A Ghost of a Chance

by Cherie Claire

  A Ghost of a Chance

  by Cherie Claire

  A Viola Valentine Mystery

  A Ghost of a Chance (A Viola Valentine Mystery, Book One) by Cherie Claire

  © Cheré Dastugue Coen 2017

  1st Edition, January 2017

  Produced with Typesetter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Cherie Claire, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information and to sign up for Cherie Claire’s newsletter, visit http://www.cherieclaire.net

  To the incredibly talented Josh Coen for his SCANCy ideas.

  Also by Cherie Claire

  Viola Valentine Mystery Series

  A Ghost of a Chance

  Ghost Town

  Trace of a Ghost

  The Cajun Embassy

  Ticket to Paradise

  Damn Yankees

  Gone Pecan

  The Cajun Series

  Emilie

  Rose

  Gabrielle

  Delphine

  A Cajun Dream

  The Letter

  Carnival Confessions: A Mardi Gras Novella

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Sneak Peek: Ghost Town

  Author Notes

  Chapter One

  They say there are blessings from Katrina. Mine was I lost my job.

  I gaze around at the lush breakfast area of The Monteleone Hotel in New Orleans, enjoying eggs Benedict, crisp bacon and the creamiest grits I’ve had in years and force myself not to laugh. Life is looking up, despite my lack of job security. All I have to do is get on a plane, make my assignment and my life will resemble this from now on.

  “More coffee, ma’am?”

  I glance up from my newspaper I wasn’t really reading and there’s a red-headed man wearing a uniform more typical of the 1920s standing beside my table.

  And he isn’t carrying a coffee pot.

  Startled, I shake my head. I’ve had my caffeine quota for the day, promising my doctor I would stop at two cups in the morning. Of course, I never promised anything about afternoons.

  After all, I am a journalist.

  “Very good ma’am.” He bows and quietly saunters out the cafe door. I’d say float but that’s absurd.

  “Who was that?” I ask the waitress when she arrives to refill my cup. Despite my promises, I let her.

  “Who was what, dawlin?”

  After months in Cajun Country, it feels great to hear a New Orleans accent again, people we label “Yats” because they usually begin a greeting with “Where y’at?” It’s more Brooklyn than Southern, slower and more friendly. Definitely not the Hollywood, Tennessee Williams drawl most people assume to find here sprouting from residents dressed in seersucker and white bucks.

  The Yat sends me a puzzled grin with a hand on her hip, the kind siblings bestow on one another. This is New Orleans. We’re all related so why not just act like family.

  “Are you all doing a costume brunch now?” I ask, adding, “I’m writing a story on the hotel.”

  Dolores — it was written on her name tag right above “Ask About Our Rebirth Specials” — isn’t impressed with my assignment. She grabs one of her purple and gold hoop earrings and pulls, her snide expression unfaltering.

  “Did Margaret put you up to this?”

  “Who’s Margaret?”

  Dolores huffs and walks away, leaving me to ponder what the hell that was all about.

  I check my watch. Two hours. I’m meeting Mary Jo, my old roommate from college who is now the PR director of The Monteleone, and then I’m on my way. She’s late, as always, but this will be one of those times I’m not going to hang around, even though she set up my complimentary night at the historic hotel in the hopes I would write a glowing story to help attract tourists back to New Orleans; it’s been months since Katrina and many people still think we’re under water. But today my first press trip as a travel writer awaits and I have a plane to catch.

  Finally, Mary Jo appears, wearing her usual navy blue A-skirt and matching button-up sweater, topped by a discreet strand of pearls and cream-colored headband. I almost laugh because she could have walked out of the LSU Delta Gamma house, but her coifed hair and perfect makeup make me feel self-conscious. She waves from the hostess desk and I attempt to straighten out my wrinkled blouse before she sits down.

  “What’d you think?” she says before even pulling out a chair.

  “Gorgeous as always.” I place a hand over my coffee cup as Dolores arrives, hovering her pot across the table like an alien spaceship and sending me a suspicious glance. “The customer service is exceptional, Mary Jo McConnell.”

  Hearing the name, Dolores jerks to get a better look at my table companion. Mary Jo is clueless, but Dolores suddenly resorts back to her cheerful self. “Would you like some coffee, Miss Mary Jo?”

  “No thanks, Dolores. I’m just here to see how my travel writer friend’s stay is going.”

  Mary Jo pronounces my new profession like my family does, as if I’ve decided to become a ventriloquist or palm reader for an occupation. I’ve been writing travel stories for years, bringing in extra income to my well-paying newspaper job covering the school board and police beat in deep St. Bernard Parish for the New Orleans Post. The Post is the smaller city newspaper to the notable Times-Picayune. Note sarcasm here: the pay sucked, we were but a shadow to the Times-Pic and guess who’s up for a Pulitzer for their Katrina coverage? My twin Sebastian thought my day job would produce fodder for the Great American Novel I was to write and my dad called it “a decent job and I should be glad to have one.” I saw it as newspaper hell.

