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

  She stared back at him.

  Could this be legitimate? Or was he trying to see that she was committed to an institution? Could they do that to her just because she believed she had seen a ghost?

  They’d have to lock up half of New Orleans.

  “Please,” he said quietly.

  She winced. “You don’t have any recording devices on you, do you?”

  He shook his head. “No. I swear.”

  She took a deep breath and decided to trust him with the truth. “I saw her first in the cemetery. It freaked me out so badly, I passed out twice and landed in the hospital for the night. They thought I had heatstroke. I thought maybe I did, too, seeing a dead woman. Then she came to the shop when I was alone last night. We talked for a long time.” She focused her eyes on his. “Yes, she was murdered.”

  “Why haven’t I seen her yet?” It was an introspective question, and he seemed hurt. But he gave himself a shake—both mentally and physically, Casey thought. “So, how? That’s the question I keep getting when I try to pursue this case. But it may get better.”

  Casey shook her head. “May get better?”

  “We had cremains disinterred today. I don’t think even Anthony was this killer’s first victim. A man who was on the board may have been—an old and dear friend to Elijah. He had no heart condition and mysteriously died of a heart attack. Luckily, over the state line.”

  “Luckily?”

  “For me, not for him. I’m sorry. For the Krewe. It’s a good thing. We can step in if anything is proven.”

  “You dug someone up today?”

  “This is New Orleans. We didn’t dig.”

  She shook her head. “No, no. I mean—”

  “Yes, we exhumed a body. Please, tell me what Lena has told you.”

  Casey let out a breath. “We talked a lot,” she said softly. “I don’t know if you noticed those chairs by the coffee and tea stand, but...she just showed up there and sat in a chair. And she begged me not to pass out again, and I didn’t. I knew someone would think I was crazy if I went to Stephanie with Lena’s warning, but she was so desperate for someone’s help...”

  “You’re not crazy,” he told her.

  She stood suddenly. “Special Agent McKinley, she was here tonight. She warned me to get out of the pool, said that someone was watching me. That they were in black and...I wonder if she went off, trying to find the person, too.” She hesitated, wincing again as she looked at him. “Do ghosts have...rules? Or I should say, they can’t just get anywhere by twitching their noses or anything. Can they?”

  He shook his head and studied her again. “My special unit of the FBI is comprised of people who are part of the less than one percent of the population who has the sixth sense, or whatever it is. And recognize what they have. There are degrees to everything. Some people get a chill. Some see or hear things in their dreams, which is really nice. For instance, a mom comes to her children in a dream and assures them she’s fine, that she’s back with their dad. That kind of thing. Others...” He paused and shrugged. “Ghosts have to learn how to get around. They’re like children, discovering more every day. But from all my experiences and those that have been shared with me by my colleagues, they can’t be in more than one place at a time. And have you heard that saying? ‘Beware of hitch-hiking ghosts?’ Well, yes, ghosts like to hitch-hike or slide onto airplanes. I have a friend whose brother died in an accident, and he loves nothing more than to find flights where first class hasn’t been fully booked. He pretends he’s kicking back and enjoying the champagne.”

  “He can’t drink champagne,” Casey murmured.

  He smiled. “Lena was here. Tonight.”

  “As I said, she warned me to get out of the pool and lock myself in.”

  He shook his head. “She wasn’t out there. I hopped a couple of fences and looked around the general area. Whoever it was is gone. And so is Lena,” he said. “All right, did she explain to you what happened by any chance? I mean, she took pills. Why? Did someone force her? Who?”

  “A man in black.”

  “A man in black?”

  “She couldn’t see his identity. He wore black. Pants, shirt, mask—one that covered his entire face except his eyes. But she was convinced her killer was male.”

  “How?” The word was almost a whisper.

  “She bargained. She told the killer she’d fight him tooth and nail, and the world would know she’d been murdered if he didn’t let her put the baby in the safe room and lock her in. I guess the killer figured he had time to see that the baby had an accident somewhere along the line. So, Lena took care of the baby, leaving her where only Stephanie could get to her, and she took the pills.” She frowned then. “I wonder what stopped her from fighting back once the baby was safe.”

  “Torture, maybe.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Maybe she was afraid if she reneged on the agreement, the killer would torture her until she couldn’t bear it and gave up the baby again.”

  “But once she was dead—”

  “The killer couldn’t get to Annette. The lock on the door is computer-driven—you must have the code to get into the room. Only Lena and Stephanie have the code. And Lena could leave the baby in there because it’s completely childproof. Annette’s mattress is on the floor, the outlets have child plugs, there is no other furniture, just a plastic play desk and tons of toys. Annette could have cried herself to sleep alone in there until Stephanie arrived—that’s the worst that could have happened.”

  “Oh,” Casey murmured. Then she shook her head. “That’s what I know. And...”

  “And?”

  “I think she might have saved me tonight. But I still don’t understand. Why would someone come after me? Unless the man skulking around my neighbor’s yard is just your run-of-the-mill peeping Tom, creep, or burglar.”

  He hesitated again.

