Trace of a Ghost
by Cherie Claire
A Viola Valentine Mystery
Trace of a Ghost (Viola Valentine Mystery, Book Three) by Cherie Claire
© Cheré Dastugue Coen 2018
1st Edition, February 2018
Produced with Typesetter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Cherie Claire, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, visit http://www.cherieclaire.net
For Mom, who calls me her angel, but in reality, she’s mine.
Also By Cherie Claire
Viola Valentine Mystery Series
A Ghost of a Chance
Ghost Town
Trace of a Ghost
The Cajun Embassy
Ticket to Paradise
Damn Yankees
Gone Pecan
The Cajun Series
Emilie
Rose
Gabrielle
Delphine
A Cajun Dream
The Letter
Carnival Confessions: A Mardi Gras Novella
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Author’s Notes
Acknowledgements
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter One
“Our feet are planted in the real world, but we dance with angels and ghosts.”
—John Cameron Mitchell
We’re late and we’re hauling down the long hallway of the New Orleans Convention Center through the throngs of dark suits and briefcases, thanks to the national intellectual property law convention being in town.
“Wow, I think I see a pink shirt on that woman,” I say to my traveling buddies. “She’ll be black-balled by noon.”
Carmine ignores my humor; he’s not in a good mood. TB doesn’t get it, stares off into the crowd searching out said infraction with a frown, a clueless state which unfortunately happens way too often with my ex-husband who’s not really my ex.
“Wait.” I pause and point. “Is that person wearing Mardi Gras beads? Call the cops.”
Neither man stops walking at break-neck speed or looks around so I rush to catch up.
“Are you two still alive? And can we please slow down?”
I’m goofy today and I admit it. It’s my first SCANC convention and I’m excited as hell. So far, I’m the only one.
Carmine doesn’t diminish his sprint nor look my way. “You’re the one who wanted to make the keynote address.”
“True,” I manage to utter through my accelerated heart rate. I’m starting to have trouble speaking through the exercise, these boys are going that fast. Okay, yes, I’m out of shape, but I’m a travel writer and currently working as a restaurant reviewer for SouthInYourMouth.com so I have an excuse.
“You must admit that attending a lecture titled ‘Living the SCANCy Life’ is pretty intriguing,” I add.
Carmine and I are SCANCs, a stupid abbreviation for mediums who see specific types of hauntings due to trauma. It stands for Specific Communication with Apparitions, Non-Entities and the Comatose and I received my ghostly talent after Hurricane Katrina sent me to the roof of my home and my government left me there for two days. Ever since Aug. 29, 2005, I’ve seen ghosts who have died by water.
SCANCs are not new to speaking with the Other World. Usually, our types are psychic at birth but we repressed the talent due to society’s acceptance of such gifts (note sarcasm). Trauma opens the door in a big way and our gift suddenly re-emerges, but we see ghosts only within a specific sense. For me, it’s water. Mostly drownings but I’ve once helped a girl cross over who choked on Kool-Aid.
I’m new at this ghost hunting business, been at it for three years now, so even though Carmine calls this organization a group of mystic nerds who have nothing better to do than dream up ridiculous acronyms and get drunk — the convention theme this year is “Which Boos is Yous?” — I’m anxious to meet my fellow SCANCs.
We finally reach the far corner of the Convention Center, somewhere near the Texas border, and three men in Ghostbusters attire are seated at a table by the door. Carmine slams on the brakes and I plow into his back.
“Viola Valentine, Thibault Boudreaux,” Carmine tells one of the men and I take the moment to resurrect my nose from the impact and peer around. Sure enough, these guys are really into their costumes, looking as if they walked off the movie set. The resemblance is uncanny and I wonder about the bucks that went into acquiring these outfits.
“Tie-bolt,” the man announces, slurping something crimson out of a long tube that’s attached to his backpack.
“TB,” my ex-husband replies with an over-enthusiastic smile and I cringe.
I get it, I really do. Thibault, pronounced Tee-bow, isn’t exactly a name you embrace, no matter that it followed generations of Cajuns going back as far as France. It’s why his dad, Thibault Senior, was known as Bubba, and yes, that’s how we get around difficult names in the South. The problem began when TB was born as Thibault Junior and everyone called him “Little Bubba,” which in Cajun French turns into “Petite Bubba,” shortened to “T-Bubba.” My ex-husband thought to shorten it further because he thought it’d be funny.
It’s not. And most often, as in the case of this Bill Murray wannabe, no one gets it.
“Viola Valentine?” I ask, stepping forward, hoping to move this conversation along.
“Ah yes,” says a man closer in looks to Dan Aykroyd, sans the convenient tube sporting alcohol from the backpack. Instead, he cradles a plastic highball glass that announces, “Give the devil his due” on the side with little red horns tapped to the rim of the glass. He smiles when he notices me examining the creamy white drink with smoke rising from the top.
