by Jan Eldredge
Two hours and twenty-three minutes after they’d rolled out of the swamp, the brakes squealed, and the old pickup shuddered to a stop behind a shiny black convertible. The expensive-looking little car pulled away and sped off down the street, the male driver’s short brown ponytail whipping out behind him.
“City folk,” Evangeline grumbled, “with their fancy cars and their fancy sense of style.”
Percy squinted up at the grand Garden District mansion, specifically at its address numbers. Squinting was another of his habits, since he was always losing his eyeglasses. “This is it.” He put the truck into park, shut off the ignition, and stepped out, the door squealing as loudly as the brakes had.
As Gran and Evangeline climbed down, Percy hitched up his pants hanging loose on his lanky frame. He pushed the duck decoys, duck calls, and rubber boots out of the way, then pulled their suitcases from the truck bed. He hauled the luggage through a wrought-iron gate and up to the front porch.
The huge white house had so many columns and railings, and so much trim work, it looked like a wedding cake. It also sat on the corner. Evangeline frowned. Corner houses were unlucky. From the third-floor rooftop a crow cawed, and her heart lurched. A black bird perched on a housetop was a sure sign of death. She whispered a curse word.
“Language, Evangeline,” Gran scolded.
With Fader tucked in her arm, Gran leaned into her cane and made her way up the front steps. Evangeline cast a worried glance at her, but Gran seemed perfectly fine.
Percy pushed the doorbell with the tip of his callused finger. Inside the huge house, the chimes sounded as majestically as church bells.
Still perched in Gran’s arm, Fader reached a paw out to Percy and meowed.
“Okay, boy.” Percy grinned and patted Fader’s head. “One more for the road.” He dipped his fingers into his shirt pocket, pinched off a piece of gator jerky, and offered it to the cat. Fader gobbled it up eagerly. Percy chuckled and scratched him between two of his four ears as Fader purred loudly. “That’s good eatin’ right there, ain’t it, boy?”
Evangeline tugged at the starchy dress fabric. She reached around to give her backside a scratch, but a stern glance from Gran stayed her hand, and she smoothed out the skirt instead.
“Gran. Evangeline. Y’all have a nice stay.” Percy gave each of them a peck on the cheek, gave Fader a final ear rub, then strolled down the steps. As he passed through the wrought-iron gate, he called over his shoulder, “Just let me know when I should come back and fetch you.”
“Thank you, Percy,” Gran said. “We’ll send you a cardinal when it’s time.”
Evangeline waved him good-bye, watching wistfully as the old red truck bumped its way down the potholey street, growing smaller in the distance, until it was gone. She wished she were headed back to the swamp too. Even if it meant spending another two hours and twenty-three minutes with the yammering Percy and an itchy butt.
Fader yawned from his roost in Gran’s arm. In a garden on the other side of the house, a fountain gurgled, and a blue jay whistled and chirped. Evangeline reached out to knock on the wide mahogany door, but Gran stopped her with her words. “Patience, Evangeline.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She let her hand drop to her side, doing her best to stand still and wait, two things she’d never been very good at. “Maybe they’re not home. Maybe they left town,” she offered hopefully.
The door latch clicked. Evangeline’s hopes fell. The door eased open.
“Back so soon, Laurent?” A man pulled the door the rest of the way open. “Did you forget something— Oh!” His smile faltered and his eyes widened. A flush of embarrassment tinged his face as well as his balding head. “Oh. I thought you were a friend of ours. . . . He just left. . . .” The man glanced from Gran to Evangeline, lingering for a second on her purple-bruised eye and the red scratch running down her cheek. His gaze shifted back to Gran, his mouth dropping open at the sight of the four-eared cat nestled in her arm. “Ah . . . Mrs. Holyfield. And you brought a . . . uh . . . pet with you.”
“You allergic to cats, Mr. Midsomer?” Gran asked.
“Uh . . . no. No. Not at all.” He stared at them for a moment longer, then stuck his head out the doorway and cast an uncomfortable glance up and down the street. With a smile that was just as uncomfortable, he quickly motioned for them to enter.
