Chapter 6
It finally stopped raining three days later.
The bright fingers of golden sun peeking between my drapery panels prodded me awake, along with Mardi’s happy yipping.
He hated the rain almost as much as I did, having come to us with an aversion to precipitation that no amount of culinary persuasion or doggie rainwear could assuage.
If he could hear raindrops splattering against the pavement or grass, he’d refuse to go out at all.
Jolene and I had concluded that either he had the largest bladder on the planet or he’d managed to find a hidden spot indoors that we wouldn’t find until we could smell it.
Cooper had flown to London the day after our lunch at Café Degas, so I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him about the woman Beau had seen or about the scratch on his chin.
I had dialed Alston several times to ask her, but I had ended the calls before the first ring.
If there was something Cooper wasn’t telling me, I needed to hear about it from him and not from his sister or in a text.
I told myself I was being considerate and not cowardly, although I knew my habit of ignoring unpleasant things in the hope that they’d go away on their own was partially responsible and had nothing to do with good manners or courage.
I threw my legs over the side of my bed and smelled the aroma of fresh coffee drifting under my door as my feet searched for my slippers.
My phone rang as I tripped over a fluffy dog eager to get outside into the sunshine, then stumbled out into the dining room.
I sat down at the table, in front of a steaming mug of coffee and a waiting plate with a homemade biscuit already slathered with butter and strawberry preserves.
I looked down at my phone to see who was calling so early.
My family and friends knew not to call before they could be sure that I’d already had at least my first cup of coffee.
Assuming it was a sales call, I was preparing to end it when I saw Beau’s name and number.
He’d been ignoring all my calls and texts since I’d last seen him at my house.
All my questions and concerns about the water—a combination of a broken water pipe and a faulty roof repair—had been redirected to Thibaut, which I took to mean that Beau didn’t want to give me the chance to broach the subject of his parents again.
My indignation over his cowardliness at least partially masked my own.
I took a fortifying sip of my coffee, then answered.
“If you’re calling about your doll, I’ve got her—although I should say Jolene has.
I will warn you that Jolene has hand laundered and pressed Pussycat’s ensemble and has made the doll a new outfit more appropriate for the season.
And if you don’t come and pick it up soon, Jolene might make me a matching outfit, and I don’t think I have it in me to say no when she asks me to wear it. ”
There was a long pause before Beau said anything. “That’s nice.” I could hear a smile in his voice, and I wondered if he might be picturing me in a pink sunbonnet and a white lace pinafore. Without preamble, he said, “What are you doing tonight?”
“Excuse me?”
As if I were hard of hearing, he repeated the question, slightly more loudly.
“Why?” I drew out the word.
“Mimi’s having special guests at dinner tonight and she would like for you to join us.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling oddly deflated. Not that I’d expected him to call and apologize or tell me that I was right about his mom. Unless he’d been hit on the head by a falling meteorite and no one had told me. “That depends. Who’re the special guests?”
“Camille LeBlanc. And her husband, Henry.”
I frowned at my phone. “Is that someone I should know? I’m not the best with remembering names, but I think I’d remember hers, because I’m guessing she’s named after Hurricane Camille, right?”
“I doubt you’ve ever met, and I’m not sure about the hurricane thing. You can ask her about it when you meet her.”
“Well, aren’t you the confident one? I didn’t say I was going. So, who is this Camille LeBlanc?”
There was a long silence before he replied. “My mother’s best friend. They grew up next to each other in Hoover, Alabama, and were college roommates at Auburn. Camille was my mom’s maid of honor at her wedding. Camille and Henry moved to New Orleans about a year before Katrina. She’s my godmother.”
I took a sip of my coffee to give me time to process what he’d said. “Okay, so it’s kind of weird that I haven’t heard their names before if they live here and there’s a close family connection.”
“They were one of many families who evacuated after the storm and didn’t come back. And then, with my sister’s kidnapping and my parents…missing, we got distracted and pretty much lost touch. But Camille and Henry recently moved back and reached out to Mimi to reconnect.”
“And Mimi wants to have them over. Makes sense. But why invite me? And why isn’t Mimi calling me herself?”
