should get hold of some of the old family records and trace the connections.
There was a row of in-ground graves with simple plaques to mark them, each one etched only with a first name, making Aidan think they might have been graves for the family slaves, as well as those who had chosen to stay on to work for the plantation as free men after the war, since several were from the 1870s and ’80s.
None of them seemed to be disturbed.
His attention was drawn next to the large family vault he’d noticed the day before. It was an imposing stone structure with a marble facade. Clearly, it had been built long ago, when the family had been flush with money. Before the War Between the States. He walked up the broken stone path to the heavy iron door. He assumed it would be locked, but it wasn’t.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. It was cool—and dark, so he drew his keys from his pocket and switched on the little flashlight attached to them, then shone it around.
He had expected more cobwebs. And there were dying flowers here and there, so apparently someone still came now and then to honor the dead.
Amelia had been dying of cancer. In the end, she had almost certainly been bedridden. So who had it been? Kendall?
He didn’t think it possible that any of his ancestors’ bones had escaped from the tombs that lined the walls, or from the two sarcophagi that sat in the middle of the mausoleum, facing a small marble altar backed by a tall golden cross. Behind that, a stained-glass window depicted St. George slaying the dragon. The window faced the trees, rendering its purpose moot, since the heavy branches of the oaks prevented the sun from showing off the beauty of it.
He walked back out of the mausoleum, wondering what he was looking for, what he was expecting to find. There was a simple and reasonable explanation for everything that was bothering him. Shifting earth and rising water had resulted in bones showing up in all kinds of odd places. Amelia had been sedated, so was it any wonder she had seen and heard things, that she had talked to ghosts? Some down-on-his-luck guy had been living on the property, eating chicken and making soup.
Whatever was bugging him, it was something he had to shake, and he should start by getting the hell out of the cemetery. He and his brothers weren’t rolling in cash, but they could afford this project. He was between cases and had time to plunge into the restoration of the house. It might be good for all of them.
He started back toward the house and almost tripped over a broken gravestone.
Swearing softly, he regained his balance, looking down to see what had nearly made him fall.
He frowned, noticing a suspiciously familiar stain on the stone.
He hunched down and studied it more closely. It looked as if something had splattered or…dripped onto the stone. It was brownish and, up close, completely recognizable.
Dried blood.
6
K endall groaned. “Mason, no. I can’t go out tonight.”
“You have to.”
“No, I don’t. What’s that old saying? Only two things are certain in life—death and taxes. And we don’t even have to pay taxes if we don’t want to. We can just go to jail and then die. I do not have to go out tonight.” She was tired, and she didn’t know why. And she was afraid that she would run into Aidan Flynn again, which she definitely didn’t want to do, and she didn’t know exactly why she felt so strongly about that, either. If the guy was going to be living near the city, she could end up running into him a lot, so she was going to have to learn to deal with him, because she wasn’t about to let anyone change her life, her friends or her habits.
Not that she always hung out on Bourbon Street. The locals all said that Bourbon Street was for the tourists; anyone who still wanted real blues or a genuinely Southern-style bar usually headed to Frenchman Street.
But Vinnie played on Bourbon. And lots of her friends went there to see him. The
There was a row of in-ground graves with simple plaques to mark them, each one etched only with a first name, making Aidan think they might have been graves for the family slaves, as well as those who had chosen to stay on to work for the plantation as free men after the war, since several were from the 1870s and ’80s.
None of them seemed to be disturbed.
His attention was drawn next to the large family vault he’d noticed the day before. It was an imposing stone structure with a marble facade. Clearly, it had been built long ago, when the family had been flush with money. Before the War Between the States. He walked up the broken stone path to the heavy iron door. He assumed it would be locked, but it wasn’t.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. It was cool—and dark, so he drew his keys from his pocket and switched on the little flashlight attached to them, then shone it around.
He had expected more cobwebs. And there were dying flowers here and there, so apparently someone still came now and then to honor the dead.
Amelia had been dying of cancer. In the end, she had almost certainly been bedridden. So who had it been? Kendall?
He didn’t think it possible that any of his ancestors’ bones had escaped from the tombs that lined the walls, or from the two sarcophagi that sat in the middle of the mausoleum, facing a small marble altar backed by a tall golden cross. Behind that, a stained-glass window depicted St. George slaying the dragon. The window faced the trees, rendering its purpose moot, since the heavy branches of the oaks prevented the sun from showing off the beauty of it.
He walked back out of the mausoleum, wondering what he was looking for, what he was expecting to find. There was a simple and reasonable explanation for everything that was bothering him. Shifting earth and rising water had resulted in bones showing up in all kinds of odd places. Amelia had been sedated, so was it any wonder she had seen and heard things, that she had talked to ghosts? Some down-on-his-luck guy had been living on the property, eating chicken and making soup.
Whatever was bugging him, it was something he had to shake, and he should start by getting the hell out of the cemetery. He and his brothers weren’t rolling in cash, but they could afford this project. He was between cases and had time to plunge into the restoration of the house. It might be good for all of them.
He started back toward the house and almost tripped over a broken gravestone.
Swearing softly, he regained his balance, looking down to see what had nearly made him fall.
He frowned, noticing a suspiciously familiar stain on the stone.
He hunched down and studied it more closely. It looked as if something had splattered or…dripped onto the stone. It was brownish and, up close, completely recognizable.
Dried blood.
6
K endall groaned. “Mason, no. I can’t go out tonight.”
“You have to.”
“No, I don’t. What’s that old saying? Only two things are certain in life—death and taxes. And we don’t even have to pay taxes if we don’t want to. We can just go to jail and then die. I do not have to go out tonight.” She was tired, and she didn’t know why. And she was afraid that she would run into Aidan Flynn again, which she definitely didn’t want to do, and she didn’t know exactly why she felt so strongly about that, either. If the guy was going to be living near the city, she could end up running into him a lot, so she was going to have to learn to deal with him, because she wasn’t about to let anyone change her life, her friends or her habits.
Not that she always hung out on Bourbon Street. The locals all said that Bourbon Street was for the tourists; anyone who still wanted real blues or a genuinely Southern-style bar usually headed to Frenchman Street.
But Vinnie played on Bourbon. And lots of her friends went there to see him. The
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