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.
