The Helena Diaries - Trouble in Mudbug (Ghost-in-Law Series Novellas)

by DeLeon, Jana

  The Helena Diaries –

  Trouble in Mudbug

  by Jana DeLeon

  Warning: This book is a companion novella to TROUBLE IN MUDBUG. You should not read this novella prior to completing TROUBLE IN MUDBUG. This novella contains major spoilers for the novel and would not make sense if read beforehand.

  The Helena Diaries—Trouble in Mudbug

  Copyright 2013 by Jana DeLeon

  Published by Jana DeLeon

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, except through author-approved sharing programs. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Trouble in Mudbug—Chapter One

  Wherein Helena thinks she’s being used in a cult ritual by rogue Baptists

  I’m calling my lawyer and CNN. Those Southern Baptist cultists drugged me, dressed me in a hideous, pink polyester suit, did my makeup like a streetwalker, and stuffed me in a casket. They were having some sort of ceremony—probably a sacrifice to ask permission to drink wine or play bingo—when I woke up.

  Apparently, whoever administered the drugs did not take into account my staying power.

  Immediately, I crawled out of the casket and yelled at that idiot, Pastor Bob, who stood at the pulpit droning on and putting everyone to sleep. As one of the last conversations I recall was a completely mundane and useless conversation about the benefits of owning a goat—with said Pastor Bob—I suspect he was, in fact, the drug used to knock me out.

  Pastor Bob completely ignored me and kept talking, but that’s not unusual, so I turned my wrath on everyone else. It was the weirdest thing—not a single person said anything to me. I mean, it’s Mudbug, so it’s not like I was expecting witty retorts or anything, but at least one of those small-minded fools should have been able to find a word or two in their limited vocabulary.

  Then I saw that lying, cheating, worthless idiot of a husband of mine, and I knew straightaway that he was at the root of all of this. Everything bad in my life starts with Harold Henry or Wild Turkey. In fact, it was a combination of both that produced that useless son of mine. But I digress.

  I walked straight up to Harold, fully intending to strangle him where he sat. After all, there was a coffin and a preacher available, so it seemed like the perfect time to correct an old wrong. But my hands passed right through him. That’s when I realized they were all holograms. I’ve seen that freak show Criss Angel on cable so I know how it works. The only thing that so-called magician ever made disappear for real is good taste.

  The hologram thing was a smart move, though. It limits victims.

  So I moved on from Harold and headed down the center aisle. After all, they couldn’t hologram the whole town, right? But no matter how loud I yelled or how many faces I waved my hands in, not a single one of them flinched. Since most of them cross the road in front of traffic when they see me coming down the sidewalk, I had to assume they weren’t real.

  Then I realized one person was looking at me—Maryse, that unfortunate daughter-in-law of mine. Whatever possessed her to marry Hank, I can’t even imagine. You’d think if your life was at that low a point, suicide would have been a more pleasant option than the slow, lingering pain of marrying my son. She’s supposed to be smart, but I have my doubts.

  Anyway, she stared at me with an utter look of morbid fascination and horror, and I figured it was the suit or the makeup, but as I started toward her, she bleated like a frightened sheep, then dropped to the floor, out like a light. That tea-leaf-reading friend of hers squatted beside her, shaking her arm and tapping her face with her fingers, but Maryse was out cold.

  She’s probably on one of those newfangled diets where she’s been living for a week on gin and two blueberries.

  Wherein Helena realizes she’s dead

  While everyone was distracted with Maryse, I made my escape out of the church. I have yet to miss a golden opportunity to prove my superiority, and this was just one more time that Helena Henry proved to be too much for Mudbug, Louisiana, to handle.

  I headed straight to downtown Mudbug, determined to get to the bottom of this, but everyone was behaving strangely. No one crossed the street to avoid me. No one averted their eyes. No one reached for a concealed weapon. It was as if I’d suddenly lost my mojo.

  Or as if I were invisible.

  And that’s the thought that stopped me cold. I stepped in front of the plate-glass window for the café. It has this mirrored surface so you can always see your reflection in it.

  I wasn’t there!

  I saw cars passing on the street and people passing on the sidewalk—only inches from me—but I wasn’t reflected anywhere in the window. I got so dizzy, I thought I’d pass out. What if it hadn’t been a joke? What if I’d been stuffed in that casket because I was dead? That was the only explanation, right?

  Hey, it just now occurred to me—maybe Maryse saw me.

  That would explain why she passed out. Because dead people weren’t supposed to climb out of their caskets and yell at funeral attendees. My daughter-in-law wasn’t happy to see me when I was alive, and she sure as hell won’t be happy to see me dead, but I need answers.

  A visit is in order.

  Of course, in the grand tradition of making things more difficult, Maryse lives on an island in the middle of the bayou. A good two-hour walk and then a swim. I am hardly built for a biathlon, but I’ll have to make do.

  More later.

