Jessie Delacroix
Curse of the
Bloodstone Arrow
by
Constance Barker
&
A.J. DeBellis
Copyright 2016 Barker/DeBellis
All rights reserved.
Similarities to real people, places, or events are purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
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
List of MORE BOOKS by Constance Barker
•Chapter LIST LIST Llllll B Chapter Sixteen
ySeventeen
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Chapter One
It was almost midnight, and Carlo was looking weary as he dragged a burlap sack of potatoes to the big stainless steel sink. He was a great chef – and almost a father figure to me since I was a little girl, spending hours with him in the kitchen of the Nirvana Tea Room. It was a cool and moonless Friday in February, but excitement and anticipation for tomorrow’s festival filled the air.
“Carlo,” I put my hands on his shoulders and rubbed his neck a little, “why don't you go home and get some sleep? You’ve been here all day, and you can barely see straight.”
“Yeah, Carlo,” Granny added. “Sleep would do you some good right about now. If you stay up any longer you’re going to be even grumpier than usual tomorrow.”
Carlo just rolled his eyes at Granny’s jab, since insulting remarks was their normal mode of communication. Mom and I gave Granny a disapproving glare.
“I think so too, Carlo,” Mom said in her sweet and convincing tone.
“Oh, I don't know, Miss Kat.” Carlo just wiped his brow with his forearm and pulled two potatoes out of the sack with his pudgy but strong hand. Years as our Master Chef had brought him fame and accolades, and now he felt the need to exceed our guests’ high expectations. “There's so much to do in very little time. The big spring festival starts tomorrow, and the kitchen will be busy all day. I really should get the potatoes scrubbed and let them sit with a pinch of sea salt on top overnight. Everything must be just right – no shortcuts – right, Miss Aggie?”
Granny couldn’t really argue with him on that. She was, after all, always berating him for his new fangled recipes and timesaving techniques.
“Don’t worry, Carlo,” Mom reassured him. “Mother and I will do it. We don’t need sleep, but you do.”
Usually it was against the rules (my rules) for Mom and Granny to help in the kitchen, since…well, they were ghosts. But it was late and no one was around, so what was the harm?
Besides, we clearly needed our renowned chef in top form for our town’s famous Rites of Spring Bacchanalia tomorrow. It was held annually on the weekend nearest to St. Valentine’s Day and was our own little Mardi Gras bash. Well…sort of.
The sprites and faeries and wood nymphs would help the heroic Prince Darling slay the Dragon Lord of cold and darkness and his frost-breathing dragon, making way for the Goddess of Light. She would ride in on her Leopard of Love and bring a rebirth of nature and new life to our little swampy haven. It was all acted out in an elaborate street play at sunset. Then the Goddess would be crowned “Miss Bacchanalia,” and the dancing would begin.
Hundreds of people swarmed to our little tourist town for the event, and it got a lot of media coverage too. Tourists actually came to Whispering Pines every week, attracted by our seven-block lineup of all kinds of antique shops – from furniture and Civil War clothing to cars and firearms – not to mention the homemade candy and fudge shops and Wally and Molly’s Bakery. The townspeople called it “Antique Row,” and the large Victorian mansion that held our Inn and Tea Room was right at the end of the Boulevard, facing down the avenue of popular little shops.
“Well, you’re right that you’ll be busy tomorrow, Carlo, so you better get home and sleep.” I looked at Carlo’s drooping eyes and sagging posture. “People will be coming from Savannah and Charleston and Jacksonville. There will be lots of celebrities – including the famous food critic from the New Orleans Post, Antoine DeBonnaire. He and his party already checked into the Spectral Suite a couple hours ago.”
The suite occupied the entire former attic and third floor of the Inn, and was said to be haunted by the murdered children of the original owner, Auguste Carlisle, around the time of the Civil War. It was quite popular with high-profile celebrities and ghost hunters.
Anyway, the mention of Mr. DeBonnaire seemed to get Carlo’s attention. “Yes…yes…we must make sure that everything is perfect tomorrow. Antoine is a Georgia boy originally, and I met him at a fine cuisine conference in Valdosta a few years ago. He is a very good critic, but very particular, so everything must be just so. Most everything is already prepared and ready to go. But maybe you're right, Jessica,” Carlo said with a sigh. “I should probably be well-rested for the big day. I will just make sure my sourdough is rising properly and be back in the morning.”
We cleaned up the prep table in the kitchen of the vacant Nirvana Tea Room of L’Auberge Hantée – “The Haunted Inn,” which is our celebrated bed and breakfast in that huge Victorian mansion right at the end of Carlisle Boulevard in Whispering Pines, Georgia.
Carlo made his final rounds and then took off his trademark white beret and hung it on the wall. He stretched out his arms and sucked in a bellyful of air with a satisfying yawn. “Well, goodnight ladies. See you all in the morning.”
“Bye, now.”
“Bye.”
“See you in the morning, Carlo.”
