Stephanie smiled at that, yet it seemed she looked at Casey more warily. “Annette is fine. I’m always with her. I don’t even leave her with the housekeeper. She’s with a relative.”
“Um...”
“A relative on my side of the family,” Stephanie said. She was quiet for a few minutes.
Casey sipped her coffee, still feeling like a fool. She had said what needed to be said. Now, she had to get out—and hope she’d fulfilled the mission given to her by a ghost. She no longer wanted to be haunted.
Except...
It hadn’t been that bad. She’d enjoyed talking to Lena.
Or to herself, if she’d made up the ghost in her head.
“You know, Lena wasn’t born rich. We grew up in Gretna. My mother was a teacher, and my dad was an accountant. We didn’t want for anything, but they were hardworking, and we grew up with that ethic. Oh! And Anthony—did you know him?”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t.”
“He was great.” Stephanie paused to smile. “He was like a nerdy hippie, if that makes any sense. He would have done great things with the company. Part of the Marceau money is in prescription drugs. Anthony wanted to make sure prices went down. He wanted the company restaurants to donate food and supplies to food kitchens. He had plans...Lena meant to keep those plans, and I want to live up to their legacy, but I don’t know how they battled that board of directors. They exhaust me. And I never wanted to be in business. I illustrate children’s books. Or I did. I’m afraid money was never my high point—money or math.”
“Miss Harrow, money means nothing next to life,” Casey said. “I know that—”
“I’m the legal guardian. I was made Annette’s legal guardian in the event that something happened to Anthony or Casey.” Stephanie gripped her cup with both hands. “I can’t leave this baby. I’m careful about what I do. I don’t want the money. I don’t know how well you knew my sister, and I don’t know if you’re a sham.”
“A sham? I’m sorry—”
“Don’t you run a voodoo or magic or ghost shop?” Stephanie asked. “I think I remember Lena saying something about your place. A Beautiful Mind. You’re a medium, right? Well, I’m afraid I don’t put much stock in crystal balls, Miss Nicholson.”
“Stephanie, I’m not a medium. I don’t even own a crystal ball. Oh, I have a cute little display with a beautiful gypsy holding one, but I don’t—”
“Thank you for coming. I see you’ve finished your coffee. May I see you to the door?”
“Yes, yes. Thank you for seeing me. And please, I know your sister was afraid—”
“You think I don’t know my sister didn’t commit suicide?” Stephanie asked, angry. “But I can’t go to the cops. Tell them that someone—without even touching her—forced her to take a bunch of pills. That, facing death, she defied a knife or a bullet, knowing it would at least prove she had been murdered. I can’t even come up with an answer myself—”
“Annette. The baby...” Casey said.
“What?”
“She bargained. Lena convinced the killer it would be best to let her lock the baby in her childproof safe room and have her take the pills voluntarily—than have her fight and have defensive wounds, showing everyone that she had been murdered.”
Stephanie gasped, and tears suddenly filled her eyes. But then she blinked them away and cleared her face of any emotion.
It was clear Stephanie didn’t want to acknowledge that Casey might have had a little help coming up with the scenario. After all, she’d just said she didn’t put much stock in things like that. The information possibly coming from her dead sister’s ghost might be a bit much to take, especially right now. Casey didn’t want to add to the woman’s grief, so she didn’t say any more.
“I’ll...uh...see you out. Unless you think you can convince a homicide detective your words are true. Anyway...I...I need you to go now,” Stephanie said.
“Of course. I’m so sorry,” Casey whispered.
She stood. She didn’t need to be shown to the door. She had done what she had been asked to do. There was nothing more.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten. She drove to the shop, trying to shake the feeling that she wasn’t done with it all yet as she drove. But when she got to A Beautiful Mind, Jared and Lauren were there. They had already opened and were speaking to a group of customers about one of their displays.
Casey found herself waving and retreating to her reading room. She kept her tarot cards there, and it was set up with a table and comfortable chairs.
And her computer. She began research on the Marceau company. She had been looking for just about an hour when Lauren came back, tapping on the door and opening it, looking concerned.
“Um, there’s someone out here insisting they see you—” she began.
She didn’t finish. A man came up behind her, shoving the door all the way open and turning to stare at Lauren.
“Thank you,” he told her, not pushing her exactly, but urging her out.
Casey leapt to her feet, staring at him, frowning and angry. He was a very tall man, about six-foot-four, wearing a business suit—in New Orleans, in the French Quarter. He had dark hair cut short but a little longer across his forehead, and broad shoulders with a build to go with his height.
She didn’t care. This was her shop.
“You don’t have an appointment,” she said icily. “And you have been rude to Lauren. I’ll thank you to exit the store before I call the police,” she informed him.
He wasn’t daunted in the least. He leaned on her table and stared at her hard.
“What were you doing at the Marceau house? How are you involved? Who are you working for?”
“What?”
She sank back into her chair. To her horror, it was the wrong move. He walked around the table in two steps and stared at her computer.
“Right. You know nothing about what happened, and yet you’re on the Marceau home page?”
“I—I—”
“I repeat, what were you doing at the Marceau house?” he demanded.
He was imposing. She was almost afraid. But to her surprise, her fighting spirit rose to the fore.
“Who the hell are you? And how dare you barge in here like this?” she managed.
She was a good eight inches shorter than him, but she squared her shoulders, set her hands on her hips, and stared him down.
“Did someone pay you?” he asked her.
“Pay me? For what?” she asked. He was accusing and questioning her. But about what? She was honest, they had good business practices. She couldn’t begin to understand this man’s problem.
She took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who you think I am. I suggest you tell me just what it is you want, and then perhaps kindly remove yourself from these premises.”
“What do you have to do with Marceau Industries Incorporated? Why were you pretending to be friends with Lena Marceau?”
He had eyes that were such a curious hazel color, they seemed to burn as he stared at her. The sound of his voice was deep and harsh and determined. She could imagine him as a cop in an interrogation room, and she doubted many didn’t shiver and garble out the truth when he looked at them like that and spoke as he did.