Bayou Nights (4 page)

“Granny Amzie.” The woman’s creped chin bobbed a greeting.

Christine’s heart skipped a beat, or two, or five. Trula had sent a Voodoo witch to help find Warwick? “Welcome, ma’am.” At least her voice didn’t skip.

The old woman’s gaze took in the silk roses on the floor, the hats waiting to be picked up, the score marks on the glass counter, and the scowling man with too-blue eyes who leaned against the jamb of the door leading to the back hall. Then she patted her tignon. “Looks as if you had a speck of trouble.”

“We did,” Christine admitted.

“More’s comin’.”

She’d need more Holy Water. When her father had told her to keep a pitcher handy, she’d never dreamed she’d actually use it. Now, being without it seemed dangerous.

Granny Amzie claimed a seat on the fainting couch then waited, as if she expected Christine to serve her tea or make formal introductions.

Christine complied, donning a social smile perfected in the parlors of St. Charles Street before her life went to hell. “Granny Amzie, this is Mr. Mattias Drake, an associate of Zeke Barnes. Mr. Drake, this is Granny Amzie. She and Trula are close.”

Granny’s wise eyes narrowed. “Pleased to know you, Mr. Drake.” Then she worked her lips as if she was dying of thirst.

Southern hospitality, both the boon and bane of a southern woman’s existence, demanded she offer refreshment. “May I offer you tea or lemonade?” Christine asked.

Drake crossed his arms over his chest. “You didn’t offer me a drink.”

The muscles in her jaw tightened. “I haven’t had time. May I get you something, Mr. Drake?”

“No.”

“Lemonade,” said Granny. “If it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all. If you’ll excuse me.” Christine slipped past Drake and went to the small kitchen. She poured lemonade into two crystal glasses, garnished them with fresh mint, and put them on a silver tray that had belonged to her maternal great-grandmother. The adrenaline that carried her through the fight with the zombie and its aftermath had dissipated, leaving her limbs as heavy as cypress beams. A tray with two glasses seemed more than she could carry. Christine snorted. Bemoaning the weight of a tray walked dangerously close to self-pity. She picked the damn thing up and carried it to the front room.

Granny took a glass. Christine claimed the other.

“That looks so good, I’ve changed my mind. May I have some?”

Mattias Drake didn’t want lemonade any more than he wanted another zombie to burst through the front door. What he wanted was to bedevil her. It wouldn’t work. She offered up her sweetest smile then held out the crystal tumbler. “Take it. I haven’t touched it.”

“I couldn’t.” His lips, the upper one which was entirely too full for a man, twitched.

“I insist.”

“No, no. Just point me to the kitchen.”

As if a southern woman would let a guest serve himself. The man wasn’t bedeviling her, he was the devil.

“Enough of that,” Granny’s voice cut through their little game. “The girl offered you her lemonade. You take it.”

Looking only slightly cowed, Drake accepted the glass.

“You think I come all the way to the city to listen to the two of you spat?”

Spat? Hardly. Their exchange was about Mattias Drake seeking to establish a pecking order with him at the top. “My apologies, Granny Amzie. You said Trula sent you.”

The old woman took a sip of lemonade then nodded. “She sent me a letter said your daddy was missin’.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ain’t no easy thing to catch a ghost.”

Drake snorted softly and Granny focused her sharp gaze on him. “You don’t catch ghosts. You send ’em to the other side. That’s different.”

He sent ghosts to the other side? Christine shifted her gaze to the man sipping her lemonade.

He acknowledged Granny’s point with a half-nod and a lift of his lemonade glass.

“Question is—” Granny scratched her temple near the edge of her tignon “—why would anyone go to all that trouble?”

Another why. Why did the zombie come to her shop? Why did someone kidnap her father? And there were bigger whys. Why did Warwick Lambert need to gamble? Why had he risked and lost his family’s future on a hand of cards? Why did she find a rough-cut Yankee with no sense of style and cocksure confidence handsome?

