“Well, thank you both,” Casey said. “Jennie, have a great trip. We’ll hear all about it when you come back.”
“Oh! I need to buy a few things. I’m going to take some of the latest watercolors Lauren has on display,” Jennie said. “And I will be gone for a bit, so I’d love for Jared to give me a sendoff. With you lovely ladies, if you don’t mind.”
“I have just the thing,” Jared said, grabbing his guitar. “John Denver, Leaving on a Jet Plane,” he said.
He played. Casey and Lauren had done the song with him dozens of times before. It was always fun, falling into the harmony part, and Casey realized she was smiling when they finished.
“How was that?” Jared asked Jennie.
“Superb! Except I’m driving,” Jennie said.
Jared grinned and burst into a rendition of the Beatles’ tune, Baby, You Can Drive My Car.
He finished the song, and the older woman clapped. Lauren got the canvases that their customer wanted down from their hooks and wrapped them, listening as Jennie chatted all the while.
When Jennie left, Casey wandered toward the door and the street, wishing she could leave. But the shop had been her idea and was her baby. And given where they were located in the French Quarter on St. Anne Street, staying open until at least ten was par for the course and necessary to stay in business.
Casey had suggested that they alternate working the late shifts. She just wished this was her night to go home early.
Lauren and Jared had gone to LSU with her. They were truly close friends, and if she had begged one of them to take her place, they would have done so. But she knew they planned on heading to Frenchman Street to see a band that one of Jared’s old frat brothers had formed.
She’d just look out the window.
But Jennie came back, obviously determined to speak to her again.
“Have you been back to the cemetery where the Marceau mausoleum is?” Jennie asked in a soft voice.
“No, I haven’t. I’m sorry, Jennie.” She tried not to let the woman see how just the mention of the place gave her shivers.
“You need to go back. I told you, my dream was vivid. There was a woman there, sobbing. And I don’t know if she was dead or alive, but she clearly needs help. I mean, if she is dead, then you’re the person to go.”
A sobbing woman.
Yes. If her crazy break with reality had any substance, the sobbing woman was Lena Marceau. And yet...
No. Never again. Casey still didn’t know what she’d seen or imagined that day. She only knew that she had awakened in an ambulance with doctors desperately trying to figure what had caused a healthy twenty-four-year-old woman to pass out in a cemetery.
Heatstroke had been the verdict—and a common one. It had occurred in the middle of the dead of summer, after all.
“Jennie, the dead are beyond our earthly help. But I can find someone with the church or talk to someone at Marceau Industries Incorporated. Make sure they look through the cemetery and see that all is well there. I believe they’re taking better care of it these days. I heard restoring her husband’s family mausoleum had meant something to Lena Marceau. And her sister, Stephanie, is now guardian to Lena’s little girl, Annette. She’s been keeping up with her sister’s intentions. So, all should be well.”
“I still think you should go,” Jennie said. “You have such a way. Well, you do what you can, and I’ll call you with any more dreams.”
Casey forced a smile. “You do that,” she said.
At last, Jennie was gone again. Casey walked back into the center of the shop. Jared was back behind the counter, and Lauren was adjusting some framed work on the walls.
“Hey, you two better get going,” Casey said, glancing at her watch. “Jennie stayed late. It’s after six.”
“The band doesn’t start until eight,” Jared told her. “We’re good. But, Lauren, let’s get out of here. I want to stop and get something to eat.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. We’ll head over there and wander. Okay?”
“Sounds good to me.”
The two didn’t actually leave for another few minutes. Lauren was intent on getting everything on the wall straight and precise, and Jared greeted two new customers who came in and set them up for a reading the next week.
When they left, Casey wished she’d set the shop’s closing hours earlier than she had. Because of all the diners out in the area and the many other shops that stayed open late, they closed at ten.
Customers came and went. For the most part, they were nice. People tended to like tarot cards because so many of the decks were so artistic and beautiful, and it was fun to discover that a so-called bad card might not be bad at all, depending on where it fell.
Casey had a nice time with a group of college kids that came in, explaining a few of the cards.
Decks were also reasonably priced, and something people could afford.
A man in his early forties came in while the girls were still there. He spoke to Casey casually about her readings and said he was thinking about tea leaves because they fascinated him. He bought one of Lauren’s prints and said he’d be back to schedule a reading.
Darkness fell.
An older man came in. He looked a bit like a well-groomed Santa. He didn’t seem the type concerned with a reading, but he asked her about tea leaves and the tarot, then grinned and asked her about her crystal ball.
“The only one we have is in the statue over there,” she told him. “Everything I do is learned from books, sir, and I haven’t found one to explain what I’d be seeing in a crystal ball. Except, well, they are pretty.”
“They are.”
He was pleasant and curious and asked her if she’d been a music major. She told him it was psychology, and that seemed to amuse him. He said it clearly explained the shop.
After that, he bought a few of their tee shirts, thanked her, and left.
It was almost ten, and she sank into one of the comfortable chairs by the small coffee and tea station they had in the far corner. Most of Lauren’s work could be seen from that vantage point. It was a nice little nook where they had the table with a pod machine and plush chairs covered in a very dark crimson material that added to the masks and art and other décor in the shop.