  “Oh, please. Come on. I don’t know you, and you just convinced me to tell you I had a long conversation with a ghost. You came here. You came to me. You accused me of all kinds of things, and everything you know about me is boringly true. Have the decency to tell me what is going on,” Casey said. She hadn’t realized she was so angry until she stood, slamming her palms down on the table and speaking to him with her face just inches from his.

  “Sorry,” she said, moving back.

  But he was smiling. “Good. You need to be fierce. You know what’s going on. My cousin was murdered. And you know more about it than I do.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I knew Lena wouldn’t kill herself. But forensically and by law, there was absolutely no way to prove it. She took the pills, and there was no sign the house had been broken into, or she had been forced in any way. She succeeded in her objective—she saved her baby. But I do believe whoever is behind this intends to kill Stephanie and the baby and anyone who gets in their way. I’m not sure what they’re afraid of. They must realize you’d be a laughingstock if you went to the papers or the police and told people that Lena came to you and told you what had happened. But now that we know, we look for a way to prove it. I was frustrated, but I work with great people. We found out about the death of William Marley. And the man who founded our unit happens to be in the right circles in politics no matter who is at the helm. He managed to get us an exhumation order. Besides that, I believed from the get-go that Lena’s killer—and William’s and Anthony’s—had to be someone in the corporation. Someone not happy with the way it’s being run, or who wants to take over completely. There’s only one family member left on the board. Justin Marceau. But he has his title, and he takes part in their marketing and promotion. Right now, they’re heavily invested in the pharmaceutical drug trade. Elijah, Anthony, and Lena weren’t as concerned with profits as they were with the wonders the right drugs could do for people—curing illnesses and prolonging life. So, there’s Justin for one. And then there’s the rest of the board. Barton Quincy, Harry Miller, and Larry Swenson. Barton has seniority,
and he’s the director of operations. Larry Swenson is his assistant—basically up after Barton—and Harry Miller’s title is sales director.”

  “How did they get into the house? I saw cameras—”

  “Amazingly, there was a blackout in the footage around the time Lena was killed. And according to the board, they were all together at the offices in the CBD when Lena died. Except for Justin, who came over early to warn Lena about what the board planned to discuss at the meeting. And he and Gail Reeves, the housekeeper, ran into each other at the bookstore in the Garden District. Justin gave her a ride back to the house. It was her afternoon off.”

  “Is Gail still there now, with Stephanie and the baby?”

  He nodded. “Don’t worry. Her alibi was airtight. Her book club had a meeting. Three people let me know she was there the entire time. One problem, of course, is Justin. I don’t know if he’s outright guilty or guilty of collaboration. Or if he’s in danger.” He shrugged. “I have a full-time security guard at the house. I hired a few retired agents. I know three of them, and they’re on duty twenty-four-seven.”

  “Good,” Casey murmured. “But back to me—”

  “I saw Barton Quincy staring at your shop today. He and Justin were together at the coffee shop by your place. It seemed a distance to go for coffee from the CBD. Barton said something about needing something in the French Quarter.”

  “Well, that is feasible.”

  “It is.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. I do believe everything you’ve told me. I had to be...sure. You’d be surprised by the number of naïve people who need money and get suckered by criminals. And while you might have had a run-of-the-mill peeping Tom back there, burglar or whatever—you may be in danger.”

  They were both quiet for a minute.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me you can take care of yourself?” he asked her.

  Casey laughed softly. “No. I’m good at a lot of things. My best defense against anything bad is screaming like a banshee. I’ve never taken Kung Fu, and I’ve never been to a shooting range. I don’t even like carving up meat.”

  He smiled at that. “Okay. Good.”

  “That’s good?”

  “Yep. You won’t give me a hard time when I want you protected.”

  “And what is your plan here?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure yet,” he told her.

  “Okay.”

  They sat in silence for another few minutes. He was thinking—obviously. But she was beginning to feel a bit awkward.

  “Uh, would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  A slow smile crept onto his lips. When he wanted to be, he could be nice. And that slow smile of his was almost...charming.

  Maybe charming wasn’t the word.

  Seductive.

  “You would like coffee, right?”

  “Dinner,” he said.

  “Oh, well, I’m not sure what I have—” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and licked her lips. His eyes followed the movement, and she could have sworn she saw his eyes darken.

  “This is New Orleans. Restaurants abound. Let’s go to dinner.”

  “Dinner. Oh. Okay. It’s getting a bit late—”

  “This is New Orleans,” he repeated.

  “Are you asking me out to dinner?” she asked.

  “I am.” He winked.

  “I’m not dressed—”

  “I do believe you’re one of those people who could wear a potato sack and still look fine,” he said lightly. “We won’t go anywhere fancy. Just out. There’s a place off Magazine Street—”

  “Hmm, people sometimes dress up on Magazine Street.”

  “I said off Magazine,” he told her. “Family place. The owners are friends. He’s first-generation Italian, and her family is Creole. Great, casual food.”

  “You sold me,” Casey said.

  “Make sure to lock up.”

  She locked her door, and as they were leaving through the main entrance, Miss Lilly came out of her apartment, smiling as she saw them.

