“Twice. She went on my ghost tour, and she sewed up my arm.”
“And when are you seeing her again?”
He shoved a bite of roast into his mouth and let the tender meat fall apart on his tongue. Juicy, with oregano and a hint of garlic, the flavors reminded him of his childhood. This had been his dad’s favorite dish before the cancer took him. “I was hoping you could help me with that.”
She raised her eyebrows as if urging him to continue.
“I didn’t exactly get the chance to ask her out either time.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“It’s a long story. But remember when you offered that scheduled serendipity? I think I’d like to take you up on that now.”
Her entire face lit up as she stood and carried her mug to the sink. She shuffled back to the table, giggling like a school girl. What had he gotten himself into?
“You be here Saturday at ten-thirty for brunch. I’ll take care of everything else.”
Chapter Six
Sean wrapped his hands around the brown paper cup, hoping the hot coffee inside could warm more than the chill in his fingers. A cold front blew through Louisiana last night, dropping the temperature to an unseasonably cool fifty degrees. He hadn’t dressed for the weather, which made his two-block walk to the coffee shop unpleasant enough as it was. The ghost that had been following him all morning didn’t make it any better.
He turned the corner to head to the tour office and stepped right through the specter. Her frigid energy ripped through his body, raising goose bumps on every inch of his skin. A shiver ran from the top of his head down to his toes, and he ground his teeth together. The spirit dissipated, but as soon as he opened the office door, she reformed inside.
She was still having a hard time coming through; her bloodshot eyes bulged, and her swollen lips couldn’t form words. If he tried hard enough, he could block her from his consciousness. But the desperation in her eyes called to him. He wanted to help the poor woman.
“You’re going to need to build some more energy to communicate with me. I can’t hear you.”
The spirit tilted her head and stared at him without blinking. Most spirits didn’t blink—they didn’t need to—but the way her eyes bulged from her head unnerved him. She’d come through clearer in his dream last night. Her face had appeared as it probably did when she was alive, but the bruises and rope burn around her neck had been vibrant and disheartening. Had she been murdered or was it suicide? Her insistence in trying to communicate made him think murder.
He’d checked with the police this morning for any recent hanging victims who matched her description, but his search came up empty. If she was recently deceased, she either wasn’t from close by or her body hadn’t been found.
“I want to help you, ma’am. I really do. But you’re not coming through all the way.”
The spirit’s shoulders slumped, and she dissolved.
Sean sighed and sipped his coffee. The bitter liquid warmed him from his tongue down to his stomach, but his arm hairs stood on end as the electric charge the spirit left behind danced in the air around him. He yawned and stared bleary-eyed at the computer screen. Between his mom waking him every few hours to check for a concussion and the ghost haunting his dreams, he’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep in total.
Luckily, the guest load was light for a Friday night in October, and it looked like Jason, Eric, and Sydney could handle the tours tonight. Saturday was another story though, and he’d definitely have to lead an eight o’clock group. Possibly six o’clock too, but he wasn’t concerned about Saturday night. The anticipation for Saturday morning was driving him insane.
Why did he get his mother involved? He could have asked her for Emily’s number and called her. But he wanted to see her again. To ask her out in person. Her reaction when he’d called her Buttercup was one of pure surprise. She really had no idea he was the man she’d kissed at the masquerade, and their encounters had a habit of ending way too soon. A simple phone call would be too easy for her to walk away from.
It had been too damn long since he’d felt something…anything…for a woman. The rolling, nauseating sensation in his stomach had to be a good sign. He was going to ask her on a proper date, and he was going to do it in person.
Emily had lunched with his mom on several occasions since she’d move to New Orleans, and Madeline assured him the beautiful redhead would think nothing of being invited over for brunch. Hopefully his mother was right. Saturday morning couldn’t get here fast enough.
* * *
Emily’s phone chimed as she walked through her front door. She had half an hour to change out of her yoga clothes and get ready for lunch. Tossing her keys and purse on the table by the window, she glanced at her sister’s mysterious box. She needed to call Robert and thank him for sending it to her. Or at least send him a text letting him know she’d received it. She hadn’t talked to her brother-in-law in months. Maybe a text would be better.
She pulled a stool close to the counter and sat there, contemplating the container. Surely Robert had emptied it of anything valuable before he locked it, but the thought didn’t squelch her curiosity. It could still have something inside: old letters, photographs, some kind of memento Jessica had held on to that Robert wouldn’t have found valuable. She needed to know what was inside that box.
Maybe whatever contents it held would explain her sister’s attachment to the old hunk of wood. Jessica had to haggle with the estate planner to even convince her to sell it. Her sister had wandered into a closet during the sale and found the box hidden behind a stack of blankets. The planner insisted it wasn’t for sale, but Jessica had dipped into her savings account, and her generous offer was too tempting for the planner to refuse.
She ran her hand across the top of the box. What was it about this thing that had intrigued her sister so?
