Ghost Walk

She couldn’t quite do it. Couldn’t quite make herself get up.

She closed her eyes, and went back to sleep.

When Nikki woke in the morning, she didn’t even remember at first that she’d opened her eyes to see Andrea in her room. Her head was still thudding. She managed to crawl out of bed and into the bathroom, and down several aspirins. In the kitchen, she decided toast would be a good thing. Coffee first, because she couldn’t bear life without it, then toast and orange juice.

Walking back into her bedroom, she unlatched her glass doors and walked out on the little balcony that looked over the small courtyard in the back of the house where she lived. The antebellum grande dame had been restored beautifully—into six apartments. She had chosen her own when the work had barely been completed because of the two upstairs bedrooms, hers, that she slept in, with the windows that faced the garden, and the spare bedroom, that she used as an office, that overlooked Bourbon just beyond the small front yard and brick fence. Then, to make it all the more wonderful, downstairs her front entry wasn’t through the main hall, but was a separate entrance, a one-time servants’ door. It opened to the far end of the broad porch, an amenity accessible to all the tenants, but convenient to her. The porch looked on to grass and flowers and the swing that fell from a huge old oak. Downstairs, the street was blocked from view—and vice versa—by the brick fence. From the front, all the music and mayhem of the city could be heard, but in the rear, all was quiet.

A slight breeze filtered in. Fall was coming, and with it, days and nights that were beautiful, still warm, but relieved of the drop-dead humidity that could plague the city.

She determined to shower quickly and dress. That might help.

It did. Her hair still damp, in jeans and a knit shirt, she walked out to pour her coffee. The headache was beginning to recede. She took her coffee outside.

It was at the front door—where she discovered both her bolt and the chain lock still in place—that she remembered the dream. She smiled to herself.

Hurricanes.

She’d never have another.

So—the crew hadn’t sneaked in on her last night, determined to play the world’s most annoying practical joke.

She really had dreamed it all up!

Andrea would be amused when she heard about it. No…she wasn’t going to say anything to Andrea at all. That would only bolster the teasing concept that she had no life other than her work, that her life would be much more fun if she did submit to more alcohol upon occasion, and that she was…well, something of a workaholic.

She took her coffee outside, sat in one of the big wicker chairs on the porch, and looked out at the lawn and the eternal flowers there. Pretty. The breeze was pleasant.

A few more cups of coffee, her toast…and she might feel like living again.

She closed her eyes, letting the air caress her cheeks, ease away the night of living it up a bit too much—well, for her, anyway. But she was very serious about her work for Max. She might be underpaid for the amount of responsibility she was taking on now, but she knew that Max had big plans. He wanted to go around the country with his tours. Nikki had always loved to travel, and once Max got going, she wanted in on the whole thing. People simply loved this kind of tour. And no matter where a city might lure lots of tourists, there were surely ghosts to be found!

All right, this was her special turf. She’d spent her life here, right here, in the French Quarter. If there was a story out there, she’d heard it. The history of the city was something she could recite in her sleep. And she loved it. Funny, that made her think of Andy.

When she’d first met the girl, her friend had been amazed that she still loved living in New Orleans. In fact, she’d burst into laughter when Nikki had urged her to tell her why she was grinning like an imp.

“It’s just…well, you’re not a drinker. And it seems you always want to go somewhere without crowds…so, why live in and love New Orleans?”

The question had startled Nikki. “It’s home. It’s all I know. And, okay, so I’m not a big boozer. I love jazz! I love the artists on the street, and the performers…and even the people who pass through!”

And she did.

“What on earth do you do during Mardi Gras?” Andy had demanded, still laughing.

“Visit friends in Biloxi,” she said dryly.

