Page 5 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception (A Midnight House Mystery #1)

Before he could answer, the front door chimed again.

This time it was Ginger St. James, another local psychic who looked like she'd raided the same Halloween costume shop Father Claude frequented.

She wore flowing black robes and approximately seventeen hundred necklaces and rings.

Her entrance was preceded by the scent of patchouli and followed by the soft jingling of her many bracelets.

It looked like we’d all gotten the memo to wear black.

"Hello Harper," she said, air-kissing in my general direction. "I do hope Delia isn't planning anything too theatrical this evening. Some of us prefer a more authentic approach to spirit communication."

Translation: she was still bitter about Delia getting the headline spot at this weekend’s paranormal convention.

"I'm sure it'll be authentically theatrical," I said.

Ginger laughed. “You’re adorable, as always.”

Adorable wasn’t really what I was going for. Maybe World’s Greatest Hostess. "Can I get you anything? Wine? Water? Sage for smudging?"

"Wine would be divine."

As I was pouring Ginger a glass, Beau came through the front door.

It was honestly a shame I’d never caught feelings for him.

He was attractive in that academic way—all short wavy hair and wire-rimmed glasses and he was a genuinely nice guy.

Tonight, though, something about his usual easy smile seemed forced.

Sort of like my feelings for him would be if I ever tried to date him.

"Harper. Long time no see." He shoved a bottle of wine in my hands in a way that was so aggressive I wasn’t sure if it was a gift, or if he wanted me to uncork it and serve him.

“Uh, thanks, Beau.”

"And thank you for letting me observe tonight. Should be interesting."

“Thank Delia. She’s the one who said her final guest bowed out and she wanted you as a replacement. And remember, no flash on your phone. Delia says it interferes with the spiritual vibrations."

"Noted." He glanced toward the parlor, where I could hear Delia rearranging the chairs I’d already arranged. "Has she mentioned why she wanted me here specifically?"

"No, but she seems to know everyone's business better than they do themselves. Maybe it has to do with your research on the house."

Beau's laugh sounded strained. "I’m not sure what I could really tell her."

I set his wine down on the sideboard and just ignored him, not really sure what else I was supposed to say to that. The doorbell rang again and I went to open it.

The final guest arrived together—Detective Hollis Broussard (Father Claude's nephew, though they looked nothing alike).

Hollis was here in an unofficial capacity.

Partly because his uncle had asked him to keep an eye on things, and partly because he'd developed what Maggie called "a Harper situation" over the past few months.

The Harper situation, according to Maggie, meant that Hollis was in some way attracted to me.

Considering he mostly just sighed and shook his head in my presence, I thought she was grossly mistaken.

The situation was more like “your skunk got loose again.” He just so happened to live two doors down from me and Teddy liked to stroll into his garden.

“Harper,” he said, giving me a nod.

“Hollis,” I said, trying to imitate his permanently serious tone.

Unlike Beau, who was pretty, Hollis was ruggedly handsome.

All hard jaw covered in beard stubble and piercing blue eyes.

He always seemed to need a hair cut and when I saw him doing yard work with his shirt off, I had to admit his muscles were impressive.

Maggie, meanwhile, was bustling around with her recording equipment and her professional skepticism. She was determined to document the evening for our podcast, assuming it would make good material for debunking séance techniques.

"This is either going to be really boring or really entertaining," she whispered to me as she blew by in her tutu. "Either way, it's content."

Delia had arranged eight chairs around the antique round table, with a single white candle in the center.

The room's usual electric lighting was off, leaving everything bathed in flickering shadows.

Rain had started pattering against the windows, and the house was doing its usual symphony of creaks and sighs.

I realized that there were only seven people in the room, but eight chairs. Before I could think any further about it, Delia was waving us all in.

"Please, everyone take a seat," Delia said, somehow managing to sound both mystical and authoritative. "Harper, would you mind bringing Teddy? We need eight for the circle to be complete."

“My skunk?” I asked, startled.

Teddy chirped, like he was insulted.

Delia took that as consent from Teddy and picked him up and put him on a chair. I took the empty chair between Maggie and Beau, two chairs down from my pet. Hollis was across the table from me, looking like he’d rather be anywhere other than there.

"Before we begin," Delia continued, "I want everyone to understand that what we're attempting tonight is not entertainment. We're opening a doorway between the world of the living and the world of the dead. Sometimes, what comes through that doorway isn't what we expect."

Ginger made a huffing sound. Considering she was a psychic herself, I wasn’t sure what the issue was, other than Ginger not being the center of attention.

Delia ignored her. "Please, everyone join hands."

The hand-holding part was always awkward at these things. Maggie's hand was warm and steady. Beau's was damp and loose in mine. Around the circle, I could see various expressions ranging from Father Claude's resigned acceptance to Detective Broussard's barely concealed skepticism.

"Spirits of Midnight House," Delia began. "We call to you from across the veil. We invite you to speak through us, to share your truths with the living world."

The candle flame flickered, though there was no breeze in the room.

"We particularly call to the spirit of Francine Darrow, who left this world too young, with words left unspoken."

Beau's hand tightened on mine so suddenly I nearly gasped. Around the table, everyone had gone very still.

"Francine," Delia continued, "if you're here, give us a sign."

The house obliged immediately. From somewhere in the house, came the sound of a woman crying.

"Holy crap," Maggie whispered.

"Language," Father Claude murmured automatically.

I saw Hollis roll his eyes in the candlelight.

The crying grew louder, more distinct. It wasn't the sound of wind or settling wood—it was unmistakably human, unmistakably female, and unmistakably heartbroken.

I wondered if the teens staying upstairs had gotten busted for sneaking out the night before and were being dressed down by Pete or Jan. Or both.

"Francine?" Delia's voice was gentle. "What happened to you, child?"

The crying stopped abruptly. For a moment, the only sound was our collective breathing and the rain against the windows. Then, a woman spoke. "No one would believe me."

Ginger let out a small shriek. Detective Broussard muttered something that might have been a curse. And Beau's hand was now gripping mine so tightly I was losing circulation.

"Who said that, Francine?" Delia asked. "Who wouldn't believe you?"

The candle flame suddenly shot three feet into the air, casting wild shadows around the room. Then it went out completely, leaving us in perfect darkness.

In that darkness, someone screamed.

Ripping my hand out of both Beau and Maggie’s, I stood up so fast that my chair tipped over and hit the floor.

“What’s happening?” Beau demanded. “Harper, where are you?”

“Relax, I’m turning the lights on.”

Someone was moaning. I surmised it was Ginger.

When I strode over to the wall, I flicked the lights back on and blinked at the sudden influx of light.

Everyone else was doing the same around the table.

Except for Delia.

She wasn’t in the room.