She would never walk through the door of our home with the beignets I loved. She would never break another blender trying to make frozen café au lait. Some sadistic bastard had somehow lured her out of the bar where I’d left her, a place we’d been to countless times before, only to leave her bleeding out in the urine-scented asphalt of the alley next door.
The case was still open. Now cold. Numerous persons of interest had been questioned, but there was never enough evidence to hold anybody for long. And definitely not enough to prosecute. It was one of the reasons I’d basically started my life over after I moved to Texas, going into criminal justice. Unfortunately, even with my degree, my emotional issues never let me fulfill my dream of hunting down and bringing Reagan’s murderer to justice.
I had eventually accepted reality and left the police academy. But I did log my hours with a great private investigator, got licensed, and opened my own P.I. firm. Four years of busting cheating spouses, background-checking corporate bigwigs, serving papers, debunking insurance fraud, and handling the occasional Amber Alert alongside the cops made for some boring stakeouts and probably the start of liver failure, but I had to admit, I loved my job. I adored making my clients happy and showing the assholes what’s what. And I still held out hope that I might catch a break on Reagan’s case someday. Because I couldn’t let it go. It would likely haunt me forever and be a constant drive until I had answers. And once I did, I would gleefully take away the power her killer held over me and so many others. The asshole would no longer be anonymous. That advantage would be stripped, and they would finally be brought to justice.
My phone rang through the Uconnect system on my Cherokee and snapped me out of my thoughts. I turned down the radio and glanced at the readout. Mom. Of course, it was my mother. I tapped the screen to answer and then refocused on the road.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
My mother had moved to south Florida years before I left New Orleans, and she had only been back a couple of times since, but she still loved the city.
“Hey, baby. Just checking to see where you are. Did you make it across the state line yet?” I could hear her tossing ice cubes into a glass on the other end of the line. Ugh, I could use a glass of something myself, too bad I was still driving. I crossed some lines occasionally—okay, quite a few—but drinking and driving was not one of them.
“Yep. In Louisiana. Not far out. I still can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
The sound of liquid hitting the cubes came through, and my mouth watered. I could not wait to hit the hotel and raid the mini bar.
“Oh, honey. It’ll be great. They just need you to be there as owner of the property. Answer some questions. Show them the lay of the land. There’s money in this for all of us since the network offered payment. Some notoriety. And all we have to do is give them access to the house and the outbuildings for the next week or so, and let them film for seventy-two hours. You know your great-great-great-granddaddy would be proud that we’re keeping the family stories alive.”
I cringed. Family stories, my ass. The truth of the matter was, the Arbor family had landed in Louisiana centuries ago, settling and running a prosperous plantation. Things had gone really well—or so later generations had been told and believed—until a string of bad luck befell the family, resulting in numerous accidental deaths, a few deaths by suicide, and business ruin that spanned the next several decades.
Legend had it the family had been cursed in retribution for something my many-times-removed ancestor had done. I didn’t personally believe any of it. It was all nonsense. Bad luck was a thing. So were terrible business practices and people ignoring safety precautions. End of story. At least, they were able to keep the property.
Now, however, most of my family and almost anyone who’d ever stayed at the plantation house—we listed it on a rental site—were convinced it was haunted. Yet more baloney that I didn’t believe. When you died, you died. Goodnight, Mary. There was no hanging around—for vengeance or otherwise. If ghosts existed, Reagan would have come to me. She would have told me who killed her. She would have . . . No, ghosts were not a thing.
“—call him when you get there.”
Mom’s voice pulled me from my irritated mental ramblings, and I realized that I had missed a huge piece of what she’d just said.
“Sorry, Mom. I think we had a bad connection. What’d you say?”
She gave me a long-suffering sigh as she took a drink of whatever she had poured herself earlier. “I said, you need to call Deveraux Glapion when you get settled. He’s expecting your call. I texted you his number earlier.”
I pushed a hand through my long brunette waves, realizing that I should have had it cut and colored when I was still in Texas, especially if I might end up on TV. I didn’t know any stylists here. “Who the hell is Deveraux Glapion?”
Mom sighed again. “The host of Haunted New Orleans, silly. I’ve told you like a thousand times. Did you even watch the show clips I sent you?”
I could only shake my head, knowing she couldn’t see me—which was probably a good thing; I didn’t school my features well. Of course, I hadn’t watched. This was a bunch of bullshit, and I had way better things to do than waste my time watching some idiots traipsing around supposedly haunted locales, playing it up for the cameras and gullible viewers—like my mother.
“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t have time. Work’s been crazy.” I rolled my eyes, once again thankful that this wasn’t a video call.
“It’s fine, dear. You don’t need to have watched the show to appreciate what you’re doing. How fun will it be to see the old homestead on TV?”
“Real fun, Mom. It’s a good thing we’ve been paying someone to keep the place up, huh?” The people I had been paying, even though I hadn’t set foot in the house for over ten years. But I was the current owner of the property, and we did make good money from the rental site—people went out of their way to rent it because of the chatter regarding the hauntings—so I shouldn’t complain too much. I could still bitch, though.
I saw my exit up ahead and signaled to merge into the turn lane, a wave of nostalgia rising, threatening to drown me in memories. “Say, I should go. I’m not super familiar with where this hotel is. I’ll text you later—”
“Don’t forget to call Dev,” she said, cutting me off. “He’s expecting your call before six. It’s important that you guys meet before they start setting up for the shoot.”
God, pushy much? “Got it.” I bit my lip to keep from saying something super snarky. “Chat later. Love you.”
“Bye, baby. Love you, too. Be good. Give N’awlins my best,” she drawled, a smile in her voice.
“Will do. Talk soon.” I pressed the dash screen to disconnect from the call and turned on the road that would take me to my hotel and the next two weeks of my life. I wasn’t sure how I would handle being back here, but with enough alcohol and some progress on this case I had taken before I left Texas and needed to try and wrap up before I headed home, I just might survive.
You can order Memento Mori here: https://www.ladybosspress.com/rayvnsalvador