The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(20)
Author: Karen White

 

But with the discovery of the truth behind Jeanne’s murder and Sunny’s abduction, there should have been no reason to keep the hatbox hidden any longer. Unless there was. And it wasn’t like we didn’t have enough monogrammed pillows. That’s why the box remained in the back room, camouflaged as a design statement. At least until I was satisfied that there really was no reason for anyone else to want it.

 

I continued into the newly studded hallway, listening as the salsa music grew louder. I almost tripped over a tennis ball as it rolled toward me. I stooped to pick it up, then followed the music to its source. I found the eighties-era boom box along with Thibaut and Jorge in the back bedroom hand sanding the newly patched plaster on the far wall. They both turned when I entered, their attention drawn to the ball in my hand.

 

“Where’d you find that?” Thibaut asked as he leaned down to turn off the music. “We’ve been looking all over! We were practicing our juggling routine this morning to warm up our hands, and the darn thing rolled around a corner and disappeared.”

 

“I, um . . . well, I guess it was stuck in a corner and I must have accidentally dislodged it while I was walking.” Both Thibaut and Jorge stared at me, neither one reaching for the ball. I walked over to the far corner and placed it on the floor. “It’s here whenever you need it.” To change the subject, I said, “I hope you saved some of the wall patching for me!”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Thibaut said, leading me through the hallway to the adjacent bedroom. Holes in the old plaster walls where new electrical outlets and switches had been installed, as well as a few irregular punctures that could have been made by any number of objects that I preferred not to consider, dotted the four walls like a patchwork quilt. “You told me how much you loved patching old plaster, so we saved this whole room for you.”

 

I rubbed my hands together. “I can’t wait! I’m taking a half day of vacation so I can really dig in. It’s slow right now at the office, and I’d rather be mixing plaster than cleaning the refrigerator.” I peered closely at a hole in one of the walls. “And it looks like I have some lath repair, too. That’s my favorite part.”

 

The giant of a man smiled, making it easy to forget his past. “It’s a bit like that game I used to play with my son—Tetris, I think. Like tile work, too—trying to figure out which piece will fit in where. Greggie was much better at it than me. I don’t think I ever beat his score.” Thibaut’s face softened at the mention of his son. He had never spoken to me about Greg, who had been raised by Thibaut’s late wife’s family and not allowed contact with his father.

 

“You must miss him,” I said. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

 

“Fifteen years. Fifteen very long years. I haven’t even heard his voice. I’m not allowed to call him, and I don’t even think he knows how to get in touch. If I thought he’d call, I might actually get a cell phone.”

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

He shrugged his giant shoulders. “Don’t be. I made my bed, and now I’ve got to lie in it. I just wish . . .” Thibaut studied me with eyes that looked suspiciously teary. “I just wish that we could talk about it. About what happened. I need to make sure that he’s in a good place about it. That he understands that I still love him.”

 

I wondered at his choice of words, not completely sure what sort of good place there was for a boy whose father had killed his mother. And why Thibaut was worried about his son wondering if his dad still loved him instead of the other way around.

 

He turned his head while he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. With a forced cheerfulness, he said, “I don’t think I’ve complimented you yet on the excellent job you did on the bathroom floor tiles. I don’t think I could have done it better myself. Most beginners tile themselves into a corner and then have to wreck the floor to get out.”

 

“That’s crazy,” I said, faking a chuckle. “What kind of a clueless amateur would do such a thing?”

 

“I can’t imagine.” Beau’s voice came from the doorway. “Hopefully nobody who works for JR Properties. I’d like to think I did a better job of hiring.”

 

Avoiding Beau’s gaze, I made to move past him. “I’d better get started mixing that plaster—”

 

“Hang on a minute.”

 

I stopped, waiting for him to humiliate me in front of Thibaut by telling the whole story.

 

“I need a favor.”

 

“A favor? In return for . . .” I glanced at Thibaut, who seemed to be focused on checking out the extent of missing lath behind the plaster holes.

 

Wearing a grin, Beau shook his head. “Just a favor. You’re even allowed to say no. But I don’t think you will.”

 

“Okay,” I said, curious but wary. This would officially be the very first time he’d asked me for help. I gritted my teeth, waiting for it. Because no exchange between Beau and me had ever been straightforward or without risk.

 

“Mimi’s got it into her head that we need to expand the renovation part of our business.”

 

“But that’s already the core of JR Properties, right?”

 

Beau nodded. “Yeah, but this idea is more about a niche market. She says she got the idea from you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“You. And the whole murder-house angle.”

 

“The murder-house angle,” I repeated slowly, just to make sure I’d heard him right.

 

“Mimi’s been doing some research and found that there are a lot of potentially valuable properties in the New Orleans metro and beyond with the same kind of . . . background as your house. You know, where unfortunate incidents have occurred in the recent or not-so-recent past.”

 

“You mean murders.”

 

“Sure. Or unexplained deaths, disappearances, bodies left behind because nobody thought to check on them. That sort of thing.”

 

“Right. And I made her think of all that.”

 

Beau smiled. “Yeah. Pretty much. She showed me a listing for a house on Esplanade selling for basically peanuts despite the houses in the neighborhood all being valued at far more, and it has been on the market for eight years without a single offer.”

 

“I probably already know the answer, but why?”

 

He smiled again, probably knowing how it affected most women. Including me. “Single-victim homicide, and the disappearance of the family of three who lived there, a mom, dad, and their thirteen-year-old daughter. No sign of them has ever been found, and they’ve been officially declared dead, which is why the house is for sale. The relatives of the family held on to the hope they’d return but decided eight years ago to settle the estate and put it on the market.”