Brown Eyed Ghoul
ONE
I opened the front door to find a tall, blond, handsome man holding a white paper bag in one hand, and a tray with a two coffees in the other. Dressed in his signature pair of worn blue jeans, which were my favorite since they showed off his backside quite nicely, and an old t-shirt, he’d come fully prepared. His perfectly dimpled grin completed the picture. My heart skipped a beat as his dimples deepened when he took in my tousled hair.
“Did I wake you, Sleeping Beauty?” Ryan asked, stepping over the threshold.
If you would please spare me, ma minette. I am not in the mood to watch le barbarian drool over you this morning, Drake said from inside my head.
Yep, you read that right. And, no, I’m not crazy. My inner voice belongs to a dead policeman, Drake Montague, who lived in the early 1900s. He used to haunt my house, formerly his house, and now he just haunts my head.
How is that possible, you may ask? Well, it’s a very long story, but basically, I saved Drake’s ghostly soul from a bloodthirsty demon (who was also haunting my house) by allowing Drake to possess me.
Being that it’s my body, I have ultimate control, but Drake can still see, hear, and feel everything I do. That is, unless I shut him out. Which is exactly what he asked me to do once I opened the door and we both caught a glimpse of Ryan.
Drake’s tolerance for witnessing any interaction between Ryan and me was at an all-time low. This might be a good time to add that things between Drake and me… well, in brief, things have become complicated. Of course, that’s to be expected with two people occupying the same body, right? But, ahem, did I also mention that Drake is incredibly handsome, charismatic and funny? No? Ha! Okay, more on that later.
I said the words internally to shut Drake out, a habit that had become so familiar, it hardly took any effort now. Then I moved out of the way to let Ryan walk past me. “You know, you could have just let yourself in if you wanted,” I started as I smiled up at Ryan flirtatiously. “You do have a key.”
Ryan only had a key because he was currently restoring my house. Ryan was one of the most, if not the most, successful general contractors in New Orleans, and his specialty was accurate restorations of historic homes and buildings. I considered myself lucky when I hired him to help me fix up my house, a three-story Greek Revival mansion from the late 1800s. I inherited it from my great Aunt Myra, in a state of disarray. She was a distant enough relative that I’d never even met her.
Ryan smiled down at me, planting a kiss on my lips that made my toes curl. When we broke apart, I cleared my throat and took the bag from him.
“What’s this?” I asked a little too innocently, my eyebrows raised.
“Well,” Ryan started as he shifted the tray that held the coffees to his other hand. “Even though it’s nearin’ ten o’clock, I figured I’d still catch you before breakfast, so I grabbed some beignets and kolaches on the way over.”
I unrolled the top of the bag and inhaled a deep breath of the sweet pastries before I smiled up at him. “Did I ever tell you what a great boyfriend you are?”
He chuckled at me before the smile left his face. “Where’s the behemoth also known as your desk that we’re supposed to be movin’ upstairs?” he asked as we walked toward the kitchen.
I nodded to the piece when we went past the living room. “In there.”
Ryan paused to check out the couch while I kept walking before I pulled out a kolache from the paper bag. I sank my teeth into the soft, sweet dough, my mouth instantly watering. Poor Drake, I thought. He was missing out on something wonderful. I decided to be nice and save some room in my belly to allow Drake to enjoy it too.
I took another bite. I wasn’t exactly sure how much room I could save, but at least he’d get a taste.
“That thing is monstrous,” Ryan said as he came in the kitchen behind me, shaking his head, visibly concerned.
“It just has a lot of character,” I replied, somewhat offended. ”It’s a damn good replica of a Wooton. So good in fact, that the antique store where I bought it had the gall to try to overcharge me.”
“What does that mean?” Ryan asked, eyeing me speculatively.
“That they wanted to charge me ten thousand dollars for it.”
“Peyton,” he started but then shook his head, knowing it was better not to reprimand me.
“That’s not what I paid,” I nearly interrupted him. “And before you ask, it’s not polite to ask your girlfriend what she paid for her Wooton replica.”
“I’m impressed you knew it was a replica,” he started, changing the subject as his eyebrows reached for the ceiling. “So I guess all your studyin’ at the library paid off,” Ryan said with a smirk as he set the coffees on the counter.