  But I dismiss Mary Jo’s obvious doubting of me making a living at freelance travel writing, instead catching how Dolores is now doubly scared because she’s finally figured out I may write about her. She starts fussing over me and I wonder if, as a travel writer, I will have this power over people from now on.

  Cool.

  Mary Jo shushes her away and I explain how my suite overlooking Royal Street delighted every sense (all true), the rooftop pool was heavenly (too crowded and noisy but the drinks helped make that go away), my massage the night before couldn’t have been better (again, no lie, although that poor woman got her money’s worth working on me) and two small children kept me up all night running down the hall. I left that last part out.

  Either the hotel’s haunted or there are parents here waking from a good night’s sleep that I want to throttle.

  Once we get awkward business out of the way and I assure her a story is forthcoming in Mais Yeah!, the southwest Louisiana weekly I now write travel for, we catch up on girlfriend news.
Mary Jo shows off her enormous diamond and grabs my day planner to circle the date of her upcoming wedding. Branford J. Whitaker the third, otherwise known as “Brick” — I don’t inquire — heads up his father’s Carnival store, the kind that sells all that China-made crap thrown at Mardi Gras parades, those lovely beads, doubloons, trinkets and the like that everyone kills each other over and then stuffs into attics like Christmas decorations.

  “There’s so much money in Carnival,” Mary Jo informs me. “You wouldn’t believe how much those krewe members spend on throws.” She leans in close and whispers with a sly smile, “Thousands and thousands, which is great for the Whitaker family.”

  I really shouldn’t have blurted it out, but I had to stop the jealousy rising in my chest. As much as I love my new freedom and finally realizing my dream, I’m scared as hell at the lack of financial security and I’m trying hard not to remember that fact.

  “You did what?” Mary Jo asks me, which surprises me as much as TB’s reaction.

  “I don’t understand why this is such a surprise.”

  “Viola, you’re upset because of the disaster,” she says, patting my hand. “The loss of your house and that place where you’re now living…”

  “It’s a mother-in-law unit,” I answer way too defensively.

  My mother calls my home in the neighboring town of Lafayette a potting shed because of its ruggedness — okay, it’s a bit frayed at the edges — and refuses to set foot inside. Which turned out to be a good thing; my parents never visit.

  “Deliah said it was a dump.”

  “You talked to my mother?”

  “I can find you a really nice place in New Orleans....”

  “Can’t afford it now that I’ve gone freelance. You talked to my mother?”

  Mary Jo takes my hand and squeezes. “We’re worried about you.”

  I pull my hand back and offer up my best “life is good, what hurricane?” smile. Nothing is taking me down today. “My landlord is letting me live there free in exchange for keeping an eye on the big house,” I say, trying to eliminate the defensive edge from my voice. It could have been a closet and I would have eagerly agreed. Well, it kinda is.

  “It’s part of the freedom package that’s allowing me to work as a travel writer and not go back to that horrid newsroom,” I continue. “You know how miserable I was.”

  Mary Jo tilts her head as if to start a “Yes, but....”

  “Did I tell you that Reece, my Cajun landlord, isn’t hard on the eyes?”

  Wrong thing to say when you’re fresh into a separation.

  “This is all too soon to be thinking of dating your landlord, Vi.”

  “Who said dating? He’s married.”

  Mary Jo winces. “Maybe you and TB should get counseling.”

  “You never liked TB,” I add. “Since when are you taking his side?”

  TB stands for T-Bubba. My ex loves to joke about his name, calling himself half Cajun, half redneck since the Cajun “T” stands for “petite,” or “Petite (Little) Bubba.” His father, the redneck half, was Bubba Senior. My mom calls TB a disease.

  Mary Jo huffs while shaking a packet of Sweet-n-Low before ripping off the side and pouring the cancerous substance into her coffee. Just watching her sip that pink stuff leaves an awful aftertaste in my mind and I swallow hard.

  “A divorce is a pretty big step,” she says. “And you just went through a traumatic experience. You don’t need to pile more stress on your life.”

  What’s a little more stress after axing your way through an attic when lake waters rushed through your home, to sit on a rooftop for two days while your government ignored you? Not knowing where your twin brother was for more than a week. In fact, now that Sebastian is working as a temp in the restaurant industry and moving around the Deep South, I still don’t know.

  Brat.

  “I’ll be fine.” Weirdly enough, I actually believe that, feel infinitely better. The future is unstable but the possibilities are endless.

  Mary Jo doesn’t share in my excitement. The light disappears, replaced by a comatose stare she once exhibited when she thought Lampton “Scoop” Mallard over at the KA house was having an affair. Goosebumps run up my arm and panic fills my chest.

  “Is this about Lillye?” she asks quietly.

  Time to leave. I check my watch. “I need to go. My plane leaves at ten.”