Maybe she could pick the lock. She rushed to her bathroom and dug through a drawer in search of a hairpin. She didn’t know the first thing about lock-picking, but hairpins always seemed to work on TV. Grabbing a handful, she headed back to the kitchen. Straightening out a pin, she jabbed it into the lock and swirled it around, hoping to connect with whatever mechanism held the lid shut. She didn’t feel anything.
She tossed that pin aside and tried one without straightening it. Maybe both ends needed to go inside the lock. She twisted the pin around, and the sound of metal connecting with metal sent her heart racing. She jiggled the hairpin and tried lifting the lid. It was still stuck shut.
“Damn it. There’s got to be a way to get this open.”
A loud thunk and the sound of glass breaking drew her attention away from the box. A photo of Jessica taken a year before she died had fallen off the table. She probably jostled it when she put her purse down. Sliding off her stool, she tossed the broken glass into the trash and set the frame on the table.
Focusing her attention on the box, her fingers trembled, and she fumbled with the make-shift key, dropping it on the floor. She wiped her sweat-soaked palms on her leggings and tried again. Hairpin number three bent in the lock, and she fought to remove it. A faint knocking on the door only distracted her from her task for a second. She had to get this box open.
Eye level with the lock, she slid pin number four into the keyhole. A cold draft wafted into the room, blowing her hair into her face. She dropped the pin and cursed.
“What are you doing, Em?” Trish stepped into her apartment and closed the door. “I was knocking for five minutes before I let myself in. Sorry I’m late.”
Emily picked up the hairpin and stared at it. What was she doing? She glanced at the pile of pins on the counter and pushed Jessica’s box against the wall. “You’re not late. You texted me ten minutes ago.”
“I texted you forty-five minutes ago. Why aren’t you ready? I’m starving.”
Had it been forty-five minutes? She’d only just sat down to play with the lock when Trish arrived. Surely she hadn’t lost track
of time that easily. “I was trying to open the box.”
“Any luck?”
“No.”
“There’s an antique shop in Metairie that specializes in old locks. The owner’s a retired locksmith. Why don’t we have lunch out that way, and we can swing by the shop and see if he can open it for you?”
A flood of relief washed through her, and she relaxed the tension from her shoulders. “How did you find out about him?”
Trish shrugged. “Google. I’m curious what’s inside too.”
“All right. I’m going to get changed.”
“Mind if I get some water?”
“Sure.” Emily went to her bedroom and changed into jeans and a navy blue sweater. She slipped on a pair of brown suede ankle boots and wrapped a cream-colored scarf around her neck. Cold October days in New Orleans were rare, and she planned to make the most of it.
When she returned to the living room, Trish held the picture of her sister and had a puzzled expression on her face. She handed the frame to Emily. “It fell off the table all by itself. I was in the kitchen.”
She took the picture and examined the frame. “There must be something wrong with the stand. It fell off earlier today too. Maybe I can buy a new one while we’re out.” She pulled the picture out and slipped it into a drawer, then she tossed the frame into the trash.
She slung her purse over her shoulder and heaved the box onto her hip. “Where’s this antique shop located?”
“I can map it on my phone, but can we please go eat first? I skipped breakfast.”
She sighed and looked at the box. Taking an hour for lunch first wouldn’t hurt anything. “Okay. I’ll lock it in the trunk while we eat.”
* * *
Emily pushed a green bean around on her plate and glanced out the window for the umpteenth time since they’d entered the restaurant. No one was going to break into her trunk and steal the stupid box, but she couldn’t help herself. Hopefully once she got it open and saw what—if anything—was inside, she could forget about the damn thing. Her thoughts had been so consumed with the chest, she’d forgotten about the confession she needed to make to her friend.
“Do you remember that guy I talked about? Sean?”
“The sexy guy from the ghost tour with the sensual name?”
Her body warmed at the image of him sitting shirtless on the patient bed. She shivered. “Yeah. He came into the clinic last night. I had to give him stitches.”
She raised her eyebrows. “It figures it would happen on my day off. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I was in shock. But it gets more…well, interesting.” She drummed her nails on the table.
“How so?”
“Trish, Sean is…he’s Westley. From the masquerade.”
Trish choked on her dirty rice and dropped her fork on her plate. She took a big gulp of sweet tea, set the translucent red cup on the table, and wiped the condensation off with her finger. “And you just found out who he was at the clinic?”
“Yeah. He told me right before an emergency came in.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “And you let him walk out the door, didn’t you?”
Emily lifted her hands. “What was I supposed to do? The next patient was in anaphylactic shock, and I was in regular shock.”
Trish narrowed her eyes. “I suppose I can forgive you. At least you’re telling me now, eighteen hours after it happened.”
“Gee, thanks.” She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms.
“So you’ve randomly run into the ‘perfect’ man you made out with at the ball twice now?”
Emily nodded.
“Talk about your serendipity, Em. And you didn’t give him your number this time either, did you?”
She sucked on her straw and stared at her friend, hoping her silence would answer the question.
“You didn’t.”
She shook her head.
“Are you nuts? You said yourself you’d know it was meant to be if you ran into him again. And now it’s happened twice.”
