Page 3 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception
Delia scratched behind Teddy’s ears. "Animals are excellent judges of character."
“He obviously likes you. Teddy doesn't usually warm up to people so quickly."
"They can sense a person's true intentions." She looked up at me, and for just a moment, her confident facade seemed to slip. "I wonder... would it be possible to speak privately later? There's something I need to discuss with you. Something about your aunt, and about why I really came to New Orleans."
“Of course.” I was both caught off guard and intrigued.
Then Delia was back on her feet, cradling Teddy like a baby.
“Let me show you to your room, Delia. Unless you’d like some coffee first.”
“Thank you, Harper. But if my room is ready I’d rather go up.”
“You got it.”
As I led her up the narrow staircase, I couldn't shake the feeling that Delia DuMont's arrival was about to shake things up. The scent of gardenias still lingered in the air, the grandfather clock continued its stubborn rebellion, and somewhere in the walls of Midnight House, I could swear I heard the faint sound of whispering. I paused, briefly, to listen.
Or maybe that was just mice. I shuddered involuntarily. Rodents. Horrible.
Delia’s gaze kept darting over her shoulder, like someone—or something—might be following us. Normally, I chalked those kinds of glances up to overactive imaginations. Tourists loved the haunted house vibes, and I leaned in just enough to make it fun without being liable.
But something about the way Delia clutched that charm necklace around her throat made goosebumps roll up my spine.
Teddy, still cradled in Delia's arms as if he was relishing the attention, looked at me with an expression that seemed to say, I told you so.
Room Three was ready with fluffy pillows, artisanal soaps in the bathroom, and the window cracked just enough to let in the smell of rain on the banana trees outside. Delia stepped inside and paused in the doorway, lifting her hand as if sensing a disturbance. She set Teddy down on the patterned rug.
“Would you mind if I smudged the room?” she asked.
“Knock yourself out,” I said. “But if you summon anything, please make sure it helps with laundry.”
She gave a small, dry chuckle, then turned serious again. “Have you ever heard anything? Late at night?”
I hesitated. My great-aunt Odette had always said the house had a personality. She used to leave a tumbler of bourbon on the staircase landing every night as an offering to whatever lived between the walls. I never took it too seriously but Delia definitely seemed to.
“Old houses make old noises,” I said carefully. “But if you hear anything specific, let me know.”
Delia nodded, lips pressed tight. “I will.”
I left her alone and padded back down the stairs with Teddy under my arm. He looked up at me, his black-and-white tail twitching thoughtfully.
“Don’t start,” I told him.
He sneezed.
Outside, the sky rumbled with a thunderstorm rolling in. The lights flickered briefly but long enough to make me pause. The house seemed to be holding its breath.
By the end of the week, one of my guests would be dead.
And Midnight House would be at the center of a mystery no spirit—or skunk—could ignore.
TWO
That night, the rain came down in slanted sheets, slapping against the windows like a knocking that made you glad you were inside a comfortable, though occasionally leaky, house.
It was the kind of storm that wrapped my quieter neighborhood of the Marigny in a driving hum and made you feel bad for anyone wearing open-toed shoes in the Quarter. The streets were notorious for taking on several inches of water with every downpour and locals all knew flip flops were either a slip accident or a bacterial infection waiting to happen. Probably both.
I made Aunt Odette’s jambalaya for the guests, with the right amount of cayenne to clear your sinuses and maybe your past sins too.
