Fugue Macabre: Ghost Dance (Fugue Macabre Trilogy Book 1)

by C. J. Parker

  Bertha turned her attention to the mother and son. “Lord, child, when was the last time you and that boy had a good meal? He looks half starved.”

  Rhonda’s face reddened. “I don’t starve my child. Shane’s had his supper.”

  She held her hands out in front of her and smiled. “Didn’t mean any harm. I know good mommas from bad ones. They’ll feed their children, even if they’re starving themselves. Now, ain’t that right? And you look about ready to fall over, so you just sit on down. I got a nice pot of soup made.” She ran her black gaze over Shane. “Here, let me take the boy to bed. What room, baby girl?”

  Tabatha noticed Rhonda’s tight grasp on her son. “Bertha, I think Grandfather’s suite would be best until Shane gets used to living here. It might be too scary for him to wake up alone in a strange house. We’ll get their luggage while you take him up.”

  “No.” Rhonda shook her head. “I’ll take him. I don’t want him out of my sight.”

  Tabatha laid gentle fingers against Rhonda’s arm. “No one is going to hurt you or Shane while you’re here. I promise. You’re safe.”

  “Lordy, if anyone comes in this house that don’t belong, I’ll give them a taste of my iron skillet.” Bertha gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt my family.”

  Rhonda looked from Bertha to her son. “Okay, but if he wakes and starts to cry, you come get me right away. You hear me?”

  Bertha clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Of course. Now give him here. He needs to be in a bed. Poor little thing.”

  As Bertha left, she gave Tabatha one of her, you’re gonna tell me what’s going on looks, and Tabatha knew she would get no sleep tonight.

  “Rhonda, give me a second. I need to talk to Bertha. There are soft drinks in the fridge. Help yourself.”

  Tabatha rushed after Bertha, catching up with the woman at the base of the stairs. “Can you toss my things in my old room? I don’t want Rhonda knowing I gave up the suite for her and the boy.”

  “Baby girl, I already knew what you were up to. It’ll be taken care of.” Bertha touched her cheek to Tabatha’s. “I always knew you had a good heart.” She started up the staircase but stopped and turned. “Oh, I had my boy and his friends come drag some of the furniture down from the bedrooms to the living room. It might not match, but at least you children have someplace to sit.” She continued up the stairs.

  Tabatha returned to the kitchen and gestured toward the back door. “Let’s get your luggage. The sooner we get that taken care of, the sooner you can get back to Shane.”

  “You know this woman good?” Rhonda asked as they walked toward the car.

  Tabatha nodded, and smiled at the old south’s idea of grammar. “I know her very well. She came to work here before I was born and stayed until my mom sent me away. She’s family, not a servant. Don’t treat her as such and we’ll get along fine.”

  Rhonda nodded.

  “You’ll love her, and so will Shane. She’ll spoil him rotten, though.” Tabatha unlocked the trunk and handed Rhonda one of three bags, hefting the others herself. “Word to the wise, eat some soup, or you’ll never get to bed. Now relax. Nothing is going to happen.” Tabatha opened the back door, stepping away to let Rhonda pass. “Bertha wasn’t kidding about the skillet. She may be old, but she’s spry. And she doesn’t take any guff off anyone, even my mom. This is a safe place.”

  “No such thing.” After placing the luggage by the door, Rhonda sat at the table.

  Tabatha understood Rhonda’s uttered comment. She’d felt like that most of her life. Tabatha retrieved bowls and filled them from the pot. “This is really hot, so be careful.” She passed one to Rhonda.

  Carla stormed into the room, her long black hair falling into wild eyes, as spittle flecked around her lips. She jabbed her finger toward Rhonda. “What is she doing in my house, eating my food?”

  Tabatha groaned inwardly. “I knew the loving welcome was too good to be real.”

  Carla’s face flamed. “How dare you? Who the hell do you think you are? Whose child is that, and why is Bertha taking it upstairs?”

  Tabatha turned from Carla’s rage, sat and blew steam from her bowl. Using the only weapon she knew would deflate Carla’s rage, she said, “Bertha brought the food, Mom. It isn’t yours. And, actually, the house isn’t yours either. It’s mine. Paw-Paw left it to me, remember?” Tabatha dared a glance in her mother’s direction, but turned away from the hate filling Carla’s eyes. “The child is Shane, Rhonda’s son.

