spoke volumes.

Every so often, he'd see the dirty clothes, the black eyes, the bruises and stench of booze half-heartedly covered up with lemon-scented Pledge and Febreze. Colton would look into the eyes of the little faces too young to be stoic. He'd see only the flash of relief and the way the new widow pulled them tight.

Colton never went back to follow up on those. It was a dangerous town and accidents happened so close to the bayou. Sometimes, men just had a way of disappearing.

Other times, the dead seemed to want to shout to the world. Even from the grave, some had no intention of going away quietly. People often died the way they lived, Colton noticed. No one at the Red Question made a reputation for living quietly.

That's why, when he got the call to come to the red building by the waterfront, Colton assumed there was no way anyone or anything would be disappearing. He'd taken his time getting there. Deep down, there was nothing there he wanted to see. He knew what the building was as well as anyone in the city, and had even been there once or twice.

It was red, questions were discouraged, and dead men told no tales.

The Sheriff had hired a deputy, and they were the strangest team if there ever was one. While Colton was tough but soft-hearted, a man who'd seen a lot but never stopped caring, Brian Tibideaux was a wide-eyed innocent.

A young and energetic boy raised by a loving family without much else to give, he eagerly headed to the seminary in New Orleans. Brian planned to become a man of God, come back to the Parish to lead the church one day. Even the best-laid plans went awry, and when it came down to the choice, Brian did what he thought was the right thing. He put family before God, returning to care for his ailing mother.

Zia Tibideaux was a sweet woman, one dealt a rough hand by the lottery that was life. There were a lot of that type in Aubrey Parish, though Brian reminded them all how the meek and humble were blessed. It was the souls like Zia Tibideaux that would inherit the Earth, though not in this lifetime. Widowed by the age of 35, she got the news just before her 42nd birthday. The reason she'd been forgetful and anxious wasn't the impending change of life she'd been dreading. It was an inoperable tumour in the center of her brain, one of those random strokes of luck that made it unlikely that Zia Tibideaux would live to celebrate her 43rd birthday.

Brian hid his tears on the bus all the way home. It was hard to say it was the will of God without secretly thinking God's will sucked. Brian felt guilty, but wondered if maybe he would have been a terrible priest after all.

Colton Ormond had known Zia Tibideaux for longer than he could remember. While the Sheriff wasn't the marrying kind, he wasn't even close to wanting to live like a priest. The pretty young widow gave him comfort and consolation, and a few other things besides. When Zia told him the news, he held her throughout the night. He didn't even bother to hide his tears on the long walk home, a rainy morning much like this one.

It was always the widows that were the hardest to take.

When Brian came back to the Parish to look after his mother, Colton did the decent thing. He helped find a nurse to look in on Zia during the day and offered her son a job. It may not have been the situation either man planned on, but Brian checked all the boxes, at least on paper. He was smart, fair, and knew how to shoot a pistol.

Brian still talked about becoming a priest, finishing his studies. Over time, he stopped talking. Both men knew that would be after. The after was something that hurt too much to think about. Instead, Brian focused on being the best Deputy he could possibly be. He wanted his mother, his boss, and his God to be proud of him.

Before either of them knew it, Colton warmed up and started treating Brian like a son. At first, he thought it was the least he could do, being nice to Zia's boy. It still hadn't occurred to him that he meant it.

As always, Brian was punctual and organized in a way that would have pleased the military. Everything about the young man was always simple, neat, and clean. Chaos bothered him and when things were in order, the world made sense to him. Order was safety and the world offered so little. As soon as he saw Colton stroll up, a factual and almost excited tone took over. He rapidly filled the Sheriff in without so much as a "Hello".

"Deceased is Victor Sergei Zenkova, 48, owner of the Red Question Bar & Club. It's supposedly a jazz club. I asked some questions and from what people told me, it's not the place you'd take your date on a Friday night if she were any kind of decent God-fearing person."

Colton's eyes flip over in the back of his head. He liked Brian, but it would be nice to get through a conversation without mention of God or church. Stepping forward, he watched the medical examiner's team take samples from the man, lower half covered modestly with a black sheet. It was Victor Zenkova's dramatic send-off, 250 people crowded around the body with umbrellas in the pouring rain.

"How long you lived here now, Brian? Of course it ain't the jazz club." A hearty chuckle leaves the Sheriff. "We've known about Victor for years. Decent enough guy for what he was, that's all I can say. Locked him up a few times for minor infractions, but he always had friends in high places. Looks like someone decided he made a better enemy."

