Page 21 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception (A Midnight House Mystery #1)

TWELVE

I was in Maggie's kitchen the next morning, pacing while she made coffee with the methodical precision of someone who hadn't had enough sleep.

“I don’t even know how to use this,” she complained. “You know I just walk across the street and buy my coffee every day.”

“I don’t want to talk in public where anyone can hear us. But we can go over there and grab coffee if this is too much.”

“I’ll get it. It’s me against the coffeemaker now.”

“I would just give up if I were you.” The stolen envelope incident had left me feeling paranoid and foolish in equal measure. I'd spent last night replaying every detail, trying to make sense of what felt like pieces from different puzzles.

"Got it!" Maggie said, pressing a button. The coffeemaker whirred. "Now walk me through it again. No giving up. That’s not your vibe. The guy who stole your purse. You said something about him seeming familiar to you."

I shrugged. "It was just a feeling. The way he moved, maybe. Or his build. But I only saw him for a few seconds, and he was wearing a hood and sunglasses."

"So it could have been someone you know."

"That's what I keep thinking about." I reached into her cupboard and got out two coffee mugs. "What if it wasn't random? What if someone knew I had that envelope?"

"How would they know though? That’s what I keep coming back to. You said Lucien gave it to you in private."

"But what if someone was watching? What if they followed me from the Dungeon?" I started pacing again. "Think about it. Father Claude knew I was asking questions. He was at the house when I found Delia's journal pages. He could have followed me to the Quarter."

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "Father Claude? The sort-of priest whose nephew is a cop and your neighbor? You think he mugged you?"

Sure, it was ridiculous. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. "He admitted he was involved with Delia back in 1984. He was feeding information to his brother at the police department. Maybe he's been covering for someone all these years."

"Harper—"

"No, listen. He's the right build. And he would have known that envelope contained evidence that could implicate him or his family.

" I was getting excited now, the pieces clicking together in my mind.

"Plus, he showed up at my house uninvited.

How did he even get in? I'm sure I locked the door that day. What if he had a master key?"

Maggie eyed the coffeemaker impatiently. "Okay, say you're right. Say Father Claude has been covering something up for forty years. What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to confront him."

"That's literally the worst idea you’ve ever had. And that includes the time you dyed your hair blond."

She was right. Going that light with my hair had been a massive mistake. My fair skin had made my face essentially disappear. But I wasn’t sure she was right about Claude.

"Why? If he's the one who stole the envelope, he'll give himself away. And if he's not, then at least I'll know."

"And if he is, and he's also a killer, you'll be alone with a murderer."

I hadn't thought of that. But my blood was up now, and I was tired of feeling like I was stumbling around in the dark while everyone else seemed to know something I didn't. “Well, the obvious safety measure would be to meet him somewhere in public. Or at Hollis’s house.”

“Hello, Hollis?” Maggie pretended to be talking on her phone. “Can I come over and confront your uncle about potentially being a murderer? K, thanks, bye.”

"Good point. What about his church? He can’t kill me in broad daylight in a church."

“I’m not sure his church is a real church. I thought he was more like a cult leader. You know, like an extremist branch of the Catholic church and not formally recognized by them.”

“Because of the demon thing,” I acknowledged. I’d honestly thought the same thing.

“Yes, because of the demon thing. He’ll probably say you’re possessed and he had to perform an exorcism.”

“So he’ll throw some water on me. No big deal.”

"Harper, you're not thinking clearly. You're upset about losing the envelope, and you're looking for someone to blame."

That stung, partly because it might have been true. But I was also convinced I was onto something.

"I'm going to talk to him," I said firmly. "With or without your support."

I strode over and poured us both coffee with a confidence I did not feel.

Maggie studied my face for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. But I'm going with you."

"You don't have to."

"Yes, I do. Because if you're wrong about this, you're going to need a friend to help you apologize. And if you're right, you're going to need a witness."

Maggie was right about the church. It looked shady as heck.

As in, not sanctioned by the official church something or other, but an offshoot. A pop up church, if you will.

It was a modest brick building in the Bywater with a weathered sign that declared, “The Church of the Body and Blood of Christ.”

