River Road - an excerpt

New Orleans is perhaps the only place on earth where a deceased person can attend his or her own wake as the guest of honor. In River Road, sleuth Wyatt Thomas attends one such wake at the Saenger Theater on Canal Street. My first memory of the theater was when I was ten. My brother and I were visiting our Aunt Carmol for a week or so. She dropped Jack and me off there to see David Niven in Around the World in 80 Days. The theater, newly renovated after Hurricane Katrina, is a showplace destination and I remember comparing it in my mind to the tiny Wakea Theater in the little town of Vivian, Louisiana where I grew up. To my ten-year-old brain, the Saenger was like a palace.

In River Road, Wyatt attends an eclectic wake, even by New Orleans' standards, at the behest of a new client. The secretive little man gives Wyatt a single clue and a bag of cash. The man is murdered as Wyatt watches. Before the night ends, he must go on the run to save his own life and to comply with his client's last wish.

River Road takes the reader to places a tourist in New Orleans will likely never see. The story is based on historical accounts of an actual murder that remains unsolved. Much of the book is a fictional recounting of what actually happened in New Orleans shortly after the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. Though I don't profess to have all the answers to the many questions about that particular time in the history of New Orleans, I did draw a conclusion about who actually killed the president. In a later chapter in the book, one of the characters on her deathbed explains who killed JFK and why they did it.

I hope this short excerpt compels you to read River Road. If so, I hope you love it 

Chapter 1

It was one of those days, rain falling in a gentle mist as I glanced down Canal Street. When thunder shook the windowpanes, I stopped gawking and hurried up the sidewalk.

Late afternoon streets were empty as I reached the Saenger Theater. The old auditorium had occupied the corner of Canal and N. Rampart for as long as I could remember. My parents liked their liquor. They could buy cocktails at the balcony bar and get drunk as they watched the latest Hollywood flick. They loved the Saenger.

Flooded and damaged during Katrina, the theater had recently undergone renovation. With work finally completed, the facility is a destination for music and touring acts. The marvelous new sign over the front entrance greeted me, flashing crimson neon as I entered the lobby.

I wasn’t the only one that had braved summer rain, dozens of other people filing into the main amphitheater with me. Music from an old pipe organ flooded the auditorium as I entered the ongoing festivities. The occasion was a wake, the atmosphere anything but somber. As I gazed at the crowd, I spotted someone I knew.

Rafael Romanov smiled and worked his way toward me. The tall man with thinning hair seemed as dark and mysterious as his hooked nose and Eastern European face. He’d grown a tiny goatee on his pointed chin since the last time I’d seen him.

“Wyatt,” he said, grasping my hand. “You’re looking dapper.”

“Don’t hold a candle to you, Rafael,” I said.

He brushed an imaginary flake off his cashmere sports coat. His expensive jacket complimented the military crease of his dark pants and the gleam of his spit-polished shoes. His light blue silk shirt splayed open enough to draw attention to a hairy chest and the heavy gold chain around his neck.

“I didn’t know you knew Jeribeth,” he said.

Jeribeth Briggs was a recently deceased New Orleans socialite. Unlike most wakes, Jeribeth wasn’t in a coffin. Her corpse, dressed to the nines in a red designer dress and audacious hat, sat on a wrought-iron bench. Her signature feather boa draped her shoulders. As in life, she had a cigarette with a long filter in one hand, a glass of Jack Daniels in the other. Garlands of flowers and lush potted shrubs surrounded her almost as if she were enjoying cocktails in her garden.

“Didn’t know her,” I said.

“Just gawking?”

“I have reasons for being here.”

“Such as?”

“A new client. He requested I meet him at the wake.”

“Strange place to meet a client,” he said.

“His call, not mine. Did you know her?”

“You mean Jeribeth? Saw her many times at Madeline’s when I was a child. Like you, someone is paying me to be here.”

“Oh?”

“My usual gig. Comforting family and friends of the bereaved. From the quantity of alcohol everyone is consuming, I’d say my services will go unneeded.”

Rafael was a defrocked priest; defrocked because his mother Madeline is a witch. As the saying goes, once a priest always a priest. Since leaving the church, he’d served as a rent a priest aboard a cruise ship sailing out of New Orleans. Like most of the other guests crowding the auditorium, he had a drink in hand and a smile on his face.

The Saenger Theater auditorium is large, its walls decorated to mimic an Italian villa. Priceless chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The crowd included actors, politicians, musicians, and many of the city's richest people. Human chatter didn't begin to overwhelm the background music. The acoustics were so acute you could hear every musical instrument while eavesdropping on your neighbor's conversation.

“Now this is the way to have a wake,” Rafael said.

“Wildest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s the Big Easy, Cowboy, not the real world.”

His smile disappeared when I said, “Not sad like Kimmi’s wake.”

My ex-wife Kimmi had married Rafael. When she died, we’d met at her wake and had maintained a friendship ever since.

“Mind if I change the subject?” he said, sipping his whiskey. “See the attractive woman by the punch bowl?”

“Gorgeous. How do I know her?”

“Lucy Diamond. A reporter for Fox. National, not local.”

“Bet she gets lots of jokes about her name.”

“From her frown, I don’t think I’d ask,” he said. “Want to meet her?”

“You know her?”

“We met on one of my cruises, and we've kept in touch.”

Rafael waved, catching the reporter’s gaze. Smiling, she made her way through the noisy throng.

“Rafael,” she said, on her tiptoes to plant a sensuous kiss on his lips.

“Lucy, this is my friend Wyatt Thomas.”

She nodded, acknowledging my presence with only a frown.

“Got to rush, Rafe. Can we do lunch while I’m in town?”

“Love it, beautiful lady,” he said.

“I’ll call you,” she said, kissing him before disappearing back into the crowd.

“Rafe?” I said.

Rafael grinned. “What can I say? She has a thing for tall, dark, and mysterious men.”

“I’m jealous. What’s she doing in New Orleans?”

“Working on a sensational story; something to do with Jeribeth and Dr. Mary Taggert.”

“Oh?”

“The old lady had a few skeletons in her closet. She was best friends with Dr. Taggert.”

“How do I know that name?”

“A prominent surgeon murdered fifty years ago. The case was never solved.”

“I wasn’t alive, but remember hearing about it. Doing cancer research, wasn’t she?”

“Along with Dr. Louis Hollingsworth, the founder of the Hollingsworth Clinic. Someone wrote a book saying the C.I.A. had a hand in the murder,” he said.

“What interest did they have in her?”

“Not sure, my friend. Something to do with the Kennedy assassination.”

I must have rolled my eyes because Raphael held up a palm, smiled and shook his head.

“It's hard to separate fact from fiction because there are so many conspiracy theories floating around out there,” I said.

“Don’t know about that. What I do know is Madeline used to hold séances at our house when I was young. Jeribeth and Doctor Mary often attended.”

“What’s your mother told you about it?”

“Madeline never discusses her clients, even with me. If you want to know something about Dr. Mary, Lucy is the person to ask.”