Colton shakes his head, almost in regret. It was a waste of a life. Despite what most would think, the Sheriff knew Victor had a strange sense of honour. The man was loyal, took care of his family, treated people well when they deserved it. Sure, Victor Zenkova was born a criminal and died one. His kind of life was all he knew. Victor never pretended to be anything he wasn't and never wanted to be anything else. He was old-school Mafia; blood in, blood out. "You run his sheet? What finally got him?"

"We checked out his sheet. He had a few outstanding warrants for misdemeanors, nothing concerning enough that anyone would bother coming to get him. Aside from that, he appears to have been a model citizen and business owner here for the last twenty-three years." Brian looks at the man with pity. "Throat was slit from ear to ear, valuables missing. I doubt he ever saw it coming. It was a merciful death, God be praised."

"Ain't no such thing as a merciful murder." Colton chuckles, popping a piece of wintergreen gum in his mouth before extending it to the younger man. "Victor was no upstanding citizen, neither. Don't you go gettin' that idea. He was a Russian mafioso set up shop here a long time ago, just tryin' to do business without gettin' himself killed. He thought the city needed a strip club. That made some money, so he thought the city needed a brothel. Made his fortune the old-fashioned way, bein' the entrepreneurial type. His business was pimpin' out teenage runaways, girls in trouble needin' a way out, boys who couldn't handle the drugs and and the gamblin' debts. Every single one of them would swear Victor Zenkova was their lord and savior, no offense meant." The Sheriff clicks his tongue, idly thinking. "Wonder if the place will finally close down now."

Brian's face falls at the story. He wanted to think the best of the world, but this job made it hard sometimes. "That's the strange thing. The deceased was planning to get married. He had an engagement ring, and changed his will so the future Mrs. Zenkova would inherit mostly everything. Asked around, half the town saw him with a beautiful young woman in furs and enough jewels to buy another building."

Colton's belly shook in response to the information, and he laughed so hard that his face turned red as a tomato. He fought not to swallow his gum. "The only problem with that, Brian, is the current Mrs. Zenkova would object. She don't live here, but ain't never divorced him. She raised the kids away from that life. Mira's a nice little suburban housewife in New Jersey, New York, one of the New places. He made it so she was always taken care of by the family business."  There's a moment more of unabashed laughter at the crime scene. People are often ridiculous, at least in Colton's eyes. "So who's the floozy who believed the papers and the ring were real?"

Eyes almost popping out of his head, Brian looks at the file. "Paperwork is legit, notarized and all. The girl showed up here out of the blue from New Orleans, no one really knew why. The way she pulled up in a limousine and the Parish bent over backwards to build her a house, you'd think she's a celebrity. I guess that explains it. A gangster's mistress isn't understated, right?"

"You run her sheet, find out who the hell we're dealing with?"

"Sir--no disrespect, but language like that.."

"I know, I know. You want me to believe in a place called Hell but I ain't allowed to say it." Colton grabs the paperwork, shaking his head. "I'll be damn---darned. This is for real. Eleni Madeleine Denimore somehow conned an already-married Russian gangster into marrying her. Girl's got to be good at something. It's not like Victor was an easy mark. Run her sheet, if we can get any fu--freaking reception at this place. Do people expect the body to up and do something?"

Brian studies his iPhone, turning in weird little circles to get more bars. "I think this is who you're looking for. Eleni Madeleine Denimore, 23, from New Orleans, Louisiana. But, Sir--"

"What's her story? She got warrants and decided to hide out here, or just a co-worker of the family?"

"Neither. Sir, but I know who she is. I might have been in the seminary up in N'awlins, but I'm not dead." Brian's face turns beet red. "Just meaning to say, you don't forget some ladies so easy. The name isn't common either. " He fiddles with his phone, sweat on his brow, even in the rain. "I'm going to make sure it's the same girl I'm remembering."

Colton gives the younger man a laugh and a pat on the back. In his way of thinking, God had done young Brian a favour, rescuing him from a life of poverty and celibacy. Colton wasn't any younger than Victor Zenkova, racing toward 50. He wouldn't have that many years left on the job, maybe five if he was lucky. If he could get the church out of the boy, Brian would be a good Sheriff one day. "Even future priests got fantasies, boy. Who is she? I'm guessin' you didn't see her runnin' no church bake sale."

Brian's shade of red deepened from tomato to sauce. "I remember her because her husband was a politician. Everyone back in N'awlins loved him, thought he might be gov'ner of this fine state one day. She had a different name back then. See here?" Brian reads off the caption from a newspaper article, complete with photo. "Eleonore Madeleine Leveau, wife of the late Hugo Jackson Leveau, speaking at a memorial service in his honour."

