“Again, we didn’t know she’d been interred here. Our client thinks she saw a ghost, and now Casey will know who the spirit was,” Jared said and winked.
Casey glanced at her watch again, disturbed that they were making light of such a tragic death. People died every day, of course, but it was just that...Lena Marceau had left a baby behind. And her husband had died just the year before.
It didn’t seem fair or right. And it didn’t seem...plausible. Trying to think back, Casey thought Lena Marceau had been in the shop right before Mardi Gras.
“Why don’t you two go ahead and get the shop opened? I just want to wander for a few more minutes,” she said.
“You shouldn’t do that. The family wasn’t always known for being kind. Maybe the ghost is evil,” Jared teased. “I think they practiced weird voodoo!”
Casey sighed patiently. “Jared.”
“Oh, Casey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize...I’m sorry. It was tragic. No more cemeteries. We’re next door to a voodoo shop, guys, with the nicest priestess in the world. Voodoo is not weird or creepy. Not real voodoo anyway. What Papa Doc did in Haiti was a perversion, just like Hollywood makes it all out to be. Our voodoo priestess is sweet and wonderful. Let’s do stuff with her when you need to find some mojo to feed to a client,” Jared said.
“Hey,” Lauren added lightly, “you’ve left coins at Marie Laveau’s tomb,” she said as a reminder.
“Because it’s the thing to do. Go. Please. You two are driving me crazy!”
“We’re going, we’re going. But don’t blame us if the ghost of an evil voodoo priest gets his talons in you,” Jared said.
“I promise you, I won’t.”
Casey watched them leave, laughing together as they headed down the main gravel path of the little cemetery.
She studied the tomb again. There might have been recent interments, but there were still vines growing all over the structure, and weeds had proliferated at the base.
Someone had left flowers at the iron gate of the tomb. Casey bent down for a closer look. The flowers had been there for maybe a day. There was a note with them. Simple.
It read: Love you so much.
Casey felt something on her shoulder and turned, startled and angry, thinking that Lauren or Jared had doubled back to tease her.
But it wasn’t Lauren.
Or Jared.
A young woman stood there, blonde and beautiful with striking blue eyes.
Casey blinked. She had seen the woman before.
It was Lena Marceau.
Not dead at all? Or...
Then the woman spoke softly, and her words were almost like a rustle, her hand nothing more than air upon Casey’s shoulder.
“You’re not real!” Casey gasped.
She was suddenly angry.
They had done this to her—Jared and Lauren. They had made her feel as if the place were creepy and eerie, that spirits could roam the Earth.
It couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t even night. It was day, and a bright and beautiful one. The sun shone brightly...
Showing her a strange translucence in the woman before her.
“Well, yes. And no,” the specter said.
“I’m not seeing you!” Casey protested.
“But you do see me,” the apparition argued.
No, no, no, no, no!
Casey wasn’t sure what happened next.
The world suddenly went dark.
She must have...passed out.
She’d never fainted in her life. But she was suddenly lying atop the step to the tomb, and she still wasn’t alone.
The figure remained. The young blonde woman who was...who had been...Lena Marceau. The apparition. The figment of her imagination. The...
Here Casey was, with her psychology degree, going stark raving mad.
“Please!” the woman implored. “Please, please. I’m so sorry. But I need your help! Not for me, it’s far too late for that, but please...my sister and my baby are out there.”
Darkness seemed to surround Casey again, enveloping her in a stygian embrace.
How crazy...
Then, nothing.
* * * *
Ryder sat at his desk at Krewe headquarters in Virginia, concentrating on the last of his paperwork for the case he and Axel Tiger had just finished up in Colorado.
He hit the last letter key to finish his work and sat back.
He’d been glad to head to Colorado and work with Axel. His level of frustration had been high. The autopsy on his cousin had shown nothing the M.E. hadn’t already suspected: an overdose of prescription drugs.
He’d spent a week with his cousin Stephanie, working with her and old Elijah’s superb lawyer to make sure she had solid protection at the mansion and to ensure that the Marceau inheritance had been sewn up for little Annette.
He’d also researched the board, the family, and any others who might have had access to Lena and her home at the time of his cousin’s death.
Someone had to have been involved.
He just didn’t know who.
But he’d been spinning his wheels in New Orleans.
Bottom line, he knew that he had to find out who wanted control of the Marceau inheritance enough to kill.
Cunningly, and several times over.
And now...
Well, a baby was theoretically in charge.
Five people—all of whom he had seen on the day Lena died—might be involved. He had thought so then, and he still thought so.
People who were close to the day-to-day workings of the Marceau home and business—Gail Reeves, the housekeeper, who’d happened to have an afternoon off. Barton Quincy, director of operations at Marceau Industries Incorporated. Larry Swenson, Barton’s second in command. Harry Miller, sales director. And Justin Marceau, another great-grandson, who had grown up in Baltimore, Maryland, but had taken his place on the board of directors.
Justin wasn’t always in the city, but he had been in New Orleans on the day Lena died. And after the baby, Justin was next in line to inherit. Could Justin be involved? Or was he in danger just as the others had been because his last name was Marceau?