As with Rafael, the Catholic Church had also expelled Madeline. Her heresy was being a witch. She has a shop in the Quarter called Madeline’s Magic Potions. By all accounts, she is a witch. When Rafael grabbed another drink from a passing waiter, I glanced at the punchbowl.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Has Ms. Diamond told you anything?” I asked.

“Not much, even though we had drinks last night at the Carousel Bar.”

“Sweet.”

“I wish. Lucy’s there every night, usually drinking alone.”

“Not even with her crew?”

“Hardly. They’re staying at the Sheraton.”

“Because?”

“Lucy’s a bitch!”

“I see,” I said.

“Razor tongued, and she uses her words like blunt instruments. Her producers have an impossible task enticing celebs and politicians. She has rough edges, but her viewers love it when she unloads on her guests.”

“So she’s . . .”

“Bitch personified,” he said, finishing my question.

Jazz music had grown louder. I glanced at the punchbowl again, realizing I was the only one without a drink.

“Excuse me a moment?” I said. “I need to visit the punchbowl.”

“I’ll be here when you return.”

“I think you’re right about having no consoling to do.”

He nodded, hoisting his whiskey glass in a salute. “I ain’t complaining, boss.”

The crowd had grown. As I inched toward the punch bowl, a young woman in front of me caught a heel and almost fell. When I grabbed her shoulders, she nodded before moving away into the throng.

From the spread on the table, some lucky caterer had earned a fat payday for this gig. They weren’t the only ones. Local florists had also made out like bandits. I noticed as I sidestepped a potted peace lily.

Smelling the gumbo, I remembered I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Piles of shrimp and crawfish rested on sheets of yesterday’s Picayune. In deference to my white jacket, I decided to pass on the food.

No one had touched the grape punch. Likely because it wasn’t yet spiked with alcohol. Since I have a low tolerance for anything alcoholic, I took a sip first to make sure. When I turned, I bumped the person standing behind me. Grape punch splattered the woman’s silk blouse, the growing stain spreading across her chest like a bloody wound. It was the Fox reporter Lucy Diamond.

“You idiot!” she said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Back off, you moron. Do you have any idea how much this blouse cost me?”

“Is there anything I can do?” I said as she pushed away through the crowd.

“Yeah, drop dead!” she said, showing me her middle finger.

People were staring at me as if I were a serial killer. I slunk away in shame to a corner of the amphitheater vacant of guests. When I backed against a potted tree, someone tapped my shoulder.

“Don’t turn around,” a man’s voice said. “I told you to come alone.”

“I did. I bumped into a friend.”

“Nothing we can do about it now.”

“You’re the person that asked me to meet them here?”

“Yes,” he said. “I got a job for you.”

“What exactly are you hiring me to do?”

“You’ve heard of Mary Taggert?” When I nodded, he said, “My mother. Everybody in New Orleans knows someone murdered her. I want you to find the killer, and then make sure everyone in town knows his name.”

“The case is fifty years old. It’s not just cold; it’s frozen solid.”

He placed an envelope in my hand. “You’re my last hope. There’s information in the envelope and a large retainer. Can I trust you?”

“Yes.”

“Hope so. Not much I can do about it now.”

The man turned me until I faced the potted palms, my mind blocking sounds of the noisy wake.

“At least tell me something to get me started,” I said.

“Check the envelope and you’ll know everything I know. Now, give me five minutes before turning around.”

“Wait . . .”

“Don’t turn. Trust me; it’s for your own good.”

I wheeled around the moment I heard his feet begin to shuffle. He was too busy elbowing his way through the crowd to notice. I followed the balding little man in white socks and an old checkered sports coat. It was dark outside as he hurried through the doorway. He broke into a run when he reached the sidewalk. It didn't take me long to realize why.

A black sedan waited on the street outside the Saenger. It pulled away from the curb when he exited the front doors. Seeing the vehicle, he dodged traffic and sprinted across Canal Street. The sedan did a sliding u-turn, barely avoiding a streetcar returning from the cemeteries. When it screeched to a halt two Hispanic looking men exited, chasing my client up the sidewalk.

Both men wore black sports coats and khaki pants. One of them tackled my new customer, sending him sliding across the concrete. The second pursuer tapped the back of his neck with a club. I raced across the street, dodging traffic as they dragged him into the awaiting car.

“Hey, stop right there!” I yelled as they shoved him into the backseat.

One of the men had a pistol, people on the sidewalk ducking as he pulled the trigger. Two muffled pops were the only thing I heard, and it was the last thing I remembered for a while.

Chapter 2

I awoke in a strange bed, two people dressed in medical scrubs staring down at me. If that wasn’t enough to send my alarms blaring, a mule inside my head was trying to kick its way out. It was then I noticed the numbness in my left arm. The IV hanging above me was dripping fluid into my veins.

“How you doing?” the young man asked.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital. Gunshot wound to your left shoulder. Luckily, the bullet didn’t strike bone. How’s your head?”

“About to explode.”

“You banged it on the sidewalk when you fell. Mild concussion. You’ll feel better in a few days. I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow.”

Though the doctor’s blond hair was thin, he didn't look old enough to shave. He had yet to smile. The nurse watched, flashing a silver-toothed grin as he disappeared into the darkened hallway.

“I’m Claytee,” she said. “He’s such a baby. It makes me feel like spanking him sometimes.” When I glanced at the bandage on my shoulder, she said, “Don’t worry. It’s the Big Easy, and you’re not his first gunshot victim. You making it okay, hon?”

I massaged my temple with my free hand. “I can’t feel my arm and there’s an angry mule inside my head.”

She grinned, her silver tooth catching the dim light cast by the medical instruments. “Time for a dose of cloud nine. You’ll feel better in a minute.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Don’t matter none. You alive, nothing broken or missing. Lots of my patients can’t say that.”

After injecting me, she turned off the lights and left me alone in the hospital room.

The only words I’d understood were “gunshot victim.”

I needed to use the facilities and wheeled the IV cart with me. Before the bathroom door shut, a ruckus in the hall disturbed me. The commotion continued as I exited the bathroom. Cracking the door, I peeked down the darkened hallway.

Something I’d heard piqued my curiosity. Familiar voices resonated down the hall. The same two men who were responsible for the bullet hole in my shoulder. They were asking the night nurse directions to my room. Shutting the door, I hurried to the bed.

I plumped pillows under the covers to resemble a sleeping man. The needle didn’t even hurt when I jerked it out of my arm, sticking it into the mattress. My clothes were hanging in a bathroom recess. Scooping them up, I rushed into the hallway, and then to a tiny break area across from my room.

The smell of burned coffee hit me as I hid in the supply closet. Men entered my room, two muffled pops shaking my already fragile consciousness. I backed against the wall behind a rubber apron, my heart racing as I held my breath.

Shuffling feet entered the break room. Someone opened the door to the supply closet, peering in. It was then the alarm on my abandoned instruments began to blare. The door shut as night nurses and emergency doctors descended on my room. I pulled on my clothes, glanced down the empty hallway and hurried to the elevator.

