Trouble in Mudbug (Ghost-in-Law, #1)(11)

Maryse felt a momentary burst of disappointment. “I’ll try harder next time.”

Now Luc laughed. “I don’t have any doubt about that. Now get inside and claim your pig farm and your divorce and anything else you’ve got riding on this reading.”

Maryse smiled for real this time, stepped out of the Jeep, and glanced over at the attorney’s office. Luc pulled onto the street, waving as he drove off. Maryse sighed and tore her gaze from the Jeep, trying to refocus on the will reading and everything that went along with it. Luc LeJeune was Hank Henry all over again…good-looking, charming, a professional flirt, confident beyond belief, and probably had a list of conquests that rivaled Alexander the Great. He was everything she was trying to avoid in one neat, gorgeous, well-defined package.

Taking a deep breath, she turned and walked to the attorney’s office, hoping the will reading would be quick and painless. She was due a break after the horrific funeral, and besides, locating Hank was the most important thing on her mind. She pushed open the door to the office and stepped into a cherry-wood nightmare. Antique furniture covered every square inch of the tiny lobby. The place was so stiff that even the threads in the Persian rug were rod straight. Chintz pillows graced the corners of every chair, the narrow couch, and the loveseat. The only plus was the room was empty. Apparently she was the first to arrive.

At the reception window, Maryse checked in with a pinched-faced elderly woman wearing horned-rimmed glasses. Once the woman confirmed her identity, Maryse turned to consider her options and decided on a chair in the far corner of the room with a clear view of the doorway. That way she’d be sure to see Hank, just in case he showed up to collect his bounty. She’d put her attorney on speed dial in her spare phone, and he had a deputy waiting nearby ready to pop in and serve Hank the all-important papers. Everything was in place except her missing husband. As usual.

She removed the chintz pillows from their perch at the back of the chair, arranged them in the middle of the seat, and sat on top of them. Probably not what the decorator had intended, but she didn’t really care. The chair was bound to be uncomfortable as hell, and she’d already put her body through enough strain today. She glanced at her watch for at least the tenth time in so many seconds and heard the office door open.

She sucked in a breath, wondering who was going to walk across the entryway, and did a double take when three women walked in—one of them a nun, in full habit, robes and all. The other two were in their sixties and wore the dark clothes and bad makeup of Helena’s generation, so she figured they had to be family.

But what was the deal with the nun?

Surely she wasn’t a relative. Being related to Helena Henry would be enough to convert a religious person to atheism. The other two women presented their IDs to the receptionist, then proceeded to cackle over the reading.

“She better have left me her porcelain angels,” the first woman said. “I’ve been wanting those for years.”

“Well, I don’t give a rip about those angels,” the second woman said, “but I desperately want her family quilts. Do you have any idea how much those quilts are worth? They’re practically a part of history.”

The other woman nodded. “Why do you think I want the angels? One just like them brought five hundred dollars last week on eBay. Think what we could get at the auction.”

“Well, all I can say is it’s about damned time she died. I could have used a trip to Bermuda last year.”

Definitely Helena’s family.

As the two hens finished their business and moved away from the window, Maryse leaned forward in her chair, straining to hear what the nun was saying. Sure enough, she was here for the will reading. This was getting stranger by the minute. Maryse picked up a couple of magazines and was trying to decide between Law Review and Law Today when the door opened again and Harold walked in…followed by a fuming Helena.

Maryse scrunched down low in her chair, hoping Helena wouldn’t notice her, but the ghost crossed the room and sat on the chair next to her. Harold checked in, gave Maryse a suspicious look, then took a seat across from her.

Helena glared at Harold. “Asshole,” she said. “Do you know he had the nerve to drive over here in my new Cadillac with one of those floozies he was seeing?”

Maryse stared at her, a bit surprised. “What floozies?”

“Did you say something?” Harold asked, frowning.

“No,” Maryse said quickly, “Just clearing my throat.” She leaned to the side and held the magazine up in front of her face. “What floozies?”

Helena didn’t bother to lean or whisper, but then she didn’t really have to. “Damn man was always getting a piece of something or other on the side. Started almost as soon as we were married, although I didn’t really know about it until after Hank was born. Cut him off right quick, I did. Not about to catch something from one of Harold’s floozies. Probably rot my crotch out.”

Maryse considered briefly the type of woman that would sleep with Harold Henry and decided Helena had probably made a wise decision. “So why didn’t you divorce him?”

“No way! Oh, granted, Harold couldn’t get half of my holdings—everything was inherited, so even the income drawn off it was solely mine. But when we were married, we had a prenup that gave Harold a boatload of money if I ever asked for a divorce.”