  Their house is being renovated, and I invited them to stay here until it’s finished.”

  “This is my home. They go or I go,” Carla screamed and hit the table with her fist.

  “Well, Mom, I’ll miss you. Let me know where you end up so I can forward your mail.” If she reached out and touched Carla at that moment, she’d most likely be turned to ash from the heat of her mother’s rage.

  Rhonda pushed away from the table and stood. “I’ll get Shane, and we’ll go. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

  Tabatha grasped her wrist and pulled her back down onto her chair. “No, Rhonda. It isn’t safe in that house right now. Sit, and eat your soup. It’s really good, don’t you think?”

  As if not sure what to do, Rhonda hesitated. She lowered her gaze and nodded. “Yes, very good.” She brought a spoonful of soup to her lips and blew away the steam.

  Tabatha turned to look at her mother. Carla’s face had grown pale, and her lips were tightly pressed together. “Would you like some soup?”

  “How long?” Carla all but growled the words.

  Tabatha fought not to smile. “Oh, it won’t take me but a second or two to fill a bowl for you.”

  Carla closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. “How long will they be here?”

  “Not long, Mrs. Gray. I promise you that.” Rhonda raised the spoon again without looking at Carla. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here.”

  Turning abruptly, Carla stomped away, mumbling incoherently. Tabatha grinned at Rhonda. “God, I love my momma.”

  ~

  At the sound of a knock at her bedroom door, Tabatha paused in her downward stroke with her hairbrush. “Come on in, Bertha.”

  The older woman strolled into the room with an air of authority. “Okay, baby girl, why you come home after all this time?”

  Tabatha placed the brush on the dresser and faced Bertha. “This has gone on long enough. Mom and I have to work things out. I didn’t ask for the Gray magical powers. But I’ve got to learn to accept who and what I am, and so does she.”

  A small smile tugged at the corners of Bertha’s lips. “And what brought that on?”

  “I made a friend. Bobbie Luckman. She’s a nurses’ attendant at the hospital where I worked.” Taking a deep breath, Tabatha looked Bertha in her big brown eyes. “Bobbie came to the morgue one night and saw a dead guy following me around like a puppy. I’ll give her credit—she took it pretty well. She nearly tripped over herself trying to get out of the morgue, but I managed to calm her down and explain. Bobbie didn’t care, Bertha. She still wanted to be my friend. Do you know what that means to me?” A mixture of gratitude and happiness warred with the knowledge she’d probably never see Bobbie again.

  “Of course I do, baby girl. We all need friends. Now, what about Rhonda and the boy?”

  “They’re in trouble and needed a safe place to stay for a while.”

  Bertha patted Tabatha on the hand. “We’ll talk later. You look like you’re about to drop. Go to bed. Want some hot chocolate?”

  “No, thanks. I’m sure once my head hits the pillow I’m going to sleep for a week. Good night, Bertha. Love you.”

  Bertha placed a kiss on her forehead, something Tabatha had nearly forgotten from her childhood. Something as simple as a kiss goodnight on the forehead, kind words, and throughout the night she felt safe and loved. “Good night, baby girl. Welcome home.” She took Tabatha’s hand, pulled her up from t
he bed, turned down the covers and fluffed the pillows before leaving.

  Tabatha slid between satin sheets and moaned with fatigue. “Sleep. No beeper. No patients. Just blessed sleep.” She closed her eyes and drifted on the edge of a dream.

  She didn’t recognize the small condo. In the bed, a man slept restlessly. His dreams floated above him with horrid reality.

  What was it about this man. that she knew him well enough to know his dreams?

  A child’s funeral service was taking place a mere ten yards away. His desperation to find the killer left a bitter taste in his mouth, a pain inside his very core. Could this be his dream? Why else could she feel his pain, know his frustration of not being able to stop this from happening?

  He sobbed in his sleep. “Where are you, Elizabeth?”

  Tabatha wanted to soothe him, to give him rest from the pain.

