Mischief in Mudbug (Ghost-in-Law, #2)(8)

“Do most detectives work like that?” Sabine asked.

“I can’t speak for other detectives, really. I started keeping journals when I was a kid. The habit just stuck, I guess.” He looked down at the table and fiddled with a packet of sugar.

Sabine, sensing he was somewhat embarrassed, continued. “Well, that’s basically it in a nutshell.” She reached for the gold heart-shaped locket that was always around her neck. “This locket belonged to my mother. That information in that folder and this piece of jewelry are all I really know about them.”

Beau looked back up at her. “And a drawing from beyond.”

Sabine nodded. “Raissa’s very talented. I’m fortunate to know her.”

Beau narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you really buy into all that psychic stuff?”

Sabine laughed. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Raissa’s my mentor. I own the psychic shop across the street.”



Beau hopped into his vehicle and stared at Sabine as she unlocked the front door of her shop. Read ’em and Reap. Good God Almighty! He’d stepped into the middle of a nut parade. And the worst part was, against his own better judgment, he’d picked up a banner and agreed to march. No doubt about it—he was going to make a colossal fool of himself over a beautiful woman who walked like a ballet dancer. Maybe he needed to reconsider his vow of bachelorhood and settle down with a nice accountant or something. Women like Sabine LeVeche could only get him into trouble.

Sabine turned before entering the shop and gave him a wave and a smile. Beau waved back and started his truck, hoping the drive back to the city would clear his head and help him make sense of the mess he’d just gotten himself into. Not one psychic but two. And he had actually agreed to embark on a search for dead people with his biggest lead supposedly coming from the dead people themselves. For a man who was more than a skeptic, it was an irony he wasn’t quite ready to fathom.

As he drove out of town and onto the highway to New Orleans, he pulled Raissa’s drawing out of the envelope and took another look. He knew he’d seen that face somewhere before, but not exactly that face and not in person. For the life of him, that’s all he could remember. Given the sheer number of photos he’d viewed when he was an FBI agent, God only knew when he’d seen a picture that resembled the man in the drawing. Hell, there was nothing to say he’d even seen it while working at the FBI. Raissa had claimed she thought the man looked familiar, too, so for all he knew it could have been a likeness in a local newspaper.

But for some reason, that didn’t feel right.

He took another glance at the drawing and frowned. Somewhere buried in the depths of his mind was the answer. He slipped the drawing back into the folder and concentrated on the road ahead of him. As soon as he got back to his apartment, he would pull out his journals from his FBI years. Maybe something in them would spark his memory. Beyond the basics of background searching, the drawing was his best lead for now.

Unless, of course, Raissa or Sabine could call up more spirits to give them an address.


[page]
Sabine opened the tiny window in the corner of the attic of her store’s building and stuck her head out, hoping for a breeze. She coughed once, wheezed a couple more times, then pulled her head back inside and stared at Maryse, who was already tugging on boxes tucked in the far corners of the room.

“I can’t believe you haven’t looked at any of this stuff since last time,” Maryse said.

“Please, you act like my aunt stored the secrets of the world in those boxes. We’ve been through this before and didn’t find a thing.”

“We were eighteen. What might be important now is something we might not have noticed or understood then.”

Sabine sneezed and tugged another box from its hiding spot. “I guess so. But if all I end up with is a cold, you’re making me soup every day.”

Maryse waved a hand in dismissal. “You live across the street from every restaurant in town and they all deliver. Besides, I burned the toast this morning. Luc won’t even let me use the microwave.”

Sabine laughed. “Smart man.” Her scientific-minded friend gave a whole new meaning to the term “nondomestic.”

“I don’t have to take this abuse from both of you. And if I find an anti-aging formula in here or a Farmer’s Almanac for 2015, or something equally as cool, I’m not letting you in on it.”

“Who the hell reads the Farmer’s Almanac?” Helena’s voice boomed from the doorway.

“Farmers,” Sabine shot back. “What do you want, Helena?”

“I saw the ‘Closed’ sign for the shop and thought I’d come see what you were up to.”

“We’re cleaning out the attic,” Sabine said.

“Hmmmpf,” Helena grunted. “Looks like this shit’s been here for a hundred years. You’re not much of a housekeeper, are you, Sabine?”

Sabine stared at the empty doorway. “I guess your attic was spotless?”

“Of course. I paid people to clean it twice a year.”

“Never mind.” Sabine rolled her eyes, and Maryse grinned. Sabine turned around and opened a box of ancient clothes. She pulled out the first couple of garments, then waved one in the air. “Hey, Maryse, you think one of the playhouses in New Orleans would be interested in these?”