“I reckon you know the answer,” said Granny.

“Pardon?”

“I reckon you know why your daddy got himself kidnapped. I reckon you know what caused this here trouble.” Granny’s gaze encompassed the upended hats, the ruined glass counter, and the water-stained silk roses on the carpet.

“I don’t.” Christine’s hand rose to her throat.

“What you got hanging round your neck?”

Was she so easy to read? Christine dropped her hand. “Nothing.”

“Let me take a look at nothing.” Granny patted the empty spot next to her on the chaise.

Antagonize a Voodoo witch or show her a bit of old silver? The choice was easy. Christine sat and unbuttoned the top button of her shirtwaist.

…

Christine Lambert unbuttoning her shirt was the single most erotic thing Mattias Drake had ever seen. It shouldn’t have been. He saw nothing but the smooth column of her neck. Yet, with each button parted, his mouth grew drier. He took a long, slow sip of lemonade and forced his eyes closed.

“I reckoned as much,” said Granny Amzie.

Mattias opened his eyes.

The old woman leaned forward and peered at a chain circling Christine’s delicate neck. One of her gnarled hands reached out and picked up a charm hanging from its end. “You, child, are in a heap of trouble.”

He straightened. It took an old woman to get answers? “What is it?” His voice sounded dry, bone dry, crumbling bone dry.

“It’s a piece of eight,” said Christine.

One bit of pirate silver shouldn’t cause a heap of trouble. “And?”

“I don’t know. My father gave it to me.”

“Where did he get it?” Mattias asked.

“In a card game.” Christine’s voice was flat, devoid of all expression. Why then did he think she disapproved of cards? Why did he think she was withholding information?

Christine gently freed the coin from Granny’s fingers, tucked the bit of silver inside her shirtwaist, and buttoned a pearl button.

What was so special about that coin? “May I see it?”

She unbuttoned the button she’d just closed.

He abandoned his post by the doorway, drew a calming breath, then approached. A typical piece of eight shined against the satin of her skin. Typical silver, typical skin. Well, maybe a bit brighter than he was used to seeing. Both the silver and the skin. He swallowed another gulp of lemonade.

“How long you had it?” Granny asked.

“Ten days.” Christine’s voice was a mere whisper.

“You said your father has been dead for years.”

She looked up at him. “He has.”

“Then how?”

“Ghosts gamble for secrets. He won the location to this coin then took me to fetch it.”

“Where?” asked Granny.

“The corner of Bourbon and St. Philip Streets.”

The old woman crossed herself.

He was missing something. Something important. “What’s there?”

Granny Amzie took Christine’s hands in her own then stared into the milliner’s singular eyes. “You need more help than I can give you. You got to tell him.”

The pale pink of Christine’s cheeks faded to parchment and she shook her head.

“You got to,” said Granny. At least the old woman had some sense. He couldn’t help Christine if he didn’t know what he was up against.

“What’s there?” he repeated.

“It’s such an unassuming little place,” said Christine. “I peeked through the window. There’s a double-sided fireplace and old beams.” She looked up at him, her amber eyes wide. “The roof sags.”

What was so mysterious about an old building? She was still keeping secrets.

“You went alone?” asked Granny.

“My father went with me. He showed me the loose brick.”

“What did he tell you ‘bout that there coin?” Granny loosed Christine’s hands and reached for the silver again.

“He told me to guard it.”

Granny snorted.

Enough. He’d had enough of their secrets. Either they told him exactly what was going on or he’d walk out the front door. “Explain.” Drake demanded.

Granny looked up at him with eyes yellowed by age. “This here coin”—she let the bit of silver drop against Christine’s skin—“belonged to Jean Lafitte. She done fetched it from his blacksmith shop. Legend has it, the holder of this coin and its brothers is the only one who can find the treasure.”

