“You could say that.”
Braxton groaned but picked up Ryder’s bag and headed to the elevators for the parking garage. “As far as the NOPD goes, the case is closed. Lena has been interred, and life goes on. Where am I taking you?”
“The Marceau house,” Ryder said.
“You’re staying at the Marceau mansion?”
“The baby invited me.”
“Hey!” Braxton protested.
“The baby owns the house. Stephanie is her legal guardian. I’m here because Stephanie is afraid. She is convinced that her sister was murdered, Braxton. Doesn’t it worry you? Anthony and Lena, both dead? Another man possibly murdered, and Stephanie all that stands between that baby and her life?”
“No one could want to kill a baby. Hey!” he exclaimed at Ryder’s look. “When Lena died, the baby was fine.”
“Fine. Because she’d been locked in a room, and only Stephanie had the code to get in. I think Lena was worried after Anthony died. I mean, think about it. Why would Anthony mysteriously jump or fall off a building in the Central Business District? He had a beautiful wife, a gorgeous child, and he’d just inherited an empire.”
Braxton was quiet for a moment. “His death was ruled accidental. And we’re all watching, just so you know. We’re not stupid down here. If you can prove the Marceau exec was murdered, you’re taking over the case.”
“Taking over is strong. I expect we’ll be a team, or possibly form a task force.”
Braxton shook his head. “Okay, well...are you going to invite me to tea?”
“You want tea?”
Braxton grinned. “Isn’t that what rich people do? Sip tea and eat crumpets?”
“As long as I’ve known Stephanie, she’s been a coffee girl. But if you want tea, I’ll get you some tea. And crumpets.”
“What is a crumpet?”
“Something baked,” Ryder said. “I don’t know. Let’s just get there. And then...”
“Then what?”
“I’m going to pay a visit to the Marceau mausoleum.”
“Think Lena will tell you what happened?” Braxton asked dryly.
“You never know,” Ryder told him. “You just never know.”
Chapter 3
Casey stood at the gate before the Marceau house—or mansion rather.
Esplanade Avenue in New Orleans hosted some fine homes. This one was especially beautiful, combining Colonial and Victorian styles with a perfectly manicured lawn and charming fountains on either side of the grand walk to the porch steps.
There was a call button, and she hit it and waited. A minute later, she heard a feminine voice say, “Hello, may I help you?”
“Miss Harrow?” Casey said.
She was ready to run. The woman would simply refuse to see her.
“Yes, this is Stephanie Harrow. How may I help you?”
“It’s a private and personal matter,” Casey said and winced.
She wished Lena Marceau’s ghost would appear now. She’d stayed late at the store, talking in general, enthusiastic terms about Lauren’s art pieces and smiling about Jared’s talent with music, saying that she’d seen him outside the shop a few times, though he hadn’t been there when she visited. He could go from doing Beethoven to Broadway to heavy metal in a matter of minutes.
“He is extremely talented,” Casey had said. “He was with a group, but they were doing heavy metal almost exclusively, and he felt he was burning out his voice. He likes being a solo act or telling Lauren and I what to do. He was the music major, so we never argue.”
Lena had also talked about her daughter, laughing and saying how they hadn’t lied when they’d come up with the term terrible twos.
It had been past ten when Casey yawned and closed her eyes, leaning back in her seat.
When she opened her eyes and started to apologize for nodding off, Lena was no longer there.
And Casey was left to wonder again if her own mind was haunting her.
She had decided that she wasn’t going to approach Stephanie Harrow and the Marceau house unless she saw Lena again. But that night, as tired as she was, she had trouble sleeping. She tossed and turned and feared that everything the ghost—real or imagined—had said might be true. She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt a child.
But it had to be true. Her husband’s death. And her death. To Casey, it was just...
Too convenient.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Stephanie asked over the intercom.
“My name is Casey Nicholson. I own a shop in the French Quarter. I...your sister was a friend of mine.”
She was greeted with dead silence for so long, she almost turned away.
Then she heard the grinding of gears as the gate opened.
She walked through and up the walkway to the front porch. As she climbed the steps, the front doors—beautiful wood and etched glass—opened.
A woman walked out.
Stephanie Harrow was a few years older than Lena had been. Her hair was a darker shade of blond, cut short in a bob to frame her chin. She was an attractive woman, but her face seemed somehow marred by the sorrow she had faced.
“Come in,” she told Casey.
“Thank you.”
“Coffee?” Stephanie asked.
“I never turn down morning coffee,” Casey told her.
“Then please, come on through to the kitchen. The parlor here...it’s too big for me.”
The parlor was big. But it was the entry with its sweeping staircase to the second floor in the center of the room that seemed to dominate the space.
“I used to love this place,” Stephanie murmured. “Lena came down those stairs in her wedding dress, and it was spectacular. Now... Were you at the wedding?” she asked, frowning.
“No.” Casey glanced down. “We met when she came to my shop.”
“I see.” Stephanie walked into the kitchen, a place as elegant and large as the parlor, but there was a breakfast nook by the back door that seemed much smaller and cozier. A coffee pot was already on the table there, and Stephanie grabbed a mug from the counter and motioned for Casey to follow her.
