EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2017 Nancy E. Polin
ISBN: 978-1-77339-386-5
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Audrey Bobak
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To all the usual suspects. You know who you are. At least you should by now. Seriously.
Also a shout out to my Luna-Bear. Who else, but my favorite pup, would curl under the desk and rest her chin on my foot as I write late into the night? Of course, in fairness, if anyone else did do that, it would be creepy.
SOUL RECKONING
Nancy E. Polin
Copyright © 2017
Chapter One
Rowan O’Herley gazed through the open window as the driver threaded his way down the busy, narrow streets of New Orleans. Darkness, crowds, and buildings rising two to four stories on either side of the taxi melded to give her a slightly claustrophobic feel. Her cabbie braked countless times when hordes of jubilant people migrated into the road, some staggering, all laughing. Many clutched various forms of alcohol-infused happiness.
“Is it always like this?”
The driver’s dark amused eyes scanned her from the rearview mirror and he shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes not. It’s just N’awlins.”
She wasn’t sure if the sentiment was some kind of promise or warning. She hadn’t set foot in Louisiana since she was a small child, and her memories were flickers, like shadows on a wall. All she knew was that her mother had refused a trip back, stating a less-than-complimentary opinion of New Orleans. The woman was a stickler for propriety.
Despite the fatigue of a long flight, abundant coffee kept her buzzing inside and her gaze darted everywhere at once. Along with the merrymakers, loud music flooded from open doors, the bass searing through her eardrums. Couples disappeared into the shadows of doorways or alleyways, hands stroking and exploring. Men stood outside titty bars, encouraging college-age kids to step inside. The girls have to be seen to be believed!
And Rowan had no idea what the hell she was doing there.
She’d entered into a numb state of mourning upon Uncle Jimmy’s passing. That numbness stepped up to joust with shock when she got the news she’d been named in his will. Good or bad, her decision had been quick. A bad breakup, twisting with her mother’s horror of her daughter owning a tavern, had set events in motion, and here she was.
The stench of garbage and vomit drifted her direction, and holding her breath, she rolled up the window. The driver had warned her the AC wasn’t working, so the heat and humidity of a late-summer night beaded sweat on her forehead. Rowan swiped it with the back of her hand before it could trickle in her eyes.
Maybe it had been a bad call.
Kind of late now, don’t you think?
“Shit.”
“What’s that, miss?” The driver’s gaze popped up in the rearview mirror and she just shook her head.
“Nothing.” Just my life sliding into the toilet. No big deal. Move along. Nothing to see here.
“Sorry about the wait. We’re not far though.”
“Thanks.” She was set to meet Margelene Deneuve to discuss Uncle Jimmy’s bar within the hour. She wasn’t even sure where she was going to spend the night. The lawyer had mentioned the living area upstairs, but her uncle had died up there. She wasn’t superstitious, but all the same, Rowan figured she might opt for a hotel and look at everything in the daylight with fresh eyes.
She recalled a big, lumbering man with the sparkle of life and jest in his eyes. His death still struck her as unreal, and something twitched deep inside. A wave of sadness settled over her and she fought the prickling of tears. Emotions were a private thing. The man driving the cab didn’t need to see a display that wasn’t any of his business. “You said we were almost there?”
“Yup. The Galloping Ghost is a couple ‘a blocks down.”
“Don’t you mean The Galloping Goose?”
His eyes reflected a smile at her. “Just a nickname, miss.”
When she frowned, the smile in his eyes expanded to his mouth. Large teeth flashed in an easy grin. “Lots of history here. It’s a very spirited city.”
Too tired, she didn’t pursue the dubious subject of ghosts. It didn’t matter. Every place had its share of stories and local superstition. Los Angeles had tons. Hollywood lore was rabid, especially with tourists.
The cab made a right turn, away from light, noise, and most of partiers.
“Ah, here we go.” He jerked to the curb of the narrow lane, set the parking brake, and hopped out to get her bags.
Rowan slit a glance through her window, noting the oblong hanging sign of “The Galloping Goose” with its ornate, flowing calligraphy.
Light-blue clapboard siding, with peeling white trim covered the corner building. It rose two stories, traditional French Quarter cast-iron ensnaring the upstairs balcony. The modern touch of glass-block sidelights flanking the heavy wooden double doors allowed minimal light from the bar to seep out into the murky street without giving a clear view inside.
“You been here before?” The driver placed her second suitcase on the curb and quirked a curious brow. “You friend of poor Jimmy?”
Surprised, she turned to look at him. “You knew Jimmy?”
He smiled again, but it quivered in sadness. “Everyone knew Jimmy. Good man. Bad luck.”
Puzzled, Rowan tilted her head, looking up at the driver. She supposed having a heart attack was pretty awful luck, but something in the man’s sudden anxious tone teased her curiosity. “What did you hear about him?”
The driver blinked and she could have sworn she saw fear pulse over the man’s wide face. Unease slid up from her belly to burn in her throat.