Evangeline was well aware of his kind—almost always residents of the big cities. They were scoffers when it came to believing in the abilities of people like her and Gran—that is, until they found themselves in desperate need of the services of people like her and Gran. Mr. Midsomer definitely looked like a scoffer in need.
Remembering his manners, Mr. Midsomer reached down. “Let me get your bags for you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Gran replied. “My apprentice will get them.”
Evangeline frowned, not relishing the idea of lugging around Gran’s heavy suitcase and valise as well as her own suitcase and satchel.
With Fader resting like royalty in the crook of her arm, Gran stepped into the foyer of the elegant house. The cat peered around at Evangeline, smirking as she struggled to haul the luggage inside. She narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue at him.
“Dignity, Evangeline,” Gran chastised without turning her head. “A haunt huntress always maintains her dignity. No matter the situation.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Evangeline mumbled, and she followed Gran into the huge, quiet foyer.
Mr. Midsomer quickly closed the front door and turned to face them. “It’s uh, a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Holyfield. Thank you for coming.”
“It’s my pleasure to meet you, Mr. Midsomer.” Gran leaned her cane against the wall and held out her hand, and the man shook it. She motioned to Evangeline. “This is my granddaughter, Evangeline.”
He gave a loud swallow. “Nice to meet you, Evangeline.”
“Evangeline, my bag, please,” Gran directed.
Evangeline passed her the heavy leather valise, and Gran handed her Fader.
As Gran rummaged around inside the bag, Evangeline dropped Fader to the shiny hardwood floor. He gave her a mild hiss of dissatisfaction and stalked away, stopping to sniff at the handwoven foyer rug.
“I didn’t realize you’d be arriving so soon.” Mr. Midsomer offered a weak smile. “I uh, wasn’t expecting you until later tonight.”
Gran paused in her search through her bag. “Didn’t you receive my cardinal?”
“Ah . . . well, yes. We did have a bird that, uh . . .”
“Well, then,” Gran said, “the note should have informed you of our change in plans and that we’d be arriving this evening between six and seven.” She glanced at the antique grandfather clock ticking stoically against the wall. “It’s now 6:29.”
“Perhaps it would have been more convenient for you to have made a phone call.” Mr. Midsomer offered another weak smile.
Gran waved her hand, dismissing the idea, and returned to rifling through her valise. “I try to avoid use of telephones, televisions, computers, and most electronics. They tend to drain one’s mystic abilities, in addition to being unhealthily addictive. I also avoid motorized vehicles when possible, except for small outboard motors. Ah! Here it is.” She pulled a bottle from her bag. Inside it swirled a dark, fudgy substance. But anyone who knew Gran knew it wasn’t anything you’d want to pour over your ice cream.
She handed the bottle to Mr. Midsomer.
He hesitated a moment, then warily accepted it. “What is it?”
“A cure for baldness.”
Mr. Midsomer’s eyes widened. “Oh . . . ah . . . well . . .”
“It’s just a mixture of garlic and pureed goose dung. Nothing to be afraid of. Sprinkle a few drops onto that bald patch twice a day. Make sure to rub it in good. Your hair will start sprouting within a week.”
“Oh, no, thank you.” He thrust the bottle back toward her.
“Would you rather a concoction of mouse droppings and honey? It takes
a little longer, but works just as well, though it’s a bit stickier.” She peered into her bag. “I know I have a vial of it in here somewhere.”
Mr. Midsomer gulped. “No. No. This will be fine. Thank you.”
“My apologies, Mr. Midsomer!” A middle-aged woman rushed up the hallway, her face careworn and lined, the roots of her brown hair graying. She straightened the apron on her black uniform dress as she hurried past the fancy gold-framed paintings and antique side tables topped with oriental vases. “I was tending to the missus and didn’t hear the doorbell.”
“No need to apologize, Camille.” Mr. Midsomer cleared his throat and held his hand out to introduce Gran. “This is Mrs. Midsomer’s uh . . . new nurse, Mrs. Clotilde Holyfield.”
