The Dead Heat of Summer: A Krewe of Hunters Novella Read online

  Then he turned and left.

  She heard the bell ring above the door, and then Jared and Lauren were in the room, staring at her worriedly.

  * * * *

  Ryder left the shop, trying to get a grip on his temper. He’d had no right to burst into the store and advance on the woman as he had, but before taking the baby and trying to keep her quiet to home in on Stephanie’s conversation, he’d gotten a good look at her.

  He’d wondered if she would go back to her shop and put on a ridiculously colored turban and a gypsy skirt and call herself Madam Something or Other.

  But she hadn’t. He’d followed her, of course. He’d watched her go in, and he’d waited, observing the store and its surroundings.

  Then he’d gone in.

  And had gotten nothing.

  She knows something—or worse.

  She’s working for someone.

  One of New Orleans’ best coffee shops was up the road, so he headed that way, glancing at his watch.

  William Marley would be removed from his resting place in an hour and a half. Adam had a friend at the office of the district attorney over in Mississippi, and the body or cremains—whatever remained at this point—would be taken over the state line to be examined, and so those who had contact with him before, during, and after his death could be questioned.

  Ryder knew it would serve no purpose for him to go to Mississippi. The tests would take time. It was unlikely there would be much soft tissue left, but whatever remained might well prove something.

  And if not...

  There was this woman. The interesting one. Intriguing.

  She hadn’t put on a turban. In fact, she had looked like a scholar studying her computer.

  With the site for Marceau Industries Incorporated displayed.

  He judged her age to be in the mid to late twenties—he didn’t think she’d hit thirty yet. She was medium height with long, slim legs, brilliant blue eyes, and hair darker than his. A striking woman, and about Lena’s age when she died. He had to admit, it was conceivable the two had been friends.

  And still...

  Why suddenly go to Stephanie with a warning?

  He walked into the coffee shop, glad they brewed coffee so strong a spoon could almost stand up in the cup. But as he entered the queue for the outdoor seating, he noticed Justin Marceau sitting at a table with Barton Quincy.

  The offices for Marceau Industries Incorporated were in the Central Business District.

  It was curious that they were in the French Quarter.

  They hadn’t seen him yet, so he leaned against the counter, waiting for his order and trying to see if he could discern any of their conversation.

  He only heard one line.

  “Stephanie won’t vote for it. She’s following everything Lena wanted to a T.”

  It was Justin who spoke.

  Barton replied in a hushed but passionate whisper that Ryder couldn’t catch.

  Ryder’s coffee order came up.

  He walked over to the table and greeted the men in a friendly fashion. “Hey, Justin. And it’s Barton, right? Barton Quincy? We met at Lena and Anthony’s wedding. Ryder McKinley,” he reminded Barton.

  “Oh. Oh,” Barton Quincy said, frowning. “I thought you worked for the FBI or something. I saw you at the funeral, but I thought you were back in D.C. or wherever now. What brings you back to these parts?”

  “Lena was my cousin, so Steph is my cousin, too. Obviously. I wanted to check up on her and make sure the baby is doing well,” Ryder said easily. “I had a little time off. I just finished a case, and it seemed some R and R was in order.”

  He kept his tone light and friendly.

  Justin seemed nervous. Barton tried to assure him that everything was going well.

  “I hear you set up security in the house for Stephanie before you left,” Barton said.

  “He did,” Justin said with enthusiasm. “Guards on the property twenty-four-seven. And cameras in every room.”

  “A little overkill, don’t you think?” Barton looked up at Ryder, not a twitch in tone when he said the word kill.

  Ryder grimaced. “Well, the girls and I—Lena and Steph—grew up close. We were friends, as well as family. It still bothers me I didn’t realize Lena was that deeply depressed about Anthony’s death. Of course, Stephanie is an aunt, not a mom, so she’s a little paranoid about making sure nothing happens to Annette. The girl is a little whirlwind. This way, Steph can grab things from the kitchen and keep an eye on the baby up in the playroom.” Ryder made a show of looking around. “You two are a little out of your neighborhood.”

