“No one could want to kill a baby. Hey!” he exclaimed at Ryder’s look. “When Lena died, the baby was fine.”
“Fine. Because she’d been locked in a room, and only Stephanie had the code to get in. I think Lena was worried after Anthony died. I mean, think about it. Why would Anthony mysteriously jump or fall off a building in the Central Business District? He had a beautiful wife, a gorgeous child, and he’d just inherited an empire.”
Braxton was quiet for a moment. “His death was ruled accidental. And we’re all watching, just so you know. We’re not stupid down here. If you can prove the Marceau exec was murdered, you’re taking over the case.”
“Taking over is strong. I expect we’ll be a team, or possibly form a task force.”
Braxton shook his head. “Okay, well...are you going to invite me to tea?”
“You want tea?”
Braxton grinned. “Isn’t that what rich people do? Sip tea and eat crumpets?”
“As long as I’ve known Stephanie, she’s been a coffee girl. But if you want tea, I’ll get you some tea. And crumpets.”
“What is a crumpet?”
“Something baked,” Ryder said. “I don’t know. Let’s just get there. And then...”
“Then what?”
“I’m going to pay a visit to the Marceau mausoleum.”
“Think Lena will tell you what happened?” Braxton asked dryly.
“You never know,” Ryder told him. “You just never know.”
Chapter 3
Casey stood at the gate before the Marceau house—or mansion rather.
Esplanade Avenue in New Orleans hosted some fine homes. This one was especially beautiful, combining Colonial and Victorian styles with a perfectly manicured lawn and charming fountains on either side of the grand walk to the porch steps.
There was a call button, and she hit it and waited. A minute later, she heard a feminine voice say, “Hello, may I help you?”
“Miss Harrow?” Casey said.
She was ready to run. The woman would simply refuse to see her.
“Yes, this is Stephanie Harrow. How may I help you?”
“It’s a private and personal matter,” Casey said and winced.
She wished Lena Marceau’s ghost would appear now. She’d stayed late at the store, talking in general, enthusiastic terms about Lauren’s art pieces and smiling about Jared’s talent with music, saying that she’d seen him outside the shop a few times, though he hadn’t been there when she visited. He could go from doing Beethoven to Broadway to heavy metal in a matter of minutes.
“He is extremely talented,” Casey had said. “He was with a group, but they were doing heavy metal almost exclusively, and he felt he was burning out his voice. He likes being a solo act or telling Lauren and I what to do. He was the music major, so we never argue.”
Lena had also talked about her daughter, laughing and saying how they hadn’t lied when they’d come up with the term terrible twos.
It had been past ten when Casey yawned and closed her eyes, leaning back in her seat.
When she opened her eyes and started to apologize for nodding off, Lena was no longer there.
And Casey was left to wonder again if her own mind was haunting her.
She had decided that she wasn’t going to approach Stephanie Harrow and the Marceau house unless she saw Lena again. But that night, as tired as she was, she had trouble sleeping. She tossed and turned and feared that everything the ghost—real or imagined—had said might be true. She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt a child.
But it had to be true. Her husband’s death. And her death. To Casey, it was just...
Too convenient.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Stephanie asked over the intercom.
“My name is Casey Nicholson. I own a shop in the French Quarter. I...your sister was a friend of mine.”
She was greeted with dead silence for so long, she almost turned away.
Then she heard the grinding of gears as the gate opened.
She walked through and up the walkway to the front porch. As she climbed the steps, the front doors—beautiful wood and etched glass—opened.
A woman walked out.
Stephanie Harrow was a few years older than Lena had been. Her hair was a darker shade of blond, cut short in a bob to frame her chin. She was an attractive woman, but her face seemed somehow marred by the sorrow she had faced.
“Come in,” she told Casey.
“Thank you.”
“Coffee?” Stephanie asked.
“I never turn down morning coffee,” Casey told her.
“Then please, come on through to the kitchen. The parlor here...it’s too big for me.”
The parlor was big. But it was the entry with its sweeping staircase to the second floor in the center of the room that seemed to dominate the space.
“I used to love this place,” Stephanie murmured. “Lena came down those stairs in her wedding dress, and it was spectacular. Now... Were you at the wedding?” she asked, frowning.
“No.” Casey glanced down. “We met when she came to my shop.”
“I see.” Stephanie walked into the kitchen, a place as elegant and large as the parlor, but there was a breakfast nook by the back door that seemed much smaller and cozier. A coffee pot was already on the table there, and Stephanie grabbed a mug from the counter and motioned for Casey to follow her.
A tall, thin woman, straight as a Martinet, walked into the kitchen, a frown on her face. Casey thought she had to be in her mid to late fifties, but she almost looked as if she had come from another era. Her hair was steel gray, and she kept it braided at her neck.
“Stephanie, do you need help with anything?” she asked.
Stephanie waved a hand in the air. “I’m fine. Thank you, Gail.”
The woman remained.
“This is a private conversation,” Stephanie added quietly.
“The baby is with the gentleman. If there’s anything—”
“Gail. Enjoy yourself. Watch a program. Lie down, read a book,” Stephanie said, smiling at the woman. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be busy every second. Trust me, you are appreciated.”
The woman smiled, cast a suspicious glance at Casey, and then left at last.
When they were seated across from one another, Stephanie poured Casey some coffee and indicated that she should help herself to cream and sugar from the servers by the pot.
“So, did my sister owe you money?” Stephanie asked, sipping her coffee.
“No.”
“Are you here to ask for some kind of money?”
“No,” Casey said. She winced and stirred in the cream she’d just added to her cup.
“Did you even know my sister, or is this some kind of a prank...or worse?” Stephanie asked, staring at her hard.
“No, I swear it’s not a prank.” Casey winced inwardly again and then took a deep breath.
“Lena was worried,” she said in a rush, trying to figure out how to tell Stephanie the truth. “She...she doesn’t—didn’t—believe Anthony just fell. And she was worried for herself. But more than that, she was afraid for the baby. And now, she’s gone. But... I can’t forget the things she said to me, and I felt I had to warn you. Tell you just how frightened she was and how worried she was. And that...well, it’s inconceivable, but she believes even Annette could be in danger.” She suddenly sat straighter. “The baby. Where is she?”