“Now there’s a name for ya,” Maggie said, gesturing to the sign.

“I guess transubstantiation was too hard to spell.”

“I have no idea what that even means. I was raised according to my parents philosophy of ‘today is my day off and I’m not spending it in church.’”

“It means that the bread and wine are actually the body and blood of Christ. Like as in literally.”

Maggie looked like she had many thoughts on that but was determined to keep them to herself.

Claude's rectory was attached to the back of the church, a small frame house that looked like it had been built sometime in the 1950s and painted approximately never.

Maggie and I walked up the front steps together, and I knocked on the screen door of the house. After a moment, I heard footsteps inside.

"Coming," Father Claude called out.

He opened the door wearing jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt and looked genuinely surprised to see us.

"Harper, Maggie. What brings you by so early?"

"We need to talk," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "About what happened yesterday."

His expression didn’t change. He looked puzzled. "Yesterday? Well, come in, come in."

The house was exactly what you'd expect. It was filled with modest furniture, religious art on the walls, and the lingering scent of coffee and bacon from breakfast. Though I was a little surprised not to see gloves of garlic hanging or salt tossed all around.

Claude gestured for us to sit on a worn sofa while he took the chair across from us.

"What happened yesterday?" he asked.

I studied his face, looking for any sign of deception. "Someone stole my purse in the Quarter. Took some important documents."

"I'm sorry to hear that. The crime rate is a perpetual issue."

"The thing is," I continued, "I don't think it was random. I think someone followed me, someone who knew what I was carrying."

Father Claude's expression didn't change, but I thought I saw his hands tighten slightly on the arms of his chair. "That's very troubling. Did you report it to the police?"

"Where were you yesterday afternoon around four o'clock?"

My question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory.

Father Claude blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. Where were you?"

Maggie touched my arm. "Harper?—"

"No, it's okay," Father Claude said, though his voice had grown cooler. "I was here, Harper. Preparing for evening mass. My organist was here too, if you'd like to verify."

"You weren't in the French Quarter? You didn't follow me from the Dungeon?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He stood up. "Harper, I think you should leave."

"I think you stole my purse to get back those documents," I pressed on. "Because they implicated you in what happened to Francine Darrow."

Father Claude's face went white. "How dare you come into my home and accuse me of theft? Of murder ?"

"I didn't say murder."

"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face." He moved toward the door. "I've tried to help you, Harper. I've tried to warn you that you're playing with dangerous forces. But if you're going to turn on me like this, then you're on your own."

"So you admit there are dangerous forces?" I stood up too. "You admit there's something to cover up?"

"Demons. They exist in many people. I admit that forty years ago, I made mistakes. I was young, I was in love, and I trusted the wrong people. But I never stole from you, and I sure as hell never killed anyone."

"Then who did?"

"I don't know!" The words came out as a shout, echoing off the walls of the small room. "Don't you think I've been asking myself that question every day for four decades?"

The raw pain in his voice caught me off guard. For the first time since I'd walked in, I wondered if I might be wrong.

"Claude—"

"Father Claude," he corrected coldly. "And I think this conversation is over. If your purse was stolen, report it to the proper authorities."

Maggie was already standing, tugging at my elbow. "Harper, we should go."

As we walked back to the car in uncomfortable silence, I could feel Maggie's disapproval radiating off her like heat from asphalt.

"Well?" I said finally. "What did you think?"

"I think," she said carefully, "that you just accused a man of robbery and murder based on a whole lot of nothing."

"Not nothing. His reaction?—"

"His reaction was exactly what anyone's would be if you showed up at their house and accused them of being a criminal." She got into the passenger seat and slammed the door harder than necessary.

I started the car and sat there for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel. Had I just made a complete idiot of myself? The confident certainty I'd felt this morning was already starting to crumble.

"Maybe I was wrong about the purse-snatching," I admitted. "But that doesn't mean he's not involved somehow."

"Harper, listen to yourself. You're grasping at straws."

"I'm trying to find the truth!"

"No, you're trying to find someone to blame. There's a difference."