I was a history nerd through and through, having majored in it at college. New Orleans offered the perfect setting to immerse myself in another time. The city’s rich past was recorded well in books, and I could easily find the places and put my hands on actual relics I learned about. And actual relics were what I was after these days.
With Ryan’s encouragement bolstering me, I decided to open up an interior design business, specializing in early twentieth century styles. Before soliciting clients, I spent quite a while at the local libraries, reading anything I could find about furniture from the various time periods. I regularly browsed the antique shops, museums, and historic homes, which were open to the public to further expand my education. I also cultivated friendships with a lot of the local museum docents, antique store owners, librarians and other long-time residents who had a keen knowledge of history. I managed to win most of them over with a smattering of tidbits provided by my secret weapon: Drake.
He enjoyed the searches for early twentieth century items probably even more than I did. He said it gave him a great sense of nostalgia to be surrounded by the things that were from his time period. Through me, he could touch the old wood again, and even smell it. There was nothing like the smell of well-cared for antique furniture. It brought back many memories for Drake, which I shared with him. And that was like crack to my history-hungry soul.
Ryan wrapped his arms around me from behind as I took down a couple of plates from a cupboard. “We’ll never get it up the stairs; not just the two of us,” he said softly, his breath tickling my neck as he spoke. “I’ll swing by Monday with the crew and we’ll move it then.”
Aside from hanging a few pictures, it was the last piece of furniture to complete my office and I really wanted my office completed. So I was about to protest when one of his hands slipped under my t-shirt just above my waistband.
“Which means, we’ll have to figure out something else to do this mornin’…” he added.
I almost dropped the plates, and my skin flushed from my cheeks all the way down to my neck. Although we’d been dating for a while now, the man could still make me melt just as easily as he did the first time I met him.
Ryan began to trail kisses down my neck, and my stomach growled.
“Hmm. Maybe we should eat first,” I said, disappointed that my body’s other needs trumped the burning desire still sending pin pricks down my spine. His arms fell away from my sides and I turned to face him. He looked at me with obvious disappointment, his caramel eyes flashing beneath the sun’s glare in the bright kitchen.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Now that I was looking up at his dimpled smile and strong shoulders stretching the cotton of his t-shirt, I started to reconsider. He chuckled, clearly amused that I was wrestling with the decision. “We’ll eat fast,” he said, taking the plates from my hands and leaning past me to put them back in the cupboard. “Won’t even put our food down,” he finished with a grin.
I sighed and gave him a look as I picked my kolache back up. “So I take it you skipped breakfast too?” I asked as I took an enormous bite, “because I can’t think of another reason why you’d be so quickly convinced to…”
Ryan was about to chastise me for my lack of manners, as usual, when the doorbell rang. We both paused and looked at each other, neither of us expecting company.
“Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses,” I said with a shrug.
Shoving the rest of the pastry in my mouth until I was sure I looked like a squirrel packing away for the winter, I left Ryan standing with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. My manners weren’t orthodox Southern but they amused him at least.
When I got to the front door, I looked out the peephole. Two older women were standing there, waiting expectantly. My curiosity piqued, I swallowed down the last bite of pastry before I pulled the door open.
The first thing I noticed was the troubled expression in their eyes. The second was the glimmer of hope I spotted when they addressed me.
“Are you Peyton Clark?” the frail, older woman asked, her voice sounding raspy. She looked to be somewhere in her eighties. A pink scarf that contrasted with her otherwise drab clothing was draped over her rail-thin body. A matching one was wrapped around her ostensibly bald head.
“That’s me,” I answered with a quick smile as I self-consciously wiped my hand across my mouth, fearing my lips might still be littered with crumbs.
The younger woman stepped forward. Though her cheeks were significantly plumper, she resembled the older woman, especially around the eyes. She held out her hand before a big Southern smile bloomed on her face.
“I’m Jill. And this is my mama, Ada.” She gestured to her mother. “Mama was good friends with Peter MacGregor.” Despite her smile, I saw grief written plainly on her features.
As soon as she mentioned Peter MacGregor’s name, the stirrings of guilt churned in my guts almost immediately. I still blamed myself for what happened with Peter, and wondered if I’d done the right thing by getting involved.
Story time…
So Peter had somehow heard about how I’d defeated the Axeman (remember the bloodthirsty demon I mentioned that was trying to kill Drake and me?—yeah, that one). He soon learned that I’d been able to travel back in time through the power of voodoo magic; and he came to me, hoping I could bend space and time to find out who murdered his wife.
