New Orleans Dangerous - an excerpt

 

SOME SAY VAMPIRES CAME TO AMERICA BY WAY OF NEW ORLEANS. MANY BELIEVE THEY ARE STILL HERE

Love vampires and New Orleans? Here are the first three Chapters of my latest book New Orleans Dangerous featuring French Quarter detective Wyatt Thomas. You can order the book on Amazon,, BN, Apple ibooks, and Kobo. Hope you love it.

New Orleans Dangerous

A novel by

Eric Wilder

Chapter 1

Murders rarely go as planned. Though Darth Heaney reflected on the thought as he field-stripped a cigarette before tossing it overboard, he wasn’t worried about it.

A deckhand on the towboat Emma Lou, Darth was the lowest man on the totem pole. Though he’d worked onboard for more than a year, the rest of the crew hadn’t let him forget it. Garbage duty, kitchen patrol, and all the extra early-morning watches didn’t bother him as much as the names he’d heard the crewmembers call him: stupid, slow, dumb. None of the slurs bothered him as much as the torment heaped on him by one crewmember in particular.

Sammy Ray Nations was a huge man, his broad shoulders and muscular body covered in tattoos. He was the strongest person aboard the Emma Lou. At least that’s what everyone thought. Everyone except Darth. Though Darth was only five-foot-six, he had the strength of a champion powerlifter. The strenuous labor he did on the boat only served to make him even stronger.

Sammy Ray had taken it upon himself to torment Darth since the day he signed on the Emma Lou. Spitting in Darth’s eggs and then rubbing his face in the sticky mess was the least of Sammy Ray’s transgressions against him. When the huge man cornered Darth in the shower and tried to bully him into performing oral sex on him, Darth’s disgust had turned into a burning hatred. Though years had passed since he’d killed anyone, he intended to change all that and to do it that very night.

Emma Lou was one of the biggest towboats on the lower Mississippi River. It’s almost twelve-thousand horsepower engines regularly pushed forty barges laden with thousands of pounds of cargo to St. Louis, and even more on the return trip to New Orleans. Twenty-eight days on and fourteen days off was the normal working schedule. The often-dangerous river journeys had never bothered Darth. He had no friends either on the boat or in New Orleans, the city he called home.

Now, the Emma Lou was less than five miles from New Orleans. Two in the morning, Darth puffed on the cigarette he’d lit from the last one he’d smoked before flipping it overboard. Sammy Ray was a light sleeper. He awoke around this time every morning to smoke, drink his cheap whiskey, and walk the deck. This particular morning, Darth had a plan for him. When Sammy Ray came around the corner, Darth stepped out of the shadows.

“What the hell!” Sammy Ray said as he took a backward step.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Darth said.

“You couldn’t scare shit, you little shrimp. You come to suck my dick?”

“I got something to show you,” Darth said, moving toward the much larger man.

Sammy Ray glanced down at Darth’s cupped hands. “What the hell is it?”

“This,” Darth said.

Darth opened his hands long enough to show the big man there was nothing in them, and then came up under Sammy Ray’s chin with his right fist.

Sammy Ray’s eyes blinked once as his knees collapsed and he sank to the deck. Darth looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the incident. Thick clouds covered the moon and stars leaving only darkness, Darth the only person awake except for the morning pilot in the wheelhouse on the far end of the large boat.

Darth used his razor-sharp switchblade knife to slit Sammy Ray’s wrist and then began lapping the blood as it poured out of the vein. Darth had a silver flask with a special engraving. It was the only thing his father had ever given him. After filling the flask with blood, he removed his shirt, using it to tie Sammy Ray’s wrists.

He’d found an old anchor on the docks. After hooking the barb around the shirt, he pushed Sammy Ray’s body overboard. Even if his blood loss weren’t enough to kill him, he would drown when the anchor dragged him to the bottom of the river.

Because of the strong currents in the middle of the Mississippi, Sammy Ray’s body might not surface until it reached the Gulf of Mexico. If anyone ever found it, the anchor would be long gone. With no marks of violence except for the slit on Sammy Ray’s wrist, the authorities would likely rule his death accidental.