Nurse Claytee’s cloud nine had rendered me numb. I noticed as I floated down the hall, my sense of well-being worrying me. Though feeling no pain, I realized the seriousness of two men trying to kill me. Emerging from the hospital, I almost expected to take a bullet in the back. It didn’t seem to matter.

 Outside, the sky was dark. I recognized the well-lighted area as the New Orleans hospital district. A cabbie waiting in front opened the back door when he saw me looking.

“Where to, bub?” he asked

“Bertram’s bar on Chartres,” I said, ducking as I saw the two men exit the hospital.

They didn’t see me.

The French Quarter wasn’t far. As I exited the cab, music from a brass band wafted up from the direction of Bourbon Street. It was summer in the Quarter and business slow at Bertram’s. The Cajun bartender wasn’t happy, and his dark eyes showed it. He didn’t bother removing his trapper’s hat as he mopped his brow with a red-checkered handkerchief.

During the day, large windows flooded the open room with ambient light. It leaped off polished wood floors and an ornate bar that had to be two-hundred years old. Tonight, only flashing neon reflected through the windows. Panties, bras, and other undergarments hung from the ceiling over the bar. They were a testament to the consumption of gallons of alcohol resulting in lost inhibitions. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, they say. Unlike Vegas, visitors celebrate what happens to them in the Big Easy.

Bertram had no permanent help, preferring to do everything himself. It didn’t seem to matter because the bar rarely closed. Sometimes, there were so many customers that beer flowed like water. I realized he must have been making a fortune. You’d never know it from looking at him. He still drove the same old truck, and he’d never spent a dime remodeling the bar.

“Tourists like it like this,” he always said.

Yes, they did and so did I.

“Where the hell you been?” he asked when I came through the door. “The N.O.P.D. was here earlier and tore up your room looking for something.”

“Did they have a search warrant?”

“Didn’t ask,” he said.

Sensing something was amiss he locked the front door and flipped his closed sign.

“You let them in my room without a search warrant?” I asked.

“Hell, Cowboy, since when does the N.O.P.D. need a search warrant?”

I didn’t bother answering his question. “What were they looking for?”

“Don’t know, but your room’s a mess. What the hell’s going on?”

“Too much to explain and not enough time. No sense in calling the police now.”

“What happened to your arm and why are you slurring your words?”

“Someone’s trying to kill me. Can you take care of my cat for a few days?”

“You ain’t told me what happened to you, yet.”

Before I could answer, someone began banging on the door. Bertram nodded for me to get out of sight. A door behind the liquor cabinet led to the suite of rooms where he lived. I called to him before I slipped through it.

“Bertram, alert Tony. Tell him I’ll meet him at Culotta’s tomorrow, about noon. Ask him to dig up anything he can on the Mary Taggert murder. And Bertram, tell him to come alone.”

He nodded as he hurried across the empty bar to check on the disturbance at the front door. Slipping into his apartment, I looked to see if it was my two new companions. It was.

A back door to Bertram’s apartment led to the tiny garage where he kept his old beater. Another door exited into an alleyway. I stepped into the darkness, disturbing a stray cat pawing through the trash. If I weren’t already paranoid, I was now. Someone was trying to kill me, and the New Orleans cops were somehow involved. I needed answers and headed to the only place I knew where I might get some.

I had no idea what time it was as I hurried to the Carousel Bar, hoping it was still open. Lucy Diamond, according to Rafael Romanov, might be there. I wanted to see her.

The rain had ended, moving east to Mississippi. Water, glistening from reflected streetlight, flooded the streets. A few late-night party people were still prowling the Quarter. I hurried past them as I entered the majestic Monteleone. I didn’t have time to admire the chandeliers, ducking into the Carousel Bar instead.

The intimate setting featured a circular bar that rotated like a circus carousel. It had a top, shaped like a crown, and decorated with carved Mardi Gras faces. A single person, the reporter Lucy Diamond, sat alone at the bar. Her eyes widened when I joined her.

“You! Are you stalking me?”

“I assure you I’m not, but I do need to talk to you.”

“You ruined my new silk blouse, you asshole.”

“We met before that. I’m Rafael Romanov’s friend. Remember?”

As she glared at me, it was my first real look at her. She was a knockout with striking green eyes and ash blond hair. Her pouty lips required no lipstick, nor did her Nordic complexion need any makeup. She sounded tipsy, and the punch stain formed a rose bloom on her silk blouse.

“Fred, would you please call security and have this man removed?”

During my drinking years, I’d spent many hours rotating at the Carousel. I didn’t recognize Fred, the bartender, but put up a hand as he reached for the phone.

“Please, wait. What I have to say to Ms. Diamond is important.”

“He’s a stalker. I’ve dealt with your kind before.”

“I’m not a stalker. Won’t you at least give me a minute to explain why I’m here?”

Lucy nodded to Fred, giving him permission to replace the phone. With arms clasped to her chest, she gave me a quick look.

“Okay, buster, this better be good.”

“Doctor Mary Taggert,” I said.

“What about her?”

“I’m a private investigator. A new client who said he was Mary Taggert’s son hired me earlier tonight.”

“Impossible. Mary Taggert had no son. She was a confirmed lesbian.”

“Sure about that?”

Lucy Diamond didn’t answer, sipping her martini instead. “Your jacket.” she finally said. “What happened to you?”

My bandage had failed, blood oozing from the bullet hole in my linen sports coat.

“My client. Someone kidnapped him in front of the Saenger. They shot me when I tried to stop them.”

“You kidding me?”

“I met him for the first time at the wake. He hired me to find his mother's murderer, and make sure everyone knew their name.”

By now, I had Lucy Diamond’s complete attention.

“What’s all this got to do with kidnapping and getting shot at?” she asked.

“He gave me a package. Told me not to turn around until he was gone. I ignored his instructions, tailing him out to Canal.”

“And?”

“Men in a black sedan were waiting outside for him. He tried to run away. They chased him down and threw him into the backseat of the car. They shot me. When I fell, I hit my head on the sidewalk, unconscious until I came to in a hospital.”

“You expect me to believe that crazy story?”

“I didn’t make up this bullet hole in my shoulder.”

“Then why aren’t you still in the hospital?”

“Because the two goons that shot me returned to finish the job. I managed to escape and came to the Carousel because Rafael told me I could find you here.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“Because they’re somehow in on it. They trashed my apartment looking for something.”

“This tale is growing a little too tall,” she said, glancing at a bottle of gin on a rack above the bar.

Fred was polishing a glass as he listened to our conversation.

“Want me to make that call?” he asked.

“Wait,” I said. “I have something important to show you.”

“Like what?”

“This,” I said, dropping an object into her hand.

“A Mardi Gras doubloon?”

“1948 Krewe of Rex. a rarity, I’d guess

“Oh my!” she said. “This is so heavy it must be . . .”

“Solid gold.”

She fingered the Carnival coin, holding it up to the light for a better view.

“There’s a strange symbol on the back. What does it mean?”

“No idea,” I said. “It was the only thing my client gave me, except for twenty thousand dollars.”

“You have to be making this up,” she said. “What the hell am I supposed to make of an old Mardi Gras doubloon?”

“My client seemed to think it was all I needed to solve the case.”

