Lucas’s phone rang when we boarded the streetcar and we shuffled out of the way of the other on boarding passengers. He pulled the device out of his pocket just far enough to peek at the screen and groaned.
“Work?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Frown lines creased the edges of his mouth as he tapped out a text message. Glancing at the screen, I saw the name Sam at the top. Another sound effect pinged as a new message came in. I looked past him to the other people on the streetcar. Mostly tourists, I figured. People wanting to take the slow, scenic approach to the beautiful city around us.
We were headed back to our hotel. Lucas had already shown me the suite he’d booked for my visit after he’d picked me up at the airport and we’d stayed just long enough to drop off my luggage and do a little reunion smooching before I’d dragged him out to get coffee and breakfast. Normally, he shared a hotel room with two other crew members and ate his meals from a plastic take-out box. But, in honor of my visit, he’d booked us into a king-size suite at a quaint hotel, tucked away on the back half of a parklike lot in the historical neighborhood.
Something about the lines at Lucas’s mouth told me we were about to take a detour.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and looked over at me. “Mind if we make a pitstop? I told Sam I was off duty tonight, but something came up and he needs—”
“Lucas,” I interrupted, grinning at his rambled explanation. “It’s fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course.” I smiled and took his hand. “It’s not like I haven’t dragged you into my drama while we were supposed to be on a date.”
He grinned. “Ghost busting is a twenty-four-hour gig.”
“Not this week,” I reminded him, smiling. “Let’s head over to the property. I’m looking forward to seeing it anyway. It will be fun. It’s on Saint Charles Avenue, right?”
“Yeah. It looks great, considering it was built in 1896. Most of the places the Carter’s end up with have seen better days, but this one is less of a fixer-upper and more of a remodel. They bought it directly from the owners, instead of picking up an abandoned property sitting vacant or up for auction.”
“Was it a private residence before they took it over?”
Lucas nodded as he reached for a pastry out of the paper bakery bag. “It’s been a little bit of a nightmare trying to get the permits changed so they can open it as a B&B. Set the production back a few weeks.”
“Why were the owners selling?” I asked, taking half of the cookie he offered to me.
Lucas smiled and took a bite. “Well, that’s the interesting part…”
I groaned. “Why do I feel a ghost story coming on?”
He chuckled. “I warned you, back when I gave you the ticket.”
“I thought you were kidding.”
“So far, we’ve been heebie-jeebies free,” he said, still grinning. “I don’t think you’ll need to go on the clock for this one, okay?”
“Famous last words,” I grumbled.
Lucas plied me with another cookie. “I guess the owners heard weird noises. Mostly from inside the library. They actually walled it in. Fifty-something years back, a murder took place, and through the years, the house has changed hands several times, each seller citing the same experiences.” He shrugged. “I doubt it’s an issue, but just in case, I told them to leave it off the real estate listing when we get it ready to sell.”
“Are you kidding? They could probably charge double if they tell people the place is haunted. People come to New Orleans specifically for the chance of finding a ghost or having an encounter.”
“True.”
I pulled the cupcake out of the bag and took a big bite. Lucas raised an eyebrow. “What?” I said around the decadent morsel. “There’s a reason people eat s’mores while they tell ghost stories around the camp fire. The chocolate helps.”
He snorted.
We nibbled on our pastries and watched the city scenery roll by out the window. Eventually, we made it to our stop and hurried to get off the streetcar. A man stood at the corner, playing a saxophone, and between the soulful music and the soft glow from the streetlamp dotting the famous street, I decided that if magic was real, it must feel a lot like Saint Charles Avenue at twilight.
And if that was the case, maybe it wasn’t so scary to think of it running through my veins.
Lucas led the way as we strolled under the canopy of oak trees lining the street. Gorgeous mansions dotted our side of the street, each one dripping with history and charm. I didn’t know exactly how old the various estates were, but if I’d had to guess, I imagined most were at least a hundred years old. Oh, the stories those walls could tell…
Or, rather, the stories the ghosts lurking within those walls could tell.
It was obvious which property belonged to the Carter’s; a hulking dumpster stood in the middle of a circular driveway, filled with construction debris. Parked on the other side of the dumpster were two large tour bus-style RVs with the TV network’s logo splashed on the side in bright colors. Sheila and Stu Carter were the innovators and hosts of a popular reality TV show, Mints on the Pillows. They traveled the country, finding old historic homes and renovating them, usually into fancy bed and breakfasts. Lucas and I met when they were in Beechwood Harbor, converting one of the town’s oldest homes into an inn, now known as the Lilac House. Of course, there’d been a few hiccups involving an angry ghost, and it was clear from the first boo that Lucas and I were destined to get tangled up together.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked as we meandered off the sidewalk and up the driveway.
The home, even surrounded by debris and junk from the renovations, was breathtaking.
“Ya know, I think I could see myself living in a place like this,” I replied, my gaze tracking up the strong lines of the Corinthian columns. A water fountain babbled nearby, and the front porch was screaming for a couple of Adirondack chairs and a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade.