There was little time to worry about it as tugboats would soon arrive to break the barges loose to complete their river journey. It would still be dark when the Emma Lou docked, and the crew departed. No one would notice Sammy Ray was missing until he failed to pick up his paycheck at the company headquarters. Even then, days might pass before anyone went to check on the alcoholic seaman.

Darth Heaney left the Emma Lou, walking down the gangplank with a duffel bag over his shoulder. It wasn’t far to the Riverwalk. Heavy fog was rolling in from the river when he reached the scenic New Orleans’ walkway. A couple in the act of lovemaking didn’t stop what they were doing as he walked past. Darth didn’t notice, smiling when he saw the lights of Café du Monde.

Darth and his mother Mona Marie had lived in the Old Ursuline Convent on Chartres Street most of his life. She’d been the live-in caretaker there, dusting the statuary and mopping the corridors. She didn’t make much money, but their lodging was free, and the nuns brought them food almost every day. When they didn’t, Darth would buy fruits, vegetables and po’boy sandwiches at the nearby Farmer’s Market.

He often visited Café du Monde. All the waiters and waitresses knew him and always provided free coffee and beignets when he showed up at the backdoor. Though he now made lots of money as a deckhand on the Emma Lou, he still went to the backdoor, drinking coffee and eating beignets with the people who worked there. He continued to smile, dusting powdered sugar off of his shirt as he headed back into the darkness.

Darth knew every alleyway in the French Quarter. After leaving Café du Monde, he took his own route to the Old Ursuline Convent. Colorful masonry walls hid the garden courtyards of the residences behind them from the people passing on the streets. As they had for the past three hundred years, citizens of the Big Easy guarded their privacy above all else.

It was spring, flowers in full bloom. High walls couldn’t mask the climbing roses cascading over them. Darth loved springtime better than any season and used his switchblade to cut a rose from the bush. Before walking away, he inhaled the blossom’s fragrant aroma.

The old Ursuline Convent of New Orleans wasn’t far away. It lay deserted at night, all the doors, and windows locked, the courtyard surrounded by an eight-foot-high masonry fence to keep winos and homeless people from camping out inside. It didn’t matter to Darth. He had a master key that could unlock every door in the building.

A cat screeched in a nearby alleyway, garbage cans rattling as Darth opened a service entrance in the back of the building and slipped inside. Utility lights lit the hallway as he hurried past the main chapel, careful to avoid the security cameras. Though the stairway was dark, Darth didn’t miss a step as he hurried up the stairs to the second floor. He knew every creaky board on the floor because he’d traversed it more times than he cared to count.

The convent was now a museum during the day and unoccupied at night. Except for the girl. She was as elusive as a gust of wind. He knew she lived alone in the convent though he didn’t know where. He would sometimes feel her stare and maybe even catch a fleeting glimpse of her when he wheeled around. He could feel her now.

The second floor once had cells where the nuns lived. Now they were empty, much of the second floor a research library for scholars and visiting dignitaries. Not all the cells were vacant. His mother still occupied the one where he’d lived for much of his younger life. It wasn’t where anyone could find it.

Forgotten by most, secret passageways laced the old building. Darth knew where they all were. Growing up, he’d had not a single friend and spent his days playing in the passageways and creating a fantasy world that sometimes crossed over into reality. When he tapped at a special spot on the wall, a sliding panel opened. Not needing a light to know where he was going, he entered the Stygian darkness.

His mother’s room was behind a hidden door at the end of the darkened hallway. Darth could find it in his sleep. After locating a candle in a cranny in the wall, he lit it. The convent was one of the oldest surviving buildings in the United States. It smelled like it when Darth opened the door.

The reek of must and mildew burned his eyes, causing him to sneeze as he went around the room lighting candles with a match from the souvenir box advertising the towboat Emma Lou. A single bed occupied the room, a washbasin with a mirror, two old chairs and little else.

“Hi, Mom. You miss me?”

Darth got no answer to his question from the woman, or remains of the woman, lying in bed beneath a faded quilt. Long gray hair capped the eyeless skull, its teeth smiling in a perpetual grin. Darth bent down and kissed the skull, unmindful of the spider crawling out of the empty eye socket.

“Got something for you.”

Darth slipped the red rose into the bony remains of his mother’s hand.

“I’m in town for a while and happy to be home.”