“What did you say his name was?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

When I grabbed my head, the bartender reacted by handing me two aspirins and a glass of water.

“You don’t look too good,” he said. “Want me to call an ambulance?”

“A sinking spell. I’m okay now.”

“Finish your story,” Lucy said.

“That’s about it. Two goons in black sports coats are trying to kill me. I can’t go to the police, and my head’s about to split.”

“Charge my room, Fred,” Lucy said. “Buy this pest anything he wants. I’m out of here.”

“Thanks for the aspirins, Fred,” I said, following her out the door.

I caught up with her at the elevator.

“Your story reeks, but Fred seemed a little too interested. Everything I have on the Taggert murder is in my room. We can have a little privacy there. I’m too drunk to worry about whether you’re going to rape and kill me.”

Her remark made me grin. “I’ve never raped or killed anyone. My shoulder is killing me. Right now, I'd have trouble arm wrestling a bunny rabbit.”

She stopped in her tracks and stared at me.
“That’s the first thing you’ve said all night I believe.”

###

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 & Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Ghost of a Chance - an excerpt

Having grown up only a few miles from Caddo Lake, the largest natural lake in Texas, I remember its mystery, beauty, and danger. My grandmother lived on a farm at the very end of a long dirt road, not far from the lake, in east Texas. When I was young, Grandma's house had no electricity. Whenever my brother Jack and I visited her, we watched as she churned butter, drank well water, and burned coal oil in sooty lamps. At night we listened to panthers and wolves howling outside in the woods. Emma Fitzgerald is the first character to appear in my book Ghost of a Chance and she reminds me a lot of my east Texas grandmother.

Texas is a big state and east Texas reminds you more of the old south than the wild west. The town of Jefferson was once the largest seaport in the state and as many as twenty-five steamships visited the boom town daily to load up cotton to take down the river to New Orleans. Unlike the wild west, east Texas is hilly with pine forests so thick the area has been called the "pine curtain."

Ghost of a Chance is my first published book and remains as one of my favorites. It features my Oklahoma private investigator Buck McDivit. Buck is visiting East Texas for the first time and quickly becomes a victim of culture shock. I hope you wind up loving both east Texas and Ghost of a Chance. If so, you might like the other two books in the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Thanks for giving the first three chapters a read.  

Chapter 1

Emma Fitzgerald’s rocking chair creaked as she listened to a chorus of frogs down by the lake. Silent lightning snaked across the sky, and angry clouds rolled toward the island. The approaching storm heightened the old woman's senses and sent a chill down her spine.

The storm arrived with lazy raindrops dampening the path to the lake. Emma didn’t notice, her gaze locked on the point of light far across the dark water. Words from behind released her from the spell.

“Miss Emma, you’ll catch your death if you don’t get in this house. You know it’s way past your bedtime.”

“It’s dry beneath the overhang, and I’m not the least bit sleepy. The storm’s blowing in and I’m watching that strange light out there.”

Pearl Johnson opened the screen door and joined Emma Fitzgerald on the porch, shivering when thunder rumbled the rafters. She shielded her eyes from some imagined glare and stared in the direction Emma had pointed.

“I don’t see nothing, Miss Emma.”

“Then I guess you scared it away.”

Pearl frowned and shook her big head. “Come on inside. You been brooding out here since dinner and it’s getting late.”

Emma glanced at her watch’s luminous dial. “Then why are you still here?”

“Cause you’re distressing me the way you’re acting.”

Worry lines on Emma’s face softened into a smile. She stood up from the rocking chair and wrapped her rangy arms around the big woman.

“Don’t fret over me. I’m too old and ornery to let anything get me down very long; least of all a man. Now you run on home to Raymond before the bottom drops out and drenches that pretty yellow dress of yours.”

“You sure?”

Emma pushed Pearl toward the door, waiting until she’d opened the screen and stepped outside.

“Sure as this old lake’s got twelve-foot alligators. Now get on home with you.”

Pearl started to say something. Shaking her head instead, she hurried down the stairs. More thunder shook the rafters as she lumbered toward her own house on the far side of the clearing. Emma settled back into the rocking chair and draped a frayed orange Afghan over her knees. This time the meow of a striped kitten broke her trance.

“Tiger, you little rascal, don’t you know cats hate rain and thunder?”

Tiger didn’t seem to mind the rain, curling up in Emma’s lap and closing his eyes. Pearl had gone in time as falling water swelled into a deafening deluge. The pouring rain pooled up on the roof, finally causing a waterfall to stream from the porch overhang. Emma watched the storm as Tiger ignored it with a contented purr. Neither moved until the tempest had passed, leaving behind hazy moonlight. Grabbing Tiger by the scruff, she carried him inside and deposited him on his kitty bed beside the stove.

“Enough attention for one day, you little rascal,” she said.

Tiger nudged his toy mouse and then returned to contented sleep.

Emma started for the stairs but stopped at the window, staring at the lake. Again, she saw it. The ephemeral glow of circular light had returned, hanging over the dark water. Wrapping the Afghan around her shoulders, she headed for the door.

The hoot of an owl sounded from the distance as Emma followed the mushy path past the boat dock to the water’s edge. Vapor rose off the lake’s surface as she stopped beside a pile of brush and stared across the water.

The rain had moved north, leaving only dancing shadows to frolic over the lake. When an alligator’s knotty head appeared ten feet from Emma’s muddy slippers, she ignored it. The floating light locked her gaze, growing brighter as it approached the bank. As it did, the surrounding mist chilled the muggy air around her.

Emma’s dilated eyes soon made out the vague outline of a girl’s slender body. An apparition surrounded by veils of phosphorescence floating through the fog. Mesmerized, her sense of reality dimmed as the spirit girl approached. The apparition drew ever nearer, her translucent skin glowing. Even her eyes were colorless. Emma focused on something clutched in the spirit girl’s hand.

“Please help me,” the spirit girl whispered.

Emma reached for her hand. She succeeded only in passing her fingers through the damp mist as the spirit’s image began to wane. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, the girl had vanished. Her hand was damp and cold but no longer empty. The object in her hand emitted an eerie pink glow when she opened her palm.

Sounds of someone shoveling damp earth grabbed her attention. The beam of a powerful flashlight overpowered its misty incandescence. Squeezing the object in her hand, she decided to investigate.

Murky shadows replaced moonlight as she followed a path through a maze of creepers and vines. She discovered the origin of the light in a small clearing. Leaning against a cypress trunk, she brushed gray hair from her eyes, gazing at a large hole in the ground. When a hand touched her shoulder, she wheeled around, realizing who was with her in the clearing.

“You scared me half to death. I told you to get the hell off my island and never come back.”

Instead of an answer, she caught the brunt of a shovel across the back of her head. A chorus of bullfrogs began to sing as she toppled into the mire. Miss Emma Fitzgerald never heard them.

Chapter 2

Sheriff Taylor Wright stood knee-deep in shallow water, mopping his forehead with a red bandanna. Remnant humidity from last night’s rain sent rivulets of sweat down his neck, providing dive-bombing mosquitoes a tempting target. Something other than mosquitoes occupied his attention as he brushed the swarming creatures away with a subconscious swat. It was a body, already stiff with rigor.