I heard a drawer slamming and silverware rattling on the other end of the line. “Why isn’t Mimi calling me herself?” I repeated.
“Because it wasn’t her idea to invite you.”
“Ah. Okay. So are you saying you might need a little emotional support?”
“Maybe.” His voice sounded forced, as if his lips were blocking the way.
“And how does Sam feel about that?”
“She doesn’t have to know that I invited you, okay? It’s best to keep that to ourselves.”
I took a moment to consider what that was supposed to mean. “Won’t Sam want to know why I’m wearing a vest with a leash?”
“Very funny. Look, if you don’t want to help out a friend—”
“Oh, so we’re friends now.” I wanted to pull back the words, knowing I’d approached dangerous territory.
“We’ve always been friends, Nola. Maybe more than just friends.”
I didn’t say anything, half dreading and half anticipating what he would say next.
“Because of all we’ve been through together. Sort of like soldiers who’ve fought battles shoulder to shoulder. I’m actually glad that Sam wasn’t with us in the attic while we were fighting Antoine, because now when I’m with her I’m not bombarded with bad memories.”
“Uh-huh. So I’m like a PTSD trigger.”
“Exactly. I mean…no. That’s not what I meant.
It’s just that when I’m with Sam my thoughts go where I want them to, but when I’m with you they get a little more…
visceral.” He paused. “Your presence does something to my brain. Like, it weakens the doors I’ve built between this world and the next.
Your presence is…distracting. And not in a good way. ”
I recalled what he’d once said to his mother on a disconnected phone in the middle of the night, when he’d presumably been sleepwalking. She’s dangerous. I can’t afford to lose my focus. I can’t ever let that happen again.
“Wow, Beau. You really know how to make a girl feel special. Has anyone ever told you that you have a lousy way of asking favors from a friend?”
“Look. I’m sorry. I’m not…I’m not good with words. But you know what I mean. You understand and appreciate my psychic abilities. And whether that’s the reason or not, you seem to make them stronger.”
I took a deep breath and wondered if it was his Y chromosome that made his reasoning so obtuse as to defy understanding. “Then why do you want me to come to dinner to meet your mother’s best friend?”
“Because I’m thinking that’s why Mom’s still here.
She needs me to pass some information on to Camille.
They were best friends until the day my mother disappeared.
There must have been something unsaid between them, maybe some parting words that Mom thought important enough to hang around to deliver.
” He paused as if searching for his next words.
“You make me stronger. My psychic abilities, I mean. I need to help Mom get this done so she can move on and leave me alone.”
“Uh-huh.” I chewed on my lower lip. “Can I bring Jolene? I might also need an emotional-support person.”
“Sure. No need for vests, though, all right? I’ll pick you up around six o’clock.”
“I’ll ask Jolene to drive. Should I come early so we can talk about Madame Zoe and your—”
“See you tonight,” he said before the phone went silent.
—
Jolene knocked on my bedroom door for the third time in fifteen minutes. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, the last word extending into three syllables.
“I know how to get dressed, Jolene. I’ve been living with you for a while now.
” I gave a cursory glance in the mirror, pausing long enough to drag a brush through my hair.
I frowned, watching my halo of curls expand around my head.
Even though it was November, humidity in New Orleans was still a thing, and a daily threat to those of us with overexcited hair follicles.
“Do you at least need me to do your hair? I’ve brought my hair spray just in case.”
I frowned into the mirror, realizing that not even a can of Jolene’s miracle hair spray would be enough. In desperation, I grabbed a hair tie from my wrist and swept my hair back. “No, I’m good. But thanks.”
I flicked a cookie crumb from the collar of my navy blue blouse—a gift from Jolene, so I figured it worked—then tucked the blouse into my pants before sliding my feet into the low-heeled pumps I’d borrowed from her.
“Come on,” I said, walking quickly past her and not making eye contact.
Allowing her to catch me would mean at least a half hour of accessorizing and tweaking, and I wanted to hurry up and get the evening over with.
I hadn’t been back to Mimi’s house since the night of the fund-raiser and the showdown with the evil spirit of Antoine Broussard in the attic, and I wasn’t thrilled about returning.