Of course, as much as I’d wanted to help Peter find out who killed his wife, I also realized that going back in time meant I’d have to face Guarda again, since she remains the only one who is capable of manipulating time.
Guarda, the most powerful voodoo priestess in New Orleans, possesses extraordinary connections to the world beyond our living realm. The only problem is: she can’t be trusted.
But back to Peter. In a generous and regrettable moment, I agreed to contact his wife’s spirit in the attempt to discover who killed her. But the experience didn’t exactly go as planned.
It turned out that Guarda had commanded Peter to kill his wife, and in a zombified state, Peter obeyed her. Although I tried to keep the truth from him, he managed to piece it all together and died a short time later. Apparently, the revelation of his horrible act was too much for him to bear.
Admitting I still suffered from unending guilt over the incident was an understatement.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said quickly, wondering why Jill and Ada would come to see me. I never exactly advertised my connection with Peter for obvious reasons.
“Thank you,” Jill continued. “Before he passed, Peter mentioned… well…” She eyed me with a searching gaze and asked, “Do you think we could come in?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I said, scolding myself for not inviting them. The protocol of Southern hospitality was still new to me. I moved to the side so they could both enter. With that, I also remembered Drake, and internally recited the words that would allow him back into my world.
At last! he groaned. You know how much I hate it when you shut me out, ma minette!
Sorry, I answered in my head.
Who are they? Drake asked of the women who were stepping past me into the house.
They just arrived and I’m not sure what they want yet, I started. But they said they knew Peter MacGregor.
The man who killed his wife, Drake added sadly. Then he quieted before his tone sounded more serious. I so hoped your days of visiting the spirit world were behind you, mon chaton. It’s been so peaceful these past couple of months with you when le barbarian isn’t prowling around, of course.
This doesn’t necessarily mean I’m going to revisit the spirit world, I replied, choosing to ignore his bitter comment.
Moments after I ushered the women to the couch in my living room, I introduced them to Ryan. He said he recognized them from around town since Peter MacGregor had plenty of local friends. Ryan poured both of them large glasses of store-bought sweet tea. I had to admit defeat on my lame attempts at perfecting the Southern comfort drink myself, and, instead, bought a gallon. I kept it on hand for Ryan and his crew to drink during their breaks.
“So Peter mentioned me…” I prompted the women.
Jill was the first one who spoke. “Well, Mama knew Peter for quite some time, and…” she took a deep breath as if drawing up her courage, “he spoke very highly of you. He said you helped him solve a mystery about Adele.”
I nodded, reluctant to get into all that, but I needed to know what Jill wanted from me. All the while, I kept hoping it wasn’t what I thought it was.
“Well, we have our own situation that needs solvin’,” her mother, Ada, finished.
You have a talent for getting yourself into trouble, ma minette, Drake said.
The look on Ryan’s face emphasized Drake’s sentiments. He shifted his weight in his chair and gave me an uneasy look.
Jill glanced at her mother, who nodded to her before she looked back at me with a small smile. “It’s uncomfortable for Mama to talk. Tires her out too quickly.” She cleared her throat. “We’re here because we need to help my Memaw Alice. My mama’s mama.”
“Your grandmother?” I asked as I faced Jill. I looked at Ada. “And your mother?”
Ada nodded with a small, sad smile.
Jill folded her hands in her lap and looked down as she spoke. “Memaw Alice never knew who her real mama was.” She looked back up at me. “You see, Memaw was adopted.”
Jill took a sip of tea, then continued, “When Memaw Alice learned she was adopted, she wanted to find out who her biological mama was. Memaw’s adopted mama told her that she’d been abandoned at a hospital back in 1910, in New York City, of all places, back when she was just a newborn. Anyway, Memaw Alice got a kidney disease and when things started gettin’ bad, that’s when she really started searchin’ for answers. My mama,” she gestured to Ada, “and I got involved ‘cause Memaw couldn’t use the computer.”
Ryan frowned. “Did Alice pass away?”
“Yes, Memaw Alice passed,” Jill said, her voice softening. “Last year.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Ryan said. “I didn’t know her well, but my sister, Trina, always spoke fondly of her.”