It was true. There were always tourists in New Orleans. She liked tourists. She just didn’t like the melee that came along with Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

Well, she thought, yawning and stretching, she would stay in New Orleans for Mardi Gras next year. They all wanted a party. She’d do it—for Andy, and the others, as well, she figured. Julian was Mr. Party himself, a good friend, and she loved him—even if she was ready to clobber him right now. She’d known him her whole life, and he’d taken the job when she’d asked him on Max’s behalf because of her, not because he’d originally thought they could really do something new and special. He was wickedly tall and good looking, and great at this work, even if he was overly dramatic. Didn’t matter—those who went on the ghost walk with him were always thrilled.

Sure, this year, she’d have a party. Patricia, who had grown up not too far away, in Cajun country, longed to have a really good Mardi Gras party, too. She’d grown up close—but far enough away so that she longed to be part of the real heart of the celebration, too—from the above-the-vomit line, as she called it. Mitch, of course, was from Pittsburgh, and he was dying to get into the dead center of it all. As he had told Patricia, he didn’t care what evils lurked on the street; he wanted to see it all. Of course, he’d prefer a nice party place, but…

Nathan was more like her. He was shy, except with friends, unless he was on, and then, like Julian, he was on. Now, he was madly in love with Patricia, and he was comfortable with their close group of workers. Though Nikki was certain Nathan would just as soon head for Biloxi during Mardi Gras, too, he would want a party because Patricia would want a party.

And, of course, it would be an important time for them to be working.

They were doing so well.

Nikki felt a real sense of pride—despite her pounding headache. A lot of the time, tourists thought that costumes and makeup on tour guides was just schmaltz.

Not so with their group.

They were good. They knew their subject matter. They could answer questions. They didn’t just give a tour—they were an event.

And though the whole thing had been created through Max’s plan, vision—and money—Nikki felt as if it were her own dream child finding real fruition. She had been there with Max at the very beginning, when there had been just the two of them, working hard, footing it all over the place by herself. Befriending the concierge staff at the hotels, begging store managers for flyer space. She had been the one to give the free tours to travel agents, thanking God that Max had saved up enough to be able to bring the people in. After the first go, Max had told her to bring Julian in. He hadn’t been convinced that he’d ever really get a substantial income from the enterprise, but he’d been willing to take a chance because she was so impassioned.

And he was a total ham.

They had begun to thrive, and so, Max had told her to increase the program, and the staff. She had found the others later—they’d had to “audition,” both for historical accuracy, and for their ability to tell a damned good and eerie story without getting into outright lies. No one in their group ever said that such things as vampires, ghosts, or any other metaphysical creature existed. They told the stories that had been told. The legends. They were still known as the “ghost” walk, though officially, the company was called “Myths and Legends of New Orleans.”

Nikki ran her fingers through her hair, trying to let it dry in the breeze.

A newspaper came flying over the brick wall. The newsboy—late as he was!—had cast it over the brick with amazing accuracy.

It landed in front of her. Staring down at the headline, she let out a sigh. There were two pictures on the front page. One of the statelier Harold Grant and one of the more charismatic Billy Banks.

“Billy Banks,” she muttered aloud. “Who the hell votes for a guy named Billy Banks?”

As she leaned down to pick up the paper, she heard the front gate opening.

As it did, she felt a vicious cold sweep through her, as if an arctic blast had suddenly hit her entire bloodstream. Her breath caught.

Her sense of foreboding… It was coming true.

She looked up, remnants of her dream flashing through her mind’s eye like a chaotic movie trailer.

She knew, though he was in plainclothes, that the man who approached her was a policeman, and that he was about to tell her something terrible.

She stood up, her mouth working, no words coming.

“You—you’re a cop. Something’s happened,” she finally gasped out.

The officer nodded. He cleared his throat. “I’m Detective Massey, Owen Massey, Miss DuMonde.”

Nikki stared at him, hating the wave of knowledge that filled her, muscles constricting as she denied everything rushing into her mind.

“No, no…there’s a mistake.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Someone is…hurt?”

“I’m here about Miss Ciello, Miss Andrea Ciello.”

