Memento Mori
A Haunted New Orleans Novel
Rayvn Salvador
Contents
Memento Mori
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Haunted New Orleans Series
Acknowledgments
Also available from Rayvn Salvador
About Rayvn Salvador
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Memento Mori
A Haunted New Orleans Novel
By Rayvn Salvador
MEMENTO MORI
A Haunted New Orleans Novel
Rayvn Salvador
Copyright © 2021 by Rayvn Salvador
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect are appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Design: Kari March Designs
Edited by: Read Head Editing
Published by: Lady Boss Press
Be not afraid since life is a story. Live by the words: memento mori.
This book is for everyone who wishes to be a human being instead of a human doing.
Life is too short. Always remember that the second/minute/hour/day/week/month/year before you should be lived to its fullest—whatever that looks and feels like to you.
And when you accept memento mori and understand that you will eventually die, embrace memento vivere and go forth and live!
Carpe diem, people. Seize the day! ;-)
Prologue
Hanlen
Then . . .
The images in front of me blurred, like trying to see a penny at the bottom of a churning pool. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and that ice-water rush of adrenaline had yet to leave my veins. I swallowed hard, tried to tune back into what the man and woman in front of me were saying, but I couldn’t concentrate. I could barely breathe. There had to be some mistake. I had just seen Reagan. Had just hugged her goodbye.
I shook my head and tried to swallow, the edges of my vision getting grayer by the second. Just as I sensed my knees give way, I felt strong arms breaking my fall, and heard a feminine voice saying, “Get her settled on the couch. I’ll grab her some water.”
Barely aware of what was happening, my mind too much a stew of confusion, grief, and shock, I went willingly, feeling my feet shuffle as someone led me into the living room and to our sectional sofa. I collapsed and then closed my eyes for a moment, trying to take some deep, slow breaths through my nose, letting them out through my mouth. I looked up when I heard movement in front of me.
The police officer squatted down and handed me a glass of clear liquid. “Here, drink. It’ll help with the shock.”
I grabbed the glass from her and took a small sip. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until the cool refreshment hit my tongue. I took another larger drink, my hand shaking. I almost dropped the glass, but the woman gently took it from me, setting it on the coffee table in front of us before taking a seat on the easy chair to my right. I closed my eyes again. This couldn’t be happening.
“Miss Arbor, I am so sorry to bring you such horrible news at this ungodly hour. Are you going to be all right? Is there someone we can call?”
I looked up when a hand landed on mine, eyes meeting those of the man in front of me. There was emotion there, but not what I expected. Not pity, exactly. Empathy, maybe?
“I . . .” I cleared my throat. “There’s no one here. No one close. There’s only Reagan. Was only Reagan,” I corrected myself.
I couldn’t stop the tears then. They came in a deluge, my body wracked with sobs. My roommate, my best friend, the sister I had chosen in life, had been murdered. I was well and truly alone in the world.
At least, that’s how it felt.
Chapter 1
Hanlen
Now . . .
Ten years. I had been gone for ten years, and yet, driving down Highway 61, it was almost as if no time had passed at all. The Spanish moss and resurrection ferns on the live oaks hung like gauze ghosts at Halloween, both welcoming and creepy. Everything about this terrain and these parishes used to be a comfort to me. All of that ended early one morning on a Saturday when two uniformed police officers showed up on my doorstep to deliver the most crushing news possible. Reagan, my soul mate for all intents and purposes, was gone.
She would never walk through the door of our home with the beignets I loved. She would never break another blender trying to make frozen café au lait. Some sadistic bastard had somehow lured her out of the bar where I’d left her, a place we’d been to countless times before, only to leave her bleeding out in the urine-scented asphalt of the alley next door.
The case was still open. Now cold. Numerous persons of interest had been questioned, but there was never enough evidence to hold anybody for long. And definitely not enough to prosecute. It was one of the reasons I’d basically started my life over after I moved to Texas, going into criminal justice. Unfortunately, even with my degree, my emotional issues never let me fulfill my dream of hunting down and bringing Reagan’s murderer to justice.
I had eventually accepted reality and left the police academy. But I did log my hours with a great private investigator, got licensed, and opened my own P.I. firm. Four years of busting cheating spouses, background-checking corporate bigwigs, serving papers, debunking insurance fraud, and handling the occasional Amber Alert alongside the cops made for some boring stakeouts and probably the start of liver failure, but I had to admit, I loved my job. I adored making my clients happy and showing the assholes what’s what. And I still held out hope that I might catch a break on Reagan’s case someday. Because I couldn’t let it go. It would likely haunt me forever and be a constant drive until I had answers. And once I did, I would gleefully take away the power her killer held over me and so many others. The asshole would no longer be anonymous. That advantage would be stripped, and they would finally be brought to justice.
