Page 2 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception
I see a romance in your future. You’re about to come into some money. You are lonely.
They all said the same thing. Optimistic but vague. That was the key. Sort of like what I promised my guests. We. Have. Ghosts. But…they might not take a shine to you and be shy during your stay.
“Welcome to Midnight House,” I said, stepping forward with my best ‘B&B proprietor who definitely has her life together’ smile. “I’m Harper Bergeron, owner and unofficial ghost wrangler. You must be Ms. DuMont?”
We only had one guest due to check-in today, which was good, because I was going to have to call the HVAC guy. Again. The neighbors were going to start to think I had a crush on Ralph of Ralph’s Heating and Cooling.
“Call me Delia,” she said, her voice a high lilt that seemed at odds with her mysterious Bohemian style. It had a hint of Valley Girl to it. California native, maybe? Maybe not so at odds then. “The spirits told me I’d love it here.”
“The spirits don’t lie,” I said. “Usually. Except for that one time in Room 5, but we don’t talk about that.”
Delia smiled faintly. As she pulled a purple rolling suitcase behind her she glanced around the foyer. Her eyes lingered on the old grandfather clock, then drifted upward to the chandelier that was swaying gently even though no one had touched it. Not even the air conditioning, which definitely wasn’t doing a dang thing.
“There’s something here,” she murmured.
“Most of it’s dust,” I said lightly, though a chill prickled up my spine. “You're here for the Crescent City Paranormal Convention, correct? You're early, but that's perfectly fine. Your room is ready.”
"Time," Delia said softly, "is more of a suggestion than a rule, don't you think?"
I had no idea what that even meant. “The IRS doesn’t seem to think April 15 is a suggestion,” I joked.
Delia gave me a look that reminded me of Aunt Odette when I was six and had run straight through the screen door off the kitchen. Like I wasn’t very bright.
"I trust all is arranged for tomorrow evening?”
I nodded. She had booked the parlor for a private event. “Yes, of course. A table, eight chairs, appetizers.”
“I'm hosting a séance for some colleagues. Nothing theatrical, just a quiet gathering to commune with the spirits of your beautiful home."
That was news to me. The séance part.
I felt a flutter of anxiety. I'd inherited the B&B's reputation along with its mortgage, which meant that roughly half my guests expected genuine supernatural experiences. The other half expected me to debunk any ghost stories they encountered. Both groups left reviews, and both groups affected my bottom line.
It was important to me to control the narrative. If I had known Delia DuMont was hosting a séance I would have arranged for my best friend, Maggie Martin, to be present to film with me. I might be something of a marketing genius—thank you very much—but Maggie knew sound and editing. Together, we’d created the hit true crime podcast, Gumbo and Gris Gris: Crime in the Crescent City.
"Of course, that's fine," I said, leading Delia toward the front desk. "Though I should mention that while many of our guests report unusual experiences I can't guarantee any particular level of spiritual activity."
While I would normally want to be present during a séance, something about Delia was enough like my great-aunt to not want to press the issue. “Mind your business,” I could hear Aunt Odette saying in that Southern drawl.
Delia laughed. "I've been doing this for thirty years. I've learned to bring my own spirits when necessary." She paused, studying me with bright green eyes. "Though I have a feeling that won't be necessary here. Your great-aunt Odette and I were acquainted, you know."
My hand stilled on the tablet I used for guest check-ins and billing. "You knew Aunt Odette?"
Aunt Odette had used a big registry book until her death, insisting it kept her mind sharp to write down details, but I believed in the ease of booking software.
"Oh yes, I knew Odette for years. Fascinating woman. We corresponded about the spiritual history of New Orleans. She mentioned you often. She said you had the gift but were too practical to use it." Delia's smile was knowing.
Practical? I preferred booking software over a felt-tip pen. So I guess, yep, I was definitely practical. Aunt Odette hadn’t been wrong there. “I don’t have the gift. Not even the gift of gab, though my father might argue otherwise. Or the gift of patience, which is why I will never take up crocheting. I’m not athletic either.”
And…I was babbling.
I pressed my lips together and concentrated on generating a door code for Delia. The old iron keys for the rooms had been intricate and cool, but impractical with guests who were out swilling Hurricanes and Hand Grenades in the Quarter all night. I had installed keypads after one too many late night text messages from locked out guests.
Delia’s eyebrows raised. "She also said you had a pet skunk who could sense things that others couldn't."
As if summoned by the mention of his talents, Teddy emerged from behind the front desk and approached Delia with his characteristic waddle. The psychic knelt down and extended her hand, palm up. Teddy sniffed carefully, then did something I had never seen him do with a stranger—he climbed directly into Delia's arms and began to purr.
“Teddy is definitely more psychic than I am. He’s also a great judge of character. He never liked my ex-boyfriend and he was very right there.”
