A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (fantasy novels to read .TXT) 📕

stare in his direction. “We’ve all worked hard to get here, Richard.”

He throws up his hands and says walking past us, “Some of us got a nice hand-up because of a certain disaster.”

My bloods boils quick and hot and I aim to follow him into the private room they have saved for us and tear up his ass, but Winnie holds me back. “He’s an asshole. It’s not worth it.”

I know she’s right but I want to punch that man silly.

As if that’s not infuriating enough, Richard plants himself next to the tourism folks and starts a rampage about government handouts to people who didn’t have the sense to move out of flood zones and how the rest of the country foots the bill. I try my best to ignore him and focus on the conversation around me, even though Holly to my right is now telling everyone else about those local gardens, details she planted on me in the elevator, pun intended. I’m bored to tears listening to the importance of soil testing so I can’t help but hear Richard at the other end of the table.

Winnie leans toward me from my left. “Screw him.”

I want to laugh it off and agree but the pain and anger seething within me burns so intense I can’t form the words. I’ve heard it before, why do people live in a city below sea level, as if the nation’s produce belt in California doesn’t exist in a desert on top of a fault line or most American cities aren’t located next to a vulnerable water source. Even New York City is prone to hurricanes. Like New Orleans, they have been warned of a super storm for years but never take it seriously. I would never wish the likes of Katrina on anyone, even Richard, but I can’t help thinking how nice it would be to say, “Why do you live there?” when disaster strikes somewhere else.

Winnie, thankfully, asks me about TB and the research he’s uncovered and I explain how he found the scholarship girls and Blair Marcus in the school yearbook but I can’t get Richard’s comments from seeping into my ears.

Dinner stretches on forever, painfully so, while Holly drones on about the advantages of drought-tolerant Knock-Out roses and Irene, again, has issues with the food. Richard’s still going on about entitlements, now picking on poor people and the welfare system, while Henry stares at his plate, no doubt thinking how happy he will be to get away from this group. As if he senses me staring at him, Henry looks up and offers me a nice smile. I grin cautiously, hoping upon hope that he still considers me valuable enough to invite back.

As if things couldn’t get worse, Madman shows up, standing in the shadow of the threshold of our private room, tilting his chin up at me and nodding his head in the direction of the restaurant lobby. Like an obedient puppy, I follow, heading to the entrance where a couple of chairs are arranged for those waiting for a table. We sit and Maddox pulls out his little black book from his back pocket, again like those guys on TV. Now that I think about it, I don’t recall him writing much of anything in it, which makes me laugh.

“Something funny?”

I shake my head, regaining my composure. “Sorry, been a long day and there’s a guy in there bashing New Orleans so my emotions are on edge.”

“What guy?” There’s a tone emerging in that deep, masculine voice and I know what lingers behind those words. New Orleans is like a mother figure; you don’t mess with our city. I so want to relate everything that Richard said and sic Maddox on his sorry ass — how wonderful it would be to watch that man be arrested — but we have bigger fish to fry, sorry to use another pun.

“My husband….” I can’t believe I called TB that, especially in front of Maddox, but a logical voice deep within me, not even audible, explains how this insensitive, clueless man is not worth my time. “He went to the library today and did some research. I suspected the identity of the girl in the cave but now I’m pretty sure.”

Maddox leans back and eyes me suspiciously. “Blair Marcus.”

I nod. “I believe she was a rich college student from Dallas, attending the Crescent College when it was part of the Crescent Hotel.”

Thunder racks the building, which makes me jump; still haven’t managed to calm my fear about storms.

“And how do you know this?” He’s not buying it; Maddox’s eyes are the size of penny slits.

I shrug. “I saw her in the cave. Yes, as a ghost, but there you have it.” The words sound empty and his accusing gaze makes me feel like that puppy again, one that just peed all over the couch. “I wish I could explain how I’m seeing these dead women but I can’t.”

Maddox says nothing, stares at me and I grind my teeth in annoyance waiting for him to comment on something. Anything.