Colton leans in to look at the photo and article. "Yeah, right pretty thing. I could see her not bein' the forgettin' kind. Too skinny and too young for the likes of me, though. Come to think of it, kind of young for a politician's wife. What's his story? She related to that witch woman they all love up there?"

Brian shakes his head. "Not her, but the husband was. Great-grandson or something of that nature. Poor lady, marries an honest and respectable man, falling in love young and everyone up there still gossips. People were always wondering if she killed him, on account of the age difference. People talk way too much." Brian was one of those people who talked. Fortunately, God didn't consider gossip much of a sin.

"Hugo Jackson Leveau, judge and future Mayor of the city of New Orleans, died unexpectedly on February 27th, 2014. He is survived by his wife Eleonore (Denimore) Leveau and two children from a previous marriage, Annabelle Giroux  and Jacob Leveau. He was 53." Brian reads aloud, making a hmm-ing sound. "Death was ruled an accident. I remember that story. He set his office on fire with a cigar when he fell asleep on a pile of legal briefs."

Colton fiddles with a lighter, before flipping it back into his pocket. He'd quit smoking the day he got the news about Zia. "All these named with vowels and x's. Never get me to understand how anyone in the Big Easy manages to talk. Any particular reason the town thought the widow did it?"

Brian's face looks thoughtful as he puts away his phone. "He was wealthy, but she didn't get so much to kill over, so I never did understand the rumours. Judge left the wife a nice sum of money, a manor in the Garden District, and the rest went to his kids and the city of New Orleans. She was already a well-known socialite, debutante set and all, so don't think she ever needed the money. It's a shame. They were ordinary, respectable people."

Colton guffaws, and slaps the boy on the back, harder this time. "Anytime a man marries a girl the same age as his daughter, there's talk. Not sayin' it's right, but they stop becomin' respectable people and just a story. Common enough, though. So what's a girl like that doin' hangin' round a strip club with a mobster creep like Victor Zenkova? Think she knew?"

The younger man shook his head. He knew this game. Colton would give a puzzle and Brian would try to solve it, like playing Clue without the board. "Seems more likely she was targeted. The story was all over the place. Someone who was not a good person would chase after the pretty young widow, propose, act like they'd get married and live happily ever after. He'd sign his papers, she'd sign hers, and she'd end up dead before the wedding. He'd get everything that way."

Colton's face beams with pride. "Good man. Now you're thinking like a cop and not a priest. A man dies, you check out the wife, the ex-wife, and the business associates--in that order. Chances are, one of them did it." The Sheriff shakes his head. "We gotta call Mira Zenkova, tell her the news. We also gotta to let this society lady know she's a widow again before she ever got married. Some mugger probably saved her life."

The young man's eyes gaze out at the sea of umbrellas. "All these people, here for a guy like that. Something's wrong with the world, isn't t? Now the wife of a conservative N'awlins judge owns a strip club. God's plan works in mysterious ways."

"Son, sometimes, God is just an architect who ain't got his blueprints straight." The Sheriff chuckles, avoiding the look he knows is on Brian's face. "I'll give Mira a call. It's a lot of years I've heard nothing but good things about her. You track down the mystery socialite, let her know the good news. Probably easier comin' from someone who knew who she was back home."

"Sir--I don't know what to say to a lady about something like this."

"Like I always say, the widows are the hardest to take. Fortunately, this one's got some experience." There's a wink in Colton's voice as he gives one last look to Victor Zenkova, an era ended. It was all going by so fast, the rivers of time, taking everyone with it. Victor, Zia, Colton, Mira, even that popular judge with the pretty wife; age hadn't treated any of them kindly.

"Is there going to be an investigation? This looks like a high-profile case."  Brian's mind thought back to his phone in his pocket. He wanted to study the picture of Eleni again, though he didn't know why. It wasn't going to make the assignment easier.

"Doubt it. The Parish don't like high-profile much. You know how it is here, we keep our dirty laundry in the closet. Sometimes, it's easier to ask who wouldn't want a man dead than who would." Colton Ormond shakes his head one last time at the distraught corpse of the former club owner. In the end, whoever you are, people all end up the same. "Give your best to your mama for me, hear?"

Colton didn't wait for a reply from the boy, just strolled off toward the precinct. Men like Colton didn't have the luxury of having a mid-life crisis, but damned if it wasn't all just sad.