“Its brothers?” asked Christine

“What treasure?” he asked. Scenes from Stevenson’s
Treasure Island
danced a jig in his head.

“Jean Lafitte’s treasure. Ain’t you ever heard of New Orleans’ pirate?”

He hadn’t. “You just said he was a blacksmith.”

Granny Amzie snorted then shook her head. “The man was a pirate.”

“He had his own island,” said Christine. “Barataria.”

Mattias put the now empty glass of lemonade on the counter and crossed his arms. “Is that why the zombie came in here? Attacked you?”

“Zombie?” Granny Amzie’s brows rose to the edge of the odd turban she had wrapped around her head.

“Zombie,” he confirmed. “Christine doused it with Holy Water then carved a cross on its forehead with a silver hatpin.”

“Christine done stole the zombie’s soul back for him. The boko ain’t gonna like it.” The old woman shook her head as if making a boko angry was a terrible problem. Maybe it was. They could add it to their list. “How did you know to do that, girl?”

“My father told me about the Holy Water. The cross just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“I knew it.” Granny shifted back and forth as if the fainting couch was a rocking chair. “You got a bit of shimmer to you.”

“Shimmer?” Christine asked.

“Shimmer. You know what people is gonna say before they say it.”

Drake snorted. Let her deny reading his mind now.

“Sometimes,” Christine allowed, then she tilted her head toward the older woman. “But, it varies. I haven’t the slightest idea what you’ll say next.”

“There’s more to shimmer than just knowin’ what someone’s fixin’ to say. You see ghosts and spirits and sense…other things.”

“Most people can sense things.”

“Most people don’t pay their senses no mind. You do.” Then Granny nodded her wrinkled chin in his direction in grudging acknowledgement. “He does.”

Drake leaned against the counter. So, Christine Lambert saw ghosts, sensed spirits, and had a touch of telepathy. Useful skills. Too bad she spent her days selling silly hats. Or, maybe that was a blessing. If she was a serious woman, he might be tempted to pursue her. No. He shook his head. He wouldn’t. Women were too breakable. Her especially. She was too delicate—the weight of her chestnut hair looked as if it might snap her neck. She was too slender—a careless man might break her by holding her too tight. She was too lovely—her angelic face revealed a life untouched by hardship. Now, if only she’d button her shirtwaist.

Granny Amzie cleared her throat then smiled at him, a sly smile that suggested she’d read his mind.

Heat prickled the back of Drake’s neck. “Miss Lambert thought we should start looking for her father at Bony LeMoyne’s.”

Eeeesh.
Granny Amzie drew breath through her teeth.

Christine turned her gaze on him.

He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. “I’ll help you find your father.” It was the reason he’d come. That her father was a ghost, that a zombie had attacked her, that a long-since dead pirate’s treasure was in play—that just made things more interesting. “It’s why I’m here.”

“I reckon there are better places to start lookin’ than Bony LeMoyne’s,” said Granny Amzie.

“Where?” he asked.

“Jean Lafitte’s smithy comes to mind. His ghost might be willin’ to help. Especially since she’s wearin’ the coin.”

That sounded like a colossal waste of time. Why would a ghost share information with the woman who’d stolen his coin? He shook his head.

“I’ll go,” said Christine. She looked out the front window into the fading light. “It’s not far from here.”

“No.” His voice was too loud and the women on the couch stared at him. That he’d let another woman go off into the night, half-cocked and over-confident, wasn’t an option. Surely Christine Lambert was too smart to think she could battle the darkness and win. He rubbed at the furrow that had appeared between his brows. His silly, foolish, too brave sister had thought exactly that. She’d been wrong. “You stay here, I’ll go.”

The women left off staring at him, glanced at each other, then laughed.

Chapter Three

How had this happened? It was one thing to want an escort to Bony LeMoyne’s shop of horrors, but to a harmless old building in the Vieux Carré?

Drake’s suggestion that she stay behind had been serious. He obviously didn’t want her around anymore than she wanted him.

