Page 66 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception
"We can't prove it was supernatural. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe it was something the perpetrator planted. But..." I looked around the parlor, at the shadows that no longer seemed threatening. "This house has been trying to tell Francine's story for forty years. And maybe now that the truth is finally out, maybe she can rest."
"What happens next, Harper? To the case, to the house, to you?"
I considered the question. "Midnight House will continue to welcome guests. But now it comes with a promise that the women who died here, the women who were silenced, will never be forgotten. Their stories will be told."
Maggie hit pause on the recording. "This is so great, Harper. Really."
"Think our listeners will believe the part about the tarot card?"
"I think our listeners know that some things can't be explained by evidence and logic alone. Besides, in a city like New Orleans, the supernatural isn't supernatural. It's just Tuesday."
I laughed. "Want to help me get the house ready for new guests? I've got a couple checking in tonight."
"Brave souls."
"Or maybe they just know that the best ghost stories come from places where real people lived and loved and died and refused to be forgotten."
As we cleaned up the parlor, removing the recording equipment and straightening the furniture, I found myself thinking about all the women who'd sat in this room over the years. Aunt Odette and her Circle, calling to spirits and seeking justice. Francine Darrow, young and determined and doomed. Delia DuMont, returning after forty years to face her past.
And now me, inheriting not just a house but a legacy of women who refused to let the truth stay buried.
The grandfather clock chimed once and when I looked at its face, the hands were moving. For the first time in months, it was telling the correct time.
SEVENTEEN
“Are we ready?” Maggie asked, plopping herself down in the wicker chair next to me on the front porch at Midnight House.
“Ready. Let Beggar’s Night commence.”
It was Halloween night and we were set up with full size candy bars, hot apple cider, and fuzzy blankets that were more for atmosphere than need.
The night was warm with a mild breeze and I was regretting my costume choice as a Beanie Baby skunk. I was already overheated in all that faux fur. Teddy was puttering around the porch dressed as Wednesday Addams. He didn’t look any happier with his apparel than I felt with mine.
Maggie, on the other hand, was dressed as a contestant on Squid Games, so track pants and a T-shirt. She looked comfortable as heck and I had regrets.
“Remember when we used to go out in sexy costumes?” she asked, tossing a handful of caramel corn into her mouth. “I can’t believe I used to wear heels.”
“Vaguely. That feels like a hundred years ago. When we were young,” I say, wryly. “Before we got wrapped up in the true crime business.”
It was two weeks after Arthur Kellum's arrest, and life at Midnight House had settled into something resembling normal. The media attention had died down, the crime scene tape was gone, and I'd managed to book multiple new guests, all of whom seemed genuinely excited about staying in a "recent murder house."
Apparently, there was no such thing as bad publicity in the haunted hospitality business, though I’m sure it helped that there was a person in custody for the crime.
“One, we’re still young so lay off the sarcasm. Two, I feel like this business found us, not the other way around.” Maggie put her hand in the bowl again. “This stuff is amazing. I could eat ten pounds of this.”
“Do you think we riled up the spirits by doing our podcast?” I’d been on the lookout for any signs of the paranormal around Midnight House, but things had been quiet.
“We didn’t invite murder into our lives, if that’s what you mean. This business with Arthur was brewing for four decades.”
“You’re right," I said, scratching behind Teddy's ears. "Though I'm hoping for a nice, quiet period of regular B&B operations. You know, with guests who check in alive and check out the same way."
"Boring," Maggie declared. "Well, I don’t mean that I want anyone to die. But we want hints at the paranormal at the very least. Our podcast downloads are way up since we released the first Delia DuMont episode. Abigail Hart’s video where she goes over your social media post with the sliver of Arthur in the background has really been a big hit."
“I do owe Abigail a thank you. She’s personally responsible for booking half these new guests with that video. I can’t believe she even wants to talk about her stay here.”
“She’s trauma processing.”
I had spoken to Abigail several times and she definitely seemed to want to talk about what had happened, get it out there. She had even said she would love to stay at Midnight House again, just to purge any bad memories or associations. For being relatively young, she had impressed me with her tenacity.
