by Kiki Howell
“What the fuck is the matter with me now?” My reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back into my eyes that sparkle brightly, accentuated by my flushed face.
I run the tap to fill up the bath. After adding a generous splash of bubble bath, I pull the mauve top over my head and hang it on a nearby peg. I do the same with the black leggings and homey underwear. Looking at the beige cotton pieces, I realize I’ve forsaken my trademark lacy panties and gartered stockings. I can’t remember the last time I’ve worn them. I wouldn’t go anywhere without them in the past. Even that has changed now.
The large bath takes a while to fill up, allowing me plenty of time to take the clothes back to the bedroom and throw them in the hamper in the walk-in closet. Many years ago, after reading about the benefits of sleeping in the nude in a scientific journal, I adopted this habit, so I saunter back to the bathroom.
On my way there, I stop by the bed to adjust the sound system. I scroll up and down the screen of the monitor mounted on the wall, searching through the playlists until I find a Rock ’n’ Roll one. I hit play and the unmistakable riffs of The Edge’s guitar fill the air. U2’s music is one of my favorite antidotes, for most anything, actually.
Waltzing back to the bathroom to one of the hit tunes from their latest album, I turn off the tap and sink in the warmth of the fragrant water. Resting my head on the rim of the bathtub, I unwind as I inhale a mix of passion fruit and verbena scents and hum to a ballad about shipwrecked souls, lack of intimacy and fear of commitment.
Not surprisingly, my mind dashes back to that first time I encountered Marcel at Club Desire. Turned out that weekend was Halloween, the only time of year when lost souls can walk the earth in a physical body. I had the most memorable day in bed with a hot ghost turned oh-so-huggable. Ever since October 31st, 2005, I have made a point of spending Halloween with Marcel every year. Then it hits me. I haven’t gone back to New Orleans since last Halloween because I’ve been avoiding Marcel and my feelings for him. I’m not a coward, but this situation is hopeless and having to face my reality without him, after a whole day of pretending we are together, hurts like hell. Every. Single. Time.
Sitting up in the bathtub, I shake my head to dismiss the thoughts, but my stubborn mind goes back to Marcel. Turns out, he isn’t cocky as much as aware of his own skills and that quality has made us bond even closer. I admire his wit. His sense of humor cracks me up. Well, except when he’s pulling a practical joke on me like the one he came up with last Halloween at Club Desire. Oh, I was mad at him for making me feel like a fool. I forgave him, of course, but he pissed me off royally with that one.
I feel so lousy about his being cursed, chained to that house. I wish I could do something to free him. I’ve felt that way since we met, so I’ve consulted multiple experts in the occult over these years, to no avail. I don’t know how to free him from Marie-Claudette’s curse. I wish I could, so he would find peace and move on.
I scramble out of the tub, open its drain and towel myself. As I get in bed, guilt pokes at my conscience. Who are you kidding? If he moves on, you won’t see him any longer.
As selfish as that sounds, I couldn’t contradict my inner voice, but I know a way to distract my mind from that nagging Jiminy Cricket wannabe. I slide open the top nightstand drawer to grab my vibrator. It’s been a faithful companion since I last visited Club Desire. All it takes is turning it on, conjuring up memories of Marcel and letting the buzzing toy work its own brand of magic. As I envision his hazel eyes staring up at me and his full lips closing over my sex, I dip the fake cock inside my folds. It doesn’t do much. I try stimulating my nipples. I feel ridiculous. It’s not working.
“What the fuck?” I turn off the thing and stare at it. “Why the hell isn’t this working tonight?”
I know why though. I just don’t want to face it. I’ve been avoiding that as well. The inner voice is right. I dread losing my connection with Marcel and that makes me feel like a horrible person. If I’m in love, am I not supposed to wish the best for the one I love?
No, wait! Who said anything about love? Lust for him, yes, please. “Love? No way!” I whisper to the purple dildo in my hand. “Shit! Not gonna happen tonight,” I throw it back in the drawer, plop back on the pillows and throw an arm over my eyes. “What the hell have I done? I am in love with a ghost? That can’t be right.”