Casey closed her eyes. The bell would ring when someone came in.
The bell didn’t ring. But when she opened her eyes, someone was facing her.
Lena Marceau.
She opened her mouth, but a scream didn’t come.
“Please, please, don’t pass out on me again!” Lena—or the ghost or specter of the woman—said. “I’m so sorry! But you’re a medium. You should have known I might be here.”
Casey didn’t pass out. Maybe she was too frozen to do so. All she could do was reply with, “I’m not a medium.”
“But—”
“I read tea leaves and tarot cards. I don’t even have a crystal ball.”
She was talking—and talking out loud. To a ghost. But no matter how she blinked, the apparition didn’t go away.
Lena spoke again. “Look, I don’t understand any of this, and I’m so sorry. I have no choice. You must help me! They’re going to kill my sister and my baby.”
Casey realized that she was breathing heavily. She pinched herself—it was what was done in situations like these, right?
The pinch hurt.
But Lena Marceau still sat before her.
“I’ve tried to reach my sister. I’ve tried so hard. But I...well, I don’t know how any of this works. By the time I came to myself—as a spirit or whatever—the funeral was over, and people had gone. My sister comes to the cemetery, but she doesn’t see me. I know she senses something is wrong, though. And, oh, Lord! Ryder was there. Ryder is with the FBI, but he was gone by the time I realized I had to try to reach someone. And this isn’t easy. I go by some people, and they shiver. And I have tried voodoo shops and magic shops and churches. I really thought you would see me—and
accept me. I have met a few others like me, and they told me I needed to find the right person. That some people can see us. Not many, but they do exist. Please, please, you have to help me!”
Was Lena—or Lena’s spirit—really there? Or was Casey conversing with herself?
There was no reason for her to have a psychotic break. She’d had no trauma in her life. She had good friends, a great home, and super parents who now lived in Arizona but came to see her regularly and loved her very much. Both were well.
“Please!” the ghost said.
“Lena, I bought this shop because I was a psychology major. When I got out of college, the jobs I was offered would have barely paid back my student loans. I grew up here, and I have been in this type of shop before, and I know...well, I’ve studied people. I’ve studied books on the tarot. When I say I read cards, I just talk about what the books say, along with what I believe the client is looking for or needs. I don’t have any special abilities—”
“But you’re talking to me.”
Casey let out a soft sigh.
“Yes. Apparently, I’ve gone crazy.”
“No, no. You’re not crazy. I’m here. Well, I’m not physically here, but... Please, help me!”
“How? You keep talking about they. Who are they? What—what happened?” She took a deep breath. “I’m guessing you didn’t kill yourself. I never thought it made any sense, but there was something of an investigation. An autopsy. You didn’t fight with anyone. You just took the pills. What happened, who is involved?”
“I don’t know exactly. I just know someone in that wretched company Elijah left Anthony and me, killed us both.”
“Lena. First, I’m still trying to decide if there’s been a trauma in my life I didn’t realize that caused a psychotic break, or if...if it’s possible you’re here. But after that, there’s still a serious problem. I can’t just go to the police and tell them your ghost told me you were murdered!”
Lena sat back, looking around the store. “I always loved this place.”
“Thank you. Lena—”
“You need to go to my sister and warn her.”
“And your sister is not going to hit me or laugh me off the doorstep?”
“Stephanie won’t hit you. She’s nice.”
“But she will think I’m a crazy person and laugh me off the doorstep,” Casey said.
“We have to do something,” Lena whispered.
“Lena, how can it be you don’t know what happened to you?”
The beautiful blonde ghost leaned back in Casey’s chair and looked up at the ceiling, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
She shook her head again. “He—I’m sure it was a he—didn’t want me to know who he was. Maybe he’s a believer in the dead coming back to life, or he wasn’t sure if there were cameras in the house. We never had cameras in the house. I was in my bedroom when a masked person broke in, holding the baby—Annette had been taking a nap in her room—and a knife. I—I bargained with him. Said I’d take the pills. I’d make it look like a suicide. But told him he had to let me lock the baby in her room first. Said he couldn’t touch her.” Her ghostly fists clenched. “I needed to say goodbye,” she whispered.
The thought of making such a decision, of all that it cost Lena, broke Casey’s heart.
“Only my sister and I know the code to that door, and I knew Stephanie was coming over within the hour. It wasn’t ideal, but the room was babyproofed, secure, and it was the only thing I could think to do.” She paused for a minute. “At least I saved Annette. He wanted to kill us both. I told him I’d fight tooth and nail, and everyone would know we’d been murdered. So, I bargained for her life.”
“I’m so sorry,” Casey whispered.
Lena shrugged. “Anthony inherited the house, you know. No one had lived in it for a while, and...the reason Elijah left him the company was because Anthony didn’t really want it. He didn’t care about the money—he was an artist. A good one. But he’d loved Elijah since he was a little boy, and Elijah loved him. When it all came up about five years ago, I said, ‘Sure, we’ll live in your old family house, and we’ll try to do good things.’ I damned us both with that.”
“You’re not damned.”