He left through the back door of the kitchen into the dark echoing lobby of our big little bed and breakfast on the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp. He would walk through a few blocks of our famed “Antique Row” along Carlisle. These were the lifeblood of our little tourist town, along with some ghostly legends and tales of buried treasure. Then Carlo would walk a block off the main street to his modest room in a little boarding house. He could live in relative luxury in this small town if he wanted to, but being the head chef of the Nirvana Tea Room was the only life he really cared about.
I was pretty tired myself. It had been a long day, and I had worked nearly as hard and long as Carlo, helping in the kitchen and dining room and getting the rooms of the Inn ready for new guests too. I knew Ginny would be in bright and early, chipper as always, to cook breakfast, so Carlo could come in a little later and concentrate on setting up the brunch.
I yawned and looked at my mom, Kat Delacroix. She had left her physical life nine years ago now, but it was only recently that I began to see and speak with her, here at L'Auberge. Granny had passed about 15 years ago. She was still as feisty as ever, having her daily arguments with Carlo over how to cook her dishes. But Carlo seemed to love it. He couldn't see them, of course. I was the only one who could do that. But he could hear Granny very well, and Ginny, our breakfast cook (who is also very talented in fine dining), well, she could just kind of feel Granny's presence.
“Mom,” I said with a yawn, “maybe it's time we talk about some things. We�
��re never here alone, and you and Granny can't leave the Inn.”
Well, that's not exactly correct. Granny had come to be quite good friends with my little beagle, Arthur. She discovered that she could slip into his little body and go along with him on his daily little trek through the woods and the swamp...and sometimes she and Arthur would come along and help me with little mysteries when I needed a secret spy. Granny and Mom would be able to go anywhere, like other ghosts, if they chose to “cross over,” but Granny was afraid she would lose contact with her chef and with me, so they stayed here, tethered to the Inn.
Mom just looked at me with a nervous look. She had been avoiding our long-needed talk for a while now.
“That's a good idea,” Granny said in her irascible tone. “You two should talk. I think I'll just go and see what's happening upstairs…make sure those darn Carlisle kids aren't up to their poltergeist mischief, causing trouble with the new guests. Now you two sit and chat.” Then she was off through the ceiling.
Mom looked a little concerned. She knew there were only two things I really wanted to ask about: how she died and who my father was.
“Look, Jessie…” Mom floated out through the double kitchen doors and led me to the big corner booth in the dining room, which was kind of our unofficial office, break room, and kitchen table. She looked out the windows to make sure no one was looking. Then she drained the coffee pot into a large mug, put in a little honey, and brought it over to the table for me. She sat.
I looked at her, just waiting to see if she would begin.
“Do we really have to do this now, Jessie?”
“I think we do, Mom. I mean, I'll be 26 years old on the 25th of this month, and I still don't really know our family story...why we came here, who my father was, how you happened to come here with Granny when you were 17 and pregnant with me…and what happened that horrible day nine years ago. Why, Mom? Why did you end up dead on the floor in the solarium? The doctors couldn’t find any reason for your death. You were perfectly healthy. The coroner couldn’t call it natural causes or homicide or suicide, so it’s still officially ‘unknown.’ So what happened?”
“That one I can answer quickly, sweetheart. I truly don't know. I was just walking through the lobby. I went into the solarium on my way to the courtyard, and that's the last thing I remember. The next thing I knew, your grandmother was hovering over me and holding my spirit close to her. She had a look in her eye that told me I just couldn't ask – I shouldn't ask. I still haven't asked, and I’ve decided that it doesn't really matter, honey. I'm dead…and nothing is going to change that.”
I took a napkin from the holder on the table and wiped my eye. I sniffled, and my voice trembled slightly as I continued. “But I was so young mom…still in high school. Why did you have to leave me? There were so many things I needed you for.”
“I didn't leave you, honey. I'm still here. I'll always be here for you. You know that.”
I breathed in deeply and forced an appreciative smile. “Yeah…I guess I do know that. But I just wish I had some place to start…some idea of what happened while I was at school that day. Maybe I could find out what happened…find out if you were murdered…find out who took you from me. It’s like an open sore that just won’t heal, Mom. I need it to heal.”
I was getting through to her, and she would have cried a tear if she could have. Mom reached across the table and put her hand on my arm. Of course, I couldn't feel it. I really missed being able to hold her and touch her. But at least I could still feel her presence.
“Mom...”
“I’ll find out, sweetheart. I’ll find out what happened.”
I nodded and sniffed back my last tear. “Well, okay for now. But I’m going to need some answers pretty soon.”
Mom gave me a look that told me she really understood how much I needed to know and that she would find the answer I had been looking for.
“But you do know who my father is, Mom. I mean, it's not like you were visited by the angel Gabriel and had a virgin birth. Somebody is my father, and of course you know who it is. I know you, and it must have been somebody you cared about very much.”
She put her eyes down, and I wasn’t sure if she nodded or not. “Maybe it is time for us to talk about that honey.”
