Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk (7 page)

"Nikki, please, for the love of God… there's nothing. I have nothing. Tell them—you've got to tell them!"

She blinked. There was a soft glow of green light emanating from her clock, and a thin gleam coming from the bathroom, from the night-light she kept on. She had failed to fully close the draperies across the sliding doors in her bedroom. Though she faced the small garden area at the rear of the house, enough light made it into the back that a gentle glow came in through the window. Though the light seemed pale and misty, she could see the basic shapes of the furniture in her room.

And the woman at the foot of the bed.

Andrea was standing there, clad in a long T-shirt advertising the New Orleans Saints. Her long dark hair was tousled, as if she'd just gotten out of bed.

"Andy, what are you doing here? What are you talking about?" she asked, glancing over at her bedside clock. Almost 4:00 a.m. They had only parted at two, and after all those Hurricanes, Nikki felt as if her mind was moving on a very slow track. In fact, her head was pounding. She had to be dreaming, but it was unfair for her head to hurt so badly in a dream.

"Go away, Andy. You're the one who kept ordering the drinks," she grumbled miserably.

"The bum in the coffee shop, he's dead, Nikki."

Nikki shook her head, which made it hurt even more. "Andy, we didn't know the guy. We couldn't know if he's dead." She stopped to think for a minute, but between the liquor and exhaustion, she knew she wasn't doing too well.

"How did you get in here, anyway? If you guys are trying to scare me… Did Julian put you up to this? Hell, I don't really care right now. Go away. And lock the door behind you when you go."

"Nikki! Please… help!"

"I understand a joke, Andy, but I really feel like hell. So… ha, ha, go away."

"Nikki, for the love of God," Andy implored. "Wake up… I think… I think it's you they're after."

"Andy, go away. Go home. What the hell are you doing out dressed like that, anyway? Look—I'm closing my eyes. When I open them, you're going to be gone. And if those other idiots are with you, tell them to get out, too."

"Okay, I'm going to open my eyes, Andy, and you'd best be gone!"

She opened her eyes. To her amazement, Andy was gone.

"Make sure my front door is locked when you go!" she called.

She sighed. She needed to get up and make sure that the door had been locked. She should close the drapes—and avoid the sun that was going to tear into her eyes in the morning. But none of them had to work tomorrow morning. Not until night… the eight o'clock tour. Ample time to recover, and so, to get in all the healing sleep she needed. She should get up…

She couldn't quite do it. Couldn't quite make herself get up.

She closed her eyes, and went back to sleep.

When Nikki woke in the morning, she didn't even remember at first that she'd opened her eyes to see Andrea in her room. Her head was still thudding. She managed to crawl out of bed and into the bathroom, and down several aspirins. In the kitchen, she decided toast would be a good thing. Coffee first, because she couldn't bear life without it, then toast and orange juice.

Walking back into her bedroom, she unlatched her glass doors and walked out on the little balcony that looked over the small courtyard in the back of the house where she lived. The antebellum grande dame had been restored beautifully—into six apartments. She had chosen her own when the work had barely been completed because of the two upstairs bedrooms, hers, that she slept in, with the windows that faced the garden, and the spare bedroom, that she used as an office, that overlooked Bourbon just beyond the small front yard and brick fence. Then, to make it all the more wonderful, downstairs her front entry wasn't through the main hall, but was a separate entrance, a one-time servants' door. It opened to the far end of the broad porch, an amenity accessible to all the tenants, but convenient to her. The porch looked on to grass and flowers and the swing that fell from a huge old oak. Downstairs, the street was blocked from view—and vice versa—by the brick fence. From the front, all the music and mayhem of the city could be. heard, but in the rear, all was quiet.

A slight breeze filtered in. Fall was coming, and with it, days and nights that we're beautiful, still warm, but relieved of the drop-dead humidity that could plague the city.

She determined to shower quickly and dress. That might help.

It did. Her hair still damp, in jeans and a knit shirt, she walked out to pour her coffee. The headache was beginning to recede. She took her coffee outside.

