The Dead Heat of Summer: A Krewe of Hunters Novella, Page 2

  Before Ryder even reached the Marceau mansion, Stephanie had been sedated, and she and the baby had been whisked off to Vickie’s house in the French Quarter.

  There was no sign of any kind of trauma on the body; no sign of a break-in. Ryder knew Dr. Hugh Lamont, the medical examiner, and Braxton believed that Lena had committed suicide. Bottles of prescription medicine lay at her side. One was a strong sleeping pill she had started taking when her husband died a year ago.

  Through her husband, Lena was the heir to a great estate. Not that there weren’t other members of the Marceau family, but old Elijah Marceau had died just before his great-grandson, and he had loved Anthony and Lena.

  They had loved him, too. Not only his money.

  Lena had never been one to care about material things.

  Ryder and Lena hadn’t been able to catch up in a few years. When he’d been in NOLA recently, she had been in Europe. But they had communicated now and then on the phone, though mostly through email or social media.

  “Ryder?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, moving aside.

  The memory of her, so angelic, would live in his mind forever.

  He kept his face impassive as he asked, “The autopsy will be in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t mind if I attend?” Ryder asked Braxton.

  “No, of course not,” Braxton said and then hesitated. “We’ve worked with your Krewe people from the get-go down here, so my lieutenant had no problem with me inviting you along on a…routine investigation.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ryder, it looks like suicide,” Braxton said sadly. “Maybe she just couldn’t endure the loss of her husband.”

  Ryder gave him a rueful smile. “No. Lena loved Anthony very much, and she mourned him deeply. But she was a mother, Braxton.”

  “Mothers aren’t immune to the depression that kills,” Braxton said gently.

  “I don’t believe it,” Ryder asserted.

  “Ryder, if all the M.E. finds is a mixture of her prescription drugs in her system, we’re going to have no choice but to call it a suicide.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Oh. Okay,” Braxton said.

  Ryder gave him his best smile. “I’ll be there tomorrow. I know what we’re all expecting, but I’ll be there.”

  “When do you go back to headquarters?”

  “I have some time. We just chased down that drug runner who was targeting teens in the Southern cities. I have a bit of leave. I’ll be around.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  Ryder smiled.

  “I won’t step on local police. I’ll be an angel,” he said.

  Then Ryder thought of her again. His beautiful, young cousin, lying there as if her dreams were sweet and wonderful.

  Yes, an angel.

  She had mourned her husband. Lena had loved Anthony. And he had loved her because what they shared hadn’t been about the Marceau name or the money.

  She had his daughter...

  There was a commotion at the front door below. Ryder glanced at Braxton, turned, and hurried downstairs.

  The police at the entry were speaking with two people. One a young man, perhaps thirty, dignified-looking in a business suit. He had dark hair that had been pushed back in his nervousness, soft brown eyes, and a medium build.

  The woman was older, thin, and straight-backed, with gray hair queued at her nape. Ryder knew them. He’d met them at Lena’s wedding. Justin Marceau, Anthony Marceau’s second cousin, and Gail Reeves, the head housekeeper.

  “Ryder!” Justin said. “Oh, my God, I saw the ambulance—”

  “Where’s the baby? What’s happened?” Gail demanded. “I’m trying to tell these buffoons I work here. I manage the house. Lena! Where is Lena? Where is the baby?”

  “Lena is dead. The baby is safe,” Ryder said quietly. “Where have you been?” he asked Gail, looking at Justin to add, “And what are you doing here?”

  Both burst into tears. Amidst it all, they learned it had been Gail’s afternoon off. No, they hadn’t been at the house earlier. Justin had come now because he’d heard that a few members of the board were coming by to explain a hike in the price of one of the drugs the company manufactured.

  Ryder wondered if the display of tears was real. Justin was a Marceau...

  But the estate and the company had been left to the baby, or rather her legal guardian, to watch over all until she was of age.

  He didn’t want to see Lena again, not even as she was, an angel. He had touched her...

  And nothing.