He stands, appearing like he’s ready to go.

“Is that it?”

He doesn’t look at me, slips the neglected black book back in his pants. “We found an old case file on a Blair Marcus from Dallas who went missing in the 1920s. We thought it might be her.”

“It is.”

When he looks at me now, those eyes are still black pricks inside that manly face. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

He doesn’t believe in me either, I think, but I’ve done my duty here. I also stand, ready to return to my group. “If you saw what I’ve been seeing these last two days you would, but I’m not asking you to. Just use the information I gave you and see if it matches up. As for the others, you might want to check if there had been any other girls missing from the college. Perhaps three orphans from Little Rock who were there on a scholarship.”

He laughs, shakes his head and looks at the ceiling. “What?”

I slide my hand through my unruly curls, a sudden exhaustion spreading over me. “My husband did some research at the Carnegie Library, said there were girls on scholarship, orphans. Seems to me that if someone wanted to abuse young women, they would be the perfect target. Who would miss them? Doesn’t explain Blair, since she doesn’t fit that MO, but perhaps the perp made a grave mistake with her and left town right afterwards. Maybe there was an employee at the college who left around the same time as Blair’s disappearance.”

Now that I’m on a logical path and away from ghosts, speaking police lingo, Maddox studies this scenario and nods his head. “I’ll look into it.”

“Great.” And with that one word, I’m ready to be rid of the man. Imagine that? “You can double check all this with the librarian. She’s been helping my husband with the research.”

Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, Maddox puts his hat on and heads off into the pouring rain. I can’t help thinking he watches too many cop movies.

When I return to the private room where my colleagues are still enjoying dinner that hard rain pelts the building and everyone begins discussing the rain. I’ve never understood the need to comment on weather. Water falls from the sky on a regular basis, yet every time it happens we all exclaim, “Oh my god, is it raining?” My favorite is those incredibly steamy days of August when people say, “Is it hot enough for you?” Well, yes, because it’s August in New Orleans.

I close my eyes, trying to will away the negativity. Suddenly, whether it’s Richard, the continued lack of sleep or the fact that I unearthed several murder victims in the last two days, but I’m exhausted and feeling out of sorts. Always my hero, Henry rises and announces that we will be taking our dessert to go because the storm has arrived and things are reported to get nasty through the night. Richard makes a comment about how silly it is to be scared of a little rain and I mentally picture him standing on my street at the moment of the levee break, when the rain was as horizontal as the trees. I’m standing on my porch watching him float away and as he yells for help I answer over the thunderous deluge, “It’s just a little rain.”

“What are you grinning about?” Winnie asks me, and I realize I’m sitting there having a great private laugh.

“Nothing but a little fantasy involving a man from Arizona.” She gives me a knowing look and I don’t have to explain. Gawd love Winnie, as we’d say in New Orleans.

The restaurant staff hands us each a plastic container with slices of tiramisu inside and Irene remarks about how she would prefer the cheesecake and can she see a menu, but I move past her to the van because I’m so done with her type. Apparently, she doesn’t get her choice of dessert for as I take my seat in the back with Winnie I spot her close behind, holding the same dessert as mine.

“Is it just me or are you tired of these people?” Winnie whispers.

“I never thought I’d say this but I’m ready to go home,” I whisper back.

The pregnant pause has birthed into a silent baby and no one says a word on the drive up the mountain to our hotel. We exit the van equally quiet and make our way to our rooms, desserts in hand. I’m dreaming of my luxurious bed and a solid night’s sleep after I devour this Italian slice of heaven when I open the door and find TB pacing the room, papers sprawled all over the place.

“You won’t believe what we found.” He’s so excited, he looks about to jump out of his skin. “I found those scholarship girls and they’re the same ones from the lake. Seems to be a pattern, too. These girls are in the yearbook and the next year they’re not.”

There’s no stopping that intense, sudden onslaught of lust. Love, you can justify and logically process, but passion arrives via hormones that kick in on a moment’s notice and render your brain inactive. My ex-husband stands before me shirtless in a tight pain