“It could all be yours for the low, introductory price of”—he paused for effect—“one point three million dollars!”
My eyes probably bulged out of my head like a dog’s squeaky toy because Lucas chuckled and wrapped an arm over my shoulders.
“Quite a steal, don’t you think?” he joked.
“Well, my flower shop is doing well, but not that well,” I said, laughing. “I’d have to book a lot more weddings!”
He chuckled. “At least you have a plan.”
I smiled at him. “I doubt I’ll ever have the keys to a place like this.”
“That’s all right. I mean, think of all the money you’re saving in heating bills.”
I laughed. “That’s one way of looking at it. On the other hand, I’d be willing to bet there’s a pretty amazing kitchen in there.”
He chuckled. “For all that gourmet cooking you like to do? Like, heating up tater tots?”
“Hey! I’ve cooked for you before,” I protested, jabbing a playful elbow at his side.
He feigned injury and I waved him off. I took a few steps ahead and then turned back. “Can we go inside?”
Lucas frowned and looked around the empty front yard and then up at the facade of the house. Lights were on inside, but I didn’t see any shadows moving past the windows. “I figured Sam would be here to meet us,” he said as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “Let me give him a—”
A man burst from the house, his cheeks red. “There you are!”
“Oh, great,” Lucas muttered.
“Where the hell have you been all day?” the man bellowed, storming across the yard toward us. I fought the urge to take a step back, away from the waves of anger roaring from the stranger. “We’ve had three tripped alarms and your little night nurse”—he hooked a thumb back at the house where a cluster of workers had gathered to watch the show—“isn’t cutting the mustard! This system you’ve rigged up is as flaky as my grandm
ama’s Sunday biscuits, and I’m two seconds away from personally tearing it all down and chucking it into one of those dumpsters!”
Lucas remained still—almost too still—as the man lashed into him.
“You’ve got one minute to tell me what you’re going to do to fix it, or I’m going back to my trailer and calling Brooklyn and demanding your head on a platter. Got it, Greene?”
One of the men on the porch jogged down the steps wearing a brown leather jacket and a pair of jeans. He looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before. He looked at Lucas with an apologetic expression but remained silent.
“I’ll get it sorted out, Mr. Christiansen. I apologize for any disruptions, but this is the first I’m hearing about any tripped alarms. I’m off set most of this week, but my crew knows I’m only a phone call away.” Lucas looked at the man in the leather jacket. “Sam, let’s go through the list of sensors that have tripped.”
Mr. Christiansen’s frown only deepened. “One. Minute.”
Lucas’s jaw flexed but he kept his tone steady and emotionless. “Sir, with all due respect, it’s going to take a little longer than that to properly troubleshoot the issue we have here. I assure you, I’ll stay until it’s fixed, and I will personally walk you through a test to your satisfaction.”
“You think I have time to stand around here and wait on you?” The bloated man chortled without humor. “I don’t know what kind of dream world you’re living in, Greene, but in addition to this dumpster fire of a renovation, we’ve got back-to-back meetings with the press tomorrow to sort out these worthless gossip reporters who keep spreading lies about the Carters. Someone called the police here today, based on some headline that the Carters have a drug problem. It’s a PR nightmare and seeing as Ms. Skye doesn’t seem to be willing to do her job either, that leaves me, shoveling up everyone’s messes!”
Sam tensed, his jawline flexing as Mr. Christiansen raged.
“I can appreciate that, sir.” Lucas said, holding up a hand. “Let me do my job and you can do yours without worrying about anymore false alarms.”
Mr. Christiansen pulled himself to his full height, though he still fell short of Lucas’s 6’ 2” frame. “Don’t ever tell me what to do again, Greene.”
Lucas jerked his head in a sharp nod, lines pulsing at his temples, and Mr. Christiansen stalked off in the direction of the trailers at the side of the massive house.
Sam let out a string of curses under his breath. “I should have called sooner. I didn’t know Christiansen was going to go into a full nuclear meltdown.”
Lucas held his breath another long moment and then released it in a slow, controlled exhale. “Let’s just get everything sorted out.” He turned to me. “You want to hang out here, or head back to the hotel?”
“I don’t mind staying. Is it okay if I walk around and see the rest of the house?”
“Go ahead. I’ll come find you when we’re ready to wrap up, but it might be a while. If you want to leave without me, I have an extra key card for the room to give you so you don’t have to wait up and let me in.”
“Okay.” It wasn’t exactly the end to the evening I’d been hoping for, but work was work. I knew that better than anybody. I still held out hope he’d be able to wrap it up and go back to the hotel with me.
He handed me the key card and then took off with Sam across the yard and into the looming house. The workers who’d gathered on the porch ducked inside ahead of them, and I was left alone in the front yard. After a few moments, the porch lights fluttered on, followed by a series of garden lights lining the walkways to and around the house.
