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  When they returned to the St. Michel mansion, Mignon caught the distinct aroma of Cuban cigars in the air. An involuntary shiver ran through her body, but she didn’t say anything.

  The household had been roused. Blankets and brandy were provided for Mignon and John Henry.

  “I don’t think this is recommended for hypothermia.” Mignon’s teeth chattered as she spoke.

  John Henry shrugged. They were on a couch in the entertainment room at the back of the house. The decor was much more conventional and contemporary. There they wouldn’t drip all over hundred-thousand-dollar rugs and on wood floors that had been hewn from cypress a century before.

  Mignon shivered and pulled the blanket around her form more closely. She was still in her wet, dirty, torn evening dress. Her hair was a muddy, sodden mess, and she was sure she didn’t have a bit of makeup left on her face. She’d lost her mini-mag someplace, probably at the bottom of the canal, and she thought that she’d swallowed about a gallon of muddy water. Eleanor had wanted her to go upstairs with Eugenie or a maid and soak in a hot tub, but Mignon had refused, hating the thought of spending even another minute alone in this house.

  Instead she sat and shivered on a comfortable couch with a large snifter of brandy in her hand. People wandered in and out to check on them. Geraud had been in once. So had everyone else in the household, just to peer at the two of them as they sat surrounded by candles. She had looked at them all carefully, even while she was shuddering, trying to see who else showed signs of being damp. Three had wet hair—Ger—aud, Jourdain, and Eugenie’s date, David—but Eleanor had mentioned that the three had been outside with the groundskeeper trying to repair the generator. No one else had wet hair or clothing, and she realized that whoever had pushed her had had more than ample time to come back, remove a rain slicker, and change. If Mignon had cared to look, she was willing to bet that there was a damp coat in the mudroom. A coat that could have been used by anyone, perhaps even boots. Had they seen her leave the mansion and followed, seeing an opportunity? Shoved her into the canal hoping she’d drown in the night?

  “So, John Henry,” Mignon said, relieved that the chattering of her teeth was starting to go away. “You swim across that river?”

  John Henry managed to laugh. “I wouldn’t be here if I had, chère.”

  Mignon’s head snapped up. It was a shock to hear him use the endearment, and for a moment he reminded her of her father.

  His knee nudged hers on the edge of the couch. Even under fabric, his flesh was hot next to hers and she ached to move closer, to draw in the heat from his body to warm her cool flesh. “What the hell were you doing outside?” he asked.

  Reality came back to Mignon. There was more than met the eye in this place. More than she could ever find out in a hundred years, much less a few weeks. Every single thing had a nuance. Every person had a secret. Even John Henry probably had a few in his Dudley Do-Right career. Maybe a perp who got handcuffed a little too tight, or a handout from some guy on the road who didn’t want another speeding ticket. Perhaps he looked the other way when a buddy went drinking too hard and did a little driving. In fact, maybe he was even on the St. Michels’ payroll, the kind of payroll that no one reported to Uncle Sam. But if that was the case, why would he go to Jourdain and ask “uncomfortable questions?” At least that wasn’t one of John Henry’s secrets.

  Even Mignon had a parcel of her own secrets that she didn’t dare hint at, much less give away. Such as trying to fool Eleanor St. Michel into thinking she was possessed by her mother’s ghost and scare her into giving up some of her own secrets. “I thought I saw someone out there,” she said.

  “Uh-huh,” he murmured. “In the darkness, in the rain? Someone like who?”

  Mignon wasn’t sure if she really wanted to tell John Henry that she thought she’d seen her mother’s ghost. And telling him that someone had pushed her into the canal would be worse. Either it was someone he might be protecting, or he’d want to start a huge investigation which would keep Eleanor from inviting her back to the house, thus ruining her plans. He had simply assumed she was outside trying to create trouble and had fallen into the swollen canal.

  John Henry’s eyes glittered. “Did you see a ghost, then? Perhaps it was some kind of scam, like … things crawling over your feet and being buried alive?”

