Bayou Nights (3 page)

Chapter Two

Christine glanced around her shop. Detective Kenton looked clammy, his skin tinged with gray. Molly’s wide eyes belonged to a frightened animal, a small one cornered by a large dog with enormous teeth. Mattias Drake looked like a man presented with a challenging puzzle, his chin caught between his thumb and index finger, his brow furrowed. And the body on the carpet, well, the body looked awful and smelled worse.

Christine didn’t care how the man on the floor reanimated. The mechanics of his mysterious arrival were secondary to his imminent departure. Yes, he’d walked through the front door of her shop. Now she wanted him carried out the back door. Immediately, if not sooner.

“Detective Kenton.” Christine tilted her head, batted her lashes, and curled her lips into what experience told her was an irresistible smile. She even crossed her hands and held them over her heart. “Perhaps you could return him to the morgue?”

The man smoothed the lapels of his coat then ran a hand through the thick thatch of ginger hair atop his head.

She batted her lashes again. “If he was already dead and nothing was stolen, there’s not even a crime.”
Please let Kenton take the easy way out. Please.

Drake looked up from his study of the body. “There might not be a crime, but don’t you think we should find out
why
a dead man walked in here?”

The hero-worshipping mien slipped clean off her face. Really? The man couldn’t pour water from a boot without instructions on the heel. Any fool could tell she wanted the body gone and he’d been sent to
help
her. Granted his help wasn’t yet secured and was probably limited to finding her father but…surely it wasn’t too much to ask that he suggest Kenton investigate later, far from her shop.

“Isn’t that more your area, Mr. Drake? What is Detective Kenton going to tell his sergeant? I doubt the man will appreciate tales of walking corpses.”

Mattias Drake’s eyes narrowed and his gaze returned to the body on the carpet.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Miss Lambert. The wagon is on its way. I sent for it before I left the station house. We’ll have this here body back in the morgue right quick.”

Christine thanked him with another smile.

Drake snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it.” Then he prodded the unfortunate man on the floor. “Zombie.”

His pronouncement was met with a few seconds of silence then Molly’s frightened eyes rolled back in her head and her knees buckled.

Detective Kenton caught her collapsing body and carried her to the aptly named fainting couch.

Oblivious to the havoc he’d caused, the Yankee muttered under his breath and prodded again.

“What did you say?” Christine asked. Really, the man was beyond infuriating.

He looked up at her.

“What are you saying? Under your breath?”

“Just reminding myself about zombies.”

“Do tell.”

If he heard the sarcasm, thick as sorghum in her voice, he ignored it. “Souls who have died an unnatural death are vulnerable to being snatched up by a boko.”

“A boko?” she asked.

“A powerful sorcerer. The boko locks the soul in a bottle and controls the un-living body.”

Kenton knelt next to the fainting couch, dividing his attention between his sweetheart and the discussion of zombies. “So this man was murdered?” he asked.

“Probably,” said Drake.

Christine smiled around a clenched jaw. “He wasn’t murdered here. Perhaps, Detective Kenton, after you return the body to the morgue, you can go back to where you found him the first time and investigate.”

Kenton grunted then smoothed a strand of hair away from Molly’s cheek.

Drake’s lips twitched. Did he find this situation amusing? Neither man seemed to grasp just how bad a corpse on the carpet was for business.

Certainly neither man made any move to remove the corpse from her shop.

Christine huffed. If she wanted anything done, she had to do it herself. She slipped behind the counter, opened a drawer, and withdrew a vial of smelling salts. She presented them to Kenton. “Wake her up.”

He unstopped the vial beneath Molly’s nose.

The girl’s lashes fluttered then her eyes opened wide, still frightened and in search of Detective Kenton, her conquering hero.

Lands! It was only a matter of time before Kenton slipped a ring on Molly’s finger. Another able assistant lost to marriage. Christine sighed and turned away.

