“She said a woman told her. When I asked who the woman was, she said she didn’t know and that the woman didn’t want that information known,” I finished.
Angharad stood up and nodded as she walked around the doll, inspecting her. “Very interesting…” Then she faced me. “Did the little ghosty have a name?”
“Emily Stewart,” I answered.
“Emily Stewart,” Angharad repeated a few times. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Do you think it’s coincidence?” I asked.
“Nothing is coincidence,” Angharad answered as she looked up at me.
“Then you think the stolen sword, the images of Sutherland, the dybbok box, and Emily Stewart are all related?”
“Of course!” Angharad responded as she inhaled deeply and then began shaking her head. “How they are related, I don’t know. But, you keep an eye on that doll,” she finished as she motioned to Lizzie. “And if that little ghosty comes back, you find out everything you can from her.”
“Okay,” I said with a nod.
Angharad began pacing around the couch, scratching her head and rubbing her chin, which was covered in long and wiry hairs. “The question remains as to why whoever is behind these robberies chose the particular items they did. Why that particular sword? There are any number of swords available at antique stores in this city or online. Why that one? And why the pictures of Ol’ Sutherland? And why your Lizzie?” she finished as she faced me.
“I don’t know,” I said and shrugged.
“The one thread of hope I’m clinging to is that the abductor will somehow make herself known, maybe the next robbery will be sloppy. If we can reliably map this person’s actions, we might eventually get a sense of what he or she is after.”
“Which means we have to wait for the next theft,” said Maggie impatiently.
“What about the witch in the French Quarter who was throwing licorice wands that turned into snakes?” I asked as I faced Angharad. “Do you think she could be involved in this?”
“Could be,” Angharad nodded.
“You mentioned that woman when Ryan and I first met you. Did you know who she was?” I asked.
“No,” Angharad responded. “But witches are territorial and when we are visiting another’s turf, we can feel their energy and leave our own—almost like a calling card.”
“So was this her turf?” I asked. “Because obviously it wasn’t yours since you aren’t from around here.”
Angharad nodded. “I got the feeling that whoever that witchy was, this was her turf yes.” She cleared her throat. “The energy I felt in coming here wasn’t welcoming.”
That could have just been owing to your lovely personality, I thought but didn’t comment.
“Did you actually see her?” I asked.
“No, I felt her,” Angharad answered. “I could feel her imprint on this city—a certain energy that bore her mark.”
“And you couldn’t get a read on her identity from the feeling?” Lovie asked.
“No,” Angharad answered as she shook her head.
“I had a vision of the witch,” I said. “But I wasn’t able to figure out who she was—only that she was wearing a black top hat and a black cloak. I never saw her face.”
“Pity,” said Angharad. “There are people in this city who know things—some of them living and some of them dead.”
At the thought of the dead and the living, I was reminded of our conversation that morning with Catherine St. Michael—so much had happened afterwards that it felt like a year had passed since breakfast. “Yes, that’s true,” I said.
“And where would the best place be to learn the knowledge possessed by the dead?” Angharad continued, like she was quizzing us.
“You mean, like where do the deceased hang out?” Maggie asked, looking awed and equally nervous.
“New Orleans is a very haunted place in general,” I answered.
“I’m well aware,” Angharad responded in that rude manner of hers. “But think of the best, most haunted spot.”
Maybe it was due to Catherine’s visit this morning, which was still on my mind but the name I blurted out was The Old Absinthe House.
“I’ve heard of it though I’ve not yet been to visit,” Angharad said with visible interest.
“You can find all sorts of information in New Orleans if you know where to go,” I replied. “I’ll grant that it’s a long shot, but maybe someone, living or dead, at The Absinthe House would know something. If the ghosts of children are responsible for these robberies, it stands to reason that the dead would know about it.”
“The ghost grapevine might be able to help us,” agreed Angharad as she clapped her hands together and smiled.
“We’ll go tomorrow,” I said, worried we were getting off-track. “I’m exhausted, and I’m sure Ryan will be tired too, when he gets home. We didn’t sleep well last night. I want to get Maggie settled in also. She had a long trip.”
“It wasn’t that long,” Maggie argued. “I’d much rather go ghost hunting with you anyway.”
“Unfortunately, you won’t get far,” said Angharad. “You have to be at least twenty-one years old, or dead, to get inside.”
“Yeah, and your mom wouldn’t exactly like it if I took her eighteen-year-old to a bar,” I added. “I can just imagine that conversation.”
Maggie nodded. “Okay, point taken.”
###
Angharad and Lovie left a few hours later; Angharad had to be somewhere uptown by six and would, luckily, be tied up all night which meant she wouldn’t be able to accompany us to the Old Absinthe House. That was a relief in and of itself because Angharad’s company was in a word—trying. As far as I was concerned, Angharad was mostly rude and more unlikeable.
After they left, Maggie shuffled upstairs to settle herself in her room while I sat at the island in the kitchen and started making a grocery list. I was still scanning the pantry when Ryan came through the door a few minutes later and flung his keys down on the stand by the sofa.
“Hey,” he said but it wasn’t a hey that sounded happy.
“Hey,” I answered.
