NOLA
NOLA
A
Haunted Series
Novel
by
Alexie Aaron
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
~
Copyright 2015 – Diane L. Fitch writing as Alexie Aaron
ALSO BY ALEXIE AARON
HAUNTED SERIES
in order
The Hauntings of Cold Creek Hollow
Ghostly Attachments
Sand Trap
Darker than Dark
The Garden
Puzzle
Old Bones
Things that Go Bump in the Night
Something Old
The Middle House: Return to Cold Creek Hollow
Renovation
Mind Fray
The Siege
NOLA
PEEPS LITE
Eternal Maze 3.1
Homecoming 3.2
Checking Out 9.1
Ice and Steel 9.2
CIN FIN-LATHEN MYSTERIES
Decomposing
Death by Saxophone
Discord
Coming Soon: The Wages of Cin
I dedicate this book to the people of New Orleans, Louisiana (NOLA).
Thanks to the Bliss Cottage team, without them, the
Haunted Series
would not be, and to my readers who give me and Murphy a lot of joy.
Table of Contents
NOLA
Sean Edwards was a man of extremes. He ate with gusto, drank like he had hollow legs, and exercised like he was a triathlete. Parties were just a jumping off point for the man in search of the ultimate thrill. With a little beer in his system, followed by several shots of eighty-proof whisky, he was halfway to becoming a god. Gods don’t play by the rules, and neither would Sean. This was what had brought him to New Orleans, Louisiana during Mardi Gras. This was why he stood surveying the parade from his vantage point on the roof of a crawfish joint.
Sean looked down at the body-to-body filled streets. Drunk, breast-showing women shouted to the passing floats. The men ogled the vast display of flashing females, some taking blatant selfies with the daring ladies, sending the pictures out into the web. Eventually, they would be seen by the flashers and the last two tequila shots downed would be regretted. Some of the bead-seeking women were smart and wore papier-mâché masks. These colorful, wearable art pieces reminded Sean why he was there in the first place.
Sean had gotten tired of being shoved and jostled as he moved, too slowly, towards his destination. He had had enough of the crush of the street, so he decided to climb up the building. The first balcony was filled with revelers, the second with lovers, but the roof of the Spanish-built building was empty.
The tiles of the roof were still slick, coated with the moisture left by the afternoon rain. As long as he kept to the ridgeline, Sean managed enough traction to travel along with the parade. The drumbeats of the gangs of Indians fueled him. They pushed away any thoughts of danger and buried the knowledge that what he was about to do was illegal. He would not only arrive at the Crown-Livingston ball wearing a mask, but it would be
the
mask, the mask that was reputed to be worn by Grand Duke Alexei Romanov when he visited in 1872.
The impossibility of the caper didn’t occur to Sean. The consequences of the crime, if he succeeded, didn’t deter him. He had decided he would destroy the evidence after the ball. Sean Edwards would be the last person on earth to wear, let alone touch, the now fragile, papier-mâché mask of Romanov’s. This knowledge would be enough to sate him for a while, just as the knowledge that he had slept in Lincoln’s bedroom, unsanctioned, right under the nose of the secret service, had.
A trumpet blast followed by a bluesy riff from the street stopped his progression. He turned and inched his way to the edge of the roof to see who was playing. Was he famous? If so, Sean would steal the player’s trumpet. Why? Because he could. He didn’t think about the outrage or the hurt he may cause. All Sean thought about was himself.
He quickly lost interest in the street performer and climbed back to the roof ridge. The immediate plan was that he would travel the roofs until the cross street where he would climb down, navigate the throng, and climb back up the next building. That was the plan. However, as Sean looked at the razor wire that was strung across the first balcony with contempt, he sought out plan B. He moved into the alley on the side of the building in search of another way up. He spotted a drainpipe. Upon closer examination of the pipe that ran down the side of the building, Sean discovered it had been greased. He supposed the owners had done this to stop drunken revelers from climbing up. He moved deeper into the dark recess and found no other way up to the roof. However, there were several locked, steel security doors. Although tempted, Sean decided that if the owners of the building went to the trouble of using razor wire and greasing the drainpipe, they no doubt had a security system in place. He hit the wall hard with his hand before retracing his steps to the street. He would have to endure the body odor of the crowd as he pushed his way towards his goal.