A tall, thin woman, straight as a Martinet, walked into the kitchen, a frown on her face. Casey thought she had to be in her mid to late fifties, but she almost looked as if she had come from another era. Her hair was steel gray, and she kept it braided at her neck.
“Stephanie, do you need help with anything?” she asked.
Stephanie waved a hand in the air. “I’m fine. Thank you, Gail.”
The woman remained.
“This is a private conversation,” Stephanie added quietly.
“The baby is with the gentleman. If there’s anything—”
“Gail. Enjoy yourself. Watch a program. Lie down, read a book,” Stephanie said, smiling at the woman. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be busy every second. Trust me, you are appreciated.”
The woman smiled, cast a suspicious glance at Casey, and then left at last.
When they were seated across from one another, Stephanie poured Casey some coffee and indicated that she should help herself to cream and sugar from the servers by the pot.
“So, did my sister owe you money?” Stephanie asked, sipping her coffee.
“No.”
“Are you here to ask for some kind of money?”
“No,” Casey said. She winced and stirred in the cream she’d just added to her cup.
“Did you even know my sister, or is this some kind of a prank...or worse?” Stephanie asked, staring at her hard.
“No, I swear it’s not a prank.” Casey winced inwardly again and then took a deep breath.
“Lena was worried,” she said in a rush, trying to figure out how to tell Stephanie the truth. “She...she doesn’t—didn’t—believe Anthony just fell. And she was worried for herself. But more than that, she was afraid for the baby. And now, she’s gone. But... I can’t forget the things she said to me, and I felt I had to warn you. Tell you just ho
w frightened she was and how worried she was. And that...well, it’s inconceivable, but she believes even Annette could be in danger.” She suddenly sat straighter. “The baby. Where is she?”
Stephanie smiled at that, yet it seemed she looked at Casey more warily. “Annette is fine. I’m always with her. I don’t even leave her with the housekeeper. She’s with a relative.”
“Um...”
“A relative on my side of the family,” Stephanie said. She was quiet for a few minutes.
Casey sipped her coffee, still feeling like a fool. She had said what needed to be said. Now, she had to get out—and hope she’d fulfilled the mission given to her by a ghost. She no longer wanted to be haunted.
Except...
It hadn’t been that bad. She’d enjoyed talking to Lena.
Or to herself, if she’d made up the ghost in her head.
“You know, Lena wasn’t born rich. We grew up in Gretna. My mother was a teacher, and my dad was an accountant. We didn’t want for anything, but they were hardworking, and we grew up with that ethic. Oh! And Anthony—did you know him?”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t.”
“He was great.” Stephanie paused to smile. “He was like a nerdy hippie, if that makes any sense. He would have done great things with the company. Part of the Marceau money is in prescription drugs. Anthony wanted to make sure prices went down. He wanted the company restaurants to donate food and supplies to food kitchens. He had plans...Lena meant to keep those plans, and I want to live up to their legacy, but I don’t know how they battled that board of directors. They exhaust me. And I never wanted to be in business. I illustrate children’s books. Or I did. I’m afraid money was never my high point—money or math.”
“Miss Harrow, money means nothing next to life,” Casey said. “I know that—”
“I’m the legal guardian. I was made Annette’s legal guardian in the event that something happened to Anthony or Casey.” Stephanie gripped her cup with both hands. “I can’t leave this baby. I’m careful about what I do. I don’t want the money. I don’t know how well you knew my sister, and I don’t know if you’re a sham.”
“A sham? I’m sorry—”
“Don’t you run a voodoo or magic or ghost shop?” Stephanie asked. “I think I remember Lena saying something about your place. A Beautiful Mind. You’re a medium, right? Well, I’m afraid I don’t put much stock in crystal balls, Miss Nicholson.”
“Stephanie, I’m not a medium. I don’t even own a crystal ball. Oh, I have a cute little display with a beautiful gypsy holding one, but I don’t—”
“Thank you for coming. I see you’ve finished your coffee. May I see you to the door?”
“Yes, yes. Thank you for seeing me. And please, I know your sister was afraid—”
“You think I don’t know my sister didn’t commit suicide?” Stephanie asked, angry. “But I can’t go to the cops. Tell them that someone—without even touching her—forced her to take a bunch of pills. That, facing death, she defied a knife or a bullet, knowing it would at least prove she had been murdered. I can’t even come up with an answer myself—”
“Annette. The baby...” Casey said.
“What?”
“She bargained. Lena convinced the killer it would be best to let her lock the baby in her childproof safe room and have her take the pills voluntarily—than have her fight and have defensive wounds, showing everyone that she had been murdered.”
Stephanie gasped, and tears suddenly filled her eyes. But then she blinked them away and cleared her face of any emotion.
It was clear Stephanie didn’t want to acknowledge that Casey might have had a little help coming up with the scenario. After all, she’d just said she didn’t put much stock in things like that. The information possibly coming from her dead sister’s ghost might be a bit much to take, especially right now. Casey didn’t want to add to the woman’s grief, so she didn’t say any more.
