VenCo(86)

“There!” Claudia jabbed it with a finger. “Ha-ha! I knew it!” She did a little dance, one hand on her waist, the other in the air, wiggling her hips. “We got him!”

Lucky whooped. Then she looked again. “Wait, where are the forks?”

“Oh, baby, visions aren’t literal. Sometimes they get crossed on the way. Sometimes they get all jumbled up into one thing when they’re supposed to be several. My guess? That spoon of yours is near forks.” Claudia sat on the little stool and pulled her laptop close again. “Read me what it says on that page.”

“‘Croc Monsieur opened in 1937 as the first Louisiana-based project of up-and-coming chef Marco Mayfaire. Though originally intended to be located in the French Quarter, the restaurant eventually broke ground in the Garden District, near Lafayette Cemetery, where diners could take advantage of the St. Charles streetcar line for easy access.’”

“Is there an exact address?”

Lucky skimmed the page again and read the small print under the photo. “Three six nine Prytania Street.”

“Three . . . six . . . nine . . . Prytania . . . Okay, here. It’s now called the Burial Grounds Café—oh, cute. The tourists gotta love that.” She laughed. “I would wager your spoon is in that café and being used as regular flatware. That would explain the forks in the vision. Probably in a drawer with teaspoons and butter knives.”

“I need to get there now!” Lucky’s hands got itchy. She grabbed her phone and sent a quick text to Meena:

Gator led us to a café—Burial Grounds—Garden District!



“Says here it’s only open for breakfast and lunch. You gotta go tomorrow.” Claudia scrolled down. “Oh, they got shrimp and grits. I might have to go myself.”

“What time does it open?”

“Eight o’clock. Second thought, maybe I’ll go for lunch instead.” She closed the laptop and stood up, stretching out her arms. “Well, I’mma finish up for the day, I think.”

“Thank you so much. You don’t know what this means.” Lucky was genuinely grateful and more excited than she’d been this whole crazy trip. So close. She was soooo close. She sent a text update:

closed now, will go tomorrow when it opens at 8



“Oh, I think I do know what this could mean. I’m rooting for you. In fact, why don’t you come out and grab a drink with me, to celebrate?”

Lucky’s phone dinged.

GREAT!! Just looked it up. Be there right at 8 sharp, order the whole menu. Ask for new cutlery with every dish, bribe a waiter, throw a chair through the front window if you have to!



Lucky texted back a thumbs-up and put her phone in her back pocket. “I would love to, but I have to get back to my grandma. She’s waiting for me at the Olivier House.”

“Ooo, I love that place. Except for all the ghosts . . .” She shuddered. They walked back into the courtyard, and Claudia locked the shed behind her. Evening was coming, and a slight breeze moved the grass like a breath blown out. “Well, Miss Lucky, guess you better get to it.”



Walking into the suite, Lucky called out, “Hello?” There was no sign of Stella. She should have been back from her dinner with Miss Aggie by now.

She walked up the spiral stairs to the second floor. The bed was made and a note was propped against the pillows. It was from Theodore.

Shift ended. Took Miss Stella and Auntie Aggie out for an after-dinner stroll. Maybe we’ll stop to hear some music. Will have them back before midnight. Here’s my number in case you are worried or want to make sure we’re not kidnappers.



She threw herself on the bed, facedown, arms by her sides. She felt relief, first that Stella was safe, and second that she was being taken care of, so Lucky had time and space. Then, of course, she immediately felt guilty. Stella was with strangers. What if Theo and Aggie were kidnappers?

In the last week Stella really seemed to be more like her old self. She hadn’t had one out-loud conversation with her dead husband; hell, she was even using the past tense when talking about him. There had been no more late-night wanderings.

She was just tired. Tired of all the driving. Tired of worrying for two. Tired of cataloguing stress so that she knew which thing to be more concerned about at any given moment. She just wanted to be still. To lie here and just breathe. To exist. Without looking over her shoulder. Without trying to parse out a convoluted future. She just wanted to breathe.

In and out.

In and out.

Beyond the walls, the sounds of the bars and bands of Bourbon Street mixed together into a smooth white noise.

In and out.

In and out.

She fell asleep in her clothes on top of the comforter.



In the dream, Arnya was writing a note on the flattened cardboard of her empty cigarette pack. “Look, just give this to the guy behind the cash. The note says you’re buying the smokes for me, and this is the brand I want.”

Lucky stood at the front door in red rubber boots and a romper that was getting too small. Her legs had grown so fast that summer, her knees ached. This was the first time her mother was letting her go to the store by herself but—cigarettes?

“I can’t buy cig’rettes, even I know that.” She was exasperated but was walking the fine line between being allowed to go to the corner store by herself and pissing off her mother by correcting her mistaken idea that this was 1975 and children could pick up smokes for their parents.