He looked helpless—big, kind and helpless. Cops like him must have to give people bad news all the time, but it looked as if it had never gotten easy for this guy. “We were referred to you. A Mrs. Montobello is the one who called us…insisted we go in, swore that Miss Ciello would have come to see her first thing in the morning. She said that you were Miss Ciello’s best friend? I’m sorry, so sorry. I wish there were an easier way to do this. Um…should we go inside?”

“What’s happened? Tell me what’s happened!”

“Perhaps—”

“No! Talk to me, tell me, what’s happened?”

“Overdose, I’m afraid. We believe it was accidental, but you know, we have to go through procedure…. The thing is, we need someone to make a formal identification of the body.”

“Body?” Nikki gasped.

“Yes, I’m afraid—”

“No!” Nikki stared at him in disbelief. No. It had to be an elaborate joke. Andy—vivacious, fun-loving, rowdy Andy—couldn’t be dead.

“I’m truly sorry. It appears that she—”

“Andy was clean.”

“I’m sure she wanted to be clean.”

“No! She was clean.” Nikki realized that she was backing away from the man, denying everything that he was saying. But it couldn’t be true. “She was clean. She knew not to touch the stuff. It’s impossible that she did this to herself. It’s impossible that…”

But from the way he was looking at her, she knew it was true.

Just as the dream had been true. She wanted to black out; she wanted the world to go away. Yes, she had always had a sense of the past, of spirits that remained, but never, never, had she felt…seen…anything like…

Last night. Andy had been dead. Or dying. And she had come to Nikki for help. She had failed her friend somehow.

She shook her head again. Her words were fierce. “Andrea Ciello was off drugs. I know it. If something’s happened to Andy, it was not self-inflicted, and it was not accidental. She was murdered.”

Murdered.

The officer was staring at her, troubled, frowning.

“I’m telling you, she was clean. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll raise a stink in this parish that you won’t believe. She can’t be…oh, God.”

No. This was impossible. She was still dreaming. Imagining this cop just the way she’d imagined Andy last night.

“I’m sorry, Miss DuMonde. Look, is there someone I can call? Are your folks here…a sister, brother, friend?” he asked.

She ignored him, shaking her head, anger keeping her standing. “She did not overdose. If she had drugs in her system, someone else put them there. I am going to demand an investigation. I want to see a homicide officer.”

“I handle homicide cases,” he said gently. “We have to look into any death that’s questionable in any way.”

“Oh?” She stared at him anew, heart racing.

“It wasn’t a natural death,” he said. “So they call us in.”

“What time was she killed?” Nikki managed to ask.

“What time did she die?” he countered gently.

“Please. Yes, whatever. What time—did she die?” Nikki gasped out again.

The detective looked wary, as if he wasn’t sure why that information should be so pertinent.

“The ME only had an estimate, but it would have been right around 4:00 a.m.,” he told her.

She reached out, grasping for a railing…for help…for something that wasn’t there. Too late, the detective realized what was happening.

Nikki crashed down on the porch as the world faded before her, Andy’s words suddenly echoing in her ears.

“Help me!”

“Sorry,” the taxi driver told Brent as they slowed to a near halt on entering the French Quarter.

“No problem,” Brent told him.

It was usually a slow process, maneuvering the tourist-filled streets. Delivery vans could block a narrow byway, and any little snarl could close things off, though in the tight confines of the place—with many streets blocked off for pedestrian traffic only—most people preferred to walk. Still, vehicles were sometimes necessary, and delays were just a fact of life.

Brent breathed a deep sigh as he looked around. Charming. That was definitely a word to describe the architecture, the handsome wrought-iron railings the locals called iron lace. The sound of the music, the colors, the architecture itself. Yes, the place had charm.

And once upon a time he had loved it.

But that was then, and this was now, and if he’d never come back, it would have been just fine.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked as a patrolman in the street brought the traffic to a stop.

“Debate,” the taxi driver said.

“Debate?” Brent said, and frowned.