  “Viola.” Mary Jo grabs my hand as I rise. “This is all so horrible. You lost everything and now you’re getting a divorce and living in someone’s potting shed.”

  I give her a kiss on the cheek, knowing she means well. I have my photos. Really, what else matters?

  “I’ll be fine,” I say.

  Mary Jo grins through the tears; she really is a good friend. I give her a tight hug and roll my pink and white polka dot luggage I nabbed at Goodwill to the Honda that TB had insisted I keep (he’s spending his share of the FEMA money on a pickup). I have to stop by the house and give TB the mail, since mail service in New Orleans is spotty at best. Our insurance check finally arrived, so I need to hand it off to TB before I fly out so he can continue renovations.

  I drive through the tourist-infested French Quarter amazed at how the lure of Bourbon Street keeps them coming no matter what. Good thing our founding fathers settled the heart of the city above sea level. You’d never know a disaster happened gazing out at the crowds strolling through the ancient quarter, giant drinks shaped like bombs in their hands, those tacky beads around their necks making the Whitakers rich, and silly grins produced when alcohol mixes with the freedom to be whoever you wish to be.

  The closer I get to Rampart, however, the more damage I spot, blue tarps on the roofs to keep the rain out, piles of mildewed sheetrock by the curb. I turn and head over to Canal and move toward the lakeside of town, an area called Mid-City where TB and I lived. The waterline is evident here, like a child extended his hand with a pen between his fingers, letting it mark up the sides of houses. The further west I travel, the higher the mark, like I’m slowly descending under water and into hell.

  In fact, I am. All that euphoria of staying at the elegant, historic Monteleone Hotel in the heart of the romantic French Quarter disappears and the horror of Katrina stares back at me everywhere. I swallow hard, fighting down the bile and panic as I gaze at the blocks upon blocks of water-logged homes and the empty shopping centers and dead traffic lights. One corner still sports an abandoned boat from the rescue days. A pack of dogs runs wild down Iberville Street. A billboard blown free of its tethers has landed in a housetop and I see a smiling woman enjoying coffee peeking out by the chimney.

  This is what Mary Jo and my mother want me to live in. I vow to hand TB his mail and haul ass to the airport.

  He must have heard me drive up for TB is halfway to the curb by the time I turn off the engine. I’m not happy to see him and that old guilt comes back with a rush. I could write a dissertation on why my marriage failed, but sum it up with one sentence: The man aggravates the hell out of me. For years I tried to hide it, put “a nice face on” as my mother would say, but the nastiness in my voice bubbles to the surface and pours out, sometimes in turrets.

  Before I’m able to grab the mail and lock up the car, TB’s staring at me over the hood. “Mary Jo called in tears, said she’s worried about you.”

  I groan, pushing the lock button on the door; I wasn’t able to afford one of those push-button kind you carry on a key chain. I even roll down my windows the old-fashioned way. “What could possibly be wrong?” I ask TB sarcastically, laughing.

  “She said you’re on your way somewhere.”

  I don’t feel like explaining to the world where I am and what I’m doing because family and friends keep trying to talk me out of it. And get counseling. Both of which I don’t intend to do. Even though TB’s motivation is to get me back into the marriage, I keep it simple. “I’m going on a press trip.”

  “Oh yeah, what for?”

  Here come the twenty ques
tions. TB’s idea of a conversation is asking mundane questions, like a three-year-old following a parent around the house. “What are you doing?” “What’s your plans for today?” “What do you want to do for dinner?” “Was that the mail?”

  “I got invited to go somewhere, to do a travel story,” I tell him.

  “Where are you going?”

  I shouldn’t have blurted it out but my multi-tasking brain is busy focusing on getting to the sidewalk and not on the elderly man across the street staring. A shiver runs up my spine as I feel those cold black eyes upon me. “I’m heading to Eureka Springs, Arkansas.”

  “What for?”

  I pull TB through our front gate and head up toward the house, glancing back to see if the old man is still there. He is. And his gaze still bores holes into my back.

  “Who is that?” I whisper to TB.

  “Who is what?”

  A normal person would have had trouble comprehending how TB could have missed this intense weirdo across the street, but TB is regularly clueless. I turn toward the house but pause at the porch and hand TB the mail.

  “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “Uh, no.” I had seen all I had wanted of our house about a month after Katrina, when they finally let residents into the parish to view what was left — if anything — of their homes. Weeks under water can do amazing things to a person’s belongings, like a stick of butter in the microwave left on high too long. I don’t want to step foot in that house again.

  TB marches up the steps. “Want to see what I’ve done with the kitchen? I painted the cabinets and found some nice granite pieces half price.”

  I’m not following. “Really? I need to get to the airport.”

  He nods but I can tell he wants to talk, try to convince me a legal separation isn’t the best route. Thankfully my trip to the courthouse last week sealed the deal. “Your mother said we need time.”

  My head snaps to attention. “What? You talked to my mother?”