  “I had some shopping to do on Royal Street,” Barton said. “Thought we could meet here.”

  “You two don’t go into the office every day?”

  Barton laughed. “This fellow? Work?” he teased. “Justin’s surname is Marceau, you know.”

  “Hey! I’m available whenever needed,” Justin said. “I did a great job at the last marketing meeting.”

  Barton shrugged and glanced at his watch then rose. “Well, I’ve got to get back. It was nice seeing you again, um, Ryder. Are you going to be here long?”

  “I’m not sure just how long yet,” Ryder said pleasantly. “I never know when I’ll get a call to be somewhere, so...”

  He left off, grinning and shrugging.

  “Anyway, I should be off, too,” Ryder said. “Good to see you both. I’m glad to know that when I can’t be here, Stephanie has great people to call on.”

  Justin lifted a hand in goodbye. Ryder went down the street and then slipped behind a colonnade in a building hallway.

  He watched the two men as they rose and parted.

  Justin started for Canal.

  Barton Quincy paused, looking up and down the street. Ryder wasn’t sure, but he thought the man was watching one shop. Just one shop.

  “A Beautiful Mind.”

  Did he know Casey Nicholson? Was that why he was looking at the shop?

  Or had he seen Casey head to the Marceau house? Was he—like Ryder—curious as to why the woman had gone to see Stephanie?

  Curious, too, as to just what Casey Nicholson knew about the death of Lena Marceau.

  * * * *

  Casey left the shop that day as early as she could.

  She had to forget Lena Marceau, Stephanie Harrow, and the angry FBI guy who had shown up in the store.

  It was hot, and she was done early enough to head for the pool at her fourplex before the mosquitoes got too bad.

  Her friends teased her that she lived at an old folks’ home—retired people rented the other three apartments in the building.

  She loved the three couples, though. They watched out for both her and the building.

  Plus, they brought her baked goods all the time. Only Miss Lilly—who had been an Olympic swimmer in her day—spent much time in the pool, and that was early. Miss Lilly might be found in the water any time after 6:00 A.M. Her husband, Joe, would sit in one of the lawn chairs and watch her, waving a hand and smiling and pretending he didn’t hear her any time she suggested he get in—he needed exercise.

  But at this time of night, the place was hers.

  And the water felt good. So good. The temperature had been in the eighties and nineties all day, and many people might have thought the water in the pool was a bit too hot—like a lukewarm bath.

  It didn’t bother Casey at all. She loved the heat. And there was something special about water. She swam a bit, then just floated on her back and watched as the sun disappeared, and night slowly came on.

  She wondered if she should go back to the cemetery and see if Lena was there. Did ghosts hang out in graveyards when they weren’t busy haunting people, asking them to take care of something for them? She had first seen Lena’s ghost in the cemetery.

  And she’d fainted. Like a true coward.

  She was a chicken. She simply hadn’t believed in ghosts.

  But would she rather a ghost haunt her, or acce
pt the possibility that she was totally losing her mind?

  She wasn’t sure which she’d prefer at that point. She just knew that the water felt good. She tried to turn her mind to life and her commitments. She had promised that she would give a NOLA history and cemetery speech in the shop in two days for Miss Lilly’s granddaughter’s small study group. She needed to brush up on a few facts.

  She had managed to think about the city and its history and enjoy the feeling of just floating in the water, looking up at the darkening sky, when she heard a hushed whisper. She blinked.

  Lena was back. And she seemed to be drifting in the sky.

  “Get out. Get out of the pool as quickly as you can!”

  “What?”

  “There’s someone here—someone’s out there. And he’s...he’s dressed in black. He’s stalking you. He’s in the bushes in the back of the neighbor’s yard, watching you. Get in and lock your door and don’t come out!” Lena’s ghost warned.

  Whether she was crazy or not, Casey jumped out of the pool. She grabbed her towel off the lounger and raced for the back door to the fourplex, once a shotgun house with a hall that ran from the front to the back and offered doors to the four apartments.

