Page 41 of The Shop on Royal Street
“Last night,” I said, “when we were driving home with Jaxson, I thought I saw a man smoking a pipe on my porch. But when I turned back, no one was there.”
Beau sent me an odd look, as if remembering something, and I wished I hadn’t said anything about the previous night.
I turned back to the laptop and crossed my arms. “There’s really no logical explanation for any of these, is there?” I took a deep breath, confident that neither Beau nor Jolene would be surprised by my theory. “Except a paranormal one. Which is to be expected, I guess. A young woman lost her life in the house and the murderer was never caught. Whether or not you believe that sort of thing is real, that would make even me want to haunt a place.”
“Aren’t you scared?” Jolene asked. “I mean, I’ve felt cold spots in my house in Mississippi, and heard footsteps, but I always figured that was just the house reminding me that it’s been through some things. But I’ve never seen anything like”—she waved her hands at the screen—“this. I mean, it’s a full-bodied apparition, and Jaxson swears there was nobody there when he snapped the photo. I’m just wondering if...” She stopped.
“If what?” I prompted.
“If they’re here because they need help. My grandmama would say these sorts of things happen because they weren’t laid to rest properly—but she’s a funeral director, so you have to take what she’s saying with a grain of salt. But my cousin Earl—sweet as pie but definitely only has one oar in the water—says all wandering spirits need help moving on. I’m wondering if that’s poor Jeanne in the window and she’s asking us for help. Which gives me goose bumps thinking about why that man might be here.”
I turned around at the sound of snapping, realizing that it was Beau pulling on the rubber band around his wrist. When he caught me looking at him he stopped, then reached forward and closed the laptop. “I suggest you delete those photos so there’s no chance of them getting out. You don’t need your house to become some freak show for the ghost-hunting tourism crowd. And it certainly isn’t part of the brand for JR Properties. I’ll ask Jaxson to delete them, too.”
I studied him closely. “I thought you said you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
His eyes darkened. “I’ve never said that. I’ve only ever said that the majority of people claiming to be able to communicate with them are frauds. There’s a big difference.” He ran his hand through his hair, more agitated than I’d ever seen him. Except once. “And if you’re looking for someone to talk to them, don’t bother. In all the years I’ve been looking for someone to help find my parents and my sister, I’ve all but run through my inheritance. Which pretty much proves that they’re all a bunch of quacks.” He nodded in my direction. “Except for Melanie and her sister, Jayne. They’re the real thing. But they live in Charleston, and you claim that bumps in the night don’t bother you, so I suggest moving on.”
I stared at him. “Is that why you do your podcast? Because of what you went through?”
He didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t have to.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He looked away for a long moment, his attention drawn to the princess phone sitting on the corner of the desk, its cord unhooked from the wall and dangling on the floor. When he turned back to us, his face was neutral. “That’s because you never asked.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
With measured words, he said, “I need you to understand something. Let the dead stay dead. Nothing good can come from digging up the past. Mimi agreed to sell you the house because the house’s past didn’t bother you. So let it go. Please.”
He picked up the car keys he’d left on the desk. “I’m going to bring that door inside now. Figure out where you want it, and please prop the doors open.”
Jolene picked up the plate of pralines. “I’ll put these in a couple of Baggies for you and your helper. What color ribbon would you like?”
I gave her a look that turned her smile to a grimace; then she disappeared into the kitchen just as the phone on the desk rang shrilly. I watched as Beau’s gaze traveled down the unplugged telephone cord before meeting my eyes, a definite challenge in his eyes. Slowly, I lifted the receiver.
“Hello? Who is this?”
The voice sounded far away, separated by space and time, filled with air and the murmur of hundreds of indecipherable words spoken in the background. And then a scratch in the atmosphere, and a gathering of molecules to form a single word came through the phone to my ear, loud enough for Beau to hear.Adele.
Beau shook his head, his face suddenly pale. He took the receiver from me and shouted into it. “Mom? It’s me. It’s Beau. Where are you?”
The dial tone droned loudly from the receiver until I took it from his hand and hung up. His eyes met mine for a moment. “That didn’t just happen.” He shook his head. “That couldn’t have just happened.” He took two steps backward before turning around and heading toward the stairs.
I moved to follow him to turn on the stairwell lights but stopped when I noticed a single set of a woman’s wet footprints on the wooden treads, following Beau down the stairs.
CHAPTER 14
Bubba jerked and bucked over the potholed asphalt of Henry Clay Avenue, a street that looked like it had been attacked with mortar shells. I wanted to ask Jolene if the streets in New Orleans ever got repaved, but I was clenching my jaw so I wouldn’t break any teeth. I tried to admire the eclectic architecture in the Uptown neighborhood—all styles from shotgun singles and raised Greek Revival cottages to full-on Queen Anne Victorians and everything in between—on our way to brunch with Uncle Bernie, but the wavelike motion of the car was making me seasick and I had to close my eyes.
“We’re here.” Jolene brought the car to an abrupt stop in front of a corner building at the intersection of Laurel and Webster. Blue French doors with, on the upper half, glass windows with a goldPin elegant script opened up to the sidewalk, where red bistro tables clustered to one side, under an awning. The name Patois, in matching blue, appeared in the large side windows facing the two streets.
“This is adorable, but are you sure we’re in the right place?”
Jolene gave me one of her looks, probably learned from her grandmother, usually reserved for customers who wanted to choose the leastexpensive option for their dearly departed. “Just because he used to be a policeman doesn’t mean he only eats at doughnut shops.”
“You’re right—sorry. I assume he lives nearby?”
“He actually lives in the Irish Channel neighborhood, but he said he’d been wanting to try Patois for a while.”