That left her with a view of a dead body, a shop in disarray, and Mattias Drake. Could the man really help find her father? Did she want him to? There was something unsettling about him. Too tall. Too rough. Too handsome. And too honest. If she wanted honesty she’d look to herself, not some Yankee who thought he could barge into her shop, insult her hats, make her assistant faint with fear, then grin up at her from his spot next to a corpse and make her heart flip.

That grin—lopsided and broad—held no guile, no agenda, just a man who’d found an interesting puzzle, one that appealed to him.

She sniffed, smoothed her skirts, then lifted her nose. “Perhaps when you’re done examining the…zombie, you can assist Detective Kenton in getting it out of my shop?”

The grin widened. “Can’t do much without the wagon.”

A bell rang from the back of the shop.

“There it is now.” She stepped toward the back hall. “I’ll let them in.”

He stood. “I’ll go with you.”

She raised a brow.

“You’ve already been attacked once today.”

Well, that was either sweet or interfering, depending on which side the coin landed.

He followed her through the corridor that led all the way to the back alley.

“I’ll open the door.” Men, they thought just because they were men, they had the right to take charge. His hand reached past her and his arm brushed against hers.

She stood aside. Jumped aside. Not because she feared what waited on the other side, but to get away from the tingling warmth of his arm

The door opened to a man holding a long board, his wagon hitched behind him. No danger. No attacker. Certainly no zombie.

“This way.” She retraced her steps with Drake and the wagon driver trailing behind.

The driver stopped short when he saw the corpse on her carpet. He scratched his ample belly. “Didn’t I…?”

“His twin brother,” she snapped.

The driver shrugged then, with Drake’s help, he transferred the corpse from her carpet to the board. The two of them carried it down the hallway.

“Detective Kenton, the body is in the wagon,” said Christine.

He left off making calf’s eyes at Molly.

“What? Oh. Sorry.” The policeman lumbered to his feet.

“Molly ought to rest some more. Would you see her home?”

“My pleasure.”

Of course it was. Away from the store, he could stare at Molly like some lovesick fool and Christine wouldn’t interrupt him.

Kenton helped Molly up from the chaise with the utmost gentleness.

The girl leaned into his bulk, her fingers clutching his sleeve. She looked around the shop then said, “I can’t possibly leave Miss Lambert with this mess.”

The girl didn’t mean a word of it but it was nice of her to at least pretend.

“Don’t be silly, Molly,” Christine insisted. “Go on home. Rest.”

“But—”

“She’s right, Molly. You fainted. You should lie down.”

Molly looked up at Kenton with adoring eyes.

Christine swallowed a sigh. She’d be training another assistant within six months. If she was a betting woman, she’d lay odds on it.

With Molly on his arm, Kenton unlocked the front door.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Molly.”

The girl answered with a feeble nod. “Thank you, Miss Lambert.”

The police detective led her into the street. Christine locked the door behind them. They’d left her with a mind-boggling mess and a damn Yankee.

Christine’s hand rose to the delicate chain that circled her neck and the coin hanging from it. She’d taken to touching it of late, a talisman hidden beneath the cotton and lace of her shirtwaist. What did a zombie want with a bit of Spanish silver? Her father hadn’t told her why the coin was important, only to guard it.

Where was he?

Christine bent and picked up another silk rose, this one splattered with Holy Water. Ruined. Damn it all, what was she to do? She couldn’t search for her father alone. The places where she might gather information weren’t suitable for a lady.

But…Mattias Drake? Why couldn’t Zeke have sent someone avuncular—a short, ugly man with a paunch and thinning hair?

She put the rose on the counter then picked up a hat with a now crumpled brim.

“I locked the back door.”

Christine turned and looked at the non-avuncular man. “Thank you.”

“Whe—”

“Detective Kenton took Molly home.”

“Wh—”

“I’m not telling you. I don’t trust you. We’ve been over this.” Christine smoothed the hat’s brim.

“Then—”

“I know. If I don’t tell you, you’re leaving.”