Just then I heard a small animal howling outside the window, and I looked. It was my little beagle, Arthur. He totally owned my heart. Then Arthur started barking, much too loudly for the late hour. This was not good with an Inn full of guests. There was a an important food critic and his family in the Spectral Suite in the in the attic, and four couples in the second-floor rooms ready to celebrate Valentine's Day and the Rites of Spring with us. Arthur needed me right now, and I had to give him the affection (and midnight treat) that he lived for.
“Well, it looks like you're saved by the bark this time, Mom. But we will finish this tomorrow.”
She looked at me with a warm and comforting smile. “Yes, honey…tomorrow.” Then she dissolved into a blue streak and disappeared through the kitchen doors.
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Chapter Two
I sat up in bed like a thousand watts of electricity had just been sent through my body.
“What in the world?”
Actually, it was more like 120 decibels of shrieking, bone-jarring noise from Kyle Carnigan’s squad car on Carlisle Boulevard that had nearly startled the life out of me. Kyle was the town’s chief of security and my good friend Lexi’s husband. She managed the Tea Room for me, and Maddy was in charge of the Inn. After blaring the Siren for a minute or two, he turned on his amplified megaphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Whispering Pines’ Rites of Spring Bacchanalia! The festivities begin right now and will continue until sunset tonight, followed by the annual performance of Cupid’s Desire by our Shakespeare in the Street Players followed by the crowning of Miss Bacchanalia. And the Lover’s Ball in the courtyard of L’Auberge Hantée will begin at 8 p.m.”
“Oh, boy, Arthur…we still have to decorate the solarium, set up the tables there for the finger food buffet, and get some streamers and torches ready for the courtyard.”
Kyle kept talking at an ear-piercing level. “Maps of all the shops, concessions, and a schedule of featured events will be available next to the Dairy Queen soon, and registration for special events will be in the lobby of L'Auberge Hantée. Please have fun, but let's keep the streets clean, drink responsibly, and be kind to your neighbors. Thank you.”
“Okay, Arthur, I guess it's time to get up.” I stretched and yawned as I sauntered towards the window.
“There's still some kibble in your bowl, Arfur. I'll get you a real breakfast pretty soon, okay?”
“Arf!”
I turned my head back towards my nightstand and looked at the clock. “My gosh. It’s only 7 o'clock in the morning, and the streets are already filled with people eating, drinking, and having fun. I can't believe it.”
The street itself had concession stands and food trucks lined up, and the big stages and cable lift for the for the play were being assembled.
It was an El Nino winter, so February was still pretty warm for southern Georgia – and the groundhog had already called an official end to winter a week or so ago. We were definitely ready for spring around these parts.
I looked at the thermometer outside my window. “Well, its only 50 degrees now Arfy, but I think it's supposed to get up to 68 once the sun burns off the morning mist.” I laid out a sweatshirt with a zipper neck and a pair of jeans on the bed. “This should be just fine as long as the sun keeps shining. What do you think, Arthur?”
“Arf!”
It looked like the Tea Room was already getting slammed with a big breakfast crowd, so I showered quickly a got dressed. If I didn’t tell you, I’m Jessie Delacroix, law school dropout and the owner of L’Auberge Hantée. I live above the carriage house next to the Inn and set back into
the pine forest there.
The Inn was passed down to me by my mother and my grandmother before her – you’ve already met Aggie and Kat Delacroix, otherwise known as Granny and Mom. Our big old Victorian mansion faces right down Carlisle Boulevard, which is our entire business district – seven blocks of antique shops, with a few blocks of other businesses and institutions on the other side of the stoplight. First there’s City Hall, upstairs of the Dairy Queen, along with the library-post office, the church, the gas station, a convenience store, and our peanut-shaped water tower.
Whispering Pines is located inside a little horseshoe loop of the Elvira River not too far north of the Okefenokee Swamp. The west side of the loop comes up behind the Inn, with our courtyard, big back lawn, a stand of 100-foot tall loblolly pine trees, and maybe 100 feet of swamp between us and the river. What else…? Well, I’m 5’4”, 110 pounds, brown hair, blue eyes, and almost as bowlegged as a retired bronco rider – at least to my eyes, including the lazy one. That should get you up to speed.
“Nothing you can say today is going to get on my nerves, Miss Aggie,” Carlo was saying with a great deal of restraint as I waltzed into the kitchen of the Nirvana. “The guests and food critics are here to eat my food and judge my talents, not yours.”
Granny could see she would get nowhere with Carlo today. “Well, you should at least make my bruschetta with cannellini beans and rosemary instead of those crazy ones with ricotta, mandarin orange slices, and grated chocolate. Yuk. I wouldn’t even mind if you added a little of that prosciutto and Parmesan to fancy up my bean bruschetta a little.” She fluttered off to the griddle area to look over Ginny’s shoulder as Carlo made his very civilized rebuttal.
“Nobody will be eating bruschetta today anyway, once they see my oysters on the half shell, freshly rolled sushi, and Ginny’s crab cakes. Your bean bruschetta is very delicious. I admit that, madam. But beans just aren’t, mmm…sensual enough for the sophisticated palates of our diners.”
Jesse Delacroix: Curse of the Bloodstone Arrow (The Whispering Pines Mystery Series Book 3) Page 1