THINGS ARE STILL A bit awkward between me and Henry, but we haven’t revisited our last conversation. The proverbial white elephant is smack in the middle of the room. It’s just that we’ve become experts in moving around it. It helps that I’ve found a project that we can work on: Finding out what’s been going on with Peter. I’ve asked Henry to look into that and we’re having a one-on-one, so he can report his findings. “Turns out Peter’s husband, Matt, is a high-roller poker player with a serious gambling problem, in the sense that he’s good at losing boatloads of money each time he sits at a table.”
“Let me guess. He’s gone through all their savings and then some.”
“You bet, pardon the pun.”
I roll my eyes. “Probably Matt owes money to some seedy characters, am I right?”
“Actually, both do. And Peter can’t get any more money from reputable sources, so he’s turned to some pretty shady institutions. I’m talking mafia here.”
“Yeah, I kinda got your point. I’d offer to help him if it’d make any difference, but I know Peter. He wouldn’t accept it coming from me.”
“I remember the house remodeling fiasco. He didn’t accept your offer to lend him the money and got a bank loan instead. He ended up paying through the nose for interest.”
“Exactly. I’d like to think this time it would’ve been different. This whole thing can blow up and get quite dangerous to him. I wish he had trusted me with this.”
“I don’t think trust is the issue here, Clara. I’d say it’s more likely he’s too embarrassed to ask for your help and explain why he needs it.”
“You know what? You’re right. And honestly, I think he’s already done so. His insisting I return to Beyond Forever because of the money was a cry for help. I just didn’t realize it.”
“It makes sense. He’d get a nice commission there.”
Shit. Now I feel cornered. I want to help Peter and I have the ability to do so, but should I jeopardize my career in the process by going back to a franchise that could become the next big thing as much as it could turn into Hollywood’s next big joke? Too early to tell with such ferocious book fans and apparently indecisive studio execs.
It was a no-brainer. “Tell my agent to set up a meeting with the studio heads. I’m going back to the franchise.”
GOD, I’M GOING INSANE here!
“Move. Your. Ass!”
My yelling does nothing to infuse some life into Sluggard in front of me. Jerk must be doing fifty-five.
“Really? On a seventy-mile-per-hour freeway? Give me a break!”
I speed up behind him as close as I can get without causing an accident. Still nothing. I’ll never get to Palm Springs in time for the damn meeting. The sleazy studio heads don’t know I’ve made up my mind, so they’re trying to get me onboard by showing off their franchise’s popularity. They’re featuring movies one and two in special screenings leading up to a Halloween themed film festival in Palm Springs next weekend. That’s why they insisted I meet with them in the middle of the desert on a weekday instead of in their L. A. offices.
There’s no room for my car on the lane to my right because the only car going on that lane seems to be just too happy driving at the exact same speed as I am. He’s been doing so for miles on end.
“Come on!”
There’s no lane to my left. I’m boxed in here because of these assholes until kingdom come.
“Finally!”
When the moron in front of me remembers how to change lanes, I zoom past, flipping him the bird. Before I know it, I’m doing ninety and the damn guy’s tailgating me.
“Found your
gas pedal, huh?”
I slam mine, the red Maserati roars and easily goes over a hundred mph. The car vibrates under me.
“Almost as good as sex! Damn it!” I hit the steering wheel as I change lanes and release the gas pedal. “What am I doing?” I’m not suicidal. I love speeding because of the adrenaline, but I never pick fights on the road. That’s insane. And reckless. I know better than that.
Then it dawns on me. I crave Club Desire kinky sex. I miss Marcel and Halloween is coming on fast. “I need to go back to New Orleans instead of breaking my neck in some stupid car crash.”
When Jenny called a couple of hours ago, it took all my self-control not to talk to her. I wanted to hear her voice again so badly. If only I hadn’t been so late for the meeting. I ducked her, told Henry to tell her I’d call back and dashed out of the office. Now I’m going through a severe case of road rage.
“Oh, I need some Marcel time.”
