Page 6 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception
"No." Her voice was firm.
I was a little startled. “No what? No, you don’t think it’s a good idea?” She seemed a little all over the place and maybe it was better if she let spirits lie if she was feeling some sort of weird way.
"No, I won’t cancel it. I need to do this,” she continued. “There's something here that's been waiting forty years to be heard." She lifted her tea again. "Your aunt knew, Harper. About Francine Darrow."
My breath caught. I knew that name. It was in all the ghost tour scripts and legends of the house. The young woman who'd vanished during Mardi Gras 1984, leaving behind only a room full of gardenias and a half-finished letter.
"Francine stayed here," I said slowly. "During Mardi Gras. She was studying folklore or something. So of course my aunt knew her."
"She was studying more than folklore." Delia's green eyes were intense in the parlor's soft light. "She was part of what your aunt called the Bergeron Circle. A group of women who met here monthly to...explore the supernatural. But also to investigate things the police wouldn't touch."
Like paranormal PI’s?
"What kind of things?"
"Missing women. Unsolved murders. Powerful men who thought they were above consequences." Delia reached into her purse that was sitting next to her on the sofa and pulled out a small, worn photograph. "This was taken two days before Francine officially disappeared."
I stared at the photo. Four women stood in my parlor, arms linked, smiling at the camera. I recognized Aunt Odette immediately. She’d always had the same sharp eyes, the same stubborn chin that ran in our family. Next to her was a young woman with blonde hair and a mischievous grin. A third woman, older, with kind eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. And the fourth…
"That's you," I said, looking at the young woman who was unmistakably a decades-younger version of Delia.
"Yes. My hair was obviously brown then, and my skin was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. I do miss that youthful collagen.”
Finally, Delia didn’t sound like a mysterious guru but just a woman in her fifties. I made a note to appreciate my youthful collagen more tomorrow with a mud mask.
“My name was Mary Vallon then. My birth name." She took the photo back, handling it like something precious. "I left New Orleans the week after this was taken. Changed my name, started over in California. I thought I was running toward something better, but really I was just running away from the truth."
Teddy chittered softly, and I could swear he was trying to comfort her.
"What truth is that?"
"That Francine didn't just disappear. She was murdered. And I know who did it."
This was news to me. And presumably news to Great-aunt Odette or she would have shared that with me or my father. Right? Or maybe not. Murder wasn’t exactly something you wanted to advertise.
"I thought she just vanished without a trace. Why are you telling me this now forty years later?" As opposed to the police back in 1984.
"Because the man who killed her is coming to tomorrow's séance." She stood and drifted toward the stairs like smoke rising in reverse.
Now that was a mic drop. Dang. Had she rehearsed that speech? And if she knew who the killer was, why the heck had she invited him to my house?
I watched her go until she disappeared into the shadows at the landing.
She wouldn’t. That didn’t make any sense. And obviously any evidence of murder came solely from her dreams or visions or the tarot and not from actual facts. But I still made a mental note to text Maggie about digging into Francine’s disappearance. It would make a great podcast episode and drum up business for Midnight House.
As I gathered our tea cups and returned them to the kitchen I shook my head and muttered to myself, “I’m a Bergeron, but I’m practical.”
No sooner had I spoken the words when I heard soft tapping. Not at the door. Not at the window. From somewhere inside the walls.
I paused, heart stuttering, trying to decide if I had heard anything or not. Teddy’s tail puffed up like a feather duster.
“Please tell me that wasn’t a mouse or a ghost,” I muttered.
The tapping stopped.
I made a slow lap through the first floor. Nothing was amiss and no one was around. Just as I turned to head back to the kitchen, something moved in my periphery. A shadow near the parlor staircase.
I spun.
