Page 27 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception (A Midnight House Mystery #1)

SIXTEEN

After Ginger left, Maggie and I stood in the parking lot for a moment, both of us still processing everything that had happened.

"You know what this means, right?" Maggie said eventually.

"What?"

"We're going to have to do a whole series of podcast episodes about this case. The listeners are going to lose their minds."

I laughed. The first genuine laugh I'd had in days. "Just promise me you won't call it 'Murder at Midnight House' or something equally embarrassing."

"Too late. I already bought the domain name."

After I dropped Maggie off at her place, I drove home through the familiar streets of the Marigny and thought about Delia DuMont and her final message to me. She'd trusted me to uncover the truth, and somehow, against all odds, I had.

The house looked different when I pulled into the driveway.

Still grand, still mysterious, but no longer haunted by the weight of terrible secrets.

The grandfather clock in the foyer would probably still keep the wrong time, and the lights would probably still flicker when storms rolled in from the Gulf.

The air conditioning was definitely still going to test me.

But now I knew those were just the quirks of an old house, not the restless spirits of the unavenged dead.

Teddy was waiting for me in the kitchen, curled up in his favorite spot near the stove. He looked up when I entered and made a soft chittering sound that somehow managed to convey both relief and mild reproach.

"I know, I know," I said, scooping him up. "I should have taken you with me. You probably would have sniffed out Arthur's evil intentions from day one. But I’m glad you’re safe because you’re awesome."

I remembered Teddy scooting away when Arthur tried to pet him in the garden. Teddy had known what he’d done to him and Abigail.

He settled into my arms with a contented purr, and for the first time in a week, Midnight House felt like home again.

Tomorrow I'd have to figure out how to rebuild my guest bookings, how to market a haunted B&B that had recently hosted an actual murder, and how to move forward with the knowledge that my family's legacy was more complicated than I'd ever imagined.

But tonight, I was just grateful to be alive, surrounded by friends who cared about me, in a house that had helped me find the truth.

That feeling lasted only as long as it took me to walk into the hallway. Then I stopped in my tracks. I looked down at the hardwood floor of Midnight House, staring at something that shouldn't exist.

The Tower card lay on the grandfather clock's base, exactly where I'd found it the night Delia died. Same bent corner, same ominous illustration of the lightning-struck tower. But this time, when I flipped it over, there was new writing on the back.

Thank you.

My hands were shaking as I video called Maggie.

"That's impossible," Maggie said, studying the card as I held it up for her. "Arthur had Delia's tarot deck when they arrested him. This should be in evidence. Hollis told us at the station."

"Unless it never was part of Delia's deck."

We looked at each other in the fading later afternoon light streaming through the stained glass windows.

"You think Francine...?" Maggie started.

"I think this house has been trying to tell us something for weeks. The gardenias, the whispers, the lights flickering. Maybe now that Arthur's been caught, she can finally rest."

Teddy emerged from the kitchen, waddling over with professional interest. He sniffed my leg once, then sat back on his haunches and gave a sound of approval.

"Even Teddy thinks the supernatural explanation makes sense," I said.

"Or he's just happy the scary man is gone." Maggie said. "Either way, this is going to make one hell of a podcast episode."

"Speaking of which..." I glanced at the antique clock, still frozen at 2:13. "Want to record the episode here? In the parlor where it all started?"

"Are you sure? After everything that's happened?"

I looked around the foyer— my foyer—at the house that had been home to four generations of Bergeron women.

At the stairs where Delia had climbed to her death, at the parlor where we'd held hands and called to spirits, at the kitchen where Aunt Odette had hidden a clue to forty years' worth of secrets.

"This is home," I said simply. "And this story belongs here."

Two days later, we were seated at the same round table where Delia had conducted her final séance. Maggie had her recording equipment set up, and I'd made a fresh pot of coffee. The morning light slanted through the windows, casting rainbow patterns across the hardwood floors.

