Magnolias, Mint Juleps, and Mayhem (A Midnight House Mystery #3)

Chapter 1

One

“There’s going to be a stodgy crowd at Murder House this weekend,” I told Teddy. “You need to be on your best behavior.”

The response from my pet skunk was to twitch his tail and disappear behind one of the large potted ferns on the front porch.

Obviously he was not concerned.

Whether our guests were uptight or overly familiar didn’t matter to Teddy so much as if they were willing to pay him attention or not.

He loved a good scratch behind the ears and a couple of cat treats, and he could usually garner both from a wide variety of guests.

Especially now that his social media account had taken off.

The bed and breakfast I had inherited from my great-aunt Odette had two claims to fame:

A live-in descented skunk who on occasion I dressed like a mini-concierge.

And the fact that we’d had several murders in house.

Hence the nickname Murder House.

I groaned out loud when I realized I had used said nickname. “Did I just call Midnight House Murder House? I cannot do that in front of the guests!”

Sure, a lot of people loved to book my rooms because of the reputation it had for ghosts and the undeniable fact that we’d had a couple (was that really so many?) murders but I had vowed to never make light of its deadly legacy.

At least not in front of paying guests.

Spring had sprung in New Orleans and I was ready for lazier days after a very busy Mardi Gras season, complete with drunken revelers and a side of ghost hunters.

Quieter days after this weekend anyway.

It was the first Thursday of April and Midnight House was fully booked, not by ghost hunters this time, or bachelor parties, but by a group of guests attending the Magnolia Heritage Gala.

It was the kind of annual Garden District charity event that got written up in glossy magazines that still did impressive print layouts.

The attendees were all the type who knew how to hold a champagne flute correctly.

I never knew there was a correct or incorrect way to hold one until I attended the gala last year and got called out, so trust me on this—there is a correct way.

Whatever you do, do not hold the bowl of the coup glass. I repeat, do not hold the bowl.

This crowd had bank accounts with lots and lots of zeros. Historic preservation was their religion and they were fanatical about architectural and historical accuracy. Except when it came to the more brutal aspects of history. Those they were perfectly willing to sweep under the rug.

In short, I was fully prepared for them to be high maintenance.

But at the moment, I was enjoying the warm late Thursday morning porch sit, the air smelling like gardenias and warm rain.

My neighbor’s azaleas had exploded in pink along his fence line that separated our two Victorian houses in the Marigny.

Not that Hollis Broussard had ever stopped to admire them—or smell a rose or any other flower—a day in his life.

He thrived on coffee and chaos.

I winced as I rocked back and forth, my chair creaking gently against the original floorboards. I sipped my chicory coffee and savored it. Another week or two and I’d be forced to ice my coffee or die from heat stroke so for now I was enjoying my warm bean juice.

"Teddy," I said, watching my skunk disappear behind the largest of the potted ferns on the front porch. “If you knock that over, you’re going inside."

A tail appeared from behind the fern. It twitched, which I interpreted as neither an apology nor a promise of better behavior.

The gala was tomorrow evening at Belle Rêve Manor, a stunning old Garden District property that I had driven past approximately one thousand times in my life but never actually entered until Aunt Odette had invited me to accompany her the year before.

I think she had sensed she was on borrowed time and wanted to introduce me to the traditions that had been part of the fabric of her life and legacy in New Orleans.

She’d done so in the nick of time because she died only three weeks later, a fact that was weighing on my mind a lot the last few days.

Belle Rêve Manor was an impressive house that made architects marvel, interior designers itch to get their hands on her, and brides envision themselves descending the grand staircase to a Taylor Swift orchestral arrangement played live by a string quintet.

Or maybe that was just me.

Not that I was getting married anytime soon, but a girl can dream and much to my surprise, mine involved turned staircases and pop music arranged for strings.

Odette had been a legacy member of the Magnolia Heritage Society, a fact I had not thought much about until three weeks ago when I received a very formal letter informing me that, as her heir, I had inherited her membership. The letter had been handwritten in actual calligraphy.

I had texted my best friend Maggie a photo of it immediately.

We didn’t do enough self-improvement during the pandemic. I could have learned calligraphy.