  Ryder left the Marceau mansion. He’d go see Lena’s sister, Stephanie Harrow, as soon as he could. As well as his cousin’s friend, Vicki, who had little Annette.

  How that baby loved her mother. And how Lena had doted on her beloved child.

  No.

  No matter what anyone said, Lena wouldn’t have left her baby.

  He hesitated as he reached the SUV he borrowed from the local FBI agency when he was in the city.

  Another car had just arrived. It was expensive, a Mercedes he noted. Three men emerged. The one who appeared to be the leader was in a gray suit that fit well with his white hair and well-groomed beard and mustache. The man behind him was tall and thin, probably in his early forties, wearing a blue suit.

  The last man was young. He wore a sweatsuit, and his hair was damp. It looked as if he’d been pulled from the gym.

  Ryder knew who they were. Barton Quincy, Larry Swenson, and Harry Miller. The three sat on the Marceau company’s board of directors with Lena’s late husband. Ryder had seen them briefly four years ago when his cousin, Lena, married Anthony Marceau.

  One of you is a murderer! he thought. One of you on the board of directors, or...

  Gail Reeves? The housekeeper?

  Why?

  Or Justin—also a board member—who was still weeping over Lena’s death?

  Ryder didn’t know. All he knew was that his cousin had not committed suicide.

  Braxton came to the front door to meet the first man, Barton Quincy, who seemed upset and then visibly angry. But Braxton was firm, not letting them enter the house.

  The group departed in a huff. The older man in the gray suit paused as he reached the chauffeur-driven car, then turned to stare at the house.

  Ryder could read the signs already. The medical examiner was going to declare Lena’s death a suicide.

  He would prove that it hadn’t been.

  Against the odds, he would prove it. Somehow.

  And it wouldn’t matter how long it took. Because her death would haunt him for as long as he lived.

  Chapter 1

  August

  “Casey, I don’t understand what you’re looking for,” Lauren Howard said. She stood and stared down a path of gothic tombs, all encased in the weeds and decay of the hundreds of years the cemetery had existed.

  She was a pretty girl with dark hair, green eyes, and dusky skin. Clad in a colorful halter dress, she seemed at odds with the cemetery, even in the bright light of the rising sun.

  “Looking for? Why, of course. It is Casey, medium extraordinaire. She seeks...yes! She seeks the walking dead,” Jared Vincent told Lauren.

  He grotesquely lifted his arms and stumbled forward, pretending to be a zombie. Jared was tall and lanky with soft brown hair that fell around his face. He made a strange-looking revenant.

  Casey Nicholson sighed, then shook her head and smiled at her business partners.

  This place was new to her friends. The graveyard was small compared to some of the other city cemeteries, which had become beautiful, haunted tourist attractions. There was only a small chapel in this one. It was built with funds raised by a priest through the Marceau family, who were grateful when a child made it through the yellow fever epidemic of 1853.

  Casey had always loved the beauty of the city’s cemeteries. And while St. Louis #1—and St. Louis #2 and #3—were the most often visited by t
ourists, along with Lafayette Cemetery in the Garden District, St. Mary of Light Chapel and Cemetery was small, old, off the beaten path, and seldom visited.

  It was still charming. Haunting, eerie, and sad in its decaying beauty.

  “Who runs this place? The chapel was deconsecrated, right?” Lauren asked.

  “Yes, I believe so,” Casey said. “I think it’s taken care of by the Marceau Foundation. Marceau money was used to create it. The family was Catholic and had been praying to the Virgin Mary. When the sick little girl in their family survived, they built the chapel and started the cemetery. They had the land for one, and...”

  She stood and pointed across the cemetery. “The family mansion still stands just over there.”

  Casey wasn’t sure who was running the company anymore. An elder family member had died, then the supposed heir apparent, and then his wife. But there were still members of the extended family all over the country. And the corporation had a board of directors. Someone would be claiming the corporation—and the money.

  The money meant nothing in Casey’s mind. Tragedy had struck the family. Including a young parent, so devastated by grief that she had taken her life.