A loud horn jerks me out of some naughty, steamy memories and I check around for the source. The rear mirror shows me Jackass, former Sluggard, has decided to change lanes as well and is currently trying to run me over with his monstrous pick-up truck. I move over to the next lane on the right. The asshole does the same without considering the gap his car needs for the maneuver. His humongous right front tire bumps into the left rear side of my sports car, which turns a hundred and eighty degrees in front of the truck. I glimpse the letters RAM engraved on its radiator as they flash by my window when my car lifts in the air before flipping multiple times.
Screeching tires and shattering glass noises pierce my ears.
Then I can’t see a thing.
All’s deadly silent.
Chapter Seven
MARCEL – 2017
Sam agrees to Jenny’s plan on the spot and the two leave the Lounge seeking Fran. I follow them closely. When we get to Human Resources, we find a very busy Fran, who drops everything when Jenny tells her about her last conversation with Henry, Clara’s PA.
“You guys are right. This is so not Clara.”
Jenny nods and throws in the reason behind bringing the subject to Fran’s attention. “Seeing as you and Jeff are old friends of Clara’s, I was hoping you’d know something.”
“Sorry, I don’t, but you’ve got me worried. Let me check out something here before we switch to panic mode.”
When the website for the internet search engine pops open on Fran’s laptop screen, I see Jenny rolling her eyes. Yeah, sure. Because I haven’t tried that. Jenny wisely maintains a neutral expression and keeps her thoughts locked inside.
She knows better than to cross Fran. As the Human Resources Director, and the owners’ close friend, Fran could harm Jenny’s professional life quite a bit. Plus, she’s got the reputation of being tough. However, I’ve watched Fran closely and have witnessed her interactions with Clara and Jeff. She is, in fact, a sweetheart, who puts on a tough front so people won’t abuse her kindness.
To be honest, I’ve always found it interesting that Fran and Jenny, most of the time, don’t get along well. They’ve got a lot in common besides their looks. They’re both gorgeous blondes with petite, voluptuous bodies, but they’re also opinionated and passionate, yet kind and fair.
Fran types in Clara Hervaux and gets a ton of links to the latest Hollywood buzz forums and tabloid websites gossiping about the newest Beyond Forever film. Apparently, fans of both the books series and the first movie have hated the new actress cast to substitute Clara. As she scrolls down the page, we glimpse at older headlines speculating if Clara was having an affair with a seemingly endless list of prominent Hollywood leading men and big names in the industry. I knew for a fact that ninety-nine percent of those headlines reported fake news. Still, reading them upset me.
Frustrated with the lack of useful results, Fran huffs, “Let me try another one,” she types in Clara Hervaux projects.
Jenny loses her patience. “All due respect, Fran, but I’ve done that. There’s nothing useful online. I was... Sam and I hoped you had direct contact with her recently. Like I told you, I even risked calling her office, but didn’t get anything out of Henry.”
“Good point. Let me try talking to him. We’ve met a few times and he knows I’m Clara’s friend,” Fran suggests as she puts the phone on speaker and dials Clara’s private number.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Henry. Fran Sommers here. How are you?”
“Hey, Fran. Good to hear from you. It’s been a while.”
“True. Listen, is Clara in? I’ve been trying her cell phone for a couple of days now, but she’s not picking up and her voicemail is full.”
Henry’s long pause holds our breaths captive. The four of us. His tone is overly hesitant when he finally replies, “I guess I can trust you won’t pass this along to anyone.”
“You can trust me,” Fran reassures him.
My stomach sinks as Henry’s voice comes out of the loudspeakers. “Clara is missing.” It takes a moment for us to process that information, so nobody utters a word and Henry goes on talking. “Clara had a car accident on her way to a meeting in Palm Springs and was rushed to a local hospital, where they ran tests to determine the extent of her injuries. The doctors decided she didn’t need to undergo an operation, but she was in a coma.”
Fran finds her voice to comment. “How is she doing? Before calling, I looked her up online and didn’t find any references to the accident or anything like that.”
