It had been a while since I’d been excited about meeting with a client for a walk-through. But this time, it had nothing to do with the locale and everything to do with the woman with eyes the color of her favorite beverage and hair like sun-kissed silk.
Maybe contacting Dustin could wait. Or maybe it didn’t matter. I had better thoughts to occupy my nighttime hours.
Chapter 8
Hanlen
I woke earlier than my alarm, excited to see Dev again, only to be disappointed. He called at twelve-fifteen on the dot as promised, but only to say that he couldn’t get to the property today. Apparently, he had a bunch of research to catch up on that he couldn’t do any other time, and some eyewitnesses to interview. He asked if we could meet tomorrow for the walk-through instead. I didn’t mind. Not really. I had some work to do as well, and I took a few hours to walk the city, taking in the sights and smells and reminiscing about my days with Reagan. But as the day wore on, I found myself missing Dev. Which wasn’t something I wanted to analyze too greatly quite yet.
Content from my long yet enjoyable day, I settled into the couch in my room, a glass of apple whiskey and ginger ale in my hand, my thoughts going in a million different directions. I still couldn’t believe my mark was dead. And not just dead, but brutally murdered. The thought of seeing his body in that copse of trees threatened to bring back memories of things I would just as soon forget. I had pulled some strings and obtained the crime scene photos from Reagan’s murder, and the images were startlingly similar. There hadn’t been a coin or token left on or by Reagan’s body, but she had been mostly exsanguinated and then left to fade in that dirty alley. No other clues. No fibers or hairs or fingerprints or DNA. No shoe prints or tire tracks. Just my best friend’s body, cold and alone, on filthy New Orleans asphalt.
After way too many hours of senseless television and likely one too many glasses of whiskey, I glanced at the clock and saw that it was after two a.m. I really needed to get some rest. I was exhausted from the drive, the two long days, and the awful excitement of the murder. Not to mention, Dev. I didn’t know why I felt so drawn to him. It had been a while since anyone had piqued my interests like that. A long, long time ago, I had once thought that maybe Reagan and I would end up together, but she had been clear that she didn’t feel that way about me, and I was content having her in my life as my best friend. My person. When everything happened with her, I wondered if I’d ever let myself open to someone again. And, truthfully, I really hadn’t.
Thinking back, the last date I had been on was with an accountant from San Antonio. Someone I had met while on a case. And that was . . . wow, nearly two years ago. He and I just hadn’t clicked, and like usual, I threw myself into work—and the bottle—and my obsession to get answers about Reagan. I wasn’t the same person I had been back then. Far from it. And I wasn’t even sure I knew all the facets of the new me. But Dev had made me forget all of that in the short time I had been with him. Something I hadn’t done in far too long.
I downed the rest of my drink and went into the bathroom to rinse the glass and get ready for bed. Tugging off my shirt, my gaze snagged on the necklace I wore. I rarely took it off. It was an intricate swirling design done in bright gold, hanging from a delicate, beaded, champagne-gold chain. Reagan had owned it for as long as I could remember, but I didn’t know the story behind it. All I knew was that I had found it in our little bowl by the front door when I came home from identifying her body and hadn’t taken it off since. I still didn’t know why she had removed it that night. Maybe it was her outfit, maybe something I’d never know. Whatever reason, it made me feel closer to her somehow. And, strangely, safer. I knew that was all in my head, but a person did what they had to do in the insanity that was life.
I fingered the pendant, raising it to my lips for a kiss, as I so often did. “Love you, Ray. Miss you every day.” I shook my head to clear the tears threatening and finished my nightly routine.
When I slipped between the cool sheets, I initially thought there was no way I’d be able to rest. Surprisingly, sleep quickly took me under.