  She threw open the door and slammed into someone. She nearly screamed.

  Someone tall and dark and ridiculously solid, yet still nothing but a hulking shape in the night.

  But then the shape spoke.

  “Miss Nicholson. I’m sorry if I startled you. A woman who said her name was Lilly let me in and said that I’d find you out back,” he said.

  Him!

  The man from the shop.

  “Oh, my God. What are you doing following me here? Coming to my home?” she demanded in a desperate whisper.

  She only realized then that he was holding her, steadying her.

  “Trying to make sure you don’t get killed,” he said, his tone dry...

  And carrying a frightening ring of truth.

  Chapter 4

  Denial. Seriously. She couldn’t really have spent the evening before chatting with a ghost. And if so, she had done what the ghost wanted.

  She couldn’t be in danger herself.

  Casey shook her head, trying to make something that resembled sense and logic out of it all.

  “Back up,” she said. “I don’t understand. There’s no reason for anyone to want to kill me, to follow me,” she said, speaking quickly, trying to regain her sense of balance.

  She stepped back at last, realizing he’d still been holding her. She murmured, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m soaked, and I just got you all wet. But—wait! You’re the one following me, you...how are you here? I don’t...I don’t owe you an apology. I...”

  He couldn’t have been whoever Lily had said was out back in the bushes. He was standing here.

  He took her by the shoulders, calming her, and he met her eyes with his own as he spoke in a soft voice. “Why are you in such a panic? This isn’t because I was at your back door just walking out. You were terrified of something else, Casey. What happened? What’s going on?” He gently tightened his grip. “And why are you still shaking?”

  “I’m not. I—”

  She broke off. What did she say to an FBI agent who had already knocked her for being a so-called medium?

  “There was a noise in the bushes. I guess it scared me. I—I thought someone was back there.”

  He froze and dropped his hands. A seriousness took over his entire demeanor. “Get in your room and lock the door after you lock this one and the front entry. When I’m back, I’ll ring.”

  She nodded.

  “I mean it, Casey. Do it. You may be in danger.”

  “Yes.”

  He stepped out the back. She watched him as he raced around the pool and disappeared into the hedges.

  Lock the front door.

  She hurried to do it and then slipped through her own door and locked it as well. For a moment, she stood there panting. Then she wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Lena?” she called.

  But the ghost didn’t answer.

  She leaned against the door, holding tightly to her towel. She listened, but all she heard were the sounds of night—a car passing, a motorcycle, her neighbor’s too-loud TV. But that was okay, Joe was hard of hearing and noise had never bothered her.

  Then the buzzer to her apartment rang. She hit the button. “Yes?”

  “Come let me in, if you will. Please.”

  “Okay.”

  She hurried to the front and opened the door. The agent was brushing leaves off his jacket.

  “May I come in?” He took a deep breath. “Look, I apologize. I was an ass today. I was telling you the truth, though. Yes, I’m an agent, and yes, Lena was my cousin. And—”

  “Yes, you were an ass today.”

  “I just said that.” His lips tipped up in a small grin. “But everything I’m saying is true, and you know it. Lena was my second cousin, and I cared about her, deeply. And I care about Stephanie and the baby. Even if they had been strangers, what’s going on here is cruel and heinous and could keep happening to innocent people.” His eyes became more earnest than she thought possible. “I’m sorry I behaved badly. But this is serious. May we please talk?”

  “I—yes. I just...”

  She looked down at herself. She was still wearing her skimpy bikini with nothing more than the towel draped around her shoulders.

  He glanced down briefly and then his eyes came right back to hers and stayed there. “I can wait while you change.”

  She nodded and turned down the hall, opening the door to her apartment.

  He followed her in.

  “Um...there’s just one bedroom, up the stairs,” she told him. Why? “The kitchen, dining, and parlor are all right here, as you can see. Help yourself to anything. I’ll be right down.”