Nurse? Evangeline opened her mouth, about to correct him, when a sharp look from Gran snapped her lips shut.
“And her assistant, Evangeline.” Mr. Midsomer turned to Gran as he motioned toward the frazzled woman in the black uniform dress. “This is our housekeeper, Camille Lyall. Now that you’re here, Camille can return to her regular domestic duties. I’m afraid we’ve overworked her terribly these past few weeks with caring for my wife.”
The housekeeper shook her head. “It’s been no hardship, Mr. Midsomer.” Her gaze fell upon Gran’s silver haunt huntress talisman, and her eyes widened, but only for a fraction of a second. She quickly offered Gran a smile as warm as a fresh-baked biscuit. “How do you do, Mrs. Holyfield?”
“Camille, please show Mrs. Holyfield and her, uh . . . assistant to the guest room.”
“Yes, Mr. Midsomer.” Camille turned to Gran and Evangeline. “If you ladies will follow me.” She tucked her hands into the front pockets of her apron and led them up the hallway to the grand wooden staircase.
Gran followed, clasping the banister in one hand and leaning into her cane with her other. Evangeline trailed after them, hauling along the suitcases and bags.
With a sympathetic shake of her head, Camille glanced back at Gran. “Arthritis, dear?” She sighed. “I tell you, some days getting up and down these stairs just takes all the fight out of me.”
Arthritis? Evangeline scowled, disappointed when Gran didn’t correct the woman’s assumption. Gran had earned that injury in the line of haunt huntress duty. It had been a malicious . . .
Evangeline frowned deeper. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t really know what species of creature it was that had nearly torn Gran’s leg clean away all those years ago. A jolt of shame kicked her conscience. She’d simply never thought to ask Gran about it. It’d always just been a part of her, as much as the color of her eyes or the sound of her voice. Evangeline made a mental note to herself. She would ask Gran about it later. When the time was right.
Camille led them to a pleasantly pale-blue room furnished with a set of antique twin beds. A Persian rug covered the dark hardwood floor. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”
Gran replied she was sure they would be.
Evangeline was sure they would be too. “It’s beautiful. The whole house is beautiful.” She set down the bags and suitcases.
Camille nodded. “Mr. and Mrs. Midsomer made a lot of renovations to this old place when they moved here two years ago. Mrs. Midsomer decorated the entire house herself. She’s very knowledgeable about antique furnishings. That’s what brought them to New Orleans. She was hired on as manager of the Ardeas Antiques Gallery over on Royal Street.” She waved a hand at them. “Oh, listen to me babbling on. I’ll leave you to get settled in. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Miss Camille,” Evangeline said. “We will.”
Camille turned to leave, then paused. “I do have to say, I was a bit surprised Mr. Midsomer never mentioned your coming. Honestly, I never minded tending to the missus. I’ve been with the family only six months, but I’ve grown very fond of them.” She offered an encouraging smile as she stepped from the room. “Rest up. You have a long night ahead of you.” She pulled the door shut. Her footfalls faded away, down the lengthy hallway and then down the staircase.
Gran drew aside the gauzy white curtains and peered through the window’s wavy old glass. She cast a troubled glance at the lowering sun.
It wasn’t often that Gran looked worried. One of the earliest lessons every haunt huntress learned was how to keep her fear concealed. Evangeline squeezed her fingers against her suddenly sweaty palms. “Gran? What’s wrong?”
Gran turned away from the window and lay down on one of the beds, right on top of the covers. She folded her hands over her chest, shutting one eye and focusing the other on Evangeline. “I suggest you take a rest. Things are going to get rough tonight, and we’ll need our energy.”
But Evangeline didn’t feel the least bit sleepy. What she felt was a little annoyed and a lot curious. Back home, Gran had been too busy to reveal the job details. And of course, they couldn’t speak about the subject on the truck ride over. Haunt huntresses never discussed the particulars of a case in front of others, not even family members. “Gran? What’s our job here?”
“We’ll talk about it after I’ve had my nap.”
Evangeline opened her mouth, about to protest, then snapped her lips shut. Gran would tell her when she was good and ready to tell her, and not a moment before.