  “I didn’t say those things. I think it was just your imagination. That seance stuff is complete crap.” Mignon’s mouth tightened. Moral outrage, that’s the way to go, she decided, but she felt a twinge of guilt at fooling this man. Offense is the best defense. “I think you people yank someone in like me just to play silly little games. First someone breaks into my room, then there’s you and our little trip to the cemetery, and there’s someone wandering the night like some kind of Fruit Loop. Then there’s that damned seance and that snake in my room, waiting to send me to art-heaven. I’ve never been around such a bizarre group of people in my whole life, and this includes some of the weirdest flakes in Soho and the Village. On one hand you’re accusing me of being some sort of super con artist. On the other you’re pulling me out of the river and looking at me like …”

  “Like what …” His voice was almost a whisper.

  “Like you want to kiss me,” she finished, her voice trailing away.

  John Henry turned his head to look at her, and his eyes were focused on her lips. He took a deep breath, as if something was paining him. One hand put the snifter of brandy on the table by his side. The other reached for her face, cradling it tenderly. Then his head came closer to hers and she had all the time in the world to say no or back away, but she didn’t.

  He tasted of brandy and a male aroma she found dark and stimulating. It was a slow, sweet kiss that shook her to the roots of her hair and to the depths of her soul. Without thinking about it, one of her hands came up and twisted around the back of his head, pulling him closer to her. The kiss changed into something different, something more feverish, something almost insatiable. Their lips moved against each other’s, and his other hand caressed her face, trying to soak up her very essence.

  Abruptly voices could be heard coming down the hallway, and Mignon managed to pull away. She and John Henry stared at each other. She could feel her heart thundering in her chest and could see that she had had a similar effect on him. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

  Mignon didn’t say anything. She couldn’t say anything. She was sure that it would come out as a long moan that would betray everything her body was experiencing.

  In the doorway stood Terri. She had changed from the glittering purple gown to a silver one. The golden rings twinkled on her fingers, and the earrings were still in place. Her hair was still in its careful plait, and flowed over one of her generous shoulders. A bit of gold glittering at the end bound it together.

  Terri’s arms were crossed over her bosom as she regarded the pair of them with a practiced eye. Behind her, Faust peered around the edge of the door with a sly grin on his face. Mignon had the grace to blush, knowing her friend had accurately guessed what had just occurred.

  “Mrs. St. Michel has changed her mind,” Terri announced. “She thinks that the presence of so much psychic energy in the area would be too good to pass up. And she would like you to stay, Sheriff Roque. I’m assuming that’s who this handsome dark man is, of course.”

  John Henry rose up from the couch, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. “I don’t know you.”

  “She’s Madam Terentia Jones,” said Mignon. “She’s a spiritualist, John Henry. Maybe you can ferret out some crime she’s committed since it doesn’t seem like you’re going anywhere either, with the roads like this.”

  His face went through a series of expressions, most notably one of irritation. He was attracted to a woman he thought was up to something. It irked the hell out of him and made him want to shake her like a dog would shake a rat. Then he wanted to kiss her again and not stop there, but not with this other woman watching, a devious, patroniz
ing look on her face.

  Mignon turned to Terri. “He doesn’t believe. But then again, neither do I.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19

  Little Tommy Tittlemouse

  Lived in a little house;

  He caught fishes

  In other men’s ditches.

  LITTLE TOMMY TITTLEMOUSE

  JOHN HENRY CALLED THE sheriff’s department with Geraud’s cellular phone. His own had succumbed to water damage. His men told him that the rain had stopped, and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration had reported that there hadn’t been enough rain to flood the area to begin with. Furthermore, no more rain was expected for the remainder of the week. The problem was that the tributary to the Cane River was going to be up at flood stage almost all night and none of the search and rescue teams would be able to pick him up for hours. Since neither he nor the St. Michels and their guests were in any kind of danger, they were stuck there until further notice.