He waited as Dave Roberts, the assistant medical examiner, and Deputy Sam Goodlake pulled the corpse toward shore. Raymond Johnson and his son Ray watched from the bank. When Roberts and Goodlake reached the shore with the body, Raymond Johnson fell to his knees and began to sob.

“It’s Emma all right,” Dave Roberts said. “Been dead a good ten hours, I’d say.”

Sheriff Wright pushed Raymond away from the body, turning him toward the lodge. “Ray, take your daddy back to the house. Nothing either of you can do here now. I’ll be along directly to ask a few questions.”

When Raymond resisted the sheriff’s advice, Ray took his father’s elbow, gently directing him away from the lifeless body of Emma Fitzgerald. Dr. Tom Proctor, the coroner, and chief medical examiner nudged the corpse with the toe of his boot.

“Looks like Emma got herself tangled in a trotline. Maybe drowned. Her nigrahs seem mighty distraught.”

“What was she doing out in the lake in the middle of a storm?” asked Sam Goodlake, the lanky deputy.

“Good question,” Sheriff Wright said, bending over the body. “Anyone got an answer?”

“She’s holding something,” Dave Roberts said, ignoring Wright’s query as he struggled with Emma’s frozen fingers.

They watched Dave Roberts pry open her hand, revealing a crusty piece of jewelry. After palming it once, he handed it to the sheriff.

“What is it?” Goodlake asked, craning his long neck for a better view.

“Looks like a cameo brooch.”

Sheriff Wright fingered the old brooch, caressing its alabaster edges as Roberts took photos of the body and surrounding area. Something behind Emma’s ear caught the sheriff’s attention. Using both hands, he gently canted the old woman’s chin, brushing aside her salt and pepper hair to expose caked blood that had oozed from a swollen contusion on the back of her head. After a careful rotation, he rested the old woman’s head in soft earth, and then slipped the brooch into his khaki shirt, giving the body one last look.

“Sam, check the lakefront for evidence. I’m taking a little walk down to the lodge to question Pearl and Raymond.”

Sam had already begun helping Dave Roberts stuff Emma’s body into a rubber bag and didn’t bother replying to Wright’s request. A motorboat with a two-stroke engine droned across the lake, causing dozens of turtles to abandon their perches and splash into the water. The commotion failed to interrupt Sheriff Wright’s long stride.

Fitzgerald Lodge loomed in the distance, about a hundred yards from the lake’s edge. Backed by pine and live oak, the rustic abode formed an imposing edifice, dwarfing all other structures and outbuildings on the island. The once active resort had declined in recent years to little more than a worn and neglected fishing camp for locals.

Before her untimely demise, Emma Fitzgerald had planned to change all that. Sheriff Wright recognized the woeful cry of Pearl Johnson as he entered the door, knowing long before seeing her how distraught she must be. He followed her whimpers to Emma’s office at the end of a long hallway. There he found her and husband Raymond, along with Randy Rummels, a local attorney.

“You all right, Pearl?” he asked.

She wiped her mouth and nose with a paper napkin, blinking away her tears. “No sir, sheriff, I ain’t. I still can’t believe Miss Emma’s really dead. I should have hung around last night, knowing how blue she was.”

Taylor scrawled Pearl’s remark in a notebook he carried in the pocket of his Western-cut khaki shirt.

“Wasn’t your fault.”

Raymond banged the big oak desk with his formidable fist. “Miss Emma wouldn’t have gone out in no storm.”

“Calm yourself down. I’m sure no one carried her there,” Sheriff Wright said. “There’s one big bump on the back of her head. Maybe a limb blew down in the wind and knocked her into the lake. Who saw her alive last?”

“Guess it was me,” Pearl said. “I went home last night about ten. About the time the storm hit.”

“What were you doing here so late?”

“Miss Emma was brooding, and I didn’t want to leave her alone.”

Taylor Wright turned a chair around, straddled it and rested his arms on the backrest. “Brooding about what?”

“Bones Malone. They had an argument, and Miss Emma told him to pack his stuff and move off the island. He left without even bothering to take his things.”

Sheriff Wright digested this tidbit of information. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him around lately. Know where he is, or what they were arguing about?”

Raymond and Pearl exchanged perplexed glances. Pearl said, “Whatever it was, Miss Emma took it pretty hard.”

“You think Bones is involved in Emma’s death?” Wright asked, removing his hat to scratch his bald spot.

“Why hell no,” Raymond said, turning away from the sheriff’s stare and gazing at the hardwood floor. “Maybe they had a little argument. Don’t matter none because I know Bones Malone loved that old lady.”

“Maybe so, but you said yourself Miss Emma wouldn’t have wandered down to the lake in a thunderstorm, no matter how upset she was.”

“She was getting along in age,” Randy Rummels said.

“Eighty,” Raymond said. “And still sharp as any twenty-year-old.”

Sheriff Wright tapped the back of the chair twice, rearranged the hat atop his head, stood and leaned against one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the room.

“What are you doing here, Randy?” he asked. “Smell a healthy legal fee all the way from town?”

Rummels brushed aside Sheriff Wright’s professional slur without protest. “How you doing, Sheriff? Guess you know Daddy was Miss Emma’s lawyer. I’m discussing her estate with Pearl and Raymond. Emma died intestate.”

“You’re full of shit,” Raymond said. “Miss Emma’s had a will for years. I saw it, and so did Pearl. You know it’s true because your daddy wrote it.”

Randy Rummels shook his head. “I’m Emma Fitzgerald’s attorney now, and I’m telling you, she never had a will.”

“Your father was Miss Emma’s lawyer,” Pearl said.

“Well Daddy’s dead, and nothing ever went on in that firm that I don’t know about. Believe me, Emma died intestate.”

Raymond’s glare left no doubt of his emotional frame of mind or his feelings about Rummels’ statement.

“You’re a liar.”

“Who you calling a liar?” Rummels said, jumping to his feet and standing eyeball to eyeball with the larger black man. “You two are just trying to horn in where you don’t belong.”

“Wait just a minute here,” Sheriff Wright said, stepping between the two men. “What difference does it make anyway?”

“Because Miss Emma’s will deeds us half the marina,” Pearl said.”

“Miss Emma couldn’t run it by herself,” Raymond added. “Or afford to pay much in the way of wages. She made up for it by willing us half the marina when she died.”

“You’re dreaming,” Rummels said. “There’s no record of any such transaction.”

Rummels’ declaration was more than Raymond could take. Clinching his hand, he lunged across the desk at the young lawyer. Sheriff Wright interceded again, this time grabbing Raymond’s wrist and backing him up with a combination of arm strength and steely eye contact. Rummels sat down, apparently grateful for the sheriff’s timely intervention.

“The bank has a mortgage on all Emma’s real property. The island, marina, and lodge that is. With no heir and no will,” he said, “Everything left in Emma’s estate will be used to settle her debt with the bank. I got no ax to grind with the Johnsons here. I’d as soon they got the place as have it go to the bank.”