“No, I don’t think so. And I’ve heard people move on when...when they’re ready. When the time comes. Into a beautiful light. But the thing is, Anthony and I...we’re both dead,” Lena said bitterly. “I wouldn’t care so much, except...”
“You’re worried about Annette.”
“And my sister. Casey, don’t you see? They’ll kill her and Annette.”
“Okay, so a man was there with a knife. You don’t know who.”
“He wore black—black pants, black hoodie, black ski mask...completely covered. And I never got close to him. I couldn’t recognize a smell or anything like that. I’m not even sure about the color of his eyes because I think he was wearing weird costume contact lenses. I don’t know who he was. I beg you, help me. At least get to Stephanie and warn her that she’s in danger. And tell her that...he wanted to kill the baby when he killed me.”
This can’t be real.
But Casey could see Lena sitting there. Maybe it was her own strange sense of guilt. Or the way she had felt at St. Mary of Light Cemetery while seeing the Marceau tomb.
“I don’t know how much help I can give you,” Casey said. “But—”
“But?”
“Of course, I’ll help in any way I can. Tomorrow...I’ll find a way to see your sister. I’ll warn her that she’s in danger. She’ll probably tell me I’m a quack who owns a mystic shop and thinks she’s got a direct phone line to the Underworld.”
“Stephanie isn’t stupid. I believe she knows she could be in danger. I need her to know just how much,” Lena said.
Casey nodded. “Okay, I...I’ll do my best.”
* * * *
“You’re back,” Braxton said, forcing a weak smile as he greeted Ryder.
Ryder had told Braxton not to worry about picking him up at the airport. Said he could grab transportation himself.
But Braxton had insisted on coming, and he was here now, waiting for Ryder in the baggage claim section of Louis Armstrong International Airport.
“Yes, I’m back,” Ryder said, shaking Braxton’s hand. His old friend looked at him with skeptical worry. “Ryder, you know that—”
“I’m not going to be a pain,” Ryder promised.
“But you’re here because of the Marceau incident,” Braxton said. “Ryder, it’s over. The M.E. found nothing but an overdose of prescribed sedatives in her system.”
“Don’t forget, Lena Marceau was my cousin.”
“Second cousin. Your mothers were cousins.”
“I don’t care what kind of cousin.”
“But no suicide note was ever discovered. You’re my friend. I tried. But the medical examiner, as you know, found nothing else,” Braxton said, his tone miserable.
“Right,” Ryder said. “And still, the Marceau fortune is in the hands of a two-year-old child. But I know when Elijah died, they discovered his will was extensive and detailed. Control went to Anthony, and then to Lena, and then from her to the baby, Annette, controlled by her legal guardian until she comes of age. And Stephanie Harrow is the baby’s legal guardian now. Everything is hers, held in trust. And after her husband died, Lena saw to it that her sister was added to the corporation’s board of directors.”
“That can’t sit well with the rest of the family and board members.”
“There are five other people on that board, Braxton, including Justin Marceau.”
“Oh, come on. You think that—”
“I do,” Ryder interrupted, speaking firmly. But then he hesitated. “Stephanie called me last night. She was out with the baby and realized she was being followed. She didn’t head back to the house but went straight to Bourbon Street.”
“With a two-year-old child?”
“She knew there would be people there, plenty of witnesses. She found one of your officers and said he was a good guy. She asked him to see that she and the baby got home safely, and he did. Braxton, I’m just going to hang around and see what I can find out. Anthony and Lena dead within months of one another—by accident or suicide—and that starting a year after old Elijah passed on? I’m not knocking the NOLA police, you know that I’m not, but I believe that something more is going on. Come on, Braxton.”
“Yes, but...” Braxton paused, shaking his head. “We’ve gotten word the FBI is disinterring a fellow who worked for the corporation—who conveniently died in Mississippi.”
“Yes.”
“But, Ryder—”
“If his heart attack was induced, then even you will have to admit it’s starting to look suspicious.”
“Induced? But a heart attack—”
“William didn’t have a heart condition.”
“But a heart attack—”
“Can be induced.”
Braxton sighed and shook his head.
“Braxton, Jackson Crow obviously knows I’m here. I’m not official, again, no one has asked us in. And I’m not going to get in your way. But I’m going to be around for Stephanie, all right?”
“I just want you to be careful. We have a great relationship with the Krewe down here. Your Krewe of Hunters started up in NOLA, you know.”
“I do know that,” Ryder said. And he did. He knew the history of the Krewe. He’d wanted to be FBI for as long as he could remember. His father was a retired agent. When he heard about the Krewe—through rumor, mostly—he’d known what he wanted. He’d been accepted into the academy when he made a point of finding Jackson Crow, knowing when the man would be at his son’s baseball game.
But Jackson had already known about Ryder. He’d wondered about that until he passed the academy and became Krewe.
Then, he’d learned that Jackson had heard about the strange case in Alexandria that Ryder had solved as a young police detective.
He’d longed to be a part of a group that understood him.
As it happened, the group had been watching him.
“So, officially, you’re what? On vacation?” Braxton asked skeptically.
The Dead Heat of Summer: A Krewe of Hunters Novella Page 4