“That’s because the FBI has decided to keep it under wraps for now, since Clara’s a celebrity and all. They didn’t want the media getting in the way in the early stages of the investigation.”
Fran chokes. “What investigation? Why was the FBI brought in? I would think a car accident would fall into local law enforcement jurisdiction.”
“Correct. However, Palm Springs PD called the FBI right after Clara was sent to a hospital room and disappeared.”
“How could it be? I mean, it’s not like she could up and walk out of there, right? I mean, she was in a coma, so someone must have seen something. Don’t they have cameras in hospitals?” Fran’s concern alongside her indignation laced her words. I didn’t need mind reading powers to know that.
“Correct. They do. Nobody saw Clara leaving, which would’ve been close to a miracle. No one saw her being carried out either. They’re investigating a couple of leads though. Peter is the prime suspect, at this point.”
“Peter? Clara’s manager, Peter? That’s insane! That man loves her as a daughter,” Fran’s voice grows louder. “I’ve known him for years. He’d never harm Clara.”
Henry pauses again as if searching for his next words. “All due respect, Fran, but there’s evidence he was involved in illegal gambling and is way over his head in debts. The investigators are looking into the possibility he’s kidnapped Clara for ransom.”
“Nonsense,” was Fran’s adamant response. “Has he demanded ransom?”
“That’s another reason he’s a suspect. He can’t be found. Peter and his husband have also disappeared.”
“What about the hospital cameras? Did they capture anything?”
“A woman entered Clara’s room after the nurses left, but a glitch interrupted recording for a few moments. When the camera resumed recording, the room was empty. The woman must have known the hospital security system quite well to disable the recording without damaging the camera. Not to mention she knew how to avoid the other cameras because there’s no footage of her leaving Clara’s room or anywhere else in the hospital.”
“That is odd.”
“They’ve been running facial recognition software to try and determine who this woman is, but no luck so far.”
I leave Fran’s office before she finishes the conversation. I’ve heard enough and now I need to process that information. Oddly enough, I find refuge in the Golden Suite. The place where I was murdered, but also where Clara’s presence feels the strongest in Club Desire. Our best moments have been shared in this roo
m. I pace around the spacious bedroom. My mind races in opposite directions as thoughts scatter like fallen leaves in a November breeze. Yet one horrifying, blood-freezing thought remains constant: Clara is hurt and missing and there isn’t a single fucking thing I can do about it.
As blind rage builds inside me, feeling impotent serves as catalyst and I trash the room. Knickknacks smash against the walls and floor as I aimlessly throw them around. Pieces of furniture get overturned and pictures from the wall are flung in the air before crashing to the carpeted floor.
“Damn you, Marie Claudette. If you hadn’t bound me to this place, I’d be able to find Clara,” I shouted my frustration to the empty room.
Truth is I feel guilty. I’ve sensed Clara’s distress lately, but had no idea the situation was that bad. Our psychic connection sometimes allows me to pick up glimpses of Clara’s state of mind, even if she’s not near me. They usually reach me as indistinct sensations, almost like whispers in the wind. Granted, the anguish I’ve been experiencing lately is stronger than any sensation I’ve picked up from Clara in the past. However, since I’ve also been revisiting my feelings for her, I put the angst down to that and never thought it could have been her emotions I was experiencing instead.
“Fuck!” I throw an antique lamp against the fireplace. That lamp was one of my mother’s favorites, but I don’t care. The idea of losing Clara is unbearable. My chest feels hollow and oppressed as pain twists my insides. “I must find Clara.”
As the words come out of my mouth, I feel a tug in my midriff, pulling me with the strength and speed of a bullet train. The Golden Suite disappears around me and a dark, low-ceilinged room emerges in its place. For the first time since I died, I don’t recognize my surroundings. I don’t know how it happened, but I’ve left the French Quarter house I’ve called home for almost two hundred years.
Scanning the place, I distinguish a bed and as I approach it, I recognize Clara lying on it. Her pale cheeks are hollow and her red curls have lost their usual gloss. I kneel beside the bed, lacing my fingers through hers and leaning to whisper in her ear, “I’ve got you, love.”