“You’re crazy as hell,” Raymond said. “Miss Emma never borrowed a penny in her life. She don’t owe the bank nothing.”

“We have her signature to prove she does,” Rummels said.

Sheriff Wright glanced at Pearl and Raymond, not letting his glimpse linger. “So what happens to Raymond and Pearl?”

“Nothing,” Rummels said. “They simply vacate the premises.”

“We’ve lived here thirty years,” Pearl said. “Miss Emma sold us the house we live in and the yard around it. She filed the deed at the courthouse in Deception and left a copy in her safety deposit box.”

Rummels simply shook his head. “No deed, no record of a deed, no way.”

Talk of the marina had propelled Raymond into a rapidly disintegrating emotional state. Rocking side to side, he said, “We don’t want a damn thing that ain’t coming to us. Miss Emma didn’t intend to leave Fitzgerald Island to the Bank of Deception. Check it out at the courthouse, and you’ll see we ain’t lying.”

“Never trust a white man,” Randy Rummels said with a smirk. “Or in this case, a white woman.”

Sheriff Wright frowned at Rummels and pointed toward the door. “Why don’t you get the hell out of here? You’re just causing trouble.”

“Not until I finish my business.”

“It’s finished,” Wright said.

Randy Rummels didn’t miss the angry inflection in Sheriff Wright’s voice. Realizing he was already pushing his luck, he folded his portfolio and started for the door.

“Fine. You straighten it out with these people.”

“Watch your tone, Randy,” Wright said. “These people took care of Emma for thirty years and deserve a little respect.”

“The only thing they deserve is a quick trip off the island. I don’t make the rules. I just see they’re carried out.”

Taylor Wright’s own adrenaline was pumping, as was that of young Rummels’. Neither reacted immediately to Pearl’s words.

“Maybe Miss Emma’s heir can settle the bank debt.”

Rummels glanced first at Pearl, then at Wright. “What did you say?”

“I said Miss Emma has an heir.”

“There’s no indication of that,” Rummels said, slamming his portfolio back on the desktop.

“Yes, there is,” Pearl said. “Miss Emma has a nephew in Oklahoma.”

“Says who?” Rummels said.

Pearl opened the top drawer of the desk, took out an opened letter, and handed it to Rummels. After removing the contents slowly, the lawyer made a big production of reading it. When he finished, Sheriff Taylor Wright took it from him.

“What’s this all about?” he asked after glancing at the letter.

“Miss Emma received it about a week ago and couldn’t wait to call the man who sent it. Seems he’s a private investigator in Oklahoma. A young man raised in foster homes.”

“Already sounds bogus to me,” Rummels said.

“It’s the truth,” Pearl said. “When Miss Emma talked with the man on the phone, he told her he could prove he was her nephew.”

“I’ll believe it when I see his proof,” Rummels said.

“What happens until then?” Wright said.

“Not a damn thing.” Rummels turned before reaching the door. Pointing his finger at Raymond, he said, “Until this matter is assessed, don’t run off with anything on this island. Sheriff, I’m holding you responsible.”

Sheriff Wright waited for the front door to slam before handing the letter to Pearl.

“What’s this all about? Emma had no family I know of, and I’ve lived here all my life. Where did this long lost nephew come from?”

“Miss Emma’s wandering brother,” Pearl said. “He had a son while traipsing around the oil patch up in Oklahoma.”

“You think this man is Emma’s nephew and can prove it?”

Pearl lowered her eyes. “Don’t really know, Sheriff Taylor. I just made that part up because that little weasel Rummels made me so mad. The rest is true, though.”

“Could just be a scam artist that sees an opportunity to cut a fat hog. P.I.s search for lost heirs all the time.”

“We don’t know nothing about that,” Raymond said. “I do know Miss Emma thought he was for real. She was going to call Randy Rummels to change her will.”

“Randy says there is no will. Never was one.”

“Uh huh,” Raymond said as he stalked out of the room.

Wright tapped the desktop twice before following him. Halfway into the hall he turned and scratched his head.

“Why would Rummels destroy Emma’s will and let the bank take her property instead of letting you two have a shot at it?”

“You’re the sheriff,” Pearl said. “You tell us.”

Sheriff Taylor Wright tipped his hat. “I’ll check it out.”

“You’ll get your chance, Sheriff. Miss Emma’s nephew is on his way to Texas. James T. McDivit should be here any minute. When he arrives, you can check him out for yourself.”

Chapter 3

James T. “Buck” McDivit had come to Texas for answers. What he found was a giant lake amid a maze of vines, creepers and lily pads; a place that seemed more like Louisiana than Texas. He quickly realized it was different from both states.

Cypress trees grew in abundance, both in the water and out, and Spanish moss, wafting in slow-motion waves, hung from their limbs, caressing the lake’s coffee-colored surface. Only the head of a slow-swimming snake disrupted the lake’s tranquility.

East Texas was a place far different from Buck’s own home on the rolling hills of central Oklahoma. This mysterious locale seemed more like a virtual botanical garden replete with subtropical greenery and a climate to match. He felt a thousand miles from home.

Interstate highway, replaced by rural Texas blacktop, had long since disappeared in his rearview mirror. Untended hollyhocks, blooming in lavender flower falls that saturated humid air with their cloying fragrances grew wild beside the road. Damp pathways, none leading anywhere in particular, pierced the tangle of vegetation as a flock of cattle egrets winged high overhead.

Egrets weren’t the only wildlife in abundance, nor were oak, cypress, and Hollyhock the only plants bordering the road. Cascades of blue impatiens, crimson-blossomed rosebushes, and clumps of green willow painted the terrain from a diverse palette of color. When a trucker blew his horn, waving an angry fist as he sped past, Buck realized he had slowed to less than twenty miles an hour. Taking the warning to heart, he pressed the accelerator and followed him.

Dense vegetation parted as he rounded the next bend. It left him little time to worry about the angry trucker and prevented him from further gawking at the birds and wildflowers. In front of him lay a sleepy Victorian village dwarfed by the mammoth lake. Buck quickly realized Deception, Texas was the literal end of the road.

 Deception, once a riverboat stop along the way between New Orleans and Jefferson, was situated many secluded miles from the nearest Interstate highway. The old riverboat port had managed to preserve much of its antebellum flavor. Many buildings, some with ornate decks jutting out over the water, still fronted the lake. Tourists wandered the narrow streets, gazing at storefront displays or licking Sno-cones purchased from vendors vying for space in the town square. Buck parked his Ramcharger and stepped out for a better look.

Near a little park fronting the lake, Buck discovered everything wasn’t old. Bulldozers and heavy equipment were at work clearing trees and leveling dirt. Someone was building something large and incongruous with the sleepy village and had already cut a large brown swath across the flourishing sea of green.

He completed a quick swing through Deception before returning to his truck and driving to the rear of the Pelican Restaurant. An attorney awaited inside the Pelican to discuss his late aunt’s estate. Their recent telephone conversation had left Buck leery about their impending meeting and little doubt that the attorney considered him a money-seeking opportunist.