My phone rang through the Uconnect system on my Cherokee and snapped me out of my thoughts. I turned down the radio and glanced at the readout. Mom. Of course, it was my mother. I tapped the screen to answer and then refocused on the road.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
My mother had moved to south Florida years before I left New Orleans, and she had only been back a couple of times since, but she still loved the city.
“Hey, baby. Just checking to see where you are. Did you make it across the state line yet?” I could hear her tossing ice cubes into a glass on the other end of the line. Ugh, I could use a glass of something myself, too bad I was still driving. I crossed some lines occasionally—okay, quite a few—but drinking
and driving was not one of them.
“Yep. In Louisiana. Not far out. I still can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
The sound of liquid hitting the cubes came through, and my mouth watered. I could not wait to hit the hotel and raid the mini bar.
“Oh, honey. It’ll be great. They just need you to be there as owner of the property. Answer some questions. Show them the lay of the land. There’s money in this for all of us since the network offered payment. Some notoriety. And all we have to do is give them access to the house and the outbuildings for the next week or so, and let them film for seventy-two hours. You know your great-great-great-granddaddy would be proud that we’re keeping the family stories alive.”
I cringed. Family stories, my ass. The truth of the matter was, the Arbor family had landed in Louisiana centuries ago, settling and running a prosperous plantation. Things had gone really well—or so later generations had been told and believed—until a string of bad luck befell the family, resulting in numerous accidental deaths, a few deaths by suicide, and business ruin that spanned the next several decades.
Legend had it the family had been cursed in retribution for something my many-times-removed ancestor had done. I didn’t personally believe any of it. It was all nonsense. Bad luck was a thing. So were terrible business practices and people ignoring safety precautions. End of story. At least, they were able to keep the property.
Now, however, most of my family and almost anyone who’d ever stayed at the plantation house—we listed it on a rental site—were convinced it was haunted. Yet more baloney that I didn’t believe. When you died, you died. Goodnight, Mary. There was no hanging around—for vengeance or otherwise. If ghosts existed, Reagan would have come to me. She would have told me who killed her. She would have . . . No, ghosts were not a thing.
“—call him when you get there.”
Mom’s voice pulled me from my irritated mental ramblings, and I realized that I had missed a huge piece of what she’d just said.
“Sorry, Mom. I think we had a bad connection. What’d you say?”
She gave me a long-suffering sigh as she took a drink of whatever she had poured herself earlier. “I said, you need to call Deveraux Glapion when you get settled. He’s expecting your call. I texted you his number earlier.”
I pushed a hand through my long brunette waves, realizing that I should have had it cut and colored when I was still in Texas, especially if I might end up on TV. I didn’t know any stylists here. “Who the hell is Deveraux Glapion?”
Mom sighed again. “The host of Haunted New Orleans, silly. I’ve told you like a thousand times. Did you even watch the show clips I sent you?”
I could only shake my head, knowing she couldn’t see me—which was probably a good thing; I didn’t school my features well. Of course, I hadn’t watched. This was a bunch of bullshit, and I had way better things to do than waste my time watching some idiots traipsing around supposedly haunted locales, playing it up for the cameras and gullible viewers—like my mother.
“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t have time. Work’s been crazy.” I rolled my eyes, once again thankful that this wasn’t a video call.
“It’s fine, dear. You don’t need to have watched the show to appreciate what you’re doing. How fun will it be to see the old homestead on TV?”
“Real fun, Mom. It’s a good thing we’ve been paying someone to keep the place up, huh?” The people I had been paying, even though I hadn’t set foot in the house for over ten years. But I was the current owner of the property, and we did make good money from the rental site—people went out of their way to rent it because of the chatter regarding the hauntings—so I shouldn’t complain too much. I could still bitch, though.
I saw my exit up ahead and signaled to merge into the turn lane, a wave of nostalgia rising, threatening to drown me in memories. “Say, I should go. I’m not super familiar with where this hotel is. I’ll text you later—”
“Don’t forget to call Dev,” she said, cutting me off. “He’s expecting your call before six. It’s important that you guys meet before they start setting up for the shoot.”