Giving the pantry a once-over and not finding anything more edible than a bag of marshmallows, he took the bag and sank down into a dining chair at the head of the table.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, just issues with the job. Same old, same old.”
“Well, things weren’t much better here. It seems everyone is taken with Angharad, everyone, that is, with the exception of me,” I grumbled.
Ryan looked over at me and laughed. “Not too crazy about the old witch, are you?”
I smiled at him. “Are you?”
“No, I’m not,” he said and shook his head. “I should have picked up something for us to eat while I was out. I’m sorry I didn’t,” he finished with a sigh.
“It’s fine; I’ll go to the store in a few minutes, or you can come with me if you want.”
Judging from his slumped shoulders, Ryan wasn’t feeling up to the task. “I guess we’d better,” he said, “don’t want Maggie launching any formal complaints.”
“Yeah, the last thing I need is Brenda accusing me of starving her only daughter,” I answered with a sigh. “I don’t think she needs any new reasons not to like me.”
“Not to like you?” asked Ryan wearily, motioning for a water bottle from the stack on the counter. I handed him one and he placed it on his neck.
“Yeah, I think it’s safe to say that it was all Maggie’s idea to come here. Her mother didn’t want her to.”
“Why?”
“Brenda thinks I’m loony.”
“Well, you are a little,” Ryan said with a teasing smile. I play-punched him in the bicep and he grabbed my arm, pulling me into him.
“Brenda doesn’t believe in spirits or the supernatural, so it follows that she wouldn’t like Maggie coming out here and me filling her head with ghost stuff.”
“You can’t please t
hem all,” Ryan said with a shrug.
“You’re so good at consoling me,” I replied as I raised a brow at him.
“You know I’m only teasing. And I’ve always told you not to worry about what people say. Certain people are predisposed to disliking you, and if you took away one reason, they’d always find another.”
“You want to talk about this somewhere else?” I asked, reaching for my keys. “Like maybe in the car on the way to the store?” We still had groceries to buy and the day wasn’t getting any younger. Also, I didn’t want Maggie to overhear us.
“Sure,” Ryan said as he stood up and picked up his keys and wallet. Maybe I’d get lucky and he’d pay. I paused at the stairs and called to Maggie to let her know we were running errands.
“Okay! Can you get me some Diet Coke?” she called back.
“Yep,” I said as I followed Ryan outside.
On our way to the store, I caught Ryan up on the last part of our conversation with Angharad and my decision to stake out The Old Absinthe House. “I told Angharad the two of us could go tomorrow night. But of course, if you object—”
“I’m not opposed to it,” said Ryan, reaching around behind me and massaging my shoulders, “But what are we trying to accomplish?”
“Angharad believes that priceless historical artifacts are being stolen by the ghosts of children for some big spell or something.”
“Or something?” he repeated.
“Yeah, Angharad wasn’t exactly clear on what she believed exactly, but it was something along those lines. She thought that because the children were dead, then maybe the only people to know about what was going on would be the deceased.”
“And she’s basing this theory on the fact that some old photos and a sword were stolen?”
“And a dybbuk box.”
“A what?”
I explained to him what a dybbuk box was and then I mentioned the visit I’d had from Emily Stewart.
“So you think the little girl was sent to take Lizzie?” he asked.
I cocked my head to the side. “I mean… yes? Maybe? Why else would she have shown up at my doorstep asking after the doll?”
“Maybe she just saw it through the window and wanted to play with it?” he asked.
“A ghost?” I asked.
“Are you sure she was a ghost?”
“Ryan, she was dressed like it was 1952.”
“Okay, okay,” he said with a nod. “I admit, that does seem weird.” Then he grew quiet for a few seconds. “Are you sure she came to the house for the doll?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you have an attic full of paranormal shit,” he answered. “Maybe someone sent her for something else instead and she just happened to see the doll?”
“She said a woman told her the doll was in the house.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Ryan argued. “Maybe that was just a way to get a little girl interested in doing your bidding? Tell her there’s a beautiful doll there that will talk to her and play with her?”
“Okay, keep going. I’m picking up what you’re laying down,” I said with a smile.
“But the real reason you want the little girl to go to visit Peyton Clark is to find out what occult items she has in her attic? An attic that’s jam-packed with shit, most of which should be donated to the Good Will.”
“Ha ha, very funny, boyfriend of mine.”
“I like that—‘boyfriend of mine’,” he said with a smile and reached over to squeeze my thigh.
My mind was still caught up on the conversation because Ryan was right—not only was there a ton of crap in my attic, but there were quite a few items up there that could wreak havoc if they wound up in the wrong hands…
Chapter Thirteen
Ryan and I spent about an hour grocery shopping, and by the time we returned to the house, Maggie and Drake were in an argument. Apparently, in the end, Drake was banished from Maggie’s room indefinitely. The reason? That was where they both gave differing accounts.
Maggie claimed she’d been sitting on her bed in her room, listening to music and journaling when a silver, ghostly figure floated through the wall without knocking or otherwise announcing himself. Maggie immediately let out a scream and told him to get out—she could have been getting dressed—and Drake let out a sullen sigh, saying he thought everyone, Maggie included, had already left.