I woke to panic. I felt like I was caught in a net, struggling to breathe. Something heated my chest and neck, and I had the overwhelming feeling of being watched. When I thrashed to get free, I caught sight of a figure standing at the end of my bed, the silhouette smoky in the darkness, my eyes merely picking up the outline and no features. I pulled and wrenched some more, raising a hand to my necklace where it rested between my breasts. It was hot to the touch and very uncomfortable against my skin. I looked towards the shadow once more and saw it move, only to reveal another behind it. A scream lodged in my throat, and I fought to get up, only to tangle myself further in the net—no, wait, those were the sheets and blankets—and topple off the bed onto the hard floor. Air whooshed out of my lungs, and I took in more to yell, but the clock radio on the side of the bed turned on, stopping me. It tuned to static with noises and voices coming through. I couldn’t understand what was said, but the tone and cadence were almost . . . familiar. In my sleep-hazed mind I couldn’t place it, and it stopped almost as quickly as it had started. When I glanced again, the alarm display blazed a blood-red 3:33. I wondered if I had imagined the whole thing. I partially freed myself from my paltry four-hundred-thread-count cotton prison and moved for the light, only to feel the temperature in the room drop, and a whoosh of energy zip by me. The blankets flew the rest of the way off, and it stole my breath once more. I have to be dreaming.
“Wake up, Hanlen. Wake up!” I urged, but nothing changed. There was no way this was real. No way. Things like this only happened in the movies. I once again grasped the pendant on my chest and felt the same heat as before, only this time, the metal had an almost electric charge to it. I gasped at the goose bumps it sent skittering up my arm but gripped it tightly in my fist anyway.
“You’re okay, you’re fine, it’s just your exhausted brain playing tricks on you. There is no such thing as ghosts. You’re okay. You’re fine.”
I searched the room once more, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, then righted the sheets and blankets on the bed and took a shot of Evan Williams straight from the bottle before lying back down. I figured I’d be staring at the ceiling for the rest of the night. Surprisingly, the Tennessee hug of the whiskey, that comforting chest burn, lulled me, and I didn’t remember anything else until my phone roused me from slumber, the sun shining brightly through the curtains I’d forgotten to shut.
I rolled over and grabbed it off the nightstand, startled to see that it was after noon. Twelve-fifteen to be exact, and the name on the readout was none other than Dev.
Well, shit.
“Arbor.” I answered like I always did, feeling foolish for doing so, knowing it was Dev, and cleared my throat of the sleep frog lodged tightly in my larynx.
“Good morning,” Dev said, his voice silky-smooth and intoxicating.
I cleared my throat again. “Same to you.”
“Did I wake you?”
“It’s fine.” I yawned, my jaw cracking. “Just had a strange night full of dreams and . . . just an odd night. I guess I finally fell asleep again and my body made up its mind how much sleep it needed.”
“We did have a pretty eventful evening the other night, and you are in a strange place.”
“That’s an understatement.” I put the phone on speaker then stood and stretched, carrying the cell with me into the bathroom so I could peek at the damage and decide how much work I’d have to do to look human. “What’s the plan for today?” I asked.
“The team and I accomplished a lot yesterday off the property, but I need to get the lay of the land at the plantation and was hoping you could tell me some of the stories you’ve heard, show me the hotspots, and fill me in on some of the history of Arborwood—both things you know are true and the possible urban legends, so I can add them to the things we’re already looking into.”
“Yeah, I can do that. It’s all silly nonsense, but I guess tha
t’s kind of your thing.”
“It’s not nonsense, Hanlen. It’s history. Life and death. Experiences.” He was stern, but he didn’t sound upset. I still felt a little bit bad about trashing his livelihood and passion.
“I’m sorry. I really am.” I blew out a breath. “I think I need caffeine. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. But I made it very clear to you that I don’t believe in this stuff.” Memories of my dream last night—because it had to be a dream, right?—came back to me, and I shook my head to clear it.
“Um . . .” I looked at the time again. “I can meet you over there at two. Or, I can come and pick you up wherever you are. Whatever’s easier.”
“I don’t have to schlep gear today. Just need to take a few notes and some pictures. It’d be great if we could ride over together. Take your time waking up and doing what you need to do. I’ll text you my address and see you whenever you get here.”