Afternoon shadows had begun draping the village as gray clouds formed out over the lake. The back of the restaurant seemed unexceptional except for the stacks of fish traps and piles of gill netting strewn across the ground. As he scanned the area, someone came crashing through the screen door. The disruption ended his thoughts about his meeting with the attorney.

A man that looked big enough to take care of himself tumbled across the loading dock, slamming headfirst into a packing crate. Lying in a daze, he rubbed his head as two men piled out the door after him.

“Get your black ass out of here,” the first attacker said, delivering a vicious kick to the fallen man’s ribs.

The big man managed to roll off the dock and crawl on his hands and knees to shelter behind a broken fish trap.

“Next time use the back door,” the second attacker said. “Our customers don’t want no stinking niggah shuffling past their tables while they’re trying to eat.”

The two men halted their attack but stood at the door, glaring at the black man on his knees below them. The taller of the two was bone thin with scraggly hair capping his acne-scarred face. His shorter partner, whose diminutive height probably resulted from some congenital deformity, was anything but thin. He stood hunched over in a permanent crouch, a large hump crowning his twisted back. Neither man would have had much luck in a beauty contest.

Buck could tell by their attitudes they probably liked it that way. He waited until they’d slammed the door behind them before helping the big man to his feet.

“You okay?”

“Take more than those two to get the best of ol’ Raymond Johnson,” the man said, dusting himself off.

“Looks to me like they did a pretty good job.”

“They got the drop on me when my back was turned,” Raymond Johnson said, rubbing his jaw.

“Take it easy big fellow and next time watch your back,” Buck said.

He quickly forgot the incident and strolled to the front of the restaurant. Daylight was waning, but the cobbled parking lot continued radiating heat absorbed from late afternoon sun. He found it cooler inside, frigid air chilling the perspiration on his forehead as he opened the restaurant door. Wiping his face with his handkerchief, he greeted the hostess waiting in the entryway.

“I’m meeting a man named Rummels,” Buck said. “Know if he’s here yet?”

The young woman was dressed in a colorful period costume. Antebellum, he guessed. She had a friendly smile, a red bow in her hair, and made him feel welcome. The woman’s warm smile was no accident. Buck McDivit was young, tall, and good-looking, with the body of a trained athlete and piercing blue eyes of a movie star. Dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and western-cut shirt, he could have passed as a young John Wayne.

“Mister Rummels just phoned,” she said, quickly flipping through the guest register on the entryway lectern. “I’ll seat you, and you can wait for him in the dining area.”

She led Buck into the main dining room where potted ferns hung in garlands from rough-hewn rafters. Checkerboard tablecloths draped wooden tables, and the restaurant’s rustic decor blended perfectly with the aroma of frying cornmeal floating in from the kitchen. An outside veranda flanked the room on three sides. A damp breeze moved along by slow-moving ceiling fans, wafted in through the open door.

“Enjoy your dinner,” she said, seating him at a corner table overlooking the lake.

Buck barely had time to adjust his chair and stare out at the darkening sky before a waitress appeared and asked him what he wanted to drink. Her red bow went well with a thick thatch of black hair and her own colorful period dress.

She smiled when he said, “Coors, please and keep the frosted mug.”

Buck had finished his beer before Raymond Rummels arrived. Rummels was wearing dark pinstripes, despite the oppressive outside heat, and a constipated smile. He looked about thirty, trying to pass for fifty.

“You James T. McDivit?”

“One in the same,” Buck said, reaching to shake the young lawyer’s hand.

Rummels joined him at the table, not bothering to thank their waitress when she brought him a Manhattan, and Buck another Coors.

“Catfish is the specialty of the house,” he said.

Buck gave the young woman a thumb up and said, “Sounds good to me.”

Rummels dismissed her with a dispassionate nod. “I’ll come right to the point, McDivit. I’m unaware of any heirs to the Emma Fitzgerald estate. She had no children, adopted or otherwise. Her only brother died years ago in an oil field accident in Oklahoma. To my knowledge, he had no children.”

“He had one,” Buck said. “Me.”

“Then why is there no record of his marriage, or your birth?”

“Because he never married. He carried on for a while with a teenage girl, my mother, and I was the result. The family forced her to give me up.”

“Why didn’t you come forward before now?”

“I didn’t know I had any relatives until recently. I’m a private investigator in Oklahoma City. While reviewing some public records for a client, I came across a newspaper article that got me thinking about my own roots. Once I decided to track down my parents, the rest was easy. John McDivit was definitely my father.”

“Can you prove it?”

Buck handed Rummels a package of information and waited as he pawed through it.

“What is all this?” the lawyer asked.

“Birth certificate, eye-witness accounts, and a statement from my mother. She had pictures, some belongings, and even John McDivit’s medical records. There’s no doubt I’m his son and that he was the younger brother of Emma Fitzgerald.”

“These could be forgeries.”

“They’re not.”

“How do I know that?”

“You’d believe a federal judge, wouldn’t you?”

The hint of a snicker appeared on Rummels’ face but vanished just as quickly. “You bring one with you?”

“No, but I have this affidavit.”

Buck handed Rummels a letter his old friend Judge Beamon Dawkins had written for him before leaving Oklahoma. In it, Judge Beamon attested to Buck’s good word and the authenticity of the documents he’d presented the lawyer. Rummels held the letter long enough to read it three times.

“Excuse me a moment,” he finally said, hurrying away from the table without explanation.

Remnant daylight had all but disappeared, replaced now by intermittent lightning that veined the sky over the lake. Thunder, shaking the roof and windows, soon followed, causing the lights to dim. Rummels rejoined Buck at the table.

“Assuming your papers are in order and you inherit Emma Fitzgerald’s estate, what exactly do you intend to do with it?”

“Don’t know,” Buck said. “It was never my intention to stake out my aunt’s estate. I only wanted to meet the old lady and discuss my father’s family with her.”

“Then you deny your inheritance?”

“Didn’t say that. What exactly is my inheritance?”

Rummels cleared his throat, finished his Manhattan, and waved for another.

“Emma Fitzgerald’s estate consists of an island on Caddo Lake and everything on it. She has some money in the bank. Just enough to pay for the probate.”

“What about the island?” Buck asked.

“Emma Fitzgerald operated a lodge and fishing camp, discontinuing lodge service about four years ago. Though the marina is still operable, there are a couple of problems, Mr. McDivit.”

“Such as?”

“Emma Fitzgerald borrowed money from the bank last year to remodel the lodge and marina. She put up the island as collateral. Emma failed to make a payment on the note for the last six months, and the bank had begun foreclosure proceedings before her death. The hearing is in ten days. If you want to prevent the foreclosure, you have ten days to repay the bank loan, along with court costs and accumulated attorney fees.”

“That’s not much notice. You mentioned a second problem.”

Rummels rustled his yellow pad, leaning forward in his chair. “They found Emma Fitzgerald floating in the lake. Pearl Johnson, her housekeeper, says she was despondent. The coroner considered that and ruled her death a suicide. I’m afraid that nullifies Emma’s life insurance.”

