Page 15 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception (A Midnight House Mystery #1)

NINE

My pumpkin spice latte didn’t really vibe with the smell of disinfectant.

Making a face, I tossed it in the trash as I walked into University Medical Center in the CBD. Ginger St. James had been in a medically induced coma for three days, her body fighting off the angel's trumpet poisoning that had nearly killed her.

Well, what I was assuming was angel’s trumpet poisoning. No one had actually told me that, though I suspected Hollis had tipped off the medical team on what to look for when Ginger had been rushed to the hospital.

I’d been to visit her twice already, feeling guilty that she’d been (allegedly) poisoned in my house. Or if she hadn’t done it to herself, that someone else had poisoned her in my house. At any rate, it was bad juju as Odette would say.

"Any change?" I asked Dr. Martinez, who'd been kind enough to update me even though I wasn't family, and who was in the room looking over Ginger.

"She's stable, but still critical. The good news is her brain activity looks normal. The bad news is we don't know if there will be any long-term effects as a result." She glanced at her chart. "And you said you're not related, correct?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“You must be good friends then. She keeps asking for Harper when she briefly regains consciousness."

That gave me chills. "She's asking for me?"

"Mumbling, really. Harper, basement, something about keys. We assumed you were a relative."

That damn basement that didn’t exist was starting to get on my nerves.

“She’s been staying with me,” I said, because I needed some sort of explanation for all of that. I also knew that if Ginger was trying to tell me something important, I needed to hear it. "Can I sit with her for a few minutes?"

"Five minutes. She needs rest."

Ginger looked small and fragile in the hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines and IV lines. Her usually dramatic makeup was gone, leaving her looking younger and more vulnerable than I'd ever seen her. Her layered necklaces had been replaced by medical monitors.

I pulled up a chair and sat down. "Ginger? It's Harper. You're safe now."

Her eyelids fluttered, but didn't open. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper: "Not... basement..."

If the situation wasn’t so dire, I would have rolled my eyes.

"What's not basement, Ginger?" Was basement a code word for something? Was it an anagram? I couldn’t think of any other words I could form from those letters but I would write them out later and give it a whirl. Once I got another pumpkin spice latte.

"Not basement… hidden." Her breathing became more labored. "She... told me... before..."

"Who told you? Delia?" Or did she mean Francine?

But Ginger had slipped back into unconsciousness.

I waited a few minutes, but Ginger didn’t open her eyes again. I squeezed her hand, silently urging her to get well. It wasn’t like Ginger and I had really clicked but no one deserved this and now I felt connected to her in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

“You can do this, Ginger,” I murmured, releasing her hand so I could leave the room. “Keep fighting.”

An hour later, I was sitting across from Maggie at Café Gumbo, our usual spot for debriefing and caffeine therapy.

She'd ordered her standard iced coffee despite the sudden October chill, while I clutched a hot latte like it was a life preserver.

Last week had been hot and now it felt like autumn had made her grand entrance.

"Okay," Maggie said, pulling out her ever-present notebook. "Let's do a what-we-know-so-far recap, because honestly, I'm losing track of all the players."

"Good idea. Everything's mixed together and I can't tell what's what anymore."

Maggie flipped to a fresh page. "Victim: Delia DuMont, real name Mary Vallon. Poisoned with angel's trumpet, then drowned in a scalding bathtub."

"Check." I was used to doing this for our podcast, but I had to admit, it felt a little more gruesome having seen it with my own two eyes in my own house.

I’d scrubbed that bathtub three times already and I still felt like the tinge of blood was still lingering. My coffee suddenly felt sloshy in my stomach.

“Why was there blood?” I asked suddenly. “If she was poisoned, why was there blood on the floor and in the bathtub?”

Maggie stared at me. “Good question. So she hit her head? It was a small amount of blood, just a few drops, really.”

“The water wasn’t really bloody. Just…pink.” There went my stomach again. “Obviously the police factored that all in and aren’t really sharing anything with us.”

"Another reason to assume murder.”

I nod.

“Motive for her murder: She came back to New Orleans to expose what happened to Francine Darrow in 1984. We presume, anyway. That’s no guarantee."

"Which, according to Aunt Odette's journal, involved Claude Broussard arresting Francine and then something bad happening while she was in custody."

"And Father Claude was romantically involved with young Mary Vallon and was feeding information about the Bergeron Circle to his brother at the police department."

