Page 4 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception
I was currently entertaining a pleasant couple from France on their honeymoon, a man in his fifties who was attending the paranormal convention and had his cell phone strapped to his jeans like he was perpetually on ‘official business’, and a family of three from Houston with a teenage daughter and her best friend, who were both scheduled for a tour of Tulane University. The girls, who were clearly texting each other under the table, looked like they wanted to ditch the parents and run loose in the Quarter. The dad kept jovially referencing wild times he’d had in his past in New Orleans. And the mom looked like she would give her soul to be alone with the glass of Pinot Grigio she was desperately clutching and repeatedly swallowing.
“So why New Orleans?” Pete, from Houston, asked the honeymooners. “Not sure I would consider New Orleans romantic unless you want to make love to your toilet in the morning.”
“Pete!” his wife, Jan, said, sounding as horrified as I felt. “They’re newlyweds, not you and your old college buddies.” Jan took another liberal sip of her wine.
They were staying for three more days. I was going to have to do a run to Rouse’s for more wine. Not that I blamed her, being married to Pete.
“We’re going all around the US. New York City, Nashville, now New Orleans, then Los Angeles and finally Portland. We’re staying here because of the podcast,” Ava said, looking affectionately at her new husband, Davide. “We just love Murder Maggie.”
My best friend had earned the nickname very early in her podcast career and it was likely to be attached to her for all time. I would have been honestly forlorn to have a bummer of a nickname like that, but it didn’t bother her at all. Fortunately, my name wasn’t really conducive to shortening or rhyming so thus far, I had remained in the clear for being saddled with a macabre moniker. Or worse, a silly one.
“Murder is not something to be taken lightly,” Delia chastised.
There it was again—shades of Aunt Odette.
“No one said it was,” Pete replied, in a jovial tone that indicated he thought Delia was a little off her rocker.
“I love Murder Maggie,” one of the teen girls said. “Harper, I think it’s so cool sometimes you jump in.”
“It’s definitely been an adventure,” I said, lightly, because honestly, I did think it was a cool job but I didn’t want to get stink eye from Delia or Arthur, who was the paranormal convention attendee. He didn’t look thrilled at the casual tone to this conversation either.
“Pete,” I said, hoping to change the subject. “I hear you have tickets to the Saints game. We sure do love our Saints around here.”
“I remember when they used to call them the Aints,” he said. “We’re from Pittsburgh originally so we’ve been lucky to root for a dynasty team.”
I can’t say I cared a whole lot about football, but it did send Arthur sputtering and the girls rolling their eyes and Davide asking American football questions. In the end, they never got back around to murder and Delia was mostly silent.
Normally, eating dinner with my guests and hearing about their various lives and sightseeing planning was one of the best parts about my new position as B&B owner, but Delia’s presence and the rain were making me tense for a reason I wasn’t entirely sure I understood. My smile was a bit forced but I told myself I was overreacting. Just in a mood, nothing more than that.
By the time the pot was empty and the dishes were stacked in the sink, the guests had all drifted to their rooms.
All except one.
When I went downstairs just before midnight to get myself a cup of tea, Delia DuMont sat alone in the parlor, her dark clothes blending into the plush antique settee.
I stepped into the room, Teddy waddling up behind me in his pajamas—yes, I put my skunk in pajamas, don't judge me. "Delia? Is everything okay? Is your room too warm? Because I can call Ralph again, though he's getting tired of me."
"It's not the room." She glanced over her shoulder as if someone might be following her. “Will you join me for the séance?”
“Sure. But I don’t have the gift,” I warned.
She shrugged her shoulder. “I just need a seat filler.”
Well, that was both deflating and insulting.
“Invite your Murder Maggie friend too.”
“Sure.”
"I've been having dreams,” Delia said. “About tomorrow night."
"Dreams?" I sat across from her, Teddy curling at my feet like a slightly judgmental throw pillow.
I waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t.
“You know,” I said carefully, “most people come here because of the B&B’s reputation. You seem like you came in spite of it.”
“I came because of it.” Her voice was low, barely audible. The rain had started up again about ten minutes earlier. “I needed a place... thin.”