They’d had a lengthy discussion about tight-lipped ghosts who wouldn’t give a Yankee the proper directions much less the truth about one of their own. She’d prevailed but the man’s silent displeasure was fully audible. It pealed like the bells in Saint Louis Cathedral each time his heels hit the banquette.

Then again, perhaps all the annoyance that seemed to simmer just beneath his skin wasn’t for her presence but for her personally. He’d responded with incredulity to her insistence that she couldn’t walk through the Vieux Carré looking as if she’d been dragged through a rat hole. He didn’t understand. She had a reputation as the best-dressed woman in all of New Orleans to protect. That caché kept every woman in the Garden District and the Quarter clamoring to buy hats at her shop. She couldn’t afford to look anything less than fabulous.

Drake took her arm and steered her around a broken bottle. Safely past the shards of glass, he released her and wiped his hands on his pants, as if touching her might give him yellow fever.

Crazy as it seemed, she sensed that part of his ire was directed at the flight of fancy that sat atop her head. The same shade of deep navy as her dress, the hat had yards of rhinestone-sprinkled tulle wrapped around the crown. It brought to mind lazy childhood nights with nothing to do but lie in a hammock and gaze at the stars. She patted the brim.

He grumbled.

“I don’t believe I caught that.”

“Can you walk any faster?”

The man was beyond churlish. She couldn’t walk faster, didn’t want to. Christine stopped on the banquette and stared up at him. He stood taller than she did, of course his strides were longer. “What’s your hurry, Mr. Drake? That building has been there for a hundred years. I reckon it will last another hundred, sagging roof and all.”

Another grumble.

“I assure you I don’t need a hack.” Her fingers flew to cover her lips. She’d done it again, answered a question he hadn’t yet asked. She turned her gaze away from his furious expression and looked instead at a flowerbox hanging from a balcony. Already the verbena looked full and lush. “It’s a lovely night for a stroll.”

“Lovely!” His brows rose and he looked at her as if she was as crazy as a June bug in May.

It was lovely. The remnants of the day’s heat still clung stubbornly to the banquette but, for an evening in late April, the weather was balmy. What’s more, bits of music floated on the night breeze, the air was scented with jasmine instead of the river, and the stars shone almost as bright as the rhinestones dotting her hat. “Lovely.”

“Need I remind you that a zombie attacked you today or that we’re on our way to the headquarters of an infamous pirate?”

Jean Lafitte had gone from unknown to infamous in the space of a few blocks. Christine tightened her lips to hide a smile.

A ghost in a seersucker suit turned and stared at them. He doffed a straw hat then completed an elaborate bow. “Miss Lambert, what an unexpected pleasure to see you on this fine evening.”

She dipped a small curtsy. “Mr. Flournoy, always a pleasure.”

“Who is this gentleman, my dear?” Beauregard Flournoy was too polite to show his disapproval of Drake’s plain suit, but Christine sensed it. Perhaps Mattias did, too. His back stiffened.

The ghost extended his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“This is Mr. Mattias Drake all the way from Boston.”

“A Yankee?” The question carried forty years’ worth of pent-up resentment. Flournoy withdrew his hand.

A few seconds of awkward silence followed. It wasn’t as if Drake could actually shake the ghost’s hand, but the removal of that stretched palm probably stung.

“Mr. Drake’s just visiting, Mr. Flournoy.” Neither the ghost nor the man seemed much impressed by her attempt to smooth their feathers. She pitched her voice lower, sweeter. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my father?”

Flournoy left off glaring at Drake and smiled at her. “Not since the last time you asked, dear. I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he decided to take a steamboat trip. You know your father adored the steamboats.”

She knew too well. Days on the river with nothing to do but play cards. Christine drew a deep breath of jasmine-scented air.

“When did you last see Mr. Lambert?” asked Drake. Only he mispronounced her last name. Had he done it on purpose? The ghost stared at him without comprehending. Or at least he pretended not to understand.