  “I see you found Casey okay, Ryder,” she said.

  “I did. Thank you for sending me through, Miss Lilly. As much as I appreciate your help, please don’t let anyone else in. There have been some break-ins in the neighborhood.”

  “Oh, my! Well, thank you for telling me. I’ll make sure the place is locked. And I’ll tell the others. My, my, what a pretty couple you two make! Good to see you going out, Casey.” She looked at Ryder. “This girl just spends too much time working. Not that I don’t love the shop. I do. Anyway, you two go on out on your date. I’ll see we all know we need to keep the main doors locked up good and tight.”

  “Oh, Miss Lilly, we’re not—” Casey began. But she was going out on a date...

  “We’re really just friends, Miss Lilly,” she corrected.

  They weren’t even friends.

  Miss Lilly waved a hand in the air. “Get on out so I can lock up and get back to my program.”

  “Will do. A pleasure,” Ryder told her.

  They walked down the path to the street. Casey automatically started toward her little hybrid car, but Ryder said, “Mind if I drive? I know where I’m going.”

  “Ah, fine.”

  He opened the passenger door for her, and she slid in. Her arm grazed his as she did, and she felt a current of sensation rush through her, nearly causing goose bumps. He walked around to the driver’s seat and was quiet as he pulled out onto the street.

  “So, hmm. How long have you been an FBI agent?” Casey asked him.

  “Four years. Before that, I was a detective in Baltimore.”

  “Baltimore? I got the impression you were from Louisiana.”

  “I am. But I went to college up there and stayed and became a cop. And then a detective. And then I went to the academy and right into the Krewe.” He was watching the road, but he shrugged and looked at her quickly. “I saw my first ghost when my grandfather died. We were close. My dad was a cop, and one day, my grandfather’s ghost warned him that one of their supposed snitches was in on the hard stuff himself. Since my dad was suspicious, the snitch arranged for an accident. Because he knew, my dad avoided the shootout intended for him in an alley. The problem when I worked as a detective in Baltimore is a lot like the problem we have here. You can’t go to court, claiming a ghost told you what happened.”

  “No, I read somewhere that they ruled out spectral evidence after the witch trials in the Massachusetts Bay Colony,” Casey said.

  “And it’s a good thing. People can make up anything.”

  “But you don’t think I’m making anything up.”

  He glanced her way again.

  “I know you’re not.”

  They’d reached the restaurant.

  It was off the main street, rustic and charming with picnic tables outside and nicely manicured foliage. Casey couldn’t believe there was a restaurant she hadn’t been to in the city, but New Orleans was filled with quaint little neighborhoods within neighborhoods, and she believed the restaurant catered to locals rather than tourists.

  A middle-aged woman met them at the hostess stand and greeted Ryder warmly, clearly delighted to see him. She seemed happy to meet Casey, as well.

  “So, you finally bring a beautiful girl to my restaurant,” the woman said. “I’m Felice Barone—Felice Beauchamp Barone since we are Creole and Italian. The best of both, I believe! My husband and I, we are the owners. Owners and operators, cooks, busboys, and bottle washers,” she said cheerfully. “I am delighted to meet you,” she told Casey. She grew serious, looking at Ryder. “I thought you went back north. Back to work after...I am still so sorry, cher.”

  “I did, but I’m back to give Stephanie a hand,” Ryder said. “And, of course, if I am trying to impress a friend, I bring her here.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes and were then seated at an inside table. Casey hadn’t cared where they sat when offered inside or outside seating. Then again, Ryder h
adn’t asked her. He had pointed to the table he wanted, causing Felice Barone to laugh. “This one, he thinks he’s Italian. The old mob men, they had to make sure they were facing the door. You never have your back to the door.”

  “She’s right. I like my back to the wall,” Ryder said.

  “An FBI thing?” Casey asked him.

  “No.” He chuckled. “I think I saw The Godfather at an impressionable age. But yeah, just a smart thing when you never know who you may run into—or who may be looking for you.”

  Felice had given them a corner square table so both could have their backs to the wall and then left them, assuring them that their waitress was one of her best.

  “You can’t honestly believe anyone is after me in an off-the-beaten-path restaurant, do you?” Casey asked when Felice was gone.

  “No. If you go through that kind of trouble to make a murder look like suicide, you probably wouldn’t ruin it by publicly attacking someone.”

  “Good. It will be great to eat without...watching the door,” Casey said.

  Their waitress arrived. She was pleasant and knew Ryder and greeted him warmly. She gave them the list of specials, suggesting that one have a Creole dish, and the other an Italian specialty so they could split them.

  Ryder looked politely at Casey.

  “I don’t care what I eat,” she said. “I mean, I’m sure it’s going to be wonderful, whatever it is.”

  “Crawfish etouffee—it’s the best here. And...”

  “Lasagna!” Casey said.

  “You’re fond of Italian food?” Ryder asked her.

  “I watched a lot of Garfield cartoons.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Garfield! The cat, from Jim Davis.”

  “Oh, right. The fat cat that loves lasagna.”