He shrugged, but the motion didn’t alleviate the obvious tensing of muscles. “Old Jimmy’s ticker decided to give out.”
He said nothing more as he lugged her bags just inside the bar, nodding in appreciation at the tip she handed him.
The man left a little too quickly, and she frowned after him, perplexed. His attitude bumped up her anxiety, but she pulled in a deep breath and pushed the heavy door inward.
Rowan squinted at the interior of the tavern in the low light. Dark paneling lined the wall to the left, deep-red booths with scarred laminate table tops pressing against it. Directly before her, the bar spread out. A young, dark-haired man leaned against the counter from the business end, talking with some older gents splayed on stools.
Uncle Jimmy’s bar. Hers now through a grim twist of events.
The murmur of voices blending with the music of Tom Petty welcomed her in. She half-expected everyone to turn and stare, but no one seemed to pay attention. Due to the enforced smoking ban the previous year, the ubiquitous stench of cigarettes was missing, allowing the aroma of fried food, designer fragrances, wood oil, and pine cleaner to hang in the air in a pungent blend. Even as a non-smoker, she wasn’t sure which was worse.
She glanced around, noting with tired amusement the assortment of kitsch lining the walls and shoved into any available corner. Painted masks sneered down at patrons, a stuffed catfish missing one eye swam blindly above two aging pinball machines and a jukebox, nostalgic ads for miracle tonics broke up the dark paneling over the booths, and an alligator head with a tro
ll doll hanging jauntily from its jaws smiled from above the wide selection of liquor behind the counter. Kitty corner to the bar, a small raised stage jutted from a distressed brick wall. A cleared space spread before it, serving as a dance floor, she assumed. She wasn’t sure if she should be intrigued or repulsed by whole place. If nothing else, it seemed so Jimmy.
Leaving her cases to the left of the door, she wove her way forward and slid onto a barstool. The bartender stepped away from the laughter of the old men and raised an expectant brow. She blinked in surprise but kept her expression neutral. His face could have been sculpted with an artist’s knife in the perfection of another time. A straight nose, smooth, clear brow, the slash of cheekbones, and a full-lipped sensual mouth that should have been soft, but somehow wasn’t. Maybe if he smiled, but his expression appeared closer to a glower than anything remotely friendly.
She cleared her throat and spoke to be heard above the din. “I’m here to—”
“Ms. O’Herley?”
Rowan turned to see a middle-age woman rising from one table near the bar. Her shiny, dark hair was pulled back from her face in a low chignon, leaving an honest view of a square face with wide-set eyes and round cheeks. Her makeup was light, but accentuating. Obviously she was choosing not to hide from her age. She strode forward with purpose, a few extra pounds on her tall frame well distributed and lost in confidence.
“It was the combination of bewilderment and mild horror on my face that gave me away, wasn’t it?” Rowan accepted the offered hand and gave it a squeeze before releasing it.
The woman laughed, white teeth gleaming in the dim light. “Yeah, that and the suitcases in the corner. I’m Margelene. Margie, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you’re tired from your trip, so if you’d like, we could just do the bare essentials tonight and take care of the rest in my office in the morning.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Relief swept through her. Tons of paperwork wasn’t something she’d been looking forward to tonight.
One of the oldsters huddling at the other end of the bar turned to stare, before breaking away and scuttling toward them. Permanently bent forward, he still sported broad shoulders and solid arms, but his eyes were lost in the weathered cracks of his face. A wiry mop of salt-and-pepper hair whooshed out from the sides of his head, thinning to a trickle on top. “You must be Jimmy’s little niece. He sure talked about you. Smart, pretty, successful. Yeah, yeah, he didn’t lie. At least about the pretty part.” He wheezed with laughter and shifted to throw a look over his shoulder. “Did he, boys?”
Concurring hoots and catcalls blasted their way and Margie stared at them in admonishment. The hoots drifted away.
Embarrassed, Rowan clenched against the slow warmth creeping up her neck. At least the light was low. She held out a hand to the elderly man before her. “Rowan O’Herley.”
The man took her hand, and his smile allowed the shine of brown eyes to peek out from slits within his crinkles. “Henry. Resident fixture since I retired.” His eyes lost their sparkle when his face turned somber. “Your uncle was a good man. Good friend. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll get your bags. Make sure they get to the top of the stairs for you.”
“Thank you, but I—”
He’d already grabbed one of her cases and a second man, younger by a couple of decades, loped over to grab the other. He shared the same shade of brown eyes and wiry brush of hair, only thicker on top. He tipped his head. “Andy. Nice to meet you, ma chère.”
Before Rowan could say another word, her suitcases were heading off without her. She watched them go and sighed.
Margie propelled her forward, a friendly arm looping with hers. “The mute behind the bar here is Luke. Acting manager, bartender, also handyman extraordinaire when in the mood.”
Rowan held out a hand and introduced herself again.
The man stared at her outstretched fingers before his deep-blue-eyed gaze found hers and held. A tiny tremor zipped up and down her spine at the intensity of his look and how it bordered on hostile. Her hand disappeared into his in greeting, his touch firm but gentle. “Ms. O’Herley.”