But even Ryder couldn’t make sense of the fact that there had been no defensive wounds on Lena’s body. There had been no alcohol by her side, either. Nothing to indicate that her mind hadn’t been right, other than what everyone thought to be obvious depression enough to bring on suicide. There also hadn’t been evidence that anyone had forced her to take the pills.
Ryder had seen video of the immediate property. He and Stephanie had gone over it together. On the feed, he saw Lena, holding little baby Annette and waving goodbye as Gail Reeves headed out. They never saw the housekeeper return.
At the estimated time of Lena’s death, there was a mysterious blackout in the video.
Ryder had stayed in the city for two weeks, but a snag in a video reel—no matter how timely and mysterious—hadn’t been enough for anyone but him to call Lena’s death a murder. He knew Braxton had even pursued the matter with his superiors at the NOPD.
Braxton had let him watch as he interviewed Gail Reeves, Barton Quincy, Larry Swenson, Harry Miller, and even Justin Marceau. They’d all been brought in not as suspects, but in hopes they could give the police some indication of what might have happened with Lena. They all came in willingly, eager to help.
Or so they said.
And then...
Not even Jackson Crow, the field director for the Krewe, had managed to find a reason to home in on the investigation.
Eventually, Jackson had assured Ryder that they would pursue it further. But that meant a lot of research. Thankfully, Jackson had cooled Ryder down enough to work another case while the tech experts, Angela’s incredibly talented group of paper chasers, had delved into the paper and digital trails.
But there had been a bright spot in it all. Adam Harrison, the assistant director over all of the Krewe and their magnanimous founder, had agreed with Ryder and Jackso
n that it was all far too suspicious.
A happily married man—Lena’s husband, Anthony—had managed to fall off the roof of a building in the Central Business District after visiting a bank branch there when there was another branch just down the street from his home. And, equally suspicious, a young woman who adored her child and appeared to be in fine health committing suicide.
Not to mention the fact that a fortune was at stake.
The Krewe would not give up, but it was the kind of case where many people needed to be investigated, and a great deal of material needed to be reviewed.
Though none were better at that kind of investigation than Angela’s paper chasers.
Jackson had suggested that Ryder take on the case in Colorado with Axel while he let Angela and the tech crew perform research on the people and events surrounding the murders.
Ryder couldn’t forget seeing Lena lying there like an angel. Nor the hurt in Stephanie’s eyes. Or the baby’s confused tears and frustration. Annette was too young to understand what had happened.
It had been heartbreaking to hear the baby crying for her mother.
Thankfully, Annette loved her Aunt Stephanie.
Jackson had been right. Ryder was better when working a case. Right now, his head pounded. He pressed his temples between his palms.
And then...
Timing couldn’t have been better. He gritted his teeth against the pain and hit Send on his latest report just when a tap sounded at his door.
Angela. She had been with Jackson when the Krewe first came together on a case in New Orleans. They were now married and the parents of an adopted ten-year-old boy and a baby girl. She was a beautiful blonde woman who somehow managed it all—parenting and working and answering the phone at odd hours.
“Hello,” he said, looking at her hopefully. “Did you find anything?”
She smiled. “I do have something,” she told him. “Not much, but something. Did you ever hear of or do you know anything about a man named William Marley?”
“William Marley...yes. Or no. I never knew him, but when I was studying some company papers with Stephanie, his name was mentioned. He was sixty-six, still working on the board, close to Elijah and Anthony Marceau, when he died of a heart attack.”
Angela nodded. “I pulled his medical records. He didn’t have a heart condition, but he did die in a hospital, and there was no autopsy.”
“If he died in a hospital—”
“I don’t believe the doctors were at fault. The ambulance got him to the doors of the hospital, but he died being transferred from the rescue vehicle to the emergency room. It was evident he had died of a heart attack. He was sent to the morgue but was quickly transferred to the Devereaux funeral home in New Orleans.” She was quiet for a minute. “Lena Marceau arranged for his burial. She was close with William Marley, like she was with Elijah and Anthony.”
“Can we dig him up?”
Angela sighed. “Ryder. You grew up in Kenner. William Marley was interred in the Marceau family mausoleum. And he died before Anthony. If you understand New Orleans, which you must...”
“A year and a day,” Ryder murmured. That was the time it took for the Louisiana sun to basically cremate a body. “Still, Angela. I was at a forensic workshop as a cop. Cremains can leave clues. The year and a day simply means the body has deteriorated enough to be pushed into a holding cell at the end of the vault to allow for another interment. There might be something in the bones or the ash. I’m not an M.E. or even a tech geek, but I believe certain things—”
“Can be derived from bone and ash. There might be. But we’re going to need permission to open the vault.”
“We can get that. That will be the easy part. And if we find something in the bones or the ash, they’ll have to reopen the case.”
Angela smiled at him. “It’s better than that. William Marley was on a trip to play at the casino in Biloxi. He died right over the state line in Mississippi. If we find anything, we can claim the case ourselves.”
Ryder hopped up and rushed over to her, crushing her to him and twirling her around. He did so just as Jackson Crow happened to come down the hallway.
“What?” Jackson asked, a curious look in his eyes and a smile on his face.