Darth climbed on the bed, lying beside his mother’s skeletal remains. Flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the windowless walls of the cell. Only the sound of a mouse gnawing on something inside one of the walls, and bats stirring in the attic disturbed the room’s silence.

“You’re looking good. How you been?”

Darth rolled off the bed, not waiting for an answer. Before he’d taken a step, he grabbed his head with both hands, moaning as he sank to his knees. He rubbed his temples, trying to make the pain go away. Long moments passed before he rose again, his grimace gone.

As if nothing had happened, he opened the door of a closet. Stripping off his clothes, he began donning the vestments of a Catholic priest. With an alb over his clothes and preaching scarf around his neck, he took the rose from the grasp of the skeletal hand.

“I see Darth is back in town. Tell him I’m looking for him. Right now, I have a service to perform.”

Taking the rose with him, the person who had become Father Luc left the room, heading down the stairs to the first floor. The Old Ursuline Convent had many ornate altars. The altar to where Father Luc was headed wasn’t one of them. He continued past the main altar to a door at the end of a darkened hallway. Using his passkey, he entered a room that wasn’t much bigger than a closet.

A small shrine occupied a wall in the little room, a silver chalice sitting on the communion table. Father Luc lit a votive candle atop the ancient altar painted in white enamel. He wasn’t done. After placing the rose in a crystal vase and a hundred-dollar bill in the silver chalice, he grasped the stole around his neck, bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“With the blood of hogs on the altar of the King of Hell, I pray the god of all the minions below ratify my offering. Make me your strong right arm and give me the strength to destroy the Roof of Lucifer so that I may set you, the supreme master, once again free. In Nomine Satanas, sic faciam illud.”

Father Luc left the altar to return to the hidden room on the second floor. Once he’d disappeared up the stairs, someone else entered the little room. Taking the blood-red rose from the vase, she replaced it with one that was white.

 Chapter 2

Spring had arrived in the French Quarter. I realized it the moment I stepped out on my balcony overlooking Chartres Street. Tourists were stirring on the sidewalk below, a mule-drawn carriage plodding toward Jackson Square. Sounds of produce trucks unloading over by the French Market filled the air with the sweet fragrance of fresh fruits and vegetables, along with the perfume of magnolia trees and flowers in bloom around St. Louis Cathedral.

As I got dressed, Kisses, my cat lay in the sun, watching the sparrows and pigeons grousing for scraps of food dropped by tourists on the street. I lived in a small apartment over Bertram Picou’s Chartres Street bar. Even though it was still early, I could hear Bertram’s distinctive baritone voice as he held court for some lucky visitors to his establishment.

When I descended the stairs, I saw the place was empty except for two women sitting at the bar drinking martinis and talking to Bertram. One of the women was someone I knew and whom I hadn’t seen in quite some time: Lilly Bliss, a writer I’d met during an assignment on a resort island south of New Orleans.

Just as the last time I’d seen her, Lilly’s hair was short and black, and the same color as the frames of the thick glasses she almost always kept perched on her head. Though not a drop-dead beauty queen, her expressive green eyes could cast a spell on you if you weren’t careful. Lilly smiled when she glanced up and saw me coming down the stairs.

“Wyatt,” she said, getting off the barstool to give me a hug. “How are you?”

“A whole lot better after seeing your pretty face.”

“Keep your eyes on this one, Avory. He’ll have your panties off before you know he’s touching you,” Lilly said.

Ignoring her catty remark, I said, “What brings you to New Orleans, Miss Lilly?”

“Couldn’t quit thinking about that damn Cajun behind the bar,” she said. “He has a better line of bullshit than you do, and I kind of like his coonass accent. Wyatt Thomas, meet my best friend, Avory.”

Lilly’s friend was laughing and shaking her head at Lilly’s remark.

“Glad to meet you, Avory. Don’t believe the stories Lilly tells you about me,” I said. “She’s a fiction writer, and that’s pretty much synonymous with a paid liar.”

Avory had blond curly hair, a glorious smile, and big blue eyes.

“Have we met?” she asked.

“Only in my wildest dreams,” I said.

Avory glanced at Lilly and said, “I think you’re right about this one.”

“Miss Avory is a movie writer,” Bertram said.

I gave her a closer look. “Of course, you’re Avory Dorean.”

