Page 9 of Gumbo, Ghosts, and Deadly Deception (A Midnight House Mystery #1)

"So you think she was trying to conduct another séance?" I asked. "By herself? Why would she leave one séance to conduct another?"

"Or someone wanted it to look that way," Hollis said grimly. "There's one more thing. We found traces of a powder in the bathroom. Not sure what it is yet."

My stomach dropped. "Drugs?”

He shrugged. "Gotta wait on toxicology results."

I pulled Delia's letter out of my pocket and handed it to him. "You need to see this. I found it in the kitchen last night after you left."

Hollis started to read the letter. As soon as he realized what it was, he swore and moved his fingers to the very edges of the paper. “Jesus, Harper, you could have warned me this was written by Delia. Neither of us should be touching this with bare hands.”

“Oops.” I mean, what else could I say? He was right.

His expression grew increasingly grim. "When exactly did you find this?"

"Around midnight. Right after you finished questioning everyone."

"And you didn't think to call me immediately?"

"I was going to, and to tell you I found Delia’s phone..." I trailed off as Hollis's expression darkened.

It occurred to me that I shouldn’t have taken Delia’s phone. Or mentioned that to Hollis. That possibly could be considered tampering with evidence.

“You touched her phone ?” His expression was thunderous.

"I was planning to tell you this morning. Which is now. I gave the phone to the evidence tech." After I picked it up, played the recording, and texted it to myself.

"Harper." His voice had that particular tone that meant I was about to get a lecture. "That phone and this note is evidence in a potential homicide investigation. You can't just sit on it because it's convenient.”

"I wasn't sitting on it! I was processing it! And technically, you said it was an accidental drowning."

I debated telling Hollis about the tarot card I’d found on the steps, but that might send him over the edge. I didn’t think it was actually relevant. Delia had probably just dropped it going to bed, but I made a mental note to inspect it more carefully later.

Maggie cleared her throat. "Can we focus on the important part? Delia knew she was going to die, and she left Harper clues about some forty-year-old murder."

Hollis studied the letter again. "Francine Darrow. Where have I heard that name before?" He frowned.

“I told you about her last night."

Now he really glared at me. “No, I mean before you told me. Or unrelated to you telling me.”

Okay, then. Someone needed more sleep. "It was a missing person case from the eighties. College student, disappeared during Mardi Gras. She was staying here."

Hollis shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

"The department still has the file, right?"

"I can pull it and take a look, but I really can’t share any details because it’s probably not officially closed.

Harper, I need you to promise me something.

No amateur sleuthing. No following mysterious clues around your house.

Even if I think it’s highly unlikely, if Delia was killed because she knew something about an old murder, then whoever did it is still out there. "

"I'm not going to go looking for trouble," I said, which was technically true. I wasn't going to go looking for it. But if it happened to find me while I was, say, researching jambalaya recipes in my own house, that was hardly my fault.

I couldn’t say that I’d ever been interested in investigating a murder in real time.

Maggie and I focused on researching cases that were either solved or were deep in the past or very far away from us.

Or two out of the three. But this was my house.

I lived here. It would be odder if I didn’t try to figure out what was going on under my own roof.

Hollis's phone buzzed. He glanced at it and sighed. "I have to go. Another case. But Harper, seriously. Be careful. And if you find anything else, call me immediately."

“Of course,” I said, as if that were a forgone conclusion and I hadn’t accidentally without malice withheld evidence. “Have a good day.”

He gave me a look like that was a dumb thing to say to a homicide detective, which it was.

After he left, Maggie and I sat in silence for a moment, both of us staring at each other.

"So," Maggie said finally. "Famous jambalaya recipe. Any ideas?"

"Aunt Odette kept all her recipes in a wooden box on top of the refrigerator. But I've been through them a dozen times since I inherited the house. Nothing mysterious about any of them."

"Maybe it's not about the recipe itself. Maybe it's about where she kept it, or how she wrote it down."

I retrieved the recipe box. It was a hand-carved cedar container that smelled like bay leaves and old paper.