  Wherein Helena figures out she was murdered

  I am fairly certain I will have a coronary before I get to Maryse’s cabin. Can ghosts die again? Hmmmm. Maybe I’m not dead. I thought you were supposed to get a whole new body. But then that would assume I’m in heaven, and I’m definitely not in heaven. I’m not sure what God had in mind when he created Mudbug, but it probably wasn’t anything good.

  When I first set out for Maryse’s place, I tried jogging, but those awful heels kept sliding on the gravel. I have no idea where the funeral director got them. They’re at least a size too big and hideous besides. Unless you’re a prostitute. Then they’re perfect, as they attract normally unwanted attention, and pros don’t spend a lot of time upright. I pulled them off, thinking it would be better just to go barefoot and schedule a pedicure, but every time I yanked them off my feet, they appeared right back in place as if I’d never touched them.

  If the shoes were the cruelest of practical jokes, the suit was medieval torture. You’re not supposed to wear polyester in the summer. Hell, I’m not sure you’re supposed to wear polyester after the seventies. And pink? Seriously? Who wears pink beyond their tenth birthday? This entire ensemble was so far removed from the unrelieved black I’d worn since I married Harold that it made my butt itch.

  The walk gave me time to put my thoughts
in order, and the repetitive striking of cheap heels on loose gravel seemed to joggle my memory. I am willing to go along with the theory that I’m dead, but what I don’t know is how I got that way in the first place. I’m not going to head to Mexico and don a bikini or anything, but despite the extra pounds and horrible attitude, I’m healthy as a horse. This fact never ceased to dismay my doctor, who was always looking for a solid reason to force me on some rabbit-food diet.

  The last thing I remember is having a shot of brandy.

  Holy crap! Someone poisoned me!

  That has to be it. The poison was in the snifter, but as I can’t recall the last time I had a shot of brandy, Lord only knows how long it’s been in there. That gives practically anyone in Mudbug opportunity, which means I’ll have to figure out who killed me based on motive. Maryse can help with that part. She’s all scientific and logical—which I normally find completely and utterly boring—but in this particular case, it will come in handy.

  The logical suspect is my idiot husband Harold, whose single biggest claim to fame is producing a son who’s even more useless than he is. But that seems too easy, and besides, if Harold did it, he would have left a trail a mile long. And since he was sitting in the church without handcuffs, everyone must think my death was due to natural causes. That says smart to me.

  Which totally leaves out Harold.

  Bummer, even though prison is too good for him.

  Ah, well, less thinking, more walking. Maryse can figure it all out.

  Wherein Helena pays a visit to her unsuspecting daughter-in-law

  I tried to steal a boat at the dock, but my hands passed right through the rope. Despite the fact that I was already drenched from sweating in the polyester, I was in no mood to swim. I was almost ready to throw in the towel when I decided “what the hell” and stepped off the pier. And what do you know—I can walk on water!

  I have to admit, that’s kinda cool.

  Lucky for me, Maryse is either an idiot or heavily armed, because her front door was standing wide open when I arrived. Maryse was snoring like a log, but a ragtag tomcat sleeping next to her woke up as soon as I stepped in the doorway and ran straight across her forehead and out the window, halfway rousing her from her slumber. She achieved a conscious state right quick-like when she saw me standing in the doorway, and verified that I am indeed dead and said respiratory failure was the cause.

  I call horseshit on that.

  When presented with my brandy snifter theory and my idea that she could use her logical mind to provide a list of potential killers, Maryse looked less than thrilled and said it might be difficult to narrow down suspects as I wasn’t overly popular. That was her polite way of saying I was a stone bitch but I’ll let it slide, as she probably wasn’t haunted by dead relatives every day.

  She tried to bow out of helping me investigate, but I insisted that I couldn’t do it without her as I couldn’t touch and move things. She thought I was lying about that part as I’d gotten onto her island and would have needed a boat. I told her about walking on water, but instead of looking excited, she turned pale and mumbled something about going to church this Sunday.

  I’ll never figure that girl out.

  Trouble in Mudbug—Chapter Two

  Wherein Helena spends more time in her house than she wanted to

  I decided to give Maryse a little space to work things out. She’s smart, but I’m guessing even smart people might need to process a visitation by a dead person before they can concentrate on an investigation. Still, it’s somewhat rude that she pointed out that all the residents of Mudbug are likely suspects. I knew this, of course, but I didn’t think she’d be brave enough to suggest it, even indirectly.

  Since the last thing I remember is drinking brandy at my house, I suppose it makes sense to go there and see if I can find some clues. It seems only fair that I help Maryse out with this. After all, I am the dead one in the equation.

  I got lucky and hitched a ride back to Mudbug with some fishermen who were docked at Maryse’s pier. I had to sit in the bed of the truck along with two ice chests of smelly fish, but they had the back cab window open, and the trip was fairly enlightening. I’d bet any amount of money their wives have zero idea what those men say about them, but as I think all their wives are useless sows, I gained a certain level of satisfaction from the quite lively discussion of the women’s many flaws.