“Your wife is brilliant!” Ryder told him.
“I know that,” Jackson said. “Ah. She told you what she found.”
“She did.” Ryder winced. He had the best job in the world, and he never wanted to lose it. It was the only kind of work that could keep a man like him sane—and, hopefully, create a better world by bringing justice to those robbed of life and bringing closure to the ones left behind.
But Lena’s death would haunt him to his dying day.
He’d discovered that he could talk to the dead when he was young.
He’d been put in therapy, of course.
So he’d learned not to mention it to others.
Until he heard about the Krewe of Hunters.
He’d gone to Lena’s autopsy. He’d attended the funeral. He’d prowled the Marceau mansion.
But he hadn’t found any remnant of her spirit—and he’d searched.
“Jackson, I’d like—”
“To go back to New Orleans. Go. You’ll have to book a commercial flight; we have a team heading out to San Diego with the jet.”
“Commercial is fine. I’m just a visitor. Stephanie can order the opening of the vault, and Braxton and his people are good; they just had nowhere else to go in their investigation. And I understand how others think Lena’s death was a suicide. But if—”
“If we can prove William Marley was helped into his heart attack, we can take over the case,” Angela finished for him.
“Book your flight,” Jackson told him.
“I already booked him one,” Angela said. She glanced at her watch. “Better move. Your plane leaves in three hours.”
“I’ll be on it,” Ryder assured her.
“And keep in touch. We’re always here—or somewhere—if you need us.”
“Will do,” Ryder promised.
He picked up his phone. He had to tell Stephanie that he was on his way and warn her what he needed to do.
Investigate a corpse.
She wasn’t going to be happy.
But Stephanie wanted to live. And she wanted to protect the baby at all costs.
She would do what was necessary.
Even if they had a fight on their hands.
Chapter 2
It was a given.
Summer in New Orleans was hot. The dead heat of July and August hung on into the early weeks of September, and just stepping outside was like taking a bath in sweat. Thankfully, the air-conditioning in the shop worked well.
It wasn’t that it was any different than usual. Not really. It was hot every year, and they complained every year. And then fall and winter finally arrived, and the temperatures were beautiful. But the fourplex where Casey lived had a lovely pool in back, and she was currently dreaming of jumping into it. It was even part of a screened-in patio so it kept the mosquitoes to a minimum.
But Jennie Sanders was in the shop again. And even if she weren’t, it was Wednesday—one of Casey’s nights to close.
Casey could dream about the cool splash of the pool all she wanted. Instead, she sat across from Jennie at a table in her room in the back of the shop, staring at tea leaves.
“What do you see?” Jennie asked anxiously.
What do I see, what do I see?
Tea leaves! Casey thought.
Jennie visited once a week and was a wonderful customer, buying items in the shop every time she came for a reading.
And Jared was right. The shop did well, but what Casey did most of the time was be the best listener she could—practicing psychology. While Casey knew that she was a total sham as a medium, she was equally convinced there was something unusual in Jennie Sanders. Jennie had a sixth sense, and her visits with Casey helped her recognize it in herself and deal with lif
e’s little difficulties more easily.
Jennie was in her late forties and had grown children. Her husband, a retired professor, was an indulgent man, and her children were off living and working in Atlanta. She made trips to see her grandchildren, but other than that, she had time on her hands. She was an attractive woman who kept fit and was as regular about attending her beauty salon and going to the gym as she was about visiting Casey.
“From what I’m seeing,” Casey said, “if you drive and are careful, a trip to Atlanta to see the grandkids would be rewarding for you. They love you and miss you very much. Oh, and your daughter-in-law, Mike’s wife, loves it when you come. It gives her more time to work on her macramé projects.”
“Oh, thank you! That’s what I felt, but...of course, I’ll spend time with Mike and Sheila, and I’ll spend time with Virginia and Al, too. And when I’m there, they get together more often.”
“I don’t think you need to worry. Your children will remain close to one another.”
Casey had met them both. They’d come into the shop with Jennie a few times. Mike loved Lauren’s artwork, and Virginia suggested bizarre songs for Jared to play on the street. Usually, Jared played a game of Name that Tune! or thought of ridiculous melodies and lyrics to go with whatever she challenged him with. It was hysterical.
Jennie had nice children who loved her. Casey didn’t need tea leaves to know that.
“Great! Then I won’t see you for a few weeks,” Jennie said, getting up. “I’ll miss you. I love coming in here—”
“I’m sure I’ll be here when you get back,” Casey said, rising and leading them both out to the main area of the shop.
“Unless,” Jennie said dramatically, “a tall, dark, and dangerously handsome stranger appears and sweeps you off your feet and takes you far, far away. Honestly, I don’t know how that hasn’t happened yet. Sweetheart, you are lovely. So sweet and kind. I mean, I guess that doesn’t equal sex appeal, but you’re gorgeous, too. Hair like a blackbird, eyes like...something really blue.”
“Luscious locks like a raven’s wing, eyes like the sky at sweetest morning’s dew!” Jared supplied, grinning at them both from behind the counter.
The Dead Heat of Summer: A Krewe of Hunters Novella Page 3