“Politicians, and I’m not sure what they’re debating. They both claim to have the same platform. Working to keep the history and unique quality of the place while cleaning up crime. I guess the old guy is saying that he knows what he’s doing, that his record is great, and we’re already on the way, while the younger guy is claiming the old guy hasn’t done a thing, hasn’t moved fast enough…well, you know. It’s politics. Everyone swears to move the moon, and everyone out there is a liar, just the same.” He winked at Brent in the rearview mirror.

“The crime rate has come down, though, hasn’t it?”

“Crime rate goes down, crime rate goes up. Hey, no matter who wants to run what, nothing changes. Those that have want to keep what they have. Those that don’t have want to get. We have real poverty in some areas, some pretty rich folk in others. Same old, same old, the human condition. Unless you change the conditions…well, that’s what both our boys say they mean to do, so…you know how you usually vote for the guy you dislike the least? Well, both these guys are likable, so I guess we can’t lose.”

“That’s good.”

“I think so. But then, I love this place. You visit often?”

“No.”

“Where you from?”

Brent started to say, All over.

But he didn’t. He told the truth.

“Here. Right here.”

“Yeah? Well, welcome home!”

The traffic began to move again.

They passed the police station on Royal.

At last they came to the bed-and-breakfast where Brent was planning to stay, after crashing at a hotel out by the airport the night before.

He paid the driver, met the hefty man who owned the place, paid and found his room.

And crashed down on the bed. New Orleans.

Arriving here was like having his blood drained from his body. Like being on the wrong side of a bout in a boxing ring. The pain in his head crashed like hurricane waves on the shore.

Drapes were drawn, door was closed…darkness.

All he needed was a little time. And he could adjust.

He didn’t want to adjust.

But he would.

5

A year and a day.

That thought kept going through Nikki’s head as she stood in the graveyard. Andrea hadn’t hailed from New Orleans, but she didn’t have any family left anywhere else, either. She’d been orphaned, like Nikki, and had grown up in a series of foster homes.

There had been no one to call. Andrea had been out of school for two years, traveling and taking odd jobs along the way. She’d left no names to contact in any kind of an emergency. She had gone to Tulane and probably still had friends in the area, but who they were and how they could be reached, Nikki hadn’t had the faintest idea.

And because there was no place Andrea had called home and no one she had called family, Nikki had decided that she would take care of all the arrangements.

So Andy was being buried in Nikki’s family vault, since there was plenty of room and no one left to fill it. The DuMondes had lived in the area since the late 1700s. Where her very early ancestors had been buried, Nikki didn’t know. But in the 1800s they had acquired a plot in the Garden District. Someone at some time had put some money into the family mausoleum. Giant angels guarded the wrought-iron doors to the elaborate family tomb that boasted the name DuMonde in large chiseled letters.

The last interment had been her parents, killed in an automobile accident when she had been a toddler, and her grandparents, gone just a few years ago.

As she stood in front of the door, she realized that it was truly sad, but she barely remembered either her mother or her father. She had pictures, of course, and because of the pictures, she had convinced herself that she remembered much more than she really did.

A year and a day…

The time it took for the fierce New Orleans heat to cremate the earthly remains of a once-living soul. Then the ashes could be scraped back into a holding cell in the niche within the vault, and a new body could be interred. There were actually twelve burial vaults within the family mausoleum. Nikki had decided that Andrea should be buried with her own folks. She certainly didn’t believe that corpses or remains could find comfort with one another, but it made her feel a little better to know that they would be interred together.

Of course, funerals were for the living.

Julian wrapped an arm around her shoulder. They all thought she was in serious shock. She was. They all thought it was because she and Andy had bonded so quickly. It wasn’t.

She had liked Andrea, really liked her. But none of them had known her more than a few weeks.

It was partly because Nikki was convinced Andrea had been murdered, no matter what anyone else said or thought. But there was more.

It wasn’t the fact that a monster was out there, still at liberty, unknown by the police, that was the greatest horror.

It was the dream….

“Sweetie, it’s over,” Julian whispered to her. “Set your flower on the coffin.”

She nodded, swallowing. And set the flower on the coffin.