It was at the front door—where she discovered both her bolt and the chain lock still in place—that she remembered the dream. She smiled to herself.

Hurricanes.

She'd never have another.

So—the crew hadn't sneaked in on her last night, determined to play the world's most annoying practical joke.

She really had dreamed it all up!

Andrea would be amused when she heard about it. No… she wasn't going to say anything to Andrea at all. That would only bolster the teasing concept that she had no life other than her work, that her life would be much more fun if she did submit to more alcohol upon occasion, and that she was… well, something of a workaholic.

She took her coffee outside, sat in one of the big wicker chairs on the porch, and looked out at the lawn and the eternal flowers there. Pretty. The breeze was pleasant. «

A few more cups of coffee, her toast… and she might feel like living again.

She closed her eyes, letting the air caress her cheeks, ease away the night of living it up a bit too much—well, for her, anyway. But she was very serious about her work for Max. She might be underpaid for the amount of responsibility she was taking on now, but she knew that Max had big plans. He wanted to go around the country with his tours. Nikki had always loved to travel, and once Max got going, she wanted in on the whole thing. People simply loved this kind of tour. And no matter where a city might lure lots of tourists, there were surely ghosts to be found!

All right, this was her special turf. She'd spent her life here, right here, in the French Quarter. If there was a story out there, she'd heard it. The history of the city was something she could recite in her sleep. And she loved it. Funny, that made her think of Andy.

When she'd first met the girl, her friend had been amazed that she still loved living in New Orleans. In fact, she'd burst into laughter when Nikki had urged her to tell her why she was grinning like an imp.

"It's just… well, you're not a drinker. And it seems you always want to go somewhere without crowds… so, why live in and love New Orleans?"

The question had startled Nikki. "It's home. It's all I know. And, okay, so I'm not a big boozer. I love jazz! I love the artists on the street, and the performers… and even the people who pass through!"

And she did.

"What on earth do you do during Mardi Gras?" Andy had demanded, still laughing.

"Visit friends in Biloxi," she said dryly.

It was true. There were always tourists in New Orleans. She liked tourists. She just didn't like the melee that came along with Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

Well, she thought, yawning and stretching, she would stay in New Orleans for Mardi Gras next year. They all wanted a party. She'd do it—for Andy, and the others, as well, she figured. Julian was Mr. Party himself, a good friend, and she loved him—even if she was ready to clobber him right now. She'd known him her whole life, and he'd taken the job when she'd asked him on Max's behalf because of her, not because he'd originally thought they could really do something new and special. He was wickedly tall and good looking, and great at this work, even if he was overly dramatic. Didn't matter—those who went on the ghost walk with him were always thrilled.

Sure, this year, she'd have a party. Patricia, who had grown up not too far away, in Cajun country, longed to have a really good Mardi Gras party, too. She'd grown up close—but far enough away so that she longed to be part of the real heart of the celebration, too—from the above-the-vomit line, as she called it. Mitch, of course, was from Pittsburgh, and he was dying to get into the dead center of it all. As he had told Patricia, he didn't care what evils lurked on the street; he wanted to see it all. Of course, he'd prefer a nice party place, but…

Nathan was more like her. He was shy, except with friends, unless he was on, and then, like Julian, he was on. Now, he was madly in love with Patricia, and he was comfortable with their close group of workers. Though Nikki was certain Nathan would just as soon head for Biloxi during Mardi Gras, too, he would want a party because Patricia would want a party.

And, of course, it would be an important time for them to be working.

They were doing so well.

Nikki felt a real sense of pride—despite her pounding headache. A lot of the time, tourists thought that costumes and makeup on tour guides was just schmaltz.

Not so with their group.

They were good. They knew their subject matter. They could answer questions. They didn't just give a tour—they were an event.

