Page 22 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception
"Beau's father too."
We stared at each other across the computer terminal.
“Why are Hollis’s uncle and his father both named Claude?” I asked, apropos of nothing. “Are they really brothers both named Claude?”
It seemed like that would be very confusing.
Maggie let out a cackle. “I have no idea. Is Father Claude Hollis’s great-uncle?”
“Maybe. I’ve always wanted to ask Hollis but it seems rude. Besides, Southern families are proud of their quirkiness.”
"Okay, so back to the important thing. The guest list," Maggie said slowly. "So we've got the fathers of two of our current players attending a party thrown by the same development company that Francine was investigating. A month after she disappeared."
"Could be a coincidence.”
"Could be. Politicians and the police were always in bed with each other. Figuratively. Or possibly literally."
That made me snort. “Was Francine really investigating though or just curious? I doubt big wigs would care about what a young woman was doing."
“It’s just noteworthy. Let’s leave it at that.”
We printed out everything we could find and headed to our next stop.
The House of Voodoo on Bourbon Street.
Not because I particularly believed in voodoo—though growing up in New Orleans had certainly opened my mind to possibilities—but because the owner, Celeste, had been one of Aunt Odette's closest friends.
The shop was exactly what tourists expected: dim lighting, mysterious herbs hanging from the ceiling, shelves lined with candles, crystals, and items that might have been ancient artifacts or more likely reproductions from a novelty warehouse in China. The air was thick with the scent of patchouli and something else I couldn't identify but that made my sinuses tingle.
“I can’t stand patchouli,” I murmured to Maggie. “It makes me gag.”
She shot me an amused look. “Some spiritual medium you are.”
“Because I don’t have the gift, in spite of what my aunt said.”
Celeste emerged from behind a curtain of beads at the back of the shop. She was a woman in her seventies with dark skin and sharp eyes. As long as I’d known Celeste, she’d used a wooden walking stick with a snake on its head. As a child, it had scared me to death.
Honestly, it still did.
But Celeste was always warm and welcoming and her dresses always sat on her like a blanket, which had been comforting when I was younger.
"Harper, love," she said, pulling me into a hug that smelled like sandalwood. "I’ve been wondering when you'd come see me. Your auntie's death still sits heavy on this city."
Turned out, her hugs and blanket dresses were still comforting. I felt tears prick in the back of my eyes. Grief has a funny way of sneaking up on you. I didn’t realize how much I had been missing Aunt Odette until right then.
“How are you?” I asked her as I pulled back and swiped at my eyes.
“I’m getting along. You listen to the spirits and the body and the heart and you do okay.”
I noticed there was no mention of the brain. Logic wasn’t highly respected in these particular circles.
"You remember Maggie, right?”
“Yes, yes.” Celeste gave Maggie an arm squeeze. “You look well.”
“Thank you, it’s good to see you again.” Maggie smiled at her in return.
“Celeste, I need to ask you about something. Did you know Delia DuMont?"