“You have to be kidding,” Avory said. “I’m not exactly a celebrity. How did you know who I am?”

“I never forget a face,” I said. “While waiting in a checkout line, I saw your picture and a little blurb about some of the scripts you’ve written, in a movie magazine.”

“Avory and I are developing the script for the movie Quinlan is currently working on,” Lilly said.

A Hollywood producer, Quinlan Moore, had hired me to investigate a gruesome murder at a resort island for artists and actors. It was on that assignment where I’d met Lilly. Quinlan had put me on retainer a year or so later when he returned to New Orleans to film a movie.

Bertram and Lilly had become a number during the filming of Moore’s movie. Even though Bertram had courted many women, none had meant quite as much to him as had Lilly. He’d pouted for weeks after her abrupt departure. Lilly must have noticed my expression of concern when she caught me, giving him a glance.

“If you’re worried about Bertram and me, just stop it. I spent the night with him last night. In fact, I may never leave again,” she said. “Isn’t that right, Bert?”

“Baby Doll, ain’t a minute gone by since you walked out that door that I haven’t missed you,” he said.

Lilly joined him on the other side of the bar, putting her arms around him.

“You’re a bigger liar than Wyatt. I still love hearing it. I also missed you, more than you’ll ever know.”

“Enough to spend the rest of your time here in New Orleans with me?”

“Sweetie, I was hoping you’d ask because I didn’t bother checking into a hotel when we arrived in town,” Lilly said. “Take my stool, Wyatt. I’m going to help my wonderful man behind the bar.”

Lady, Bertram’s collie, must have missed Lilly as much as Bertram had because her tail was wagging when Lillie knelt down and gave her a hug.

“Can you and Lady watch the place for a while, Cowboy?” Bertram asked. “Me and Miss Lilly got some important business in back to attend to.”

“Why not?” I said. “Won’t be the first or the last time Lady and I held down the fort for you. With no customers, it’ll be a piece of cake.”

Before leaving, Bertram mixed Avory another martini and poured me a glass of lemonade.

“Mind if I try it?” Avory said. I handed her my glass and watched as she took a sip. “There’s no liquor in here.”

“I’m an alcoholic,” I said. “Though I fall off the wagon every now and then, I’ve remained mostly sober for several years now.”

Someone came in the door. It was Quinlan Moore. “Wyatt, my man,” he said. “Just the person I was looking for. I see you’ve already met Avory.”

“Bertram and Lilly are in the back,” I said, stepping behind the bar. “What are you drinking?”

“Vodka, with a splash, and only a cube or two of ice.”

“Gotcha. Lilly said you were in town doing some leg work for a new movie.”

Quinlan hugged Avory and gave her a kiss. As I mixed his drink, he draped his arms over her shoulders.

“I’m scouting locations.”

“What’s your movie about?” I asked.

“Don’t know yet. It’s still in pre-production. Got any ideas?”

“You can barely wake up in the morning in New Orleans without tripping over a new mystery,” I said.

Once an actor, Quinlan Moore was a handsome man with dark eyes and blond hair starting to gray around his temples. The nerdy pencil mustache he’d sported when we’d first met was gone. Quin was dressed in dark slacks, his expensive sports coat highlighting his broad shoulders. The buttons of his silk shirt were opened enough to reveal his chest hair. He gave Avory another kiss on the neck.

“How you doing?” he asked.

“Taking it all in,” she said.

“When I’m in the Big Easy, Wyatt’s my man from Havana. He’s helped me a bunch in the past. When I’m in town, Wyatt’s on retainer.”

“What do you do?” Avory asked.

“Investigations,” I said.

“Avory and Lilly are developing the script for my movie,” Quinlan said.

“Thought you didn’t know what the movie’s about yet.”

“I soon will. Like you said, there’s a story around every corner. Lilly already knows New Orleans. While I’m off developing locations, Avory needs someone to escort her around town. Have anything else going?”

“You know I’m happy to help out any way I can. You don’t have to pay me to do that,” I said.

“Nonsense,” he said. “You’re already written into the budget. How’s Tony doing?”

“Good,” I said.

“Who’s Tony?” Avory asked.

“Tony Nicosia, a former homicide detective with the N.O.P.D., I said. “Tough as nails and knows the underbelly of New Orleans like no one else in town. Like me, he’s now a private investigator, and we occasionally hook up on projects.”

