Big Easy Murder (The Peyton Clark Series Book 3) by H. P. Mallory

ONE
    It was my first Christmas in New Orleans and, more specifically, my first one in my new house on Prytania Street. After deciding to quit an unhappy marriage, I’d packed my things, left Los Angeles, and headed south. And now I was the proud owner of a nineteenth-century, three-story, five-thousand-square-foot mansion. So what if it were in dire need of a facelift? Actually, it needed a lot more than that—it was in dire need of a whole body lift.
    I was still in the process of completing that full body lift. So far, only the kitchen, the downstairs bedroom, and the bathroom were fully remodeled. But that didn’t stop me from busting out my Christmas guns! And those guns? Boy, were they big ones! Yes, I’d gone a little bit overboard when it came to my holiday decorations. Now the furniture-free, as well as drywall-free, living room boasted faux pine garlands winding up the balustrades on either side of the staircase, as well as fluffy wreaths in every window. Life-size figures of Santa and Mrs. Claus stood off to one side of the double front doors, with eight elves standing on the other side. And let’s not forget the Christmas village! I set that up underneath the bay windows on the far side of the room. At this particular moment, I was tackling a behemoth known as my fourteen-foot Christmas tree! It fully occupied the center of the room, intoning a festive air, completely adorned in white, silver and gold. And its crowning glory? Nothing less than a diamond-studded (fake, of course) star to top off the whole thing.
    And that, right there, was the problem.
    The tree was fourteen feet tall and I wasn’t. Even at the top of my trusty ladder, I was still a few feet too short.
    “Hmm,” I grumbled from the fifth step of the ladder. I glanced down at the star in my hand and then back up to the top of the tree.
    Do not contemplate it, ma minette, Drake’s voice sounded inside my head. You will most assuredly fall and injure yourself. May I remind you, I am still in the unenviable position of also feeling your physical pain?
    Hearing someone’s disembodied voice inside your head might seem like reason enough to fall off your ladder, but I didn’t. Why? Because that inner voice didn’t surprise me. I’ve been hosting the ghost of Drake Montague, a twentieth-century French Creole policeman, for some time now; so let’s just say I was used to it.
    What if I wedged the ladder a little bit closer to the tree? And then stood on the top step? I bet I could reach the treetop, I responded to Drake’s comment in thought. Eyeing the top of the tree with even more determination, I added: And I can brace myself against the fireplace to keep my balance. Sure, it was a great plan.
    Mon Dieu! That sounds like no more than a fool’s errand which will only result in our being admitted to Charity Hospital! Drake protested in his usual, histrionic falsetto voice that normally amused me. Right now, however, he was sounding more like the voice of doom. Given how determined I was to see my Christmas preparations completed, the voice of doom most certainly DID NOT fit into my plans.
    Just watch, I thought as I started coming back down the ladder. Once I had both of my feet on the floor, I grabbed the ladder and forcibly shoved it as far against the tree as I could, causing a few ornaments to swing radically. They briefly swayed back and forth, but I didn’t think they were going to fall off, so I breathed a sweet sigh of relief. As I faced the ladder again, I rocked it back and forth, trying to determine how safe it was to climb. It wasn’t exactly stable. One of the legs was on top of the rug while the other three were in contact with the hardwood floor. Well, make that two legs that were resting on the floor … the third was helplessly airborne.
    Mon chaton, Drake continued in his worried-mom tone, his French accent even thicker.
    If you don’t take risks, you don’t see rewards, I fired back smartly. Starting back up the