  Casey had met Lena Marceau a few times when she came into the shop. She had been sweet and unassuming. Casey hadn’t even known it was her until she’d been given the woman’s credit card for payment.

  “And so, here we are. Hanging around the dead on a beautiful morning. You know, Casey, I love the shop. But, honestly, couldn’t we have gotten something out of a really cool voodoo congregation or the like?”

  “Jennie Sanders is coming today. She’s my best client. And she feels that something from this cemetery is haunting her. I have to know what it’s like in person,” Casey said.

  “Maybe it’s because I grew up here, but when you’ve seen one cool and haunted city of the dead, you’ve seen them all,” Jared said.

  “Jaded,” Lauren accused.

  “The funerary art is similar but different,” Casey nodded towards a statue.

  “Right! Enjoy the art. It is beautiful,” Lauren said.

  “And rotting,” Jared noted. He must have noticed how they both stared at him and then added, “Hey, I’m here, right?”

  New Orleans was famous for its atmospheric cemeteries, but Casey, Lauren, and Jared had been born and raised in New Orleans. The sometimes-eerie cities of the dead as the cemeteries were often called, were something they had grown up with. Casey’s parents had lived across Rampart Street in the French Quarter, and she had been just a block or so from St. Louis #1 most of her life.

  This wasn’t one of the St. Louis cemeteries, though, and it was definitely off the beaten tourist track.

  “Guys, I need to get a feel for this place. Like I said, Jennie Sanders is coming by the shop this morning for another reading, and I want to at least...well, to be able to say something,” Casey explained.

  “You aren’t really a medium,” Lauren reminded her. “And Jennie Sanders spends a lot of time on Bourbon Street and loves a few places on Frenchman Street. Not to mention, she loves to meet up with old friends at the bars on Decatur. She sees lots of spirits.”

  “That’s right. You’re not a medium,” Jared noted.

  “I never claimed to be.”

  “You’re a psychologist,” he added.

  “Right. One who couldn’t find work after college.” Casey tried to hide her irritation with her friends. “And, again, I call myself a reader. I don’t claim to be a medium. Come on! The place is called A Beautiful Mind,” she added. “Art, music, and a sense of helping people solve their problems.”

  “You know, think about it. We could liven things up. You could call yourself a medium,” Lauren said excitedly. “Oh, imagine. I could costume you in gypsy skirts and do a fantastic headpiece for you. We could stand on the street, and Jared could play his guitar, and we’d all sing Lady Marmalade. Imagine! We’d draw the tourists in.”

  Casey groaned—loudly. “Guys, give me a break. I just read the signs. And it works out fine. No singing on the street. Let’s be happy, huh? Come on, you two. It’s a miracle I found the shop and that we scraped up the money to buy it.”

  Jared elbowed Lauren, nodding in acknowledgement to Casey. “And, seriously, she’s the best fake medium in the city because she is a psychologist. She tries to tell people to look at a situation and do the right thing.”

  “Nice, thank you.” Casey grinned. “I’ll take that.”

  She decided not to mention that none of them had received degrees that would help them much in the real world. Lauren had been an art major, and Jared had a degree in music— they both had fine arts degrees.

  Lauren and Jared were both exceptionally talented, in Casey’s mind, but they all survived because of the shop.

  Jared often played his guitar outside. Sometimes, Lauren and Casey joined him, and they had fun—until someone went into the shop, and Jared had to finish up alone.

  They sold Lauren’s sketches and paintings and jewelry creations, along with tee shirts, and specially created NOLA souvenirs.

  Casey glanced at her watch. New Orleans didn’t tend to be an early city. They never opened the doors to the shop until ten, but it was almost ten now.

  “Hey, look.” Lauren pointed. “There. That tomb is freshly sealed.”

  Casey saw that the entrance to one of the more spectacular family mausoleums had been freshly sealed.