An hour later, he ducked down the narrow alley that would bring him to the back of the building housing the Romanov mask. Here, a block off the parade route, the drainpipe was free of Vaseline. Sean climbed upwards, and as he shifted his weight onto the roof, he spied the latest edition to the private Cully Museum, a roof lantern. The original orangery topper had been retrofitted to the ceiling of the jewel room. This way, the jewels could be reflected in natural light, their elegance not depleted by the previous electric blubs. The present owners would probably put in gas lights if someone told them the jewels would look better in that kind of lighting.
Yesterday, while the tour guide gave the group the history of the raised glass topper, Sean’s eyes had surveyed the five by eight foot skylight for a way into the museum. He stopped his gaze and focused in on the pane of glass that had been reengineered to open outwards to let out the hot air. Unfortunately, it had an obtrusive piece of screening covering the opening – engineered and fitted after a few sparrows had decided to enter the building and build nests amongst the display cabinets. This fine piece of metal would be the museum’s undoing.
Sean, now, took out his box-cutter and sliced through the screen after lifting the window off its hinges. He pulled out his gear from the backpack he had left up there on his first scouting mission. He attached the static rope to the metal supports, testing the hold before sliding downwards into the room. He caught his pant leg on the metal edge and restrained himself from crying out as his leg was jabbed when the metal tore a hole in his pants.
The jewel display cases were hooked into the alarm system at the insurer’s insistence. But the mask wasn’t. It had been overlooked as it contained no jewels. The glass sequins had been dulled by time, and compared to the king’s ransom displayed across the room, the mask didn’t appear to have value. Although, as an artifact of Mardi Gras, it was priceless. Sean quickly dismantled the climate-controlled glass case and extracted the mask.
He put it on. Glancing at the mirrored back of the case, he admired his royal visage. He kept the mask on and boldly walked past the security cameras and down the stairs. He looked out the barred windows at the solid mass of people moving along the front of the museum. “Nope, not getting out unnoticed that way,” he thought. He moved deeper into the
employees only
part of the museum’s bottom floor, hoping to find a back exit. He passed through a small lunch room and out into a small inner courtyard.
He questioned himself about whether he had been through here on the tour. The guide had taken them through a courtyard, but it had been large and was rife with flowering foliage. This moonlit tile and brick courtyard served only as a place for the employees to smoke, away from the valuables and the customers. The standing ash pot was overfilled, and as a light breeze moved through, Sean’s sensitive nose was assaulted with the acrid smell of tobacco.
In a hurry to leave, Sean twisted the knob of the nearest door and found it locked. He did the same to all the doors that opened to the small courtyard and found that even the door he had just come through had locked itself when he carelessly let it close. He started to panic, fearing he would be stuck there among the ashes until an employee who needed to relieve a nicotine urge, after the holiday, found him. He decided to see if he could force one of the older wooden doors. He took out his flip knife and succeeded in opening what unfortunately turned out to be a large supply closet. There would be no exit there. He backed out, mindful of the buckets and mops. He started to slam the door when a slice of moonlight penetrated the dark recess and glinted briefly off of something metallic. Sean looked closer and was rewarded with a ring of keys.
The large steel circle contained many keys of various shapes and sizes. Not only were there keys to every locked door, but someone had labeled them. Sean worked his way around the ring until he found the one labeled “smoking room/red door.” He walked to the back door and opened it to find a set of ascending stairs. He backed out and thought a moment. The museum was comprised of several old houses. Perhaps one had to go up first and then down again to access an exit to the street behind. He shut the door behind him and started up the stairs. He drew out his small flashlight and used it as he moved up the dark staircase. After the steep climb, he found himself on a landing and was faced with three doors. Two of them were unlocked and led into the house. The third was padlocked.
