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

ladder, I was a bit more tentative as I ascended to the top. Once I reached the second to the last step, I stabilized myself by leaning against the marble fireplace. Then taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the top rung of the ladder, ignoring the warning label that said not to use it as a step. I figured the warning was more of a suggestion than a hard-and-fast rule. It didn’t matter anyway; I was still too short to reach the top of the tree.
    “Dammit!” I cried out loud, letting my exasperation get the best of me.
    You made a valiant effort, Drake tried to console me.
    Eyeing the treetop one more time, I wondered if maybe I could just pull the tree closer by bending the top of it down, and plopping the star on top?
    Non, Drake responded as soon as that thought crossed my mind. You must accept defeat, ma minette, he declared, using his pet name for me, which means, “my pussycat.”
    Even though I hated to admit it, Drake was right. There was no way, short of sprouting a set of wings and flying, that I could reach the top of the tree.
    You could always invest in another taller ladder, Drake suggested.
    Yes, but that would mean a trip to the DIY store and yadda-yadda-yadda, I replied with a hefty shake of my head. All I want right now is immediate gratification.
    Drake didn’t answer, probably because he wanted me to pay stricter attention as I worked my way down the ladder and still clutched the glittery star in my left hand. Once my feet touched the ground again, I closed my eyes. I wanted to have this conversation with Drake in as close to real time as our bizarre situation allowed.
    By closing my eyes and allowing him, I handed Drake the proverbial reins of my body, and he assumed control. The dreamscape that existed behind my eyelids was purely Drake’s doing. He controlled whatever visuals unfolded before me. Now with my eyes closed, I was still in my living room, only as it appeared back in the year 1919. That was when Drake was still alive and he owned the house.
    “Given your penchant for recklessness, I am surprised you have survived this long,” he told me. He was standing before the bank of floor-to-ceiling picture windows, which flanked both sides of the fireplace, dressed in lounge pants and nothing else, which I found slightly obnoxious. It meant I had to make one hell of an attempt to keep my eyes from wandering over his exquisitely sculpted upper body. Yes, Drake was very handsome. Well, probably more fitting to say he was droolworthy. But he was also very much dead.
    “Oh, puleeze,” I said as I waved him away with a dismissive hand. “You used to be a police officer! You must have dealt with way more dangerous situations than a silly girl on a stepladder.”
    Cocking his head to the side, he nodded as if agreeing with that point, but remained silent. He fixed his pervasive, chocolate gaze on me. Drake still looked as if he were right around my age, which would be in his early thirties. He was tall too, maybe six-one or six-two. His thick, dark hair was long on top and short on the sides, as was the fashion in the 1920s. Actually, it was still pretty fashionable, even by today’s standards. His strong, square jaw was covered in a five-o’clock shadow that nicely complemented his tan complexion.
    “I do believe your overabundance of Christmas novelties are swallowing the entirety of my living room,” he complained as he sipped from a tumbler of whiskey. I hadn’t realized he’d been holding it until he put it to his lips and took a very lengthy and purposeful gulp.
    “Are you referring to my house?” I inquired from where I sat in one of his Bergere oak chairs that were remarkably comfortable. Finely upholstered in a cornflower blue, they matched the shade of the curtains exactly. Even though Drake’s career was as a police officer, he came from old money. That was what enabled him to afford such a lavish home, which would have, otherwise, been impossible to finance on a lawman’s