Taking a seat on the other bed, Evangeline removed her bowie knife and sheath and set them on the nightstand. With a sigh, she lay down. She closed her eyes, and her dark doubts came speeding into her head, rattling through her brain like the fully loaded cars of a freight train: What if she turned thirteen and her familiar still had not shown up? What if not even the tiniest hint of haunt huntress power ever emerged? What if she really was a middling? What if Gran couldn’t be cured? She threw her eyes open and sat up, shaking her head. No. She wouldn’t think about those things right now. She climbed out of bed, fastened her knife and sheath back onto her leg, and eased the door open. Leaving Gran snoring softly, she stepped into the hallway and clicked the door shut behind her.
She’d just do a little looking around. After all, a good haunt huntress took initiative and always assessed her surroundings. Maybe she’d try to get a peek at Mrs. Midsomer, see for herself what was ailing her.
Evangeline wandered down the hallway, scratching her itchy backside and observing the expensive-looking side tables, vases, and framed artwork, feeling like a fish out of water among such fine furnishings inside such a big ritzy house. As she strolled, she pondered the possibilities of what Mrs. Midsomer’s condition might be. Perhaps she’d had a Moonstroke. Or she could be suffering from Couchemar Syndrome—experiencing persistent sleep paralysis was a terribly unpleasant condition. Maybe it was a severe case of Grunch Rash. Possibly Fifolet Burn, or even Chasse-Galerie Tinnitus.
Halfway down the hall, she came to a narrow set of stairs. A closed door waited at the top. She probably shouldn’t go up. She put a foot on the first tread, and it creaked. She paused, her heart slightly pounding. No one came running to tell her she shouldn’t be there. She put a foot on the second creaky step, and, casting a last glance over her shoulder, she made her way up and opened the door.
She’d just take a quick look around and then leave. Some people might say she was being nosy. She preferred to think she was being sensible.
A flip of the wall switch lit a lamp next to a towering bookcase lined with books and small wooden models of catapults and other assorted medieval weaponry. In the center of the windowless room stood a round table scattered with screwdrivers, magnifying glasses, paintbrushes, and a homemade wooden crossbow. The room’s simple furnishings eased her out-of-place discomfort, but only a little.
On a nearby wall, nestled among a series of superhero posters, hung a framed family photo. She recognized Mr. Midsomer right away, though based on his full head of black hair, the picture must have been taken years ago. Beside him sat a dark-haired, olive-complexioned woman with eyes as blue and piercing as those of a leucistic alligator. On her lap, she held a pale and fair-haired l
ittle boy who looked to be about three or four years old.
The woman was beautiful, and Evangeline’s eyes kept going back to her. A pang echoed through her heart. Her mama had been pretty too, maybe not quite as elegant as this woman, but that didn’t matter. Her mama had been an accomplished haunt huntress. There weren’t many who could be credited with singlehandedly clearing out an infestation of graveyard ghouls like her mama had done.
She pulled her fingers away from her mama’s silver talisman at her neck, not realizing she’d put her hand there in the first place.
A haunt huntress needed to stay focused when on a job, even if she didn’t know exactly what that job was. She took a magnifying glass from the cluttered table and brought it up to the family photo. Maybe there was something here she could learn about Mrs. Midsomer.
“Who are you?” a voice asked from a shadowy corner across the room.
Evangeline whirled around, dropping the magnifying glass as her hand went to her knife.
A boy about her age moved out of the shadows near the tall bookcase. He stared at her from behind what she considered to be a slightly large nose.
“Where’d you come from?” she blurted. How had she not seen him there a moment before? A haunt huntress always assessed her surroundings for living and nonliving beings before entering a room.
The boy stepped into the lamplight. “This is my workroom.”
He looked unhealthily pale, but then again, most city folk did. Judging by his neatly cut blond hair and his expensive-looking loafers, Evangeline assumed he must be Mr. and Mrs. Midsomer’s son.
“Who are you?” he demanded again.
Her embarrassment at being discovered sent her thoughts and words stuttering. “I . . . I’m Evangeline Clement.”