“He means Daddy.”

“
Lamb-bear
.” The ghost looked down his patrician nose then directed his answer to her. “I reckon it’s going on two weeks since I saw Warwick.”

“Where were you?” asked Drake.

One of Flournoy’s brows rose at the abrupt question. The ghost focused on her, ignoring the Yankee. “Playing cards in one of the back rooms at Josie’s. Your daddy had quite a run.”

“Where?” the Yankee repeated.

“At the table.” Flournoy tilted his ghostly head and regarded Drake with the same disbelieving expression she’d used a time or two.

Drake drew a deep breath, one that expanded his already broad chest, then exhaled. “Where were you playing cards?”

“Oh. Josie Arlington’s over on Basin. It’s a—” Flournoy glanced her way and his voice died.

“It’s a house of ill-repute,” Christine finished.

“Who else was playing?” asked Drake.

Flournoy stroked his ghostly chin. “Let me see here… Quig Haywood, Jack Sumner, and Dominique Youx.”

She’d never thought to ask who’d played cards the night her father won the secret. Well, she hadn’t put together the coin and his disappearance until this afternoon. Mattias Drake wasn’t so very smart—she’d have thought to ask the same question…eventually.

“Mr. Flournoy, Daddy won a secret at that game.” She smiled her sweetest smile and widened her eyes. “Who did he win it from?”

The ghost cocked his head to the side. “Your daddy won that with three aces over two kings.”

A replay of the hand was the last thing Christine wanted to hear. “Who lost?”

“Youx.”

“Thank you, Mr. Flournoy.”

“My pleasure, dear girl. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about your daddy. He’ll be home soon. Now”—he withdrew a ghostly pocket watch and glanced at its face— “if you’ll excuse me.” He offered her another extravagant bow then faded away.

Drake’s hand closed on her elbow and he pulled her forward. “They let a woman play cards with them?”

“What? Of course not.”

“Dominique.”

“Dominique Youx. A war hero. He helped save the city during the War of 1812.”

Drake looked blank.

“He served under Andrew Jackson. He became president. You have heard of him?”

“I have.” Drake’s voice was as dry as high sand at low tide. “Why can’t you people pick simple names?”

Of all the nerve. She fluttered her eyelashes. “You mean like Mattias instead of Matthew?”

The skin around Drake’s jawline tightened as if he was clenching his teeth very hard.

They walked a few blocks in blessed silence.

Christine stopped on the corner of St. Philip Street and pointed. “There.”

The little brick building was French not Spanish, a rarity.

“I thought you said it was a blacksmith shop.”

“It was, ninety years ago. Someone lives there now.”

“Who?” Drake asked.

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“We’ll have to look it up,” she said.

A streetlamp cast a glow on the corner. “Or”—Christine pointed at a ghostly figure—”we could ask him.”

“Who’s that?”

“Pierre Lafitte. Jean’s older brother.”

Drake stared, slack-jawed.

Apparently, he’d expected a ghost with a matted beard, tri-corn hat, and a brace of pistols across his chest—the Black Beard version of a pirate. Instead Pierre looked like a Southern gentleman, a Creole of French and Spanish descent. Perhaps Drake had expected a gray wraith. If so, Pierre Lafitte must come as a shock. The ghost looked almost solid, the colors of his clothes, his hair, and his skin barely muted by death.

“You know him?” Drake asked.

“Not yet.” Christine gathered up her courage like the trailing ends of a fringed shawl and crossed the quiet street. She bobbed a curtsy then lifted her hand for a ghostly kiss. “
Je
suis
Christine Lambert.”

“
Enchanté
,” the ghost murmured.

“
Vous etes trop
gentil
, Monsieur Lafitte.”

“
Pas de tout
.”

She sensed Drake at her back, his warmth a stark contrast to the coolness that surrounded Pierre. “
Permettez-moi, ca c’est
Monsieur Drake.”