“Tony’s a sweetheart,” Quinlan said. “He has buddies on the force that are always happy to assist. Though he doesn’t know it yet, he’s also on retainer.”

“That’ll make him happy,” I said.

Quinlan glanced at his Rolex Commander. “Gotta run,” he said. “Can you tell him I’m in town and that he’s on the clock?”

“You got it, boss,” I said, saluting.

“And Wyatt, please make sure you keep Avory happy while I’m off doing the dirty work of Hollywood producing.”

Quinlan downed his drink before disappearing through the door. I locked it behind him.

“May as well shut the place down,” I said. “No customers, anyway.”

“Quin is maddening,” Avory said. “If he weren’t such a genius, I’d be happy to never see him again.”

“He pays so well, I won’t have to work for six months.”

“Boring,” she said. “I like to stay busy. If I had a project, I’d work every day.”

“You and Lilly are here on a project, or did I hear Quinlan wrong?”

“The script might not get written for months. The reason I’m here is Quinlan is my boyfriend. He doesn’t like traveling alone.”

“But. . .”

“I know,” she said. “He’s married.”

“Does his wife know about your arrangement?”

“She could care less,” Avory said. “Quinlan’s rich and powerful and buys her anything she wants. She has her own boyfriend.”

“Then why bother staying married?”

“They’re a power couple. Quinlan’s a producer, Penelope, an actress. They have two great children and all the money in the world.”

“But. . .”

“Neither of them wants to take a chance on losing even a whit of their power and influence by undergoing a messy divorce,” Avory said.

“I see,” I said. “And you?”

“I like being in the sphere of Quinlan’s power and influence. I’ve written lots of movies because of him, even if I have to occasionally twiddle my thumbs.”

“My guess is you’ve never twiddled your thumbs.”

Avory tapped her glass against mine. “I think I’m going to like you, Wyatt. Are you sure you’re a private investigator and not an actor?”

“Closest I ever came to acting was a part in the Mikado in the fifth grade. I had one line, and I muffed it. Why would you think I was an actor?”

“You’re good-looking enough to be a leading man. I wouldn’t put it past Quinlan to hire someone to report back to him on what I’m doing.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” I said.

“Oh, yes, he would. He’s a control freak, or haven’t you noticed?”

“I’m not an actor.”

“And you’re not married?”

“Nope.”

“Where do you live?”

I pointed. “The top of that flight of stairs.”

“A suite?”

“Just a small room and bath. I do have a balcony overlooking Chartres Street, and there aren’t many places in the world as relaxing.”

“I’d like to see it,” she said. “Can you mix me another martini?”

“My pleasure.” Lady was taking a nap behind the bar when I joined her. “Even if my martinis aren’t as good as Bertram’s, I’ve never had any complaints.”

“I’ll bet you haven’t,” she said.

Avory couldn’t believe her eyes when we went upstairs, and I opened my apartment door.

“I told you it was small,” I said.

“I like it,” she said. “It has the ambiance of Antebellum New Orleans. I’ll bet this is how it felt two hundred years ago.”

“You can say that about any place in the Quarter. My little apartment is comfortable. I wouldn’t live anywhere else,” I said.

Avory and I were soon sitting on the balcony in my deck chairs. Kisses jumped into her lap the moment she sat down.

“You don’t seem to me like a man who likes cats,” she said.

“Have you ever had one?”

“Several,” she said. “I love cats.”

She smiled when I said, “You don’t seem like a woman who would like cats.”

“Touché,” she said. “You don’t have a girlfriend?”

“Just Miss Kisses.”

“I’d like to be your girlfriend while I’m in New Orleans.”

“What about Quinlan?”

“Quinlan has the morals of an alley cat. He’s probably in his hotel room right now screwing some waitress he picked up in a bar.”

“He’s not afraid you might return and catch him?”

Avory grinned. “Quin’s too smart for that. We have separate rooms. Hell, we’re not even staying in the same hotel. He knows how to play the game. It’s likely I won’t see him the entire time I’m here.”

“Amazing,” I said.

“Quin is paying you handsomely to keep me happy while I’m in town. Can you handle it?”