Drake’s account was a little different. In his report, he never even entered Maggie’s room. Instead, he was searching for a book about the ladies of the French Revolution, one that he remembered having last seen in the attic loft. (I didn’t tell him, but I’d recently tossed the book in question—it contained scandalous drawings—which, I deduced, was the primary reason Drake wanted it).
Searching the loft without finding said book, he drifted down through the floorboards into one of the storage rooms. Hearing a noise, he was startled to find Maggie in the room on her hands and knees, curiously studying a bright crystal orb that appeared to be “releasing some sort of music.” Every few minutes, the foggy pattern in the orb would change and she would ask it a question.
When I asked what sorts of questions Maggie was asking the glowing orb, Drake replied: “Can Ryan be trusted, or is he a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Does Ryan love Peyton as much as Drake does? (to which Drake heartily insisted that he loved me more).
“Really?” I asked with a frown. “Maggie really asked a crystal ball questions about my love life?”
“Right hand over my heart, I didn’t ask any of those questions at all,” Maggie protested. She was on the brink of tears; it didn’t occur to me that sharing the house with an older male ghost would prove to be such a trying experience. Had Drake been a woman, perhaps they would have gotten along better.
“It is possible she did not ask such questions,” Drake admitted with a frown. “But she was most certainly poking around in the attic and handling items that do not concern her!”
Drake had never been a liar and I couldn’t understand why he’d lie about this because it seemed like such a silly thing to lie about. I also couldn’t understand why Maggie wouldn’t just admit that she wanted to explore the old house. I didn’t blame her. I would have wanted to do the same thing.
“Drake, you know how to knock,” I said as I frowned at the irritated ghost.
“This is my house, mon chaton, and pardon me if I believed all of you were out on your errand! I was as surprised as she!”
“He’s a perv!” Maggie yelled back at him.
“I am no such thing!” Drake responded, even though I doubted he understood the meaning of the word.
“What’s going on?” Ryan asked, eyeing both Maggie and me with a frown.
“Maggie and Drake are having an argument and I’m the referee,” I answered.
“What happened?” Ryan asked.
“I was hanging out in my room and Drake came in unannounced!” Maggie yelled.
“I did no such thing!” Drake responded. “And she was in the attic, not in her bedchamber at all!”
“Sounds like ‘Housewives of New Orleans,’” Ryan grumbled as he shook his head and disappeared into the living room, leaving Maggie and me to unbag and put the groceries away while Drake floated overhead.
“Did le barbare just refer to me as a married woman?” Drake asked.
“He meant it in the best possible way,” I answered before I turned my attention back to Maggie. “Both of you are going to have to make some adjustments,” I said slowly while I put the milk in the fridge. “Drake has always been very respectful to me, and now that he knows you’re living here, he’ll do his best not to bother you.” Then I faced the perturbed ghost. “Won’t you, Drake?”
“Had I known where she was, I would not have offended.”
Ryan chose that moment to walk back into the kitchen. “Maggie, you’re gonna have to accept that you’re living with a Peeping Tom. A ghost Peeping Tom,” he corrected, clearly afraid Maggie might think he was referri
ng to himself.
I nearly threw a baguette at him. “Ryan, you’re making this worse!”
He shrugged. “Hey, I’m not the one who barged in on her.”
“Tell le barbare he can stick that cucumber you’re holding right up his,” Drake started but I interrupted him.
“Imagine you had the ability to drift through walls and floors, and you didn’t always know when a room was occupied. There would be accidents and apologies, I’m sure,” I said, feeling the need to defend Drake.
“I’d learn how to use a damn door,” said Ryan, shoving the orange juice into the back of the fridge (and accidentally upsetting two briny jars of olives in the process). I handed him a frozen pork loin, which he placed in the freezer. “Well, now Drake knows.”
It was very likely that Maggie had, in fact, been investigating some of the mysterious items in the attic. Drake’s story seemed wholly plausible because Maggie was enthralled by everything paranormal or occult so it followed that once she discovered the attic, it would be like her very own wonderland.
“Fine,” Maggie said, leaping off the stool.
“Now apologize to each other,” I said, feeling like the mother of two five-year-olds.
Drake came drifting out of the pantry. He was wearing an old gendarme’s uniform and a pair of solid gold epaulettes that gave him a striking appearance. “I shall not apologize for I did nothing wrong, mon chaton,” he said in a tone of lazy contempt. “That child is a liar and would shamelessly besmirch the word of a dead man!”
Ryan asked me to repeat what Drake said. Reluctantly, I did. “Dead men can lie, too,” Ryan replied with a shrug.
Bursting into tears, Maggie ran out of the kitchen and upstairs to her room.
Drake watched her go with a look of mild fascination, then added, “Why do the young always insist on a flair for the dramatic? I can assure you that when I was her age, I behaved in the manner appropriate!”
“You’re dramatic and hard to deal with now,” I rebuked, handing Ryan a bag of cumquats as I faced Drake. “It’s like having two teenagers in the house. Can’t you and Maggie try to find some common ground?”
If You've Got It, Haunt It: A ghost romance (The Peyton Clark Series Book 4) Page 12