  His deputy said that the sluice gates on the levee to the tributary had been forced open and the heavy locks had been cut; it appeared as though kids had vandalized them. John Henry had thought that perhaps someone had tried to flood the St. Michel grounds, hoping to kill people in the process, and that was the reason he had rushed over to the house. Too many odd things were happening. Mignon’s return. Reports of hauntings. The snake in Mignon’s room. She had also let slip that someone had broken into her room, which he hadn’t known about. Then she had ended up almost drowning in the canal. He’d seen her fall, and he could’ve sworn he saw someone push her. And hadn’t she cleverly avoided telling how she’d ended up there? Someone was up to no good, and it was not something John Henry cared to miss.

  Furthermore, Mignon was up in the middle of the night, fully dressed. It didn’t take a genius to realize that if Mignon suspected her mother had been murdered, then the one with the most obvious motive was Eleanor St. Michel. If that were the case, perhaps evidence of a crime still existed. Consequently, how did one get an opportunity to look for evidence? One manufactured a situation in which guests were forced to spend a night at the mansion.

  The groundskeeper finally managed to get a generator running, but it provided only marginal lighting for the house. John Henry silently ruminated over the information Mignon had told him in her angry rush. He wanted to know who had broken into Mignon’s bed and breakfast room the same day she had arrived in town. He wanted to know why she was here, and he wanted to know why she was keeping secrets from him. While John Henry was on the phone, he had also asked for a records check of one Terentia Jones, alleged spiritualist from New York City.

  Geraud had loaned John Henry some clothing that was a bit tight, but wearable all the same, and Mignon was wearing something that looked like it had been taken out of Eugenie’s wardrobe. The khaki pants and creamy silk shirt didn’t suit her dramatic coloring the way it would have Eugenie, any more than the jeans and polo shirt from Geraud suited him. But the clothing was dry and it was better than what they had had on before.

  Mignon was not happy about this discernment, and voiced her disapproval at length. “It’s after three A.M. and no one has had much sleep.”

  No sleep for me, dammit, she thought. But I can’t tell them that, especially not Mr. Nosy-Good-Kisser-John-Henry-Man. Not to mention I’m not sure if Terri is completely ready for this evening’s show. She added, “This isn’t going to accomplish anything.”

  Eleanor glided into the room as though on wings, dressed in a velvet robe. She seemed comfortable and at ease. “On the contrary, Mignon,” she said. “I think it will clear things up. And we can’t afford to wait.”

  Madam Terentia finished covering the large windows with heavy drapes, closing out any negligible light from the half moon. “I agree. This place has an unearthly stink to it. Otherworldly creatures have been in this place, touching their spectral hands upon all that dwell within. I could smell it all evening and protected myself with a charm. But the smell still lingers like the devil’s hands are wrapped around all of our hearts, waiting for the right moment to squeeze.” She paused. “And worse, it is the smell of fine cigars which no one has been smoking.”

  Faust was standing in a corner, tall and dark, waiting for some kind of instruction. Geraud was present, as well as Leya and Jourdain. Eugenie was not there, which Eleanor chalked up to fatigue. Finally, John Henry rounded up the group, totaling eight.

  “Eight,” murmured Leya, inadvertently echoing Mignon’s thoughts. “Eight is a bad number for a discernment. It’s bad luck.”

  Terentia waved her hand at Faust. “Faust will not participate, so it will be seven only. We shall have no more malignancy than is already present in this place.”

  Geraud said, “Faust can participate instead of me. I’ll go have a drink. Happily.”

  Jourdain said, “I thought you’d be interested in this, Geraud. Very interested, considering what happened last time.”

  “Yes,” boomed Terentia. “We must include Mignon Thibeaux. She seems to be a focus here. A very important figure in our discernment. Her energy is crucial to our success. We must use her to find out why the evil spirits have come to this place, and find out how to appease them.”

  “Money, perhaps,” suggested John Henry. He pulled up a chair and sat down, resting his elbows on its arms, and steepled his fingers together in front of his chest, staring at the group of people before him.