Jill gave him a small smile. “You’re Trina’s brother?” she asked as her smile grew. “Memaw did love your sister somethin’ fierce! She loved eatin’ lunch at Trina’s hotel restaurant on Sundays.” Jill took a slow breath and then faced me again. “Well, I did that Ancestry DNA thing everyone’s been talking about. And they connected me to some other living relatives who were registered on their website.”
“I did that too,” I said with a quick smile. “It’s pretty cool what they can do nowadays.”
“Yes,” Jill answered but her mind wasn’t on my reply. She was still trying to get her story out. “Through Ancestry, we learned who our other ancestors were.”
I nodded, wondering if it would be possible for me to find out who someone’s mother had been. Maybe the spirits could tell me that. The more I thought about it, the more I assumed it wouldn’t be that difficult.
Jill scratched her head, then looked down at her hands. “Anyway, I found some blood kin through the website that we never heard of. They live up in New York City; that’s where Memaw was abandoned as a baby, remember?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered.
“Well, I went lookin’ on the ancestor side o’ things to see how we were related to those folks up in New York, and I found out we were all connected by Memaw Alice’s biological grandparents, Harriet and Francis Arnold.”
I still wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with me but I also didn’t want to rush Jill or her mother. That wasn’t proper Southern etiquette. Instead, I patiently sat there and listened to her long explanation of her relatives while trying to piece together the puzzle in my head.
“The New York kin would have to be descendants of Harriet and Francis…” Ryan started.
“Arnold,” Jill finished, eager to make sure we were all on board.
“Arnold,” Ryan repeated. “So, one of the Arnolds’ children is Memaw’s parent?”
Jill and Ada both nodded. “This is where it gets interestin’,” Jill continued. “Three of the four Arnold children had children of their own, but one did not – her name was Dorothy Arnold. Those living relatives in New York City that I mentioned? They are direct descendants of the three other Arnold children. Which means…”
“You’re not,” Ryan answered for her.
“Okay, wait.” I held up a hand, trying to understand what she was saying. It almost felt like a question on the SAT. “But you are directly related to the Arnolds—Harriet and Francis. Both of them?”
“Yes,” Jill answered. “We believe that Dorothy Arnold did have a child, and that her child was Memaw Alice. I did some diggin’, and it turns out Dorothy disappeared in New York City a couple weeks before newborn Memaw Alice was abandoned at a hospital there in 1910.”
“Dorothy kept her maiden name,” Ada suddenly piped up when Jill gave her an encouraging smile. “Which means, she wasn’t married,” Ada continued. “An’ at that time, that simply wasn’t acceptable.”
“We believe Dorothy hid her pregnancy and gave her baby up for adoption as soon as she was born,” Jill finished for her mother.
“So if you know, or think you know who Memaw Alice’s mother was, what do you need me for?” I asked with a shrug, utterly confused as to how I fitted into this picture.
“Well, now wait… there’s more,” Jill started, taking a deep breath. “Memaw’s kidneys quickly went downhill right about the time that we found all this out,” she continued, her voice trailing off.
Ada was looking down at her lap.
Jill continued on. “But Memaw Alice seemed satisfied that Dorothy Arnold was her biological mama. We found pictures that looked just like her. But when we investigated Dorothy’s story, we couldn’t find anything that mentioned what happened to her. It’s like she simply disappeared in 1910. There was no information about when or where she died.”
“So you want to know what actually happened to Dorothy?” I asked as soon as I realized where this was going.
“Yes,” Jill answered quickly.
My stomach dropped to my shoes as I comprehended what that meant. Jill and her mother wanted me to do the same thing I did for Peter—to go back in time. Only then could I witness what became of Dorothy Arnold. Meaning: I’d need Guarda’s help again. My heart raced in my chest at the thought of seeing that old, scary, voodoo priestess again.
It’s okay, mon amour, Drake soothed me. Naturally, he could feel what I was feeling, and picked up on my anxiety. Perhaps we accomplish it between the two of us, without you going back to Guarda. And if we can’t, you can always refuse to help them.
I bit my cheek and studied Ada’s frail appearance. It would be more than difficult for me to say no to this old woman who obviously cared so much about all of this. I doubted she had many days left in her life as it was. That only further pulled my heartstrings.
“Well, yes, we want to know what happened to Dorothy, absolutely!” Jill said, her wide, blue eyes meeting mine with visible optimism and joy. “We were hoping you could, you know, talk to her.”