We started a podcast. I feel like that’s sufficient.

That was true. We had started a podcast, Gumbo and Gris Gris: Murder In the Crescent City, which thanks to Maggie had grown to be wildly successful. It was really her baby though, not mine.

But I don’t know calligraphy.

I’m sure there’s a font for that.

A car pulled up in front of the house while Maggie and I were texting. I glanced up and realized it was one of my guests. I shoved my phone into the pocket of my blue linen dress—bought to look like I belonged in the Magnolia Heritage Society and because, well, it had pockets.

The man heading up the walkway toward my porch was tall, silver-haired, and dressed in a linen suit.

He looked both sophisticated and slightly like he might be a fried chicken spokesman.

He had a rolling bag at his side and was studying the exterior of Midnight House the way people study paintings in a museum.

Slowly, with his head slightly tilted, looking for the things that weren't immediately obvious.

"You'll notice the dentil molding along the cornice has been repainted," he said by way of greeting. "The original would have been a slightly warmer cream. What you have now reads more yellow in direct sunlight. Still, the bones are excellent."

I was well aware the cornice had been repainted. I had the painter’s bill shoved in a folder that Odette had left behind with an eye-popping number on it. In my next career I wanted to be a cornice painter.

There was no great response to that other than, “Hello. Welcome to Midnight House."

He seemed to register that he hadn't introduced himself and extended a hand. "Reginald St. Clair. I have a reservation."

"Harper Bergeron." I shook his hand. He had a firm and deliberate grip. "I’m the owner and your hostess this weekend. Come on in."

Reginald St. Clair stepped into the foyer and the head-tilt returned immediately. He was looking at the crown molding and the chandelier medallion. He made an involuntary sound of distress.

"Preservation architect?" I guessed.

He smiled thinly. "Is it that obvious?"

"Just a wild guess. You complimented the bones of my house before you said hello."

"Fair point." He glanced at Teddy, who had followed us into the house and was sitting at attention near the parlor doorway. "That's a skunk."

Reginald studied Teddy. Teddy studied Reginald right back. Neither was laying their cards on the table.

The stare down was more comical than threatening though.

"His name is Teddy,” I told Reginald. “He comes with the house. Well, technically he comes with me, but I come with the house so there you go. It’s me, good architectural bones, and a skunk."

"Does he have opinions on historic architecture?"

"He has opinions on everything," I said. "But he tends to keep them to himself."

I showed Reginald to Room One, which had the original plaster medallion on the ceiling that I personally refused to paint over regardless of what any contractor recommended, and left him to settle in. By the time I came back downstairs, a ride-share had deposited my second arrival at the curb.

This guest was somewhere in her mid-forties, with alert, watchful eyes. She had a carry-on, a tote bag, a canvas satchel, and a slightly mangled straw hat that had seen better days.

Her smile was warm when I opened the front door to meet her on the porch.

"This must be the place," she said. "The magnolia out front clinches it." She pointed at the enormous tree spreading its pale blooms over the left side of the house. "Symbolically appropriate, given the occasion. I'm Allison Klein."

"Harper Bergeron. Can I help with any of those bags?"

"Absolutely not, I've got a system." She climbed the porch steps with the confident efficiency of someone who had checked into a lot of hotels.

"I write historical fiction," she added, as if I'd asked.

"Louisiana-focused. The gala is research.

Evelyn Carrington promised me an introduction to the Belle Rêve archivists, which I strongly suspect was a negotiating tactic and may or may not materialize. "

A negotiating tactic for what?

"Evelyn Carrington," I repeated. She was top dog at the Magnolia Heritage Society and the gala's chair. "So you’ve met her?"

I had met her only once in person at the gala the year before.

She was the reason champagne etiquette was seared into my brain.

Allison's expression became a little guarded. "Everyone in this particular world knows Evelyn Carrington," she said.

I took that to mean she had strong opinions about Evelyn but was choosing not to share them.

“She’s a Magnolia Heritage Society legend,” I said, just to try to provoke Allison into more of a response. I was curious to see who was aligned with who in the group. If I was going to make Aunt Odette proud I had to find the right friends.

Allison didn’t take the bait. "Which room am I in?"