  “A disbeliever, as she has said,” proclaimed Terentia. “It is good to have skepticism with us. It keeps us focused. You will help us, Sheriff Roque. We shall sit.”

  “Maybe I’ll stay instead,” grumbled Geraud.

  The lights in the room flickered. The generator hadn’t been used for a while and it was not a consistent supply of power. Everyone glanced around. Geraud said, “It’s the damn generator. Nothing more. Let’s get this over with, Mother. I for one would like to go to bed and get at least a few hours of sleep.”

  Everyone sat except Faust. He still wore his white dress shirt with his suit pants and didn’t appear to be rumpled at all. When he winked at Mignon, she bit the inside of her mouth to stop laughing. She found herself next to John Henry again and pulled her arm away from his before she realized what she had done. She saw out of the corner of her eye that his eyes narrowed at her.

  Faust left, closing the door behind him after turning off the lights in the room. Before the door shut, the only light came from the hallway and then the room was pitch black. Not even a sliver of moonlight made its way through the curtains.

  There was silence for a long moment. Finally John Henry said, “So whose cigar smoke was it?”

  Geraud snickered. “My mother believes that my father has come back to haunt us. Surely you’ve read the articles in the tabloids.”

  “I thought your father was gone,” John Henry said. “Away from here. Living somewhere else.”

  “He is gone. But now she believes that he’s dead. That he’s died somewhere and that he’s come back to torment us all.” He paused. “As if he hadn’t tormented us enough while he was alive.”

  John Henry digested this. He wasn’t willing to share the results of his investigation with people who might very well be responsible for Garlande’s and Luc’s deaths, even if it couldn’t be proven that either of them were, in fact, deceased. Beside him he could feel Mignon squirming in her chair.

  “What makes you think he’s dead, other than the smell of cigars in the house?” he asked.

  “Not any cigars,” Eleanor answered thoughtfully. “Cuban cigars. The best money can buy. He bought those from a man in Florida with his own contacts in Cuba who had links to the best tobacco plantations there. These are very rare cigars and their aroma is very distinct. It fills the house sometimes. But no one smokes here. I haven’t allowed it in years.”

  A vision of Kate Trent in her neat little maid’s uniform lighting up a fat stogie purchased from an exclusive dealer in New York City popped into Mignon’s head
and almost made her smile. Nehemiah’s granddaughter had walked the hallways at night, not too often, to leave the lingering aroma. An old article about the St. Michels had provided the information about the cigars, and they weren’t above using it in this manner. Well, it sure isn’t Terri’s cigarillos, she thought.

  Eleanor went on. “This all began when Eugenie returned to St. Michel. She’s very sensitive.”

  John Henry felt like a jackass talking in the dark about a man who might very well be alive. This lack of evidence stung his professional instincts. Just because Luc had vanished didn’t necessarily mean he was dead. John Henry had worked a dozen missing person cases in which the families were positive that their husbands or fathers had been kidnapped or killed, only to discover they had set up housekeeping in Miami with their large-boobed secretaries. “What exactly began? And why haven’t you told me about this before?”

  “What can law enforcement do about a haunting?” Leya asked simply.

  Eleanor went on as though she hadn’t been interrupted. “Eugenie has visions of both of them in her dreams. Luc, my husband, and Mignon’s mother, Garlande. It is, after all, only appropriate that Mignon be here. An act of fate has brought her to us at this time. She can help soothe the spirits that beset us. Perhaps it is time for the St. Michels and the Thibeauxs to forgive each other for past sins.

  Mignon squirmed in her seat. John Henry would have given his right arm to see the expression on her face, but there were many things going through his analytical mind. “Have you … heard from him since he vanished?”

  “There was the power of attorney, but not a word otherwise. He wanted to sever all family connections, that’s for sure,” answered Geraud, his voice cold. There would be no forgiveness from him. If his mother wanted to play these games, then play them she would, and he wasn’t one to stop her. Besides all of that, he had his own plans for Mignon Thibeaux.