  “Hello, Derek,” she whispered and touched his forehead. Her heart lurched as another vision ripped at her soul. A bloody wedding dress, a beautiful girl, mutilated almost to the point of dismemberment—Elizabeth.

  Tabatha jerked away with a cry and bolted awake. Her fear, like cold water on a hot skillet, spewed in all directions, trying to escape. Sweat gathered between her breasts and trickled to her belly. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

  “God, help him.”

  Chapter Nine

  Derek stared out the window, searching his brain, seeking ways to find the elusive Tabatha. He’d searched Motor Vehicles data for New York license tags that had been exchanged for Louisiana’s and found none. He checked with the few physicians he knew, asking if they’d heard of a new doctor in town. No one had. He’d asked uniformed officers if they’d seen a Grand AM with New York tags. They’d seen nothing. He’d run the tag through the database but came up with seventy-two possibilities. Fifty-nine of them female. His next step was to run her name to see if she was a registered voter. Did she own a home?

  The telephone’s trill pulled him away from his thoughts and back to his empty condo.

  “Bainbridge.”

  “Derek, it’s Mary.” Derek knew what this was about before she finished her sentence. “I’m not going to listen to some bullshit excuse. This isn’t one of Frank’s setups. My friend, Carla, isn’t interested in having a relationship with anyone, and her daughter is too young for you. So, load your cooler with beer, and get your ass over here. We’re having a barbeque.”

  He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. All he wanted to do was find Tabatha but knew Mary wouldn’t leave him in peace until he agreed. “All right. I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  “That’ll do.” A short pause silenced the phone line. “Derek?” “Yeah.”

  “I worry about you.”

  His laughter felt foreign, as if it didn’t belong to him. “I’m worried about me, too. I’ll see you later, Mary.”

  He replaced the receiver on its cradle. A few minutes later, he’d stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the shower. Hot water stung his skin, reminding him he was still alive, but only in spirit. Maybe Mary and Frank were right. It was time to move on. His heart clenched painfully, and his mind recoiled.

  “No, not yet.”

  ~

  Facing Bourbon Street, Frank and Mary’s front facade was nothing more than a rotting privacy fence. Beyond the gate, a whole new world emerged. Tropical plants draped over each other in a competition for light and attention. Some appeared to be reaching for glistening droplets of water from a courtyard fountain. The hidden garden was almost selfish in its privacy, as though Mary and Frank were afraid of invasion if anyone saw how amazing their oasis was.

  Derek felt more than saw Mary standing in the doorway watching him.

  “You showed up. Will wonders ever cease?” She strode toward Derek, reaching her arms out to embrace him. “It’s been too long, Derek. I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve been busy.” He hugged her tightly then glanced around. “Guests arrive yet?”

  She shook her head, the noontime sun licked her auburn hair like flames. “No, not yet. Wanted to talk to you before they get here.”

  “Uh-oh. This can’t be good.” Derek noticed the lines beginning to form on her delicate face, but more prominent was the hint of despair in her green eyes.

  “Not to worry.” She led him into the house. “My friend’s been a widow for a long time and isn’t in the market for another man. Her daughter... well, let’s just say, she’s not someone you’d want to hook up with.”

  “Frank said the daughter’s back now? What’s wrong with her? She’s some nut case? Been in trouble a lot? Druggie?”

  “Yeah, something like that. She plans to set up a business here. She was a beautiful child, but different. She seemed very lonely back then.”

  “You knew her?” Derek watched Mary’s eyes fog over with memory.

  “Last time I saw her was at her grandfather’s funeral. Something strange happened and she…” At the sound of the front gate opening, Mary glanced out the window. “They’re here. Why don’t you go out back with Frank? We’ll find time to talk later.” She looked at the cooler by his feet. “You need help with that?”

  He snorted. “The day I need help from a five-foot-nothing girl, it’s time to lie down and give up the ghost.” He leaned over, kissed her forehead, grabbed the cooler and made his way to the small back yard.

  Derek chuckled at the sight before him. Frank wore red Bermuda shorts, a black New Orleans Police Department T-shirt and a yellow apron with a crawfish and the words Suck My Tail.