"You ready?" Maggie asked, adjusting her headphones.

I settled into my chair, Teddy curled at my feet. "Ready."

Maggie hit record and shifted into her professional voice. "Welcome to a very special episode of Gumbo and Gris Gris: Crime in the Crescent City. I'm Murder Maggie."

"And I'm Harper, recording today from the parlor of Midnight House, where just over a week ago, a woman named Delia DuMont lost her life."

"Now, our regular listeners know we typically focus on cold cases. Crimes that happened years or even decades ago. But today, we're breaking that rule to tell you about a murder that happened right here, in Harper's own bed-and-breakfast."

I took a sip of coffee, organizing my thoughts.

"Delia DuMont came to New Orleans for what she claimed was to attend a well-known paranormal convention.

But as we discovered, she had a much darker purpose.

She was here to expose a forty-year-old murder conspiracy that reached into the highest levels of New Orleans society. "

"Let's start at the beginning, Harper. Tell our listeners about the night Delia died."

I described that evening. The séance, the flickering lights, the voice that claimed no one would believe her. The way Delia had simply vanished from the circle, only to be found minutes later in a bathtub full of scalding water.

It felt oddly like therapy to share it all. Take our listeners through it step by step.

We went through it all, giving names and a voice to the victims from the 80s, but steering clear of anything that might interfere with Arthur’s court case, which likely wouldn’t happen for a year or more.

I thought about Arthur's confession at the cemetery, the casual way he'd dismissed the lives of the women he'd helped silence.

"Women who got too close to the truth about corrupt property deals, missing persons reports that got buried, and a network of powerful men who saw human lives as acceptable collateral damage. "

"A group of fierce women was trying to solve cases the police wouldn't touch. Young, missing women. They were using séances and spiritual practices, but they were also doing real detective work. Gathering evidence, interviewing witnesses, documenting patterns."

Maggie's voice grew more intense. "And that's what makes this case so tragic. These women were doing the work that law enforcement should have been doing. They were fighting for justice for victims nobody else cared about. And they were silenced for it."

"Francine Darrow died because she wouldn't stop asking questions. Delia DuMont died because she wouldn't let Francine's murder be forgotten."

"But Harper, there's something else our listeners need to hear about."

I glanced down at Teddy, who looked up at me with his dark, knowing eyes. "When I returned to Midnight House after leaving the cemetery, I found something that shouldn't exist. A tarot card. The same Tower card that had been found the night Delia died. But this one had a message: 'Thank you.'"

"We can't prove it was supernatural. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe it was something the perpetrator planted.

But..." I looked around the parlor, at the shadows that no longer seemed threatening.

"This house has been trying to tell Francine's story for forty years.

And maybe now that the truth is finally out, maybe she can rest."

"What happens next, Harper? To the case, to the house, to you?"

I considered the question. "Midnight House will continue to welcome guests. But now it comes with a promise that the women who died here, the women who were silenced, will never be forgotten. Their stories will be told."

Maggie hit pause on the recording. "This is so great, Harper. Really."

"Think our listeners will believe the part about the tarot card?"

"I think our listeners know that some things can't be explained by evidence and logic alone. Besides, in a city like New Orleans, the supernatural isn't supernatural. It's just Tuesday."

I laughed. "Want to help me get the house ready for new guests? I've got a couple checking in tonight."

"Brave souls."

"Or maybe they just know that the best ghost stories come from places where real people lived and loved and died and refused to be forgotten."

As we cleaned up the parlor, removing the recording equipment and straightening the furniture, I found myself thinking about all the women who'd sat in this room over the years.

Aunt Odette and her Circle, calling to spirits and seeking justice.

Francine Darrow, young and determined and doomed.

Delia DuMont, returning after forty years to face her past.

And now me, inheriting not just a house but a legacy of women who refused to let the truth stay buried.

The grandfather clock chimed once and when I looked at its face, the hands were moving. For the first time in months, it was telling the correct time.