  That idiot Harold was at my house. Fortunately, he was ignoring my wishes once again and was attempting to air-condition the world. The patio door stood wide open, hot air drifting into the house and cold air drifting out. I drifted in with the hot air and went to see what Harold was up to.

  I found him in the master bedroom, where he had no business at all. Harold had been living in a spare room for decades and wasn’t even allowed to set foot in my bedroom. If he needed something from me and I was indisposed, he had to use the intercom or wait.

  He had a duffel bag on my bed and I saw a pile of rumpled clothes inside. That was fairly indicative of Harold’s entire life—rumpled and able to fit in a tote. On top of the rumpled clothes were my best silver candlesticks, and he was currently removing a crystal clock from the wall. I’d bet my life he was going to hock the items and then spend the money on one of his floozies.

  Enraged, I swung at him, but my hands passed right through, making me even angrier. I tried tripping him as he walked past me, but no dice. Then I spent the next couple of minutes trying to remove my property from his duffel bag while he riffled through my panty drawer, probably looking for a hidden stash of cash. Like I’d be so vulgar as to keep money with underwear.

  When a car pulled up out front, he zipped the bag and ran downstairs. I followed in hot pursuit. Wheeler, my attorney, opened the front door and walked inside. When he saw Harold, he got that look on his face like he’d smelled something bad, which I totally understand.

  Harold blustered around, claiming he was going to stay overnight and help a sick friend, but it was clear Wheeler didn’t believe it for a moment. Rather than argue, Wheeler simply opened the door to allow Harold to leave. I’d bet anything Wheeler couldn’t wait until the reading of the will, which I knew would happen tomorrow. I’d left explicit instructions, knowing that if I died before Harold and Hank, things would have to move quickly or there would be nothing left to bequeath.

  I followed Wheeler through the house as he worked, systematically checking, closing and locking every open door and window. In each room, he took pictures from every angle, documenting all the items in the house. I was pleased with his thoroughness. I’d always liked Wheeler and was glad to know he was on the job. Harold may have made out with a couple of items, but he wouldn’t be able to take more without Wheeler knowing about it.

  Once he finished his walk-through, he pulled out his cell phone and made a call. Based on Wheeler’s side of the conversation, I deduced it was to a locksmith, whom he scheduled to change the locks late tomorrow evening, after the will-reading. Wheeler knew what was coming. Harold thought he knew, but he was wrong.

  Tomorrow was going to be the Best. Day. Ever.

  I stood at the front window smiling as I watched Wheeler walk to his car. Everything was falling nicely into place. I mean, as well as it could if you took into account that I was dead.

  Then my smile faded as I realized the serious miscalculation I’d made.

  I was locked in my own house!

  No way to unlock and open a door. No way to call for help. Hell, I couldn’t even turn on a television. Good God, it was like being held hostage by the Amish. I’d have nothing to do but sit all night with my own feelings, and that was dire.

  Maybe it was time to start hoping Harold would have the balls to come back for more to steal.

  Wherein, for the first time in her life, Helena is happy to see Harold

  I can’t believe I’ve been locked in this house for well over half a day. I tried walking through a wall—I’m a ghost, right, and that seems like something I should be ab
le to do—but no dice. I ran straight into the wall like in a Road Runner cartoon. I swear, I even saw the twinkling stars above my head. Are things supposed to hurt that bad when you’re dead? I am flummoxed.

  It is now morning, and I’m beginning the second day of my captivity. I have exhausted every creative thought and even got desperate and ran up and down the stairs to exercise. I made it up and down once, then decided I’d rather be bored.

  I tried sleeping, but apparently ghosts don’t need to sleep, so basically you’re just lying there like a lump. A lump with an overactive brain and nothing for it to do. And do you have any idea how frustrating it is to know about all that glorious food in my gourmet kitchen but not be able to open a single cabinet? It’s worse than death.

  Oh, wait a minute—it IS death. Hmmmm.

  That idiot Harold dragged himself home around 10:00 a.m. He reeked of alcohol and cheap perfume, which is nothing new. I assume the alcohol gave him the strength to walk back into his own house and put on a change of clean clothes. At least, it was his own house until one o’clock.

  I clapped my hands, unable to contain myself.

  Harold took a shower and changed into one of the suits I’d forced him to buy in order to attend events with me. Even a thousand-dollar suit didn’t make Harold look better, but no one could fault me for lack of trying. He went downstairs and promptly set out attacking the food in the refrigerator, as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

  The best cheese and caviar, fresh fruit, sliced smoked ham…my mouth watered as I looked at the layout of incredible edibles that I’d handpicked for myself. Harold was a bologna-and-white-bread kind of guy, and it really chapped my butt that the quality of that food was swiftly going to waste.

  When he finished shoving my high-quality food down his low-quality throat, he grabbed the keys to my new Cadillac from the key holder in the kitchen.