She sat up straight. “I got busy. I couldn’t leave another patient to die while I gave some guy my number. By the time I finished helping all the patients, he was checked out and long gone.”
“But he put his number on his registration form, right? You could still call him.”
She sighed. “I’m not going to use his private information for personal use. Not only is it unethical, it’s illegal.”
“I doubt he’d press charges.”
“That’s not the point. Besides, I don’t know what I would say. I’m too chicken to call him.” She finally ate the green bean she’d been pushing around for the last fifteen minutes. It was cold and flavorless.
Like her love life was turning out to be.
“Remember Madeline, my real estate agent?”
“Yeah.”
“It sounded like she knew him, didn’t it? Maybe I could ask her to give him my number. Then if he’s really interested, he can call me.”
Trish grinned. “I think that’s a fantastic idea. Call her right now.”
“I’m having brunch with her Saturday. I’ll ask her then. Let’s go get that box opened.”
* * *
The antique shop had a small storefront tucked away in the corner of a run-down, L-shaped strip center in a questionable part of town. The word open handwritten on a plank of wood hung in the door, and a middle-aged man sat behind a counter tinkering with a wooden clock.
When Trish pulled the door open, a bell chimed, but the man didn’t look up. Holding his tongue between his teeth, he used a tiny screwdriver to pry open a metal covering on the back of the clock.
Emily set the box on the countertop and cleared her throat. The man still didn’t look up.
“Excuse me, sir.”
No response.
“Sir?” She waved her arms, hoping to get his attention.
He glanced her way and sucked in a breath like he hadn’t seen a customer in a long time. He ran his finger up the back of his ear, apparently turning on a hearing aid. No wonder he didn’t notice them come in.
“How can I help you, young ladies?” His gaze darted back and forth between Emily and Trish like he hadn’t seen a woman in a long time either.
“I have this old box, and I was wondering if you could open it.”
He adjusted the glasses on his nose and ran a hand across the top of the box. Emily winced. In the short time since the artifact arrived, she’d grown attached to it. She wanted to yank it away and tell him not to touch it, but she needed his help. She also needed to get a grip.
It was just a box.
Turning the chest around, he peered at the lock. “Do you have the key?”
She ground her teeth to stop herself from spouting off a sarcastic comment. Of course she didn’t have the key. “No. I was hoping you could maybe pick the lock or something.”
“Hmm…” He picked it up and moved it to a shelf behind the counter. “I’ll look at it. Write down your name and number, and I’ll call you when it’s done.” He offered her a pen and paper.
She bit her lip. She wasn’t about to leave it here and walk away. “Actually, it’s a family heirloom. I was hoping you could work on it now?”
He cut a sideways glance at her and went back to working on the clock.
“I’ll pay double your fee.”
He snapped his head toward her and narrowed his eyes. “My fee is fifty dollars.”
“I’ll pay a hundred if you’ll do it now. Cash.”
He let out a heavy sigh like the job was putting him out, but the corner of his mouth quirked as he picked up the box and set it on his workbench. Unfolding a black velvet pouch, he ran his fingers over what must have been his lock picking tools. Deciding on an instrument to use, he picked up a silver scalpel-looking device and slid it into the lock.
Emily held her breath. It had to work.
A round woman with curly gray hair entered from the back room and beamed a s
mile. “Good afternoon. How are you today?”
The locksmith turned to the woman and set his tool on the counter. Emily tried to hide her annoyance with a smile. The curiosity was killing her. She needed to know what was inside that box like she’d never needed to know anything in her life. “We’re good. Thank you.”
“What are you working on, Ed?”
He straightened his posture and gestured to the box. “This young lady is paying a hundred dollars to get this box opened immediately. Must be something really important inside.”
The woman peered over Ed’s shoulder and froze. Her expression went flat, unreadable. She shook her head. “Get that thing out of my store.”
He scratched his head. “But I haven’t got it open yet.”
“Good. Take it away.” She snatched the box from the work table and shoved it toward Emily. “And don’t ever bring it back.”
Emily clutched the box to her chest. “I don’t understand.”
“There’s evil in that box, and I want nothing to do with it.”
“But it’s just a hunk of wood. It’s—”
“Get out!” The woman marched around the counter and flung open the door.
Emily followed Trish outside, and the woman slammed the door shut and locked it. She stood on the sidewalk and watched as the woman lit a bundle of herbs with a lighter and waved it around, filling the small store with smoke.
“Sage,” Trish said. “That’s odd.”
She put the box in the trunk and climbed in the car. Trish slid into the passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt. “Maybe you should get it checked out before you open it. That was an odd reaction for that woman to have.”
She pulled onto the highway and headed toward the French Quarter. “Checked out by whom? It’s just a box.”
“But she said there was evil in it. Maybe a priest? Or someone who knows Voodoo?”
Emily scoffed. “You can’t be serious, Trish. There is no evil in that box. It’s just a box.”
Love & Ghosts: Crescent City Ghost Tours Page 8