“No one said anything to me about life insurance or suicide.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “When they found Emma, she had something in her hand,” Rummels dropped a crusted cameo brooch into Buck’s open palm. “Depression sometimes takes people to the edge. In Emma’s case, it sent her over the edge.”

Nearby thunder shook the rafters followed by slow rain drumming the roof and windows.

Rummels brow furrowed when Buck asked, “What if I pay off the note?”

“Well, of course, you have that option. Is that your plan?”

Buck had neither assets nor collateral to satisfy Aunt Emma’s note. Rummels didn’t know that. Tapping his chin as if he were considering it, he said, “Don’t know yet.”

“Pardon me a moment,” Rummels said. He returned shortly with another man. “This is Mr. Hogg Nation. He owns the Pelican.”

The distinguished gentleman with the odd name had green eyes, short hair, and specks of white frosting his head. Despite his hair color, his face proclaimed him no older than forty.

“At your disposal, Mr. McDivit. Hope you’re enjoying our hospitality. Your meal and drinks are on the house tonight.”

Buck managed a nod and half smile. Raymond Rummels was wringing his hands, his own expression having turned sour.

“Mr. Nation is also my client. He wishes to purchase Fitzgerald Island from you. Two-hundred thousand dollars is a generous offer, Mr. McDivit. Enough to pay the bank note and leave twenty-five thousand for your troubles.”

Nation’s proposal caught Buck by surprise. When he finally managed a reply, he said, “Thanks, but I’d like to visit the island before I decide.”

“Take your time and enjoy the catfish,” Nation said, moving away toward the kitchen.

Randy Rummels remained standing until his client had departed, the waitress arriving with a bell-shaped glass filled with an icy concoction.

“Mr. Nation would like you to try a Hurricane. It’s the house specialty.”

She winked and hurried away.

It was raining harder now, water beading down the picture window in soft sheets. Buck sipped the sugary drink. Rain and alcohol had all but hypnotized him when a familiar high-pitched voice returned his attention to the restaurant. Staring across the crowded room, he spotted the two men involved in the incident behind the restaurant. They were drinking and talking loudly, even above the din of the crowd.

“Who are those two men?”

Rummels was chewing on the straw of his Manhattan. “Humpback and Deacon John,” he said. “They work for Mr. Nation.” Before Buck could inquire further, the lawyer glanced at his watch. “I have another appointment. Raymond Johnson, an employee of the marina on Fitzgerald Island, will pick you up shortly and take you there.” Handing Buck his business card, he said, “You have ten days to make up your mind.”

Thunder shook the roof as Randy Rummels tapped the back of his chair and started away. Buck wondered, as the lawyer departed, why the man’s crooked grin gave him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his gut.

The friendly waitress soon appeared with hush puppies, catfish, and another hurricane. Buck handed her his empty glass and took a quick gulp from the fresh drink. The spicy catfish tasted wonderful and whetted his growing thirst. He was feeling light-headed when the waitress appeared for the final time.

“Raymond Johnson is waiting for you on the back porch,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said, stumbling when he tried to get out of the chair. “Which way?”

She pointed him to the back door. He was surprised when he realized the person waiting for him was the large black man involved in the scuffle behind the restaurant. Before he could ponder the coincidence, he caught his foot on a net and tumbled into the big man’s outstretched arms.

“Have yourself a little too much of Mr. Nation’s hospitality?”

“Guess I did. Was that you that got yourself kicked out the door a little earlier?”

“Mr. Nation’s boys,” he said without explanation. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Raymond Johnson. You Mr. McDivit?”

“Buck.”

Johnson stared at Buck McDivit’s extended hand and finally shook it. “If you ain’t through eating yet, I’ll wait out here.”

“I’m done,” Buck said, unable to stifle a drunken giggle.

“Good. Don’t need no more trouble tonight. Let’s get out of here.”

Concurring with Johnson, Buck followed him off the porch. By now, his head was swimming. His vision was blurry, and tongue thick.

“Where’s your car?” Raymond asked.

“Truck’s in the back.”

The big black man grabbed Buck, supporting his weight and ignoring his helpless giggles. Raymond left him on the steps while he retrieved his suitcase from the truck. The rain had slackened as he herded him and his bag down the slope to the lake where a gentle breeze was blowing across the water. It caused the boat, and Buck’s head on the side of the boat, to rock with the waves. Raymond Johnson untied the bowline and pushed away from the dock.

“Couple of miles to the island,” he said, maneuvering through a stand of cypress trees surrounding the shadow-dark shoreline. “You okay?”

Buck answered with a giddy laugh. “I think someone spiked my drink.”

“Sure they did,” Johnson said as the high-pitched outboard motor drowned out Buck’s slurred words and any further attempt at conversation.

As the boat glided across the rain-dimpled water, Buck closed his eyes, his mind awash with flickering moonbeams splaying the lake’s murky surface. Half an hour later, they landed on the island. When they reached a large two-storied house, Raymond Johnson dragged him upstairs and dumped him on a feather bed.

The suitcase made a hollow thump when it hit the floor, the door shutting behind Raymond as he exited with a damp swoosh. Locked in a drunken stupor, Buck didn’t really care.

He lay there for what seemed like hours, mesmerized by slow rain drumming the tin roof as he stared at the ceiling’s darkness. He finally stumbled out of bed, hoping to find an aspirin for his throbbing head. Unable to locate the lights or an appropriate pill, he embarked instead on a late-night tour of the house.

Moonlight through open windows guided him back down the stairs where he found a liquor cabinet amid stormy shadows and resident gloom. What the hell, he thought. A little hair of the dog couldn’t make him feel any worse than he already did. Shattering one of the bottles in an eruption of flying glass, the ensuing explosion failed to deter him. Slugging whiskey straight from an unbroken bottle, he headed down a dark hallway, glassy shards crunching beneath his boots.

Buck stumbled through the house, finally finding a door that led outside. Soft rain continued falling, a few rays of moonlight penetrating the cover of clouds. Reflections off the lake beckoned. Wobbling toward the water’s edge, he dribbled whiskey from his open mouth and down his neck, and then howled at the moon. When he reached the lake, he tripped on a cypress knee, tumbling into the mud. Revived by the dank odor of warm rain and rotting vegetation, he watched dull light radiate from a pinpoint across the lake. This time it wasn’t the moon. Even after rubbing his eyes, he couldn’t make it disappear. Instead, it grew larger, drawing ever closer.

Sitting in the mud, too stunned to move, he swayed as the vague outline of a veil shrouded apparition floated toward him. He bit his lip, pain failing to convince him he was coherent. When the apparition stopped directly in front of him, he could see it was a girl.

A translucent shawl clung to her thin frame, icy mist drifting around her shoulders, chilling warm night air. Tears flowed down her cheeks. When she reached out to him, his neck grew inexplicably warm. Aunt Emma’s brooch in his hand began pulsating with pink light as the translucent body of the ghostly vision gleamed brightly.

He blinked, opening his eyes to see the girl had disappeared, leaving him unsure of what he’d seen. Still very much inebriated, he managed to stumble back to the lodge where he passed out before hitting the sheets.

###

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 & Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.