“Depends,” I said. “What’s the name of the game we’re playing?”

“House,” she said.

“I’m an investigator, not an escort service.”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” she said. “I’m like Quin and hate being alone. Nobody said anything about sex, though it’s not out of the question. I want to soak up the local culture. I think you’re the one to help me do it and you told Quin you’d be happy to show me around.”

“No problem,” I said.

“I want to check out of my hotel and move in with you.”

“That little bed is all I have. I love the wood floor, but it isn’t very comfortable.”

“We’ll work something out,” she said. “You may have a problem with my rules.”

“Rules?”

“No permanent attachments. Once I leave town, I don’t intend to ever see you again. No calls, no forlorn letters, nothing. Understand?”

“I thought all I was going to do was show you around town.”

“I don’t want to get started in this relationship if it’s going to turn messy,” Avory said.

“Since you’re setting the rules, what does our relationship entail?”

“Like I told you, we’re playing house. Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re so full of bullshit, I can’t believe a word you say. Are you setting me up for some bad joke?”

“You want me to strip off my clothes, climb in your little bed and show you? Damn you, why don’t you stop smiling?”

“Because this is like a teenager’s fantasy, being asked by a gorgeous woman less than an hour after meeting her to have a no-holds-barred relationship with no permanent ties.”

“You may not be serious. I am,” she said.

Avory began unbuttoning her blouse. I was still shaking my head in disbelief after she’d removed her blouse and bra and sat topless on the bed.

“Getting cold feet?” I asked.

“Screw you. Every other man I’ve pulled this act on would have pretty much creamed his pants by now.”

Her confident smile returned when I said, “How do you know I haven’t?”

Avory quickly adjusted her bra and re-buttoned her blouse.

“We’re going to have some fun together. Right now, I need to return to the hotel and get my bags. Will you take me?”

“Are you still acting?”

“The moment I saw you walking down the stairs, I knew I was going to like you. I don’t know how this movie is going to turn out because I’ve yet to write the final scene.”

 Chapter 3

We took a cab to the hotel, Avory remaining silent during the ride. Though I didn’t worry about it for long, I was wondering what I’d gotten myself into. I watched her disappear into the front door of the twelve-story Canal Street hotel before waving on the cab.

Since the weather was delightful, I decided to walk back to Bertram’s. I found Bertram and Lilly behind the bar, talking with a Catholic nun who was sitting on a stool and enjoying one of the Cajun bartender’s martinis. Bertram flashed me a dirty look when he saw me.

“Where you been?” he asked. “We been looking for you.”

“I took Avory back to her hotel.”

“Well, someone’s here to see you.”

Seeing there was no one else in the building except for the nun, I introduced myself.

“I’m Wyatt Thomas.”

The woman shook my hand. “I’m Sister Lydia. My diocese requires the services of a private investigator. Your name was suggested. I’m here to talk to you about it.”

“Of course. How can I help?”

“What I have to say is confidential. Can we discuss the matter in private?”

“There’s a booth in the back where we can have some privacy.”

Sister Lydia smiled for the first time as she slid off the stool and gave Bertram a glance.

“Your martinis are very good, maybe the best I’ve ever tasted,” she said.

“I’ll bring you another,” Bertram said. “And Sister Lydia, you’re drinking on the house.”

“Thank you,” Sister Lydia said.

The tall nun was at least thirty years older than me, and maybe more. Because of her infectious smile and sparkling brown eyes, she was still quite attractive. When I needed to talk to a client in private, I always did so in my favorite booth in the back of Bertram’s bar. Sister Lydia followed me there, craning her neck to make sure we were far enough away from Bertram and Lilly’s ears before situating herself in the booth.

“Now, how can I be of service?” I asked.

“Are you familiar with the Old Ursuline Convent?”

“My mother took me there once when I was younger,” I said.

“The fact that you are Catholic is part of the reason we are considering you for the job.”

I didn’t ask how Sister Lydia knew my religious preference.

“Maybe you’d better explain,” I said.

“The Old Ursuline Convent is now a museum. As you probably already know, the convent is one of the oldest buildings in the United States.”

“And?”

“We have a problem that requires attention,” she said.

“Please explain.”

Before Sister Lydia could answer, Bertram showed up with a fresh martini for her and another glass of lemonade for me. Sister Lydia waited until he’d returned to the bar before continuing with her story.