I yawned again. “Yeesh. Sorry. That sounds great. I hoped to salvage my hair from yesterday, but I clearly need a full—and long—shower. I feel utterly drained.”
“No worries. See you soon.”
“Sure thing. Bye.” I tapped end on the call and stretched again, leaning in to see how bad the bags under my eyes were. My necklace fell forward a bit and I looked down, only to see a big red welt on my chest. I fingered the mark. It didn’t hurt, but it was strange, and it brought back memories of the dream I’d had, and how I could have sworn my necklace had felt hot and almost electrified.
What the hell?
Chapter 9
Dev
Hanlen texted me when she arrived, and I locked up and headed down the stairs. Her SUV sat near the curb, and I saw her inside, head down, intent on her phone. I knocked a knuckle on the glass, and she unlocked the doors for me.
“Hey,” I said as I slid into the leather seat.
“Hey, yourself,” she replied and flashed me a smile as she locked her phone and secured it in the center nook. She still looked tired. Beautiful, but tired. I wondered how her night at The Ravisan had gone. We’d filmed a show there about a year ago, and the activity had been off the charts.
“You ready to go?” she asked. “Nothing to pick up on the way?”
I patted the backpack at my feet. “Everything I need for today is right here. Onward.”
She pulled into traffic, and we headed for the highway. We didn’t have to go as far as Iberville Parish, where some of the other larger plantation manors were located, but Arborwood was still about a thirty-five-minute drive. Plenty of time for me to ask some questions. Though the more I thought about it, I wanted to know more about the woman than the house. I really needed to get my head on straight. This episode was kind of a big deal—not that they all weren’t. Still, the plantation was one of the oldest, and the eyewitness accounts of paranormal activity were far and wide—from family to various out-of-staters who’d come to the city on vacation and snatched up the rental for their long weekend or week-long getaways.
“So,” I said, “did you and your family actually live at Arborwood?”
She glanced over at me before returning her attention to the road. “We did. I spent most of my teenage years there. We got the house from my paternal grandmother when she passed, and we lived there from the time I turned ten until I graduated from high school. And then my parents got divorced and moved away. Now, I just pay for the upkeep and hope that renters don’t trash the place.”
I couldn’t imagine not wanting to live somewhere as grand as Arborwood. It was a stunning piece of architecture, and the history was rich. The Arbors were still known in the parish, despite none of the immediate family living in Louisiana any longer. And then there were the hauntings . . .
From what Hanlen’s mother had said, there had been reports of a child apparition—which we had been unable to uncover any historical data for—the classic woman in white, a bohemian woman in long skirts and head scarves, and a ghost they called The Colonel. It would be interesting to find out if some of the things people reported were poltergeist activity—manifestations made real by the energy of a living person or persons, even from afar—residual hauntings—things that happened in the past with such energy that they continued happening in the present like echoes, or if there were real, active, and intelligent spirits in the home and on the grounds.
I turned to her. “Did you ever have any strange experiences while you lived there?” I asked.
She shook her head and rolled her eyes a bit. “You mean the bad plumbing, the ancient home settling into the swamp, and the faulty wiring? Sure, I had plenty of experiences.”
I couldn’t hold back a small laugh. “You really don’t believe in any of this, do you?”
She looked at me then for a beat before refocusing on the road. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Dev, I really don’t. But, no, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“You will,” I said and flashed her a grin.
“No, I won’t. And I have my reasons.”
That was interesting. She could have simply left it as a statement, that she didn’t believe. But that little bit at the end piqued my interests. I wasn’t sure if she’d tell me anything, but I had to ask. “Care to share?”
She took in a deep breath, and for a minute I thought she might tell me to mind my business. Instead, she surprised me. “I lost my best friend. She was taken from me, and I still have no answers, despite my best efforts. If ghosts were real, she would have found a way to reach me.” She glanced at me again. “She would have told me what happened to her. We had a bond that transcended friendship or romance. Even family. She never would have just left me wondering. Never.” She bit her lip.