  Waving a spatula over his head, Frank smiled and shouted, “Glad you could make it, buddy. Open one of those beers. This is hot work.”

  Derek pulled two bottles from the chest and handed Frank one then turned his bottle bottom-up, nearly draining it with one gulp. When he glimpsed three women walking across the lawn, he spewed beer from of his mouth and nose. He coughed. He choked. The earth dropped from under his feet, leaving his stomach behind.

  Frank slapped his back. “Wrong pipe there, buddy?”

  Derek managed to utter one word. “Tabatha?”

  Frank looked from him to Mary to Tabatha. “You two know each other?” Tabatha grinned. “Sort of. Hello, Derek.”

  His knees weakened. His heart did a dance against his ribs. “You’re a hard woman to track down.”

  “Not if you know where to look.” She ambled toward him, looking as if she were stalking prey. “Nice to know I made a good impression. I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

  Derek tried to untangle emotions running amuck through his already muddled thoughts. “Thinking about me? Why?”

  She brought herself up on tiptoes, wrapped her hands around his arm and placed her mouth close to his ear. “We need to talk, but not here.”

  “Tabatha,” her mother snapped. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

  Tabatha stumbled as if her mother’s words were a physical slap. “I am not a fool, Mother. I’m merely greeting a friend.” She turned and retreated back the way she’d come.

  Derek started to follow her when Mary stayed him. “She’s too young for you to go sniffing around.” She leaned close to whisper in his ear. “You don’t want to get mixed up with that girl.”

  Derek removed Mary’s hand from his arm and stepped away. Before leaving, he faced each of them. Mary’s face was a mask of… what? Disgust? Anger? Jealousy? Frank appeared to be confused but pleased. “Carla, it’s nice to meet you. Mary, we’ll be right back. Tabatha and I need a couple of minutes to catch up.”

  ~

  Tabatha leaned against her car and waited. He’d come. She had no doubt of that. She giggled at Derek’s reaction when she’d appeared in the doorway. At first she thought he would choke to death on the beer spewing from nearly every orifice in his face.

  “Derek.” She liked his name, the way it rang sweetly inside her ears. She closed off the word around her, letting his image form before dark curtains of imagination. He was tall, prob
ably more than six feet, with muscular arms, broad shoulders, eyes the color of semi-sweet chocolate—everything a girl could want. And she did want.

  “Sleeping?”

  His voice washed over her like warm cocoa. He smelled of aftershave, soap, and—man. “No. Dreaming though.” Tabatha glanced up to see her vision come to life. “Go ahead. Ask.”

  “Ask what?”

  She breathed in, trying to taste the essence of his voice. Her fingers ached to reach out and touch him. Instead she closed her hands into tight fists at her side. “How much did you see?”

  “Enough.” His gaze slithered over her, leaving behind a scorching heat. “How did you make it look like a corpse rose from the dead? How much did that girl pay you for that ruse?”

  Ouch. That hurt and disappointed. Tabatha pushed away from the car, drawing closer to him. “Rhonda paid me nothing. She needed my help, and I gave it. The corpse was her mother.”

  He blew air between his lips and waved his hand as if to dismiss her comment. “Do you know who John Phelps is?”

  She shook her head and waited, knowing he’d supply an answer. “Rich entrepreneur, perfect reputation. Not the type to be accused of murder by a dead woman.”

  “The dead don’t lie, Derek. He killed her, and I have enough proof to put Mr. Phelps away for a very long time. Dates, places.” She smiled at him. “Have you ever heard of the Guardians?”

  His eyes widened. She had his attention. “No. What are they?”

  “Who, not what. Guardians Against Paranormal Sinners. People. Bad people. You need to talk to Rhonda. If she doesn’t mind, you can look at what we have. Rolls of film need developing, but I’m not sure where to get it done. I’d rather no one see the photos until we know what they are.”

  “How do you fake rising the dead, Tabatha?”

  She released a ragged breath. Not how can I help you or what do I need to do to stop them, but how do you raise the dead? Just once she’d like to have that be the last thing someone asked. “My father was a telekinetic, my grandfather a necromancer. I inherited my... talents from them. I don’t use them normally, but Rhonda was in trouble. I don’t plan on doing it again.”