I took the path around the side of the house and into a side door that opened into the kitchen. The room was larger than my entire flower shop and apartment combined, and that wasn’t even counting the pantry that was big enough to park a car inside. The renovations were still underway, hollow shells of cabinets in place without doors or countertops. A series of appliances were wrapped in plastic and waiting for installation along a wall of windows that looked out onto a courtyard. It was too dark to fully appreciate the gardens, but from the bits shown in the rings of light from the garden lanterns, I knew they would be stunning in daylight. A babbling fountain made for the centerpiece, and I could picture myself lolling in the sun on one of the cement benches, breathing in the fragrance and reading a book.
“One-point-three mil, Scar,” I reminded myself with a half-smile as I turned away.
The first floor consisted of elegant living spaces, all in various stages of remodel. I ran into a coverall-clad man painting a powder room as I passed through a long hallway, but other than that, it appeared the work had stopped for the evening. Lucas had told me the crews generally rotated in and out, especially on large projects, and at some points, there would be work going on twenty-four hours a day to make sure scheduling deadlines were made. With home renovations, there were always last-minute problems that cropped up. Unexpected delays or costly mistakes that needed quick solutions. The end result was always beautiful, but personally I wasn’t sure it was worth all the stress.
Clearly that stress was getting to this Mr. Christiansen. My blood boiled just thinking about the threats he’d lobbed at Lucas. A little niggling guilt crept in, too, knowing that this was likely the most important renovation of the entire season, and I was the reason Lucas wasn’t able to give it his full attention. Granted, he’d been the one to invite me. It wasn’t like I’d crashed his party. He’d all but begged me to come visit.
Still … as I wandered the halls, I couldn’t help but feel like an inconvenience.
I stopped in front of a set of wooden doors. Delicate carvings were etched into the dark wood—mahogany perhaps—and I smiled to myself, betting an exquisite library lay behind them. I’m talking Beauty and the Beast levels of gorgeous.
I reached for the handle but it refused to twist. That’s weird.
“Best not go in there, dearie. Bad things happen to those who enter those doors.”
I turned sharply at the voice and found myself face-to-face with a startled looking ghost.
“You heard that?” she asked, her silver eyes wide.
I groaned and huffed out a breath. So much for my no-ghost zone. It hadn’t even lasted a full twenty-four hours.
Chapter 4
I wasn’t so naive to think my entire visit to New Orleans would be ghost-free, despite leaving my full-time spooky pals at home in Washington. However, I’d promised myself to steer clear as much as possible. In case of ghost, my policy was clear: don’t stare, avoid eye contact altogether, and no matter what, definitely no talking. Most ghosts were so used to being ignored by the living, that as long as I didn’t pay too much attention to the ones passing me by, I would be fine.
You know what they say about the best laid plans…
“You saw me! I know you saw me!” the woman all but shouted.
I cringed. “Yes, yes, okay. Calm down!”
“Who are you?” she asked. “How can you hear me? See me?”
She wore an old-fashioned nightgown, stitched in an era when showing a hint of ankle through a sliver of lace was considered as racy as the getups plastered in the front window of a Victoria’s Secret shop today. My best guess placed her age at death somewhere in her mid- to late-forties. Her silvery, near-translucent hair was loose around her shoulders, some streaks of silver fainter than others. Her eyes were hooded beneath a lined brow and made her cheekbones appear even sharper.
“It’s kind of a long story,” I replied, trying the knob on the doors again. “What’s in here?”
The woman popped up between me and the doors and I jumped back. “Yikes! Don’t touch me! Do you know how unpleasant it is to get touched by a ghost?”
“You can’t go in there!” she insisted.
“Why not?”
“There’s an angry spirit living in there. The last person who entered this library didn’t come back out again!” she flattened herself agains
t the wall, as if her own bellowing had startled her.
I frowned. “What happened to them?”
“They were killed. Everyone says it was natural causes, but I know the truth.”
“Right… and you are?”
Her chest swelled with pride. “I am Gayle Appleton and I am the guardian of this estate! I’ve kept this library sealed for the last ten years.”
“I see. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Gayle. And, I hate to break it to you, but people are going to go inside this library eventually. The whole house is going to be renovated.”
“I know that,” she snapped, giving an indignant sniff.
Oh, great. Another ticked off ghost on a real estate rampage. It sure would be great if someone gave some kind of international ghost seminar and explained that dead people can’t hold onto the deed of their old houses. It would seriously save me a lot of time.
“Gayle, I’m really sorry you’re upset about the renovations, but I can assure you, I don’t have any power over the design plan or any say over which walls are getting knocked down.”
“Upset about the renovations?” she repeated, puzzled. “Dear, as far as I’m concerned, they should be knocking the whole thing down!”
I blinked. “Oh.”
Gayle stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, her eyes strange and dark. “I was born in this house. Died in it too. Yellow fever. Nasty business.” Her eyes zipped back to mine, a wildness ignited within them. “You must believe me, too many bad things have happened here, and I fear that a fresh coat of paint and some new furniture aren’t going to be enough to banish the lingering evil.”
“Why do you stay, then?” I asked gently.
Gayle’s expression remained unchanged, but her eyes flickered. “As I said, I am a guardian,” she said softly. “I had a chance to leave, but I didn’t take it.”
When Good Ghosts Get the Blues Page 3