And though the whole thing had been created through Max's plan, vision—and money—Nikki felt as if it were her own dream child finding real fruition. She had been there with Max at the very beginning, when there had been just the two of them, working hard, footing it all over the place by herself. Befriending the concierge staff at the hotels, begging store managers for flyer space. She had been the one to give the free tours to travel agents, thanking God that Max had saved up enough to be able to bring the people in. After the first go, Max had told her to bring Julian in. He hadn't been convinced that he'd ever really get a substantial income from the enterprise, but he'd been willing to take a chance because she was so impassioned.

And he was a total ham.

They had begun to thrive, and so, Max had told her to increase the program, and the staff. She had found the others later—they'd had to "audition," bom for historical accuracy, and for their ability to tell a damned good and eerie story without getting into outright lies. No one in their group ever said that such things as vampires, ghosts, or any other metaphysical creature existed. They told the stories that had been told. The legends. They were still known as the "ghost" walk, though officially, me company was called "Myths and Legends of New Orleans."

Nikki ran her fingers through her hair, trying to let it dry in the breeze.

A newspaper came flying over the brick wall. The newsboy—late as he was!—had cast it over the brick with amazing accuracy.

It landed in front of her. Staring down at the headline, she let out a sigh. There were two pictures on the front page. One of the statelier Harold Grant and one of the more charismatic Billy Banks.

"Billy Banks," she muttered aloud. "Who the hell votes for a guy named Billy Banks?"

As she leaned down to pick up the paper, she heard the front gate opening.

As it did, she felt a vicious cold sweep through her, as if an arctic blast had suddenly hit her entire bloodstream. Her breath caught.

Her sense of foreboding… It was coming true.

She looked up, remnants of her dream flashing through her mind's eye like a chaotic movie trailer.

She knew, though he was in plainclothes, that the man who approached her was a policeman, and that he was about to tell her something terrible.

She stood up, her mouth working, no words coming.

"You—you're a cop. Something's happened," she finally gasped out.

The officer nodded. He cleared his throat. "I'm Detective Massey, Owen Massey, Miss DuMonde."

Nikki stared at him, hating the wave of knowledge that filled her, muscles constricting as she denied everything rushing into her mind.

"No, no… there's a mistake."

"I'm so sorry."

"Someone is… hurt?"

"I'm here about Miss Ciello, Miss Andrea Ciello."

He looked helpless—big, kind and helpless. Cops like him must have to give people bad news all the time, but it looked as if it had never gotten easy for this guy. "We were referred to you. A Mrs. Montobello is the one who called us… insisted we go in, swore that Miss Ciello would have come to see her first thing in the morning. She said that you were Miss Ciello's best friend? I'm sorry, so sorry. I wish there were an easier way to do this. Um… should we go inside?"

"What's happened? Tell me what's happened!"

"Perhaps—"

"No! Talk to me, tell me, what's happened?"

"Overdose, I'm afraid. We believe it was accidental, but you know, we have to go through procedure… The thing is, we need someone to make a formal identification of the body."

"Body?" Nikki gasped.

"Yes, I'm afraid—"

"No!" Nikki stared at him in disbelief. No. It had to be an elaborate joke. Andy—vivacious, fun-loving, rowdy Andy—couldn't be dead.

"I'm truly sorry. It appears that she—"

"Andy was clean."

"I'm sure she wanted to be clean."

"No! She
was
clean." Nikki realized that she was backing away from the man, denying everything that he was saying. But it couldn't be true. "She was clean. She knew not to touch the stuff. It's impossible that she did this to herself. It's impossible that… "

But from the way he was looking at her, she knew it was true.

Just as the dream had been true. She wanted to black out; she wanted the world to go away. Yes, she had always had a sense of the past, of spirits that remained, but never, never, had she felt…
seen
… anything like…

Last night. Andy had been dead. Or dying. And she had come to Nikki for help. She had failed her friend somehow.

She shook her head again. Her words were fierce. "Andrea Ciello was off drugs. I know it. If something's happened to Andy, it was not self-inflicted, and it was not accidental. She was murdered."

Murdered.

The officer was staring at her, troubled, frowning.

"I'm telling you, she was clean. And if you don't believe me, I'll raise a stink in this parish that you won't believe. She can't be… oh, God."