“My recipe,” he says with pride. “Vodka, simple syrup, cream soda, and a secret ingredient. There are several competitors this year and this one’s the winner.”
“You get to vote on your favorite cocktail,” Bill Murray adds, “but I recommend my ‘Let’s Get Sheet-faced.’” He nods to the tube resting on his shoulder.
Carmine huffs and whispers to me, “Told you so.”
“How do you get the smoke to do that?” TB asks the first Ghostbuster.
“My special expertise, not to be known to the general public.” Dan Aykroyd grins slyly and if he had a mustache I’d imagine he would twist the ends and say, “Broohawhaw.”
Carmine rolls his eyes and it’s then the three Ghostbusters look his way.
“This convention is for SCANCs only,” backpack drinker says with equal smugness. “Do we need to explain what that is.”
Carmine raises one eyebrow and I know what’s coming so I hastily say, “He’s with me, but he should be registered. Carmine Kelsey.”
There’s a shift in the countenance of these three, as if the presi
dent suddenly walked into the room. They don’t even look at the list of names, grab a packet and hand it to Carmine.
Carmine crosses his arms. “I don’t need your stinkin’ packet,” he mimics in a bad Mexican accent like the characters from that movie I’ve never seen, and heads toward the door, TB and I hot on his heels.
“Was that humor I heard?” I ask.
Carmine pauses at the threshold and takes in the room full of costumed attendees, everything from Disney’s Hocus Pocus and Casper to a man dressed as Bruce Willis from The Sixth Sense and a Jack Nicholson look-a-like carrying an ax and repeating “Here’s Johnny!” to everyone who stops for a picture. Vendors line the circumference of the room hawking T-shirts and paranormal technology with open bars in between. I count at least seven portable bars with giant glass bowls next to the alcohol, no doubt for people to place votes, and all of them serving up a different cocktail. There’s food in the center of the room, which makes my stomach growl, but no one’s eating; they’re all lined up for cocktails.
“Lushes,” Carmine says with disgust.
TB and I, being New Orleans natives, look around the convention site and utter “Cool” simultaneously.
Carmine does that one eyebrow thing again. “I’m not holding back your hair when you vomit.”
When a petite woman dressed as Demi Moore walks by carrying a piece of pottery — filled with a cocktail no less — and says “Ditto,” Carmine loses it. He nods to a couple of normal-looking men at the food table, and waltzes off. Two feet away he halts and turns, looking straight at TB. “Keep an eye on her,” he barks and disappears.
TB says nothing, watching Carmine walk off to greet his friends. After a few moments of waiting for my ex-husband to explain, I ask, “What the hell was that all about?”
Usually, my sweet but rather simple-minded man will turn with a blank stare, utter “Huh?” and I’ll have to explain myself but today TB ignores me while gazing around the room.
“I wonder where that smoke drink is.”
I know I said I’m from New Orleans and we have no issues with drinking at any hour of the day but it’s eleven a.m. and I’m not ready for “boos.” I open my packet and realize that a SCANC convention only draws enough people to fill one small room of the Convention Center and two anterooms. I look to my right and find the latter immediately.
“I’m going to the keynote address.”
TB looks disappointed since I’m almost positive he’s spotted the smoky cocktail table while gazing at his own packet.
“You go get your drink and meet me there.”
TB gazes at Carmine but our grumpy host is deep in conversation with those two men by the food table. I’m seriously stumped by what Carmine instructed TB but I don’t feel like missing the first speech and I definitely don’t need looking after.
“See you there,” I say and hurry off. I don’t even look around to see if my ex-husband has headed off for the devil drink. I know better.
The far anteroom boasts the keynote address with a giant sign but I pause at the first room I pass. For one, the topic has caught my eye — “Evolving your God-given SCANC talent.” For another, the man at the door with eyes like the Caribbean Sea at sunset and a smile that promises heaven in a bedroom touches my arm and I swear I feel lightning bugs fluttering inside my chest. That is, if I knew what lightning bugs feel like. Did I mention I’m a journalist and we despise expressions not based on fact? I cringe thinking about the abuse I’m inflicting on the English language, even if it’s only inside my head, and the man frowns.
“Something wrong?”
I straighten and smile at those gorgeous eyes, words now coming out like a twelve-year-old talking to her first beau. “Not at all.” Tee-hee. “I was just thinking about something.” Tee-hee. “Conversations inside my head.” Snort. Sheesh, did I just laugh like that?
Blue eyes offers his hand. “Dwayne Garrett.”
I accept and shake, never taking my gaze off his intense stare, imagining myself lost in those blue depths.
Dwayne, on the other hand, reacts as if bugs have crawled up his skin.
“Wow.”
I pull my hand back as if I did something wrong. “What is it?”
For a second, a shadow moves across his vision but Dwayne shakes it away and that charming smile returns. “Quite a handshake.”
That bumbling child has thankfully left the building and hard-news Viola has returned. Learning the truth of something is more important than a good-looking man.
At least most of the time.