I took a sip of coffee, trying to organize my thoughts. "Current suspects: Father Claude, who had a motive to keep his past secret. Hollis, who might be protecting his father's reputation. And Ginger, who was found with angel's trumpet and a mysterious key."

"Except Ginger was also poisoned," Maggie pointed out. "Unless she accidentally dosed herself."

"Or someone wanted us to think she was the killer." I paused. "What did she mean about 'hidden'? She specifically said not basement."

"Could be the attic? Or..." Maggie's eyes lit up. "What about between floors? Old houses like yours sometimes have hidden spaces between the ceiling and the floor above."

That was actually a really good point. "The house is definitely old enough to have that. I think it was probably meant to prevent noise from carrying. And heat."

"You know we can’t really eliminate the other guests as suspects either," Maggie said. “They were all there. Everyone had the opportunity. We just might not know about the motive.”

“I think we can cross off Pete and Jan and the teen girls because they weren’t there when it happened,” I said. “Maybe Arthur was in his room? I’m not sure. The French couple were out for the night.”

“Good point. So we’ll add Arthur to the list. Plus, Beau.”

“I don’t think Beau is capable of murder.”

“Everyone is capable of murder. What have we been talking to our listeners about for the last three years?” Maggie looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“You’re right.” She was right, what could I say?

"How are you feeling about having guests again?” she asked. “I know this whole thing has been traumatic."

I sighed. "Honestly? I'm terrified someone else is going to die. But I can't afford to keep the B&B closed. The bank doesn't care about suspicious deaths."

The house had been paid off for decades but there was an equity line of credit that had been used for repairs over the years. It wasn’t insurmountable, but when you added in property taxes and the cost of running the place day to day, it didn’t leave much for me to pay myself.

"Very practical of you."

"Aunt Odette would not be happy. She would want more respect shown for Delia."

“Have you ever wondered how Odette made the finances work? Because you’re always worried about money.”

I had. Over and over. But it felt disrespectful to question my great-aunt’s money prowess. “I just worry by nature. I only feel safe at full occupancy.”

Maggie grinned. “Well, the dead don't pay bills, but the living sure do.”

“Uh, lies. The dead technically do pay our bills thanks to Gumbo and Gris Gris.”

“Oh, my God, good point. If a little morbid. So what can we conclude about Delia’s death?”

“Nothing definitive. She could have poisoned herself and a nosy Ginger accidentally poisoned herself. Or Ginger killed Delia and then accidentally poisoned herself. Or poisoned herself on purpose. Or they were both poisoned by someone else.”

“That really does leave the field wide open.”

"I don't know. Maybe I'm overthinking it. Maybe Ginger really did kill Delia out of professional jealousy or some forty-year-old grudge. Maybe I should just get back to running a haunted bed-and-breakfast instead of playing amateur detective."

Maggie studied my face. "But?"

"But it doesn't feel finished. Ginger might have had motive to kill Delia, but what about Francine? What happened to her? And why was Delia so sure that Francine's killer was still alive and dangerous?"

"Maybe Francine's case is separate. Maybe Delia was wrong about the connection."

"Maybe." I finished my coffee. "I guess we'll know more when Ginger wakes up."

Teddy the skunk was dragging a plastic bat across the front yard like it was his latest trophy kill when Hollis popped through the bushes between my house and Mrs. Patterson’s.

“Hey.”

“Jeez!” I shrieked, nearly falling off the ladder I was using to string lights on the front porch. “Hollis, you scared the scream out of me.”

“Clearly not,” he said wryly. He set down a cardboard box. “Need help?”

I was trying to return to some semblance of normalcy by decorating. Halloween was only a few weeks away, and despite everything that had happened, I had guests coming for the weekend who were expecting a properly spooky atmosphere.

Besides, the house basically begged to be decorated for any and all holidays. She was a fancy lady who liked to put on her lipstick, that was for sure.

“You can help me hang the fake spider webs from the bushes if you want. Do I even want to know what’s in that box?” I wasn’t sure if Hollis was trying to be genuinely neighborly or if he wanted something from me.

He was a hard man to read.

Or maybe I hadn’t tried hard enough. I had been busy since I’d moved in and hadn’t really given Hollis much thought beyond Maggie’s teasing until death showed up on my doorstep.