“The convent is closed at night. There is no night watchman. Last night, an illicit ceremony was performed there.”

“Someone broke into the convent?”

“There’s no indication that anyone forcibly entered the building. Still, some unauthorized person was there last night.”

“How do you know an illicit ceremony was performed?” I asked.

“You’ll understand when I show you. Please take my word for it until then,” she said.

“Have you reported this incident to the authorities?”

“The Old Ursuline Convent is part of the greater Archdiocese of New Orleans. We prefer to handle as many problems internally as possible without involving the city. The Archdiocese wants our own person to investigate, and not the local police.”

“Are you an Ursuline Nun?” I asked.

“I’m not. The Ursulines moved to a new convent long ago. The Old Ursuline Convent is part of the greater New Orleans Archdiocese that includes the St. Louis Cathedral and St. Mary’s Church. I work for the Archdiocese.”

“I see,” I said.

“The Archdiocese has already checked your qualifications. If you are amenable to helping us, then we need to discuss your fee.”

“Like you said, Sister Lydia, I’m Catholic. I’ll do anything I can to help you. No charge. When do we start?”

As if she’d expected nothing less, Sister Lydia nodded. She drained her martini and slid out of the booth.

“Now, if you have no other plans.”

***

Jackson Square lay between the Old Ursuline Convent and Bertram’s. I stopped outside the door to hail a cab.

“It’s an absolutely marvelous day,” Sister Lydia said. “Let’s walk.”

The nun started up the sidewalk at such a fast clip, I had to hurry to keep up with her.

“Isn’t that habit a bit warm to expend so much energy?” I asked.

“I’ve grown accustomed to the tools of my occupation during my seventy years.”

“You’re not seventy, are you?”

“Nuns don’t lie, Mr. Thomas.”

Without commenting on her claim, I said, “Please call me Wyatt. Mister Thomas was my father’s name.”

As Sister Lydia had said, the day was marvelous. We weren’t the only people on the sidewalk. Throngs of tourists and locals reveled in the beautiful weather and the sights and sounds of the French Quarter. When we reached Jackson Square, we found it alive with activity. Artists were painting portraits. In the plaza in front of Andy Jackson’s statue, a jazz combo was holding court to an appreciative crowd.

Palm trees wafted in a gentle breeze, their fronds a vivid green usually seen only on the sandy beaches of some tropical isle. Sister Lydia clasped her rosary beads and closed her eyes when we strolled past the open doors of St. Louis Cathedral. It prompted me to reach for my St. Christopher’s Medal before remembering I had lost it years ago.

Sister Lydia wasn’t even breathing hard when we reached the Old Ursuline Convent farther up Chartres Street. Distant memories flooded my thoughts as we entered the gate. Sister Lydia introduced me to the person collecting admission from the visitors.

“This is Mr. Thomas. He’s working for the Archdiocese and has free rein to the convent. Please allow him to come and go as he pleases.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the young woman with curly hair and a single earring said.

I followed Sister Lydia down the sidewalk through the sculptured hedgerows decorating the expansive front lawn of the convent. When she pushed through the front doorway, I could almost smell the antiquity. Inside, everything was polish, lacquers, and vivid colors. Sister Lydia led us to the magnificent altar in the main chapel where she knelt, bowed her head, and said a prayer.

“I’d forgotten what a splendid example of French Colonial architecture this building is,” I said.

“The oldest building in the Mississippi Valley; almost three-hundred-years old. Two floors and an attic level with three dormers. The building itself has twelve bays.”

Sister Lydia frowned when I said, “Lots of threes there.”

“I assure you, there is no numerological meaning intended.”

Sensing my offhand remark had annoyed the nun, I quickly changed the subject.

“Please show me where the ceremony took place,” I said.

“Of course,” she said.

I followed her to an unmarked door, which she opened with an antique key. The dark little room wasn’t much bigger than a large closet. Sister Lydia pointed a flashlight at the small altar that resided on a shelf on the wall.

Sister Lydia shined the light on the altar. “This closet has no light fixture,” she said,. “We’ll have to make do with my flashlight.”

“Has anything been moved?” I asked.

“We left everything as it was when we discovered the disturbance.”