I could feel the pain coming off her in waves. I knew that pain. I wasn’t sure if it would help, but I felt like I needed to share a bit, as well. “I understand. My twin sister was murdered.” I heard Hanlen suck in a sharp breath and saw her shut her eyes for a second. “That pain doesn’t go away. It only changes. I personally find comfort in believing, but I can understand the flip-side of that coin, as well.”
Saying the word coin made me think of Mr. Reynolds, who I had never tried to reach out to. “Speaking of coins . . . Have you contacted your client about your dead skiptrace?”
“I did,” she said. “They were kind of pissed that I got paid half of our agreed rate for basically doing nothing, but were as perplexed as I was. Am. Nothing that I or anybody else has dug up lends credence to a motive. He’s not even from here. I assume it was just a crime of opportunity for this sicko I now know has been terrorizing the city. I mean, what else could it be, right?”
I honestly didn’t know. Wren and Findley didn’t seem to know, either. “That’s the most logical assumption, though my intuition tells me we’re missing something. But the police are being very tight-lipped, and my contacts haven’t uncovered anything either.”
Her brow furrowed. “Your contacts? Why would you be working on that case?”
I fiddled with a string on my jeans. Did I tell her? And if I did, how much should I tell her? I settled for a partial truth. “The crime—actually all of the murders with that signature so far—matches what was done to my sister. The person who killed your ex-con is likely the same asshole who took my family from me and murdered at least two other people that we know of so far. I personally think there are many more, but I’m not an investigator, and my investigative techniques aren’t anything that would hold up in court. Me looking into it is more for my peace of mind. A search for answers of some kind, even though there is no closure for something like that. As I’m sure you know.”
“I understand that,” she said, her hands tightening on the steering wheel.
We both went quiet for the rest of the drive, likely thinking of those we’d lost. When Hanlen pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gate of the property, I felt a thrill skitter through me. I had wanted access to this plot of land since I pitched the idea for the show to the network, and they picked up the pilot. Now, five seasons into our
tenure, we had the following, the ratings, and the clout to get into some places others hadn’t been able to maneuver into as yet, and I could do the occasional episode on sites that I and the team were personally interested in, as well.
The drive was long and lined on either side by trees that created a natural tunnel of sorts, the building at the end framed beautifully as we approached. I pulled out my cell to snap some pictures through the windshield, the shadows playing beautifully over the lane and the surroundings. The house was cream and gray with forest green shutters, the columns on the front porch tall and proud. The railing around the second-story porch had been painted a burnt orange that was unusual but lent to the overall aesthetic of the property. Still, I had to joke . . .
“Did your mom pick the new colors? I feel like she’s channeling her new Florida vibes.”
Hanlen laughed as she pulled up alongside the front porch and turned the key. “It does look like the Miami Hurricanes threw up, doesn’t it? Actually, we had a local historical society pick the colors when we updated the property. Something about it being old Southern home design and an homage to something or other. I’m not actually sure. Still, as odd as it is, it’s also kind of perfect.”
I had to agree. It looked wonderful, and I couldn’t wait to see the inside and the acreage. Up ahead, through the middle of the property, I saw a yawning maw that reminded me of a portal. I shook myself free of an involuntary shiver when I saw an apparition pass through it. Spanish moss hung across the opening. “What’s that?” I pointed.
Hanlen looked where I indicated. “There’s actually a courtyard. The building is kind of a squared horseshoe shape, built around it. There are benches and a large fountain, and access to the internal balconies and a secondary access to the widow’s walk. The design is quite ingenious. I remember how fun it was to play, darting in and out of the house through the open French doors to the outside and then running down the hall only to emerge through another set of doors to the courtyard. And we used to use the courtyard all the time for neighborhood and family gatherings, setting up our huge table right in the middle.”
Memento Mori: Haunted New Orleans Series Page 4