  Upstairs, she shed her suit and rinsed off quickly then grabbed clothing—a pair of jeans and a tee shirt—and hurried back downstairs, towel-drying her hair as she did.

  He was seated at the dining room table, looking at his phone.

  He hadn’t helped himself to anything.

  “Um—coffee?” she asked, a bit flustered. “And did you find anything? I mean, you tried to find out if someone was outside, right?”

  “They’re gone.”

  She sat across from him, studying his features. She hadn’t realized before that he was so attractive. He’d barged in like a large ape, and that hadn’t called for much of a fair assessment. He had a great jawline. And he was, she had to admit...compelling. His look was rough and rugged, yet almost classical with the clean line of his nose, the set of his eyes, and his cheekbones.

  And, of course, I’m sitting here like a drowned rat.

  Did that matter? He thought she was in danger. Lena had been murdered. But as far as she knew, no one else knew that Lena had told her anything.

  Why would she be in danger?

  “I am sincerely sorry for being so angry today,” he said again, his tone low and modulated, and she thought sincere.

  “Okay,” she said slowly.

  “You really knew Lena?”

  “Yes. I really knew her. Not well, but she did talk to me a few times before... She came into the shop quite a bit.”

  “Have you seen her recently?” he asked.

  “She’s dead,” Casey said.

  “I know.” He paused and softened his voice. “So, have you seen her recently?”

  “What?” she asked sharply. “Look, you have the wrong idea, but I’m sure that’s my fault. I majored in psychology, but I didn’t care for the work I was offered after I got out of college. My friends were having the same problem. But I never, ever say I’m a medium, if that’s what you’re getting at. I have a dozen books on reading tarot cards, and I like them because you can lead them to say what you want. I swear to you, I try to make people happier about themselves, and that is it. I don’t—I don’t summon ghosts. I don’t run seances. But it’s
true, I also read tea leaves. I have a dozen books on that, too—”

  “And dozens of psychology books, I see,” he said.

  Just outside what would be the partition between the dining room and parlor if one existed, were her bookshelves. They lined both walls.

  “I love the human mind. Strangest thing is it’s the hardest thing in the world to fathom when you’re working on your own.”

  He nodded for a minute, studying her, his eyes enigmatic.

  “Lena Marceau did not kill herself. You are right in that.”

  “Um...are you a medium?” she asked him. “Has she...come to you?”

  “Are you mocking me?” he asked her.

  “I wouldn’t dream of mocking a federal agent,” she said sweetly.

  He was quiet, studying her for a minute, and then he said, “I don’t know why she hasn’t come to me.”

  “Pardon?”

  He slid his elbows on the table and leaned closer to her. “I don’t know why she hasn’t come to me. And I have had your background checked. Graduated with honors, worked a few places, bought the shop on St. Anne. You don’t even have a parking ticket. Now, that’s not easy, living here. Your parents are Gerome and Marie, who moved to Arizona when your dad’s doctor suggested he needed a drier climate. You were born here, and you’ve been here since, other than for a six-month European study session during your junior year. You seem to be aboveboard in every way. Then again, that’s just the type of person certain criminal elements try to rope in. So...”

  “Um—so?”

  “Either you have been paid to cause trouble—I doubt that after tonight—you just want something from Stephanie Marceau, or my cousin came to you.”

  “Look, I knew Lena—”

  “And she’s still talking to you.”

  He said it flatly, staring at her hard. She felt a sizzle race through her, and she didn’t know if it was a touch of ice or a bit of fire.

  “Are you trying to have me committed?” she asked.

  “No. Look, I am an FBI agent, but I’m part of a special division called the Krewe of Hunters. We investigate…unusual cases. I’m not a medium. Mediums claim to have the ability to summon and talk to certain spirits—and maybe they can in some instances. But in my experiences with the dead—and they have been extensive—not all stay around to be summoned. Many who remain do so because they worry about the future of their descendants. They feel they need to guard a certain place or even see to it that history is remembered. Or because life was stolen from them in one way or another, and they have to see justice is done and ensure other lives aren’t taken.”