I inched past her for a closer look. A white rose occupied a small vase. Despite the darkness and the lack of water in the vase, the rose looked as fresh as the moment it was cut from the vine. A silver chalice coated with a patina of age sat in the middle of the lacquered altar. There was an inscription on the chalice.

“Can you translate for me?” I asked.

“Latin isn’t an easy language to translate,” Sister Lydia said.

“What do you think it says?” I asked.

“Pig’s blood.”

I gave her a glance, thinking maybe I’d heard her wrong. “Pig’s blood? What does that mean?”

“You’ll have to get the answer from someone other than me,” she said. “I’ve told you all I know about the inscription.”

“You said there was a ceremony here last night. How do you know?”

“Look in the chalice.”

Not wanting to desecrate the relic, I used my ball-point to tilt the silver chalice toward me. I fished out a fresh hundred-dollar-bill with the pen.

“What’s the significance of the money?” I asked.

“Look on the back,” Sister Lydia said.

When I flipped the bill over, I could clearly see the number 66 that someone had written on it. The color was oxidized red. My best guess was the number was written in blood. Sister Lydia’s reaction to my earlier comment about numerology became apparent.

“You think someone performed a satanic ritual here last night?” I asked.

“That’s what I think happened,” she said.

“Mind if I take a few pictures with my cell phone?”

“Go right ahead.”

After taking multiple pictures of the altar, the bill and the chalice, I said, “Since there was no forcible entry, is there anyone on your staff with access to the convent who might be responsible?”

“No,” she said.

“Sure about that?”

“I’m sure.”

“What about a caretaker, or perhaps someone on the janitorial staff?”

“We no longer have a full-time caretaker. The Archdiocese employs a contract janitorial service. The janitors have no keys to the building and only work when someone from our staff is close by.”

“Does anyone other than your staff have a key to the building?”

Sister Lydia shook her head. “You now know as much as I do. Can you help us?”

“Maybe. Please show me around the museum.”

After watching Sister Lydia relock the closet, I listened to her running commentary as I followed her through the museum.

“The convent has been a school for both boys and girls, an orphanage, and even the residence of the Archbishop. It had fallen into a state of disrepair until we restored it to its former glory. It’s now a wonderful museum chronicling much of the religious history of New Orleans.”

The building was divided into various brightly painted rooms with polished wood floors, colorful statuary depicting nuns, priests and saints, and an almost overwhelming sense of antiquity. Exhibits and displays were marked to facilitate the visitor’s self-guided tour of the museum. After leading me through the first floor, Sister Lydia removed the rope barrier blocking the stairs and then started up.

“The nuns who once occupied the convent lived in cells on the second floor. No one lives here anymore, and the cells are empty. A portion of the second floor is now a research library for visiting scholars.”

After Sister Lydia had given me a tour of the library, I said, “What’s in the attic?”

“It’s empty,” she said.

“I’d like to see it,” I said.

“We have an alarm I’ll need to disarm first.”

I watched as Sister Lydia punched in a series of numbers on a keypad mounted on the wall.

“Why do you have an alarm if there’s nothing up there?”

“You’re from New Orleans. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Casket Girls.”

“Please refresh my memory,” I said.

Sister Lydia explained as I followed her to the top of the stairs. “Most of the early settlers to the colony were men. Women were needed to sustain its growth. France sent a group of young women to New Orleans for that reason. They brought all their earthly belongings in crates that resembled caskets.”

“And these women stayed in the convent with the Ursuline Nuns until they were married?” I said.

“Yes, and it led to rumors that the convent was occupied by vampires brought over from France by the Casket Girls. The young women were the supposed hosts of the vampires who lived in their caskets in the attic. It’s an old wive’s tale that won’t go away.”

Sister Lydia didn’t smile when I said, “Maybe because there’s a certain amount of truth in every old wive’s tale.”

“I understand why the rumors were propagated. After having spent months on a ship, mostly below deck, there’s little wonder the women were pale and ashen.”

“So there are no vampires in the attic?” I said.

We’d reached the alcove at the top of the stairs, and Sister Lydia used her key to open the door.

“You’re about to see for yourself,” she said.

###

You can find New Orleans Dangerous on Amazon,  BN,  Apple ibooks and Kobo.

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.