“I don’t speak French.” Drake’s voice was flat, almost rude, definitely unwilling to be seduced by old-world customs.

The man didn’t speak French. He didn’t understand charm, much less have any himself. He could annoy her with just a sigh or a grumble. Yet he’d tried to save her from the zombie and now he was helping her find her father. Christine glanced up at the hard planes of his face—uncompromising New England granite. The exact opposite of what she should find compelling, so why did she? Christine shook her head and drew humid air deep into her lungs. “This is Mr. Drake.”

Pierre Lafitte inclined his chin—slightly—then switched effortlessly to English. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Drake.” His friendly tone didn’t quite reach his eyes but at least he sounded polite. “I am Pierre Lafitte.”

“Your shop?” Drake waved his hand at the little brick building.

An amused smile flitted across the ghost’s lips. “It was. The front was for horses, the back for business.”

“Business?” asked Drake.

“Before the war, my brother and I used this place as our New Orleans office. It was a convenient spot for our customers.”

“What did you sell?” Her voice sounded misty and weak in the lavender night. She cleared her throat and repeated, “What did you sell?”

“Whatever our customers wanted to buy,
chérie
.” He fixed his ghostly gaze on her. “You’ve been here before. I saw you.”

“My father brought me here to fetch something he won in a card game.”

The ghost cocked his head to the side. Something dark and murky swam in the depths of his eyes. “Did he win the item or its secret?”

The distinction had been lost on her. She’d never questioned if Warwick had the right to take the coin now hanging round her neck. “I don’t know. I assumed he won the item. After all, a secret shared is no longer a secret.”

Lafitte shrugged his ghostly shoulders. “
Ca c’est vrai
. But it would have been better if you’d left my brother’s coin alone.”

Christine’s fingers itched to touch the chain at her neck. She fisted her hands instead. “My father is missing.”

“Oh?” Pierre raised a brow.

“I hoped you might know where he is.”

“I cannot help you.”

“I can return your brother’s secret to its hiding place.”

“
Non, c’est trop
tard
.” He waved his hand, sweeping away her suggestion as easily as a broom swept dust from the banquette. “It is too late. The game has begun.”

“The game?” Drake asked. He leaned forward, apparently interested.

Pierre nodded. “As soon as Mademoiselle Lambert took the coin, it started.”

Drake scowled. “Miss Lambert is quite concerned about her father. I’m sure she’d like a better answer.”

Pierre’s response was an ennui-laden shrug. Must he be so very…French?

Drake reached a hand inside his suit coat, pulling the fabric aside. He revealed a knife that seemed to glow in the darkness.

Pierre gulped. Well, perhaps he didn’t actually gulp. As a rule, ghosts didn’t gulp or look nervous. They were already dead, after all. What more could happen to them? Christine narrowed her eyes and stared at the pirate. Pierre picked an invisible bit of lint off his coat and shifted his non-existent weight from foot to foot. He did look nervous, as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Did Drake really have the power to send ghosts to the other side? If so, Pierre obviously didn’t want to go.

“Tell me about this game.” Drake’s voice was as hard and cold as bare floor in January.

“The one who holds the coins can find the treasure.”

“What if I don’t?” she asked.

“The treasure must be found,” said the ghost.

“Fine. But how can the coins lead me to it? And where do I find the others?”

“The first coin will lead you to the others—when it’s ready.” Riddles instead of answers. Typical ghost.

“The coin?” Her voice sounded disbelieving.

“It might even lead you to your father.” The ghostly pirate cocked his head as if listening to something she couldn’t hear. “You should probably go someplace safer now.”

She followed the track of his gaze then all the air in her lungs fled.

…

Whatever Christine saw, it had her worried. She stepped away from the ghostly pirate, her eyes suddenly far too large for her face, and said in a breathless, rushed whisper, “We have to go.”