The funeral had cost a mint, a mint she didn’t really have. But the rest of the group had been wonderful, contributing what they could, and Max had told her to take whatever she needed from the corporate account.

After she set her flower down, she turned. The glass-enclosed, horse-drawn hearse, empty now, remained on the dirt path that led from the street to the vault. The band began to play—a typical New Orleans band, a small group that Nikki was convinced would have meant a great deal to Andrea. It hadn’t exactly been a full-blown New Orleans jazz funeral, but it had been close.

Andy had wanted to be a part of the real New Orleans.

Now she was.

Andrea had been dead for four days. Despite the fact that an autopsy had been not only demanded by Nikki but required by law, nothing the ME had been able to tell them had shed any light on the situation. Nikki had continued to insist to Massey that there had been a killer.

To her relief, he didn’t try to convince her that she was simply in denial, grieving for the loss of a friend. Perhaps he didn’t believe her, but he had at least gone through the motions of an investigation.

All they knew was that Andrea had gone to Pat O’Brien’s with her friends, and at 2:00 a.m. they had parted company.

What had happened after that, none of them knew.

The police had found her—forcing the door of her apartment at the insistence of Mrs. Montobello—at nine o’clock in the morning. Andy had checked in with Mrs. Montobello with such regularity that the woman had been worried, and rightly so.

Andy had no longer been clad in the short sassy skirt and bandeau top she had been wearing when they celebrated. She had been in a New Orleans Saints shirt and nothing else.

Just as Nikki had seen her.

She had been found with a needle and other drug paraphernalia at her side. The only prints found in her place could be traced to her friends, and even those had been sparse. Many surfaces had been wiped clean. Nikki knew that some of the officers involved in the case believed that was because Andy had recently cleaned the apartment. Thankfully, Massey seemed to find it a bit suspicious.

But…other than that…

There had been no forced entry, nothing to show that anyone else had been with her that night. There was nothing….

Nothing. Nothing at all. Or, if the police did have anything, they weren’t sharing.

Nikki didn’t think any of her own friends believed her. They had tried, however, to help her cover any possible angle. They had all spent hours in the police station, trying to remember if they had seen anyone, anyone at all, looking at Andrea oddly or threateningly. Hard to decide, though they did remember the sandy-haired guy who might have been looking at Nikki herself. Admittedly, they had all been smashed.

Even Andy.

Oh, God, please let it be that she didn’t feel fear and pain, Nikki thought.

Had Andy been followed home? By someone who had been watching her at the bar? Or by someone who had seen her on the streets as she walked home.

Were the others right, when they looked at her with sympathy, thinking that she just couldn’t accept the fact that Andy had fallen back into using? God knew, it was easy enough to buy whatever drugs you might want.

No. There had been someone else, someone who had forced the drug on Andy.

Mrs. Montobello hadn’t heard a thing, which wasn’t surprising. She couldn’t hear a bomb go off without her hearing aid, which she wouldn’t have been wearing at four o’clock in the morning. She was here now, softly crying into an embroidered handkerchief. Andy had always been so good to her, checking up on her, bringing her gourmet treats and other little presents. Poor Mrs. Montobello was really going to miss Andy. But as to being much help when it came to the investigation…well, she wasn’t any.

The account executive who lived above Andy had been in New York on business. The single mother of two next to him had taken her toddlers to her mother’s house. So there had been no one in Andy’s quaint Victorian manor who might have heard anything, or have any clue as to what had happened.

The police had posted an appeal in the newspaper seeking anyone who might have seen Andy that night. And people had come in, trying to be helpful with stories about any strange character they might have met.

In New Orleans, that could be practically anybody.

The police were at a loss. As far as Nikki knew, the crime scene investigation department had gone over Andy’s apartment with the best forensics available. They hadn’t found as much as a hair that might help unravel the mystery of her death. Not a single clue.

Naturally, Nikki had kept silent about her strange dream. She could barely remember it, anyway—other than the fact that Andy had been there at the foot of her bed. But she hadn’t been there. She had been either dead or dying by that time.