  “Maybe they were actually getting ready to repair this place,” Jared wondered. “My brother came through here once when one of the oven doors was cracked. Said there were bones sticking out. I did hear the upkeep of the St. Louis cemeteries and Lafayette has gotten a lot better in our lifetimes—though maybe Lafayette was kept up all the time. You said you think the Marceau Foundation runs this place?”

  “I think so, with the church managing the daily operations. But Marceau Industries Incorporated helps too,” Lauren said.

  “Rich people there. But here...I mean, I don’t know why the family doesn’t donate the cemetery to a historical society or something of the like. It’s all falling apart,” Jared said.

  They stopped and stared at the tomb. It was both Gothic and Victorian in style and resembled a small colonial mansion with arches and gargoyles with a winged angel cradling a cross atop the roof of the old structure.

  Stone and metal plaques mentioned the names of those interred, from the first family member to the latest.

  “Oh, my God,” Lauren breathed.

  “You’re right. Look. This is the Marceau family mausoleum,” Casey said.

  “Someone was just interred here. Lena Marceau,” Jared added. He whispered as if afraid he might wake the sleeping dead within the tomb. “Man, we should have thought of that.

  “Lena Marceau. Of course,” Casey murmured, thinking it odd that she had just been thinking about the woman. She had, of course, read about the young woman’s death. Her sister had found her, looking as if she were merely asleep. The investigation was leaning toward suicide.

  Lena’s husband had died just the year before. It was presumed that she had never gotten over his death.

  The facts were heartbreaking.

  “This is so, so sad,” Casey said softly, feeling the truth of her words.

  “You knew her?” Jared asked.

  “She came into the shop a few times. She was nice. She had a great smile, and was fun. She came in with her daughter. The baby is so beautiful. When we decided to come here, I had nearly forgotten all about...what happened. Though I figured the family had a really grand mausoleum in one of the major cemeteries by now.”

  “Sad, yes. And selfish.” Lauren frowned and looked perplexed. “She had a two-year-old baby depending on her. If her sister hadn’t arrived early, the baby might have...well, she might have gotten seriously hurt. You don’t commit suicide when you have a two-year-old.”

  “Maybe she didn’t commit suicide,” Casey murmured.

  “It was all over the news and i
n the papers,” Lauren said. “She was alone. There was no evidence of a break-in. I heard there was supposed to be a board meeting at the mansion later that day, but she locked the baby in her supposedly childproof room for a nap and took enough pills to kill an elephant. What else could it have been but suicide? She overtook prescription drugs. There was no sign of violence. I guess I should have figured she’d be buried here. I remember once thinking the board for Marceau Industries Incorporated must be a bunch of really mean old men. They were probably so horrible to her, she couldn’t stand it anymore. Maybe she even figured the baby would be better off if she was dead. She was alone with all those monsters. Her husband...yeah. Look. His name is here. He was interred here, too. I don’t know why I didn’t think anybody was buried here any longer.”

  “People who commit suicide usually suffer from terrible depression and believe others will be better off without them,” Casey said. “And the family owns the place...I wasn’t thinking either. I imagined she might be buried at Lafayette Cemetery. But, obviously, the family still has this beautiful mausoleum, so...it makes sense she’d be interred here.”

  “Weird. I think there are a few more of these smaller cemeteries that still aren’t part of the major foundation that looks out for most of the historic cemeteries in the city,” Jared said. “But nothing this size. Even if it seems tiny next to the St. Louis cemeteries or those in Metairie—some of which are huge. Anyway...it’s good we came.” He was trying to lighten the mood, Casey knew. “We all learned something we didn’t know and came to a place we’ve never been—in the city we grew up in.” He looked at Casey and likely saw the expression on her face. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  She smiled. She didn’t want to describe the sadness she felt for someone she had barely known.

  “Now we know there was a recent interment. This is good,” Jared said earnestly. “So, when our spirited lady comes in, you’ll know how to direct her concerns.”

  “It just feels odd. I...I don’t mean to be irreverent. We should have thought of it before. I mean, Lena Marceau died. As you said, it was all over the news,” Casey murmured.