Page 48 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception
He opened the door wearing jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt and looked genuinely surprised to see us.
"Harper, Maggie. What brings you by so early?"
"We need to talk," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "About what happened yesterday."
His expression didn’t change. He looked puzzled. "Yesterday? Well, come in, come in."
The house was exactly what you'd expect. It was filled with modest furniture, religious art on the walls, and the lingering scent of coffee and bacon from breakfast. Though I was a little surprised not to see gloves of garlic hanging or salt tossed all around.
Claude gestured for us to sit on a worn sofa while he took the chair across from us.
"What happened yesterday?" he asked.
I studied his face, looking for any sign of deception. "Someone stole my purse in the Quarter. Took some important documents."
"I'm sorry to hear that. The crime rate is a perpetual issue."
"The thing is," I continued, "I don't think it was random. I think someone followed me, someone who knew what I was carrying."
Father Claude's expression didn't change, but I thought I saw his hands tighten slightly on the arms of his chair. "That's very troubling. Did you report it to the police?"
"Where were you yesterday afternoon around four o'clock?"
My question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory.
Father Claude blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. Where were you?"
Maggie touched my arm. "Harper?—"
"No, it's okay," Father Claude said, though his voice had grown cooler. "I was here, Harper. Preparing for evening mass. My organist was here too, if you'd like to verify."
"You weren't in the French Quarter? You didn't follow me from the Dungeon?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about." He stood up. "Harper, I think you should leave."
"I think you stole my purse to get back those documents," I pressed on. "Because they implicated you in what happened to Francine Darrow."
Father Claude's face went white. "How dare you come into my home and accuse me of theft? Of murder?"
"I didn't say murder."
"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face." He moved toward the door. "I've tried to help you, Harper. I've tried to warn you that you're playing with dangerous forces. But if you're going to turn on me like this, then you're on your own."
"So you admit there are dangerous forces?" I stood up too. "You admit there's something to cover up?"
"Demons. They exist in many people. I admit that forty years ago, I made mistakes. I was young, I was in love, and I trusted the wrong people. But I never stole from you, and I sure as hell never killed anyone."
"Then who did?"
"I don't know!" The words came out as a shout, echoing off the walls of the small room. "Don't you think I've been asking myself that question every day for four decades?"
The raw pain in his voice caught me off guard. For the first time since I'd walked in, I wondered if I might be wrong.
"Claude—"
"Father Claude," he corrected coldly. "And I think this conversation is over. If your purse was stolen, report it to the proper authorities."