Inside were dozens of index cards covered in Aunt Odette's spidery handwriting: gumbo, red beans and rice, beignets, bread pudding.

The jambalaya recipe was near the bottom, stained with what I assumed was either paprika or roux from years of cooking.

I pulled it out and read it. "Odette's Famous Jambalaya. Two cups white rice, one pound andouille sausage, one large onion, one bell pepper, two stalks of celery..." I stopped. "Wait. That's weird."

"What?"

"The quantities are all wrong. Two cups of rice for one pound of sausage? That would be incredibly bland. And she's got measurements for twenty servings, but the title says it's her famous recipe. She never cooked for more than eight people at a time."

Maggie leaned over my shoulder. "Maybe it's more of a code than a recipe."

I flipped the card over. On the back, in faded pencil, was a rough sketch of what looked like the floor plan of the house. But there were rooms marked that I'd never seen—including one labeled "F.D." in the space between the kitchen and the dining room.

"F.D.," I said. "Francine Darrow?"

"Or Failed Dishwasher," Maggie suggested unhelpfully.

That made me laugh. “You mean me? The dishwasher was installed in the eighties and hasn’t worked since twenty-ten.”

I studied the sketch more carefully. The room marked F.D. was positioned exactly where the pantry wall was now. The wall that Beau had mentioned was added sometime in the 1920s, sealing off the old passage to the summer kitchen.

"Maggie," I said slowly. "I think you’re right. This isn’t about food. What if it's a map?"

Before she could answer, Teddy suddenly sat up and made a sound that meant he'd heard something interesting. He waddled over to the pantry door and began scratching at the baseboard with unusual determination.

"Either he's developed a sudden interest in interior decorating," I said, "or he's trying to tell us something. I swear, he understands what we’re saying."

“Teddy is a genius,” Maggie declared.

After me, she was definitely Teddy’s biggest fan.

We knelt down beside him. The baseboard was old and slightly warped, and when I pressed on it, it moved. Not much, but enough to suggest it wasn't actually attached to anything solid.

"Get me a butter knife," I told Maggie.

She handed me one from the drawer, and I carefully pried at the edge of the baseboard. It came away easily, revealing a gap behind it just wide enough for a hand to reach through.

"Please tell me you're not about to stick your arm into a mysterious hole in the wall," Maggie said. “Because you know there’s probably a dead rat or something equally gross in there.”

Rodents. I shuddered. "I'm not. Teddy is."

I lifted my skunk and gently guided his head toward the opening. He immediately became excited, chittering and pawing at something inside. I had expected some resistance but Teddy was all in on the amateur sleuthing. When I pulled him back, he had a small brass key clutched in his teeth.

"Good boy," I said, taking the key. It was old and tarnished, with an ornate head that looked hand-forged. "Now we just need to figure out what it opens."

"Probably the door to the room that doesn't exist on any blueprint," Maggie said. "The one marked F.D. on your aunt's map."

I stood up and studied the pantry wall more carefully.

It was definitely newer than the rest of the kitchen.

It was different wood, different paint, different construction techniques.

And now that I was looking for it, I could see the faint outline of where a door frame had been filled in and painted over.

"There's definitely something behind this wall," I said. "The question is, how do we get to it without tearing down half my kitchen?"

“Time for a sledgehammer,” Maggie declared.

“Absolutely not. Who knows what kind of electrical or plumbing is in this wall?”

“It’s a doorway.” Maggie shrugged. “What could go wrong?”

“You’re a little too casual with my property.” I turned, picked up a beignet and bit it. I chewed morosely, hoping word didn’t get out about Delia’s death.

We’ve. Got. Ghosts.

And. Dead. Bodies.

It wasn’t a good marketing slogan.

Then again, death attracted intrigue.

But that wasn’t the kind of notoriety I wanted.

“Well, I know one thing,” Maggie declared.

“What’s that?”

“We need to research Francine’s disappearance. That’s what we do for the podcast. Go back to the beginning.”

“Technically, the beginning is 1869, but we can start with 1984.”