“Anything darker than light stands out.” I ran my fingers through my black hair. “I should know. The Thores hid runaways…” I pointed upstairs. He paused with a forkful of slaw nearly to his mouth. “Some died, some survived.”
Bobby set his fork on his appetizer plate and the coleslaw slid off. He didn’t notice. He flipped over his menu, which the waitress had neglected to take with her, read the few short paragraphs. The story didn’t mention the ghosts either.
I’d tried to work here as a teen, had to quit. Some people saw the specters; some only felt them. I heard everything they said, and once they knew that they just wouldn’t shut up.
The ghosts of Thore’s Farm were attached to the house—more specifically the second floor—just as they’d been when they were alive. This meant I could have dinner here and be bothered no more than anyone else by the thumps. I caught an occasional, distant whisper. However, if I went upstairs, I got an earful.
Probably best to avoid the place, except Thore’s was a decent restaurant, and it wasn’t as if we had a lot of them.
We finished our meal, ordered dessert. I could never resist their apple kuchen. Bobby had strawberry schaum torte. Too sweet for me, but he seemed to enjoy it.
I tried to pay; he wouldn’t let me. Not even Dutch treat.
“Why is it Dutch treat?” he asked as he doled out twenties.
“We each pay our own.”
“I know what it is. I just don’t know why they call it that. Considering the area, I thought you might have a clue.”
“I’ve heard it explained that the Dutch built their doors with two equal halves.” I shrugged. “We did a unit on the Dutch in my class. Another explanation is that the term came about because the English and the Dutch fought over the East Indies and the English weren’t doing too well. They took every opportunity to put down the enemy by coining derogatory terms. For instance, Dutch uncle is someone who isn’t your uncle but yells at you like one.”
He indicated I should precede him toward the exit. “My uncle never yelled at me.”
“My uncles were gone before I was born.”
“Too bad. Uncles are fun. It’s a shame you never got to meet yours.”
I had met them. But not in a way I could share. Uncle Jim showed up now and then. He liked to have a cigarette just outside the open kitchen window. Drove my father bonkers. He couldn’t see Jim, but sometimes he could smell the cigarette. I’d told my dead uncle to knock it off, but he didn’t listen any better now than he had while alive. If he had, he might not have expired at thirty-two from lung cancer.
Uncle Charley was even more fun. He liked to drive the Dodge Charger he’d died in across the field and into the same damn tree. Over and over into eternity.
Men. They never learned.
*
Bobby slid behind the wheel. The meal had been excellent, but the place had been …
He shifted his shoulders. He’d felt watched the entire time. Probably because he had been. As long as he was here, he probably would be. In New Orleans he did not stand out. He was in no way different. In New Bergin he was in no way the same. But neither was Raye.
After he’d heard those thumps upstairs no one had ever come down. And he’d watched. He had a perfect view from his seat.
He started the car. “What’s upstairs?”
Raye cast him a glance, but he kept his gaze on the windshield. “Storage.”
That explained why someone had