“I’ll...uh...see you out. Unless you think you can convince a homicide detective your words are true. Anyway...I...I need you to go now,” Stephanie said.
“Of course. I’m so sorry,” Casey whispered.
She stood. She didn’t need to be shown to the door. She had done what she had been asked to do. There was nothing more.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten. She drove to the shop, trying to shake the feeling that she wasn’t done with it all yet as she drove. But when she got to A Beautiful Mind, Jared and Lauren were there. They had already opened and were speaking to a group of customers about one of their displays.
Casey found herself waving and retreating to her reading room. She kept her tarot cards there, and it was set up with a table and comfortable chairs.
And her computer. She began research on the Marceau company. She had been looking for just about an hour when Lauren came back, tapping on the door and opening it, looking concerned.
“Um, there’s someone out here insisting they see you—” she began.
She didn’t finish. A man came up behind her, shoving the door all the way open and turning to stare at Lauren.
“Thank you,” he told her, not pushing her exactly, but urging her out.
Casey leapt to her feet, staring at him, frowning and angry. He was a very tall man, about six-foot-four, wearing a business suit—in New Orleans, in the French Quarter. He had dark hair cut short but a little longer across his forehead, and broad shoulders with a build to go with his height.
She didn’t care. This was her shop.
“You don’t have an appointment,” she said icily. “And you have been rude to Lauren. I’ll thank you to exit the store before I call the police,” she informed him.
He wasn’t daunted in the least. He leaned on her table and stared at her hard.
“What were you doing at the Marceau house? How are you involved? Who are you working for?”
“What?”
She sank back into her chair. To her horror, it was the wrong move. He walked around the table in two steps and stared at her computer.
“Right. You know nothing about what happened, and yet you’re on the Marceau home page?”
“I—I—”
“I repeat, what were you doing at the Marceau house?” he demanded.
He was imposing. She was almost afraid. But to her surprise, her fighting spirit rose to the fore.
“Who the hell are you? And how dare you barge in here like this?” she managed.
She was a good eight inches shorter than him, but she squared her shoulders, set her hands on her hips, and stared him down.
“Did someone pay you?” he asked her.
“Pay me? For what?” she asked. He was accusing and questioning her. But about what? She was honest, they had good business practices. She couldn’t begin to understand this man’s problem.
She took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who you think I am. I suggest you tell me just what it is you want, and then perhaps kindly remove yourself from these premises.”
“What do you have to do with Marceau Industries Incorporated? Why were you pretending to be friends with Lena Marceau?”
He had eyes that were such a curious hazel color, they seemed to burn as he stared at her. The sound of his voice was deep and harsh and determined. She could imagine him as a cop in an interrogation room, and she doubted many didn’t shiver and garble out the truth when he looked at them like that and spoke as he did.
She sank into her chair.
“I don’t have anything to do with the Marceau company,” she said.
“What were you doing at the house? Did you even know Lena?”
She looked at him and said softly, “Yes. I knew Lena. She liked this shop.”
He backed up a step, crossing his arms over his chest, still watching her like a hawk. “Are you friends with Justin Marceau? Related to or friends with or on the payroll of Barton Quincy, Larry Swenson, or Harry Miller?”
“Sadly, I’m not on any
one’s payroll except my own,” she snapped. “I don’t know Barton Quincy, Larry Swenson, or Harry Miller.”
“You were at the Marceau house.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I should have gone before. I—I knew Lena, yes. And I know she never believed her husband just accidentally fell off a building. Or jumped. And she was afraid. And she was worried for Stephanie and Annette. I went because...I think it’s important for Stephanie to know that Lena was worried.”
“What took you so long to go see Stephanie then?”
She shook her head. “I—I didn’t know Stephanie. Just Lena. I was afraid Stephanie would think I was crazy or after something. Look,” she said, “I—I woke up this morning and decided it was early enough, that I could try to speak with Stephanie. She just needed to know that Lena was worried—had been worried. Afraid. I know nothing about the company. We make a decent living here. We have a huge mortgage on this place, but between us—my two partners and I—we get by. I don’t know why in God’s name you think someone would pay me to go to the Marceau house. No one did. You can ask Stephanie.”
“I did.”
“Well, then, you know what was said.”
“Right. A quack from a shop combining every mystical thing in history came and started warning her to be careful.”
“I’m not a quack.”
“But you’re supposed to be some kind of medium?”
“Argh!” She let out a cry of frustration. “I am not a medium. I read tarot cards. I read people. I sing in the street or in here sometimes with Jared. That’s it. That’s...that’s it,” she repeated.
She wasn’t about to tell this man that Lena’s ghost had visited her.
“So, who the hell are you? And what right do you have barging in here to question me and make fun of my place of business?” she demanded.
He leaned on the table; his face so close to hers.
“I’m Lena’s cousin,” he said softly.
He straightened and took a business card out of his jacket pocket, letting it fall onto the table.
“I’m Lena’s cousin,” he repeated, “Special Agent Ryder McKinley. Contact me when you feel you have more messages from beyond,” he snapped.
The Dead Heat of Summer: A Krewe of Hunters Novella Page 5