“Luke…?”
“Meunier.” He pulled his hand from hers but didn’t break eye contact. She stared back, feeling a little childish but unwilling to back down. Luke finally looked away to turn and speak to one of the other men huddled against the bar. Something about the Saints. She’d been dismissed for football and pressed her lips together.
Margie tugged her to the side and Rowan managed to ignore the bartender’s rudeness in favor of being overwhelmed. The older woman introduced her to hordes of other folks, including Sonny, the cook, a server named Christy, and what was the other one? Taylor? Or was it Tanya? More regulars … Pete, Jace, Bill, Dave, Bea, Layla, um … she couldn’t keep everyone straight any longer. She peered around the bar, trying to find and nod at whoever made eye contact, thinking it might be good business, debating about running into the night screaming. Finally, the woman took pity on her vacuous stare. “I’m so sorry. I tend to get carried away. Close-knit folks here. Let’s just go ahead and show you upstairs.”
The attorney led her past the bar and the small kitchen where Sonny had returned to flip a couple of greasy burgers, and through double doors into a narrow hallway with restrooms, a payphone, a door marked “office”, and one simply reading “private.” She was propelled to the door at the very end. Pushing through, a staircase suddenly jutted off to the right. Rowan followed her up the protesting steps. “If you stay to the sides, they creak less. What can I say? It’s an old building.”
Sliding her hand along the bannister, Rowan could envision original wood under years of grime. Genuine interest and curiosity sliced through her haze. “How old is it?”
“Built in 1804.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s seen a lot of history. I’ve been meaning to read up on it, but haven’t found the time. Maybe that would be something for you to pursue now that it’s your place. Do me a favor and let me know if you find out anything interesting.” Margie glanced over her shoulder, mouth smiling, eyes thoughtful. “Here we go.”
Margie pulled keys from the slash pocket of her jacket and unlatched top and bottom locks of the one door off the crest of the stairs. As Henry had promised, her bags waited outside. “I had a professional service come in and do some cleaning. Jimmy, bless him, wasn’t the best of housekeepers.”
Another whoosh of pine-scented cleaner greeted her when she grabbed one suitcase and stepped inside. Beneath it, she caught the telltale aroma of new construction.
At about 550 square feet, the apartment was small, but efficient. The dining room and kitchen combo stood to her left, separated from the living area by a breakfast bar. To her right, French doors led from the main space to what she presumed was the balcony she’d spied from below. She caught a glimpse of the bedroom down the short hallway directly before her.
“Bathroom’s off the bedroom.” Margie had grabbed Rowan’s other bag and deposited it next to the scarred coffee table separating the dusky rose-colored sofa from the TV and stereo rack. “We also took the liberty of stocking some staples in the fridge for you, including coffee. I hope that wasn’t too much of an assumption on our part.”
“Not at all. Thank you.” A smile of pure java-induced gratitude cracked through her fatigue before slipping a little as her gaze continued to roam. “Smells a little like new paint and wood in here.”
“Ah, yes. Luke had to do a little bit of work. The French doors are new and there were some marks on the wall that he patched up. I guess he figured a new wall color wouldn’t hurt.” Margie gazed at the smoky blue walls with a hint of fresh recognition and Rowan wondered when she’d last stepped inside. The woman’s tone slid into business a beat later. “We can discuss everything and take care of all the paperwork in the morning, but there is something you should know tonight.”
“And
what’s that?” Rowan’s attention wavered to her uncle and a rash of gooseflesh prickled along her arms. He’d passed away in here. She wasn’t superstitious, but she was tired enough for her brain to mess with her. Dimly, she debated couch or bed tonight. Maybe the couch. It was closer to the door.
“Your uncle was very specific when it came to Luke.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Jimmy insisted that he always have a job here.”
“I guess I can work with that.” If nothing else, she’d just have to establish a definite employer-employee relationship. The guy set off her alpha-male radar and she’d already had enough of that crap in her life.
“That’s good to hear, because he also lives downstairs.”
“There’s another apartment?”
“No. He has a space in the storage room, but he does come up here to shower.”
Rowan turned to stare, her muddy brain trying to struggle to the surface and clarify the words coming from the lawyer’s mouth. “Excuse me?”
“He lives on premises and has for several years. Your uncle stipulated that wasn’t to change, unless Luke decided he wanted out, of course.”
Opening her mouth, she closed it, and opened it a second time. Seriously? “So, there’s a surly bartender living in the storage room?”
“Yes.”
“And I can’t evict him from said storage room?”
“It wouldn’t be easy.” She reached out and squeezed Rowan’s arm. “I know it’s an odd situation.”
“That’s a word for it.”
“Luke is a little abrasive, I know, but he’s not a bad man.”
Rowan lowered herself onto the arm of the sofa, a frown rippling her brow. “Why would my uncle do that? Or I guess, more to the point, why would this guy even want that? Who would want to live like that?”
Soul Reckoning Page 1