Casey glanced at her watch again, disturbed that they were making light of such a tragic death. People died every day, of course, but it was just that...Lena Marceau had left a baby behind. And her husband had died just the year before.
It didn’t seem fair or right. And it didn’t seem...plausible. Trying to think back, Casey thought Lena Marceau had been in the shop right before Mardi Gras.
“Why don’t you two go ahead and get the shop opened? I just want to wander for a few more minutes,” she said.
“You shouldn’t do that. The family wasn’t always known for being kind. Maybe the ghost is evil,” Jared teased. “I think they practiced weird voodoo!”
Casey sighed patiently. “Jared.”
“Oh, Casey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize...I’m sorry. It was tragic. No more cemeteries. We’re next door to a voodoo shop, guys, with the nicest priestess in the world. Voodoo is not weird or creepy. Not real voodoo anyway. What Papa Doc did in Haiti was a perversion, just like Hollywood makes it all out to be. Our voodoo priestess is sweet and wonderful. Let’s do stuff with her when you need to find some mojo to feed to a client,” Jared said.
“Hey,” Lauren added lightly, “you’ve left coins at Marie Laveau’s tomb,” she said as a reminder.
“Because it’s the thing to do. Go. Please. You two are driving me crazy!”
“We’re going, we’re going. But don’t blame us if the ghost of an evil voodoo priest gets his talons in you,” Jared said.
“I promise you, I won’t.”
Casey watched them leave, laughing together as they headed down the main gravel path of the little cemetery.
She studied the tomb again. There might have been recent interments, but there were still vines growing all over the structure, and weeds had proliferated at the base.
Someone had left flowers at the iron gate of the tomb. Casey bent down for a closer look. The flowers had been there for maybe a day. There was a note with them. Simple.
It read: Love you so much.
Casey felt something on her shoulder and turned, startled and angry, thinking that Lauren or Jared had doubled back to tease her.
But it wasn’t Lauren.
Or Jared.
A young woman stood there, blonde and beautiful with striking blue eyes.
Casey blinked. She had seen the woman before.
It was Lena Marceau.
Not dead at all? Or...
Then the woman spoke softly, and her words were almost like a rustle, her hand nothing more than air upon Casey’s shoulder.
“You’re not real!” Casey gasped.
She was suddenly angry.
They had done this to her—Jared and Lauren. They had made her feel as if the place were creepy and eerie, that spirits could roam the Earth.
It couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t even night. It was day, and a bright and beautiful one. The sun shone brightly...
Showing her a strange translucence in the woman before her.
“Well, yes. And no,” the specter said.
“I’m not seeing you!” Casey protested.
“But you do see me,” the apparition argued.
No, no, no, no, no!
Casey wasn’t sure what happened next.
The world suddenly went dark.
She must have...passed out.
She’d never fainted in her life. But she was suddenly lying atop the step to the tomb, and she still wasn’t alone.
The figure remained. The young blonde woman who was...who had been...Lena Marceau. The apparition. The figment of her imagination. The...
Here Casey was, with her psychology degree, going stark raving mad.
“Please!” the woman implored. “Please, please. I’m so sorry. But I need your help! Not for me, it’s far too late for that, but please...my sister and my baby are out there.”
Darkness seemed to surround Casey again, enveloping her in a stygian embrace.
How crazy...
Then, nothing.
* * * *
Ryder sat at his desk at Krewe headquarters in Virginia, concentrating on the last of his paperwork for the case he and Axel Tiger had just finished up in Colorado.
He hit the last letter key to finish his work and sat back.
He’d been glad to head to Colorado and work with Axel. His level of frustration had been high. The autopsy on his cousin had shown nothing the M.E. hadn’t already suspected: an overdose of prescription drugs.
He’d spent a week with his cousin Stephanie, working with her and old Elijah’s superb lawyer to make sure she had solid protection at the mansion and to ensure that the Marceau inheritance had been sewn up for little Annette.
He’d also researched the board, the family, and any others who might have had access to Lena and her home at the time of his cousin’s death.
Someone had to have been involved.
He just didn’t know who.
But he’d been spinning his wheels in New Orleans.
Bottom line, he knew that he had to find out who wanted control of the Marceau inheritance enough to kill.
Cunningly, and several times over.
And now...
Well, a baby was theoretically in charge.
Five people—all of whom he had seen on the day Lena died—might be involved. He had thought so then, and he still thought so.
People who were close to the day-to-day workings of the Marceau home and business—Gail Reeves, the housekeeper, who’d happened to have an afternoon off. Barton Quincy, director of operations at Marceau Industries Incorporated. Larry Swenson, Barton’s second in command. Harry Miller, sales director. And Justin Marceau, another great-grandson, who had grown up in Baltimore, Maryland, but had taken his place on the board of directors.
Justin wasn’t always in the city, but he had been in New Orleans on the day Lena died. And after the baby, Justin was next in line to inherit. Could Justin be involved? Or was he in danger just as the others had been because his last name was Marceau?
But even Ryder couldn’t make sense of the fact that there had been no defensive wounds on Lena’s body. There had been no alcohol by her side, either. Nothing to indicate that her mind hadn’t been right, other than what everyone thought to be obvious depression enough to bring on suicide. There also hadn’t been evidence that anyone had forced her to take the pills.
Ryder had seen video of the immediate property. He and Stephanie had gone over it together. On the feed, he saw Lena, holding little baby Annette and waving goodbye as Gail Reeves headed out. They never saw the housekeeper return.
At the estimated time of Lena’s death, there was a mysterious blackout in the video.
Ryder had stayed in the city for two weeks, but a snag in a video reel—no matter how timely and mysterious—hadn’t been enough for anyone but him to call Lena’s death a murder. He knew Braxton had even pursued the matter with his superiors at the NOPD.
Braxton had let him watch as he interviewed Gail Reeves, Barton Quincy, Larry Swenson, Harry Miller, and even Justin Marceau. They’d all been brought in not as suspects, but in hopes they could give the police some indication of what might have happened with Lena. They all came in willingly, eager to help.
Or so they said.
And then...
Not even Jackson Crow, the field director for the Krewe, had managed to find a reason to home in on the investigation.
Eventually, Jackson had assured Ryder that they would pursue it further. But that meant a lot of research. Thankfully, Jackson had cooled Ryder down enough to work another case while the tech experts, Angela’s incredibly talented group of paper chasers, had delved into the paper and digital trails.