His brow wrinkled. “Sto—”

“Stop reading your mind? I’m not.” She wasn’t. Knowing what people were going to say before they said it could be useful. It allowed her to fetch pink velvet ribbon or blue ostrich feathers before a customer asked. It wasn’t mind reading. More like intuition, reading subtle signals, a lucky guess that was seldom wrong.

According to her father, her little talent was incredibly annoying, even off-putting. She usually hid her ability. Actually, that wasn’t true. She
always
hid her ability. She never interrupted people before they finished their sentences. Not until today. Not until Mattias Drake walked into her shop. He discombobulated her.

She scowled at him.

He scowled back. “Why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what I’m going to say next?”

Should she lift her nose or turn her back? Decisions, decisions. She tilted her nose toward the ceiling. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you do.” He considered her with narrowed eyes.

Lands!

He considered her and her little talent a puzzle. She could tell.

“There’s no mystery. I’m a good guesser.” The words spilled out too quickly, her tone too high. Mr. Mattias I-cannot-tell-a-lie Drake would hear the falsehood in her voice. She turned away and picked up another hat from the floor, this one made of black satin and velvet.

“When did you last hear from your father?”

She paused, smoothed a bit of luxurious ribbon, then breathed a sigh of relief. He was going to help her. What had changed his mind? She glanced at the hard lines of his face, almost got caught by the intensity of his blue eyes. Puzzles fascinated him and she’d offered two—first the zombie then her ability. It would be far better to send him away but—damn it—she needed him. “A week ago.”

“Did he give you any indication something was wrong?”

“No.”

“Was he always with you? At the shop or your home?”

“No.” Maybe in Boston ghosts stayed in one place or with one person, but this was New Orleans, where ghosts did exactly as they pleased. None more so than Warwick Lambert. He’d always done exactly what he wanted, when he wanted, consequences be damned. A little detail like death couldn’t change that.

“Ghosts are usually tethered.” So began the argument.

She held up a hand to halt the slew of well-reasoned words she sensed were poised to flow toward her. “Not my father.”

The tanned skin around Mattias Drake’s eyes crinkled when he scowled. It crinkled now. “What are your theories?”

It was suddenly much easier to look at the black hat in her hands than his eyes. “I think my father was kidnapped.”

She stole a glance from beneath the cover of her lashes. Drake’s mouth opened then closed. Twice.

“You know what I’m going to say?” he asked.

She did. She also knew she was right. “It sounds impossible”—her words tripped over each other in their eagerness to appear on her lips—”but, I’m sure someone is holding him against his will. If a boko can imprison a soul in a bottle, why can’t someone capture a ghost?”

He didn’t reply.

She’d stumped him, offered up another puzzle. If the man was motivated to solve puzzles, she needed to present as many as possible.

“Where would you start looking?” he asked.

“Bony LeMoyne.” A chill trickled from her scalp to her neck to her spine.

“Where?”

“Who,” she corrected. “He has a shop off Rampart Street.”

Tap, tap, tap.

Christine crossed the blessedly corpse-free carpet and peered through the glass. A tiny black woman—one who looked older than dirt—waited on the stoop, her head wrapped in a purple and green tignon, her expression as sour as curdled milk. She didn’t look like someone who wanted to buy a hat with an eight-inch brim covered in ostrich feathers. Not that it mattered. The shop was closed. Christine pointed to the
Fermé
sign in the window.

The woman shook her head.

Christine cracked the door. “I’m sorry, we’re closed.”

“I ain’t here to buy a hat. Trula Boudreaux Barnes sent me.”

She had? That changed things. Christine opened the door wide. “Please come in.”

The woman shuffled inside then looked Christine up and down.

Lace ribbons hung untied from her sleeves, the bows casualties of her bout with the zombie. Strands of her hair had escaped her chignon. Her skirts were wrinkled. She wasn’t at her best. “I’m Christine Lambert.”