“It’s just a hand attached to a body.”
Okay, so maybe my teen years are still with me.
Dwayne leans in so close I can smell his delicious aftershave. I’m sure it’s meant to disarm women with its intoxicating aroma and it’s working on me. I feel a tingly sensation in places I shouldn’t, especially since TB and I have gotten back together — sort of — since our separation following Hurricane Katrina.
“There’s a lot of power behind that handshake,” he whispers, “Unused power, I might add.”
Forget lightning bugs. Goosebumps run up and down my arms and I swallow hard, wondering if it’s the words he’s spoken or that manly persona invading my space.
Dwayne moves back and the air turns cold. He hands me a flyer announcing the talk about to begin in the room behind us.
“Come hear my presentation. You’re the perfect candidate.”
“I’m heading to the keynote….” When I look down and am reminded of the topic I realize this was no coincidence, as my Aunt Mimi would say.
“You’re the presenter.”
Dwayne hands a flyer to a person walking past, then grabs the door and pulls the door jamb up with his toe. “Yes, and we’re starting now.”
I’m hesitant because I don’t want to miss the keynote address of my first SCANC convention. On the other hand, I want to learn how to evolve my ghost-seeing talent. There’s a certain person on the Other Side that I’m desperate to reach, and she isn’t related to water. I must admit, watching Blue Eyes speak for forty-five minutes wouldn’t be a struggle either.
“Follow me,” Dwayne orders and I do, the door closing behind me, just as I remember that I told TB where to find me — and it’s not here. Oh well, I think, he’ll figure it out, although I doubt that he will. Did I mention my husband can be a bit clueless?
I move to sit in the back row since the room is full of people but Dwayne grabs my shirtsleeve and pulls me to the front with him. Every seat is taken near the dais but Dwayne nods at one of the front row seaters and the young teen gets the message and nervously hurries away.
“I don’t want to take someone’s seat,” I begin, but Dwayne lightly pushes me there and heads to the microphone, grabbing it and energetically welcoming the crowd who respond with loud applause. I sit down and gather my packet and purse in my lap, looking around to see what happened to the teen. He’s standing at the side of the room, sending me a not-too-nice gaze, holding a finger to his ear as if he’s listening to one of those cell phone earpieces.
“Sorry” I mouth.
“Never say sorry.”
I look up to see Dwayne staring at me and my heart stills. Before I can ponder this too much, he continues speaking and I realize it’s part of his spiel.
“We have a glorious gift, one we need to harness, not hide,” he continues. “Our evolving talents have been given to us by God or the universe or however you see the miracle of life and we must make the world a better place by utilizing those gifts. It’s our duty.”
The crowd responds with clapping and I look around to spot numerous happy faces, many of which are nodding their heads and a few offering verbal agreements. It’s almost like attending a charismatic church service.
“And like everything in life, we limit ourselves, how we act, how we think, and how we expect life to be.”
The woman next to me yells out, “Amen.”
“We are the ones who can connect with the Othe
r World. We are the ones who can bring those to their life’s fulfillment, bathe them in the glorious light of God, and help them ascend to the love that awaits them in heaven.”
More “Amens” rise from the crowd and one stands and loudly proclaims, “Yes, Jesus!”
I’m not opposed to religion, really I’m not, even though I was raised by two college professors who felt religion was a salve for the uneducated. I’ve attended Catholic services with TB’s parents and friends and got a solid dose of the spirit from my Baptist Aunt Mimi in Alabama. But I consider myself a student of the spiritual universe and find too much of one side to a story rattles my journalistic brain. This gathering feels like a rural tent revival, reminding me of the time Aunt Mimi’s church friends overstepped their boundaries when they heard I saw a ghost and prayed over me relentlessly. I was but a child at the time and it freaked me out. I’m a bit freaked right now, so I start looking for a way out.
I pull my packet and purse to my chest and look around, but there’s no easy exit since I’m in the middle of the front row and Blue Eyes stands directly in front of me. In fact, he’s staring at me again, no doubt thinking I’m about to flee.
“I met this young lady only a few moments ago,” he says and everyone arounds me turns to stare as well.
When I glance back at Dwayne, his hand is over his heart and he says, “I think I know what troubles you.”
My first inclination is to turn cynic; it’s my natural defense. I want to shout “Doubtful” but something about his gaze tells me he’s genuine. He truly cares. Either that or I’m the most gullible person in the room.
“You’ve lost someone,” Dwayne says, jumping off the dais and standing directly in front of me. “Someone very close, who left the world way too soon.”
We’ve all experienced loss, especially for someone my age who just hit the thirty threshold, so for people faking mediumship this is the easiest route to gain someone’s confidence. I say nothing, try to keep emotions at bay although the buzz that usually arrives before a ghost appears comes ringing in my ears. It’s not the usual quiet hum, like bees circling a hive, but a sound more akin to an alarm. I still want to flee but how would that appear on my first hour at the SCANC convention?
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