God, pushy much? “Got it.” I bit my lip to keep from saying something super snarky. “Chat later. Love you.”
“Bye, baby. Love you, too. Be good. Give N’awlins my best,” she drawled, a smile in her voice.
“Will do. Talk soon.” I pressed the dash screen to disconnect from the call and turned on the road that would take me to my hotel and the next two weeks of my life. I wasn’t sure how I would handle being back here, but with enough alcohol and some progress on this case I had taken before I left Texas and needed to try and wrap up before I headed home, I just might survive.
Chapter 2
Hanlen
Of course.
Of course, my mother or the show or whoever had booked the hotel would put me up in a place without mini bar access or a restaurant on site. It was like they knew. And I would certainly need some liquid courage and fortification for this trip, given all of the hullaballoo I would likely be dealing with. I didn’t believe in any of this shit, but the rest of my family did, and my mother was right in one thing . . . this was our family’s legacy, and I was a part of that, like it or not.
After some Google searching, I discovered that all hope was not lost. There was a liquor store two blocks down, and my suite did have a mini fridge. Huzzah.
Once unpacked and settled, I threw my hair into a ponytail, grabbed my purse, and headed out for a little stroll. It was only three p.m., and the day was beautiful. I generally preferred fall in New Orleans, but spring had its own kind of magic.
I realized as I cleared the front entrance of the hotel that I hadn’t called the host of Haunted New Orleans yet. Mom had said that I needed to call before six, and I figured now was as good a time as any. Finding the text she’d said she sent, I tapped on the number and then pushed through to call.
It rang a few times before a smooth baritone came over the line. “Glapion here.”
I cleared my throat and tried to figure out what I was supposed to say. “Um, yes. Mr. Glapion, this is Hanlen Arbor. My mother, Linette, told me to call you. She, um, gave me your number. Said you needed to speak with me regarding the show at Arborwood.” Arborwood. I mentally snorted. The name my family had christened the plantation with ages ago. Redundant if you asked me.
I heard wind through the phone. “Ah, yes, Ms. Arbor. Thank you so much for calling. And thank you for allowing us access to your beautiful home.”
Something about his voice did things to my insides. Crazy things. Things I didn’t understand. I had never, in my thirty-two years of life, experienced anything like it, and especially not from a voice. I shook my head to clear it. “That was all my mother, but I’m happy to help.” I wasn’t, but I figured I could be nice and at least say so. “I had some business in the area anyway. What do you need from me, Mr. Glapion?”
I heard sounds of the outdoors over the line once more before he spoke again. “Please, call me Deveraux. Even better, Dev. And excuse the noise, I’m running an errand. I would love to sit down and chat with you before the team moves in to set things up at the plantation. Get some history, talk with you about what we’re planning to do, etcetera. Are you free tonight or tomorrow?”
The thought of going anywhere tonight or tomorrow made me itchy. Despite being a P.I. and having to be out and about a lot, I was more the homebody type. And, truth be told, I preferred my company to that of others. I wasn’t a bitch or totally antisocial, I just had my quirks—I mean, I liked whiskey and maybe three people. I laughed internally at that. But it was kind of true.
I tolerated people well, but I didn’t go out of my way to engage with them, and it had been a long time since I’d met anyone who made me want to try. Plus, I had been on the road for most of the day and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a generous pour after a nice Creole meal. But I had agreed to this. Maybe I could at least push it out as much as possible.
“Tonight might be tough. I literally just got into town. I have some things to take care of later today and early tomorrow, but I could make something work. What time were you thinking?”
I had been walking with my head down and looked up to find that I had missed my turn. I turned in a slow circle, taking in my surroundings, then put the phone on speaker so I could check my navigation app. When I saw where I had gone wrong, I backtracked a bit and turned, only to run right into someone. I dropped my phone in the melee and stiffened a bit when large hands grabbed my elbows to steady me.
I looked up into a face made for sin. Skin a couple of shades darker than mine with eyes the astounding shade of ocean water—had to be contacts—and a full head of dark, silky curls. The man had wireless earbuds in, the same color as the button-down shirt he wore, a brilliant white to match the crooked smile he now flashed me. He held up a finger to tell me to wait a minute, and said, “I’m sorry, I literally just ran into someone, give me a minute.”
A declaration I heard in stereo surround sound, coming not only from his sensuous lips, but also from my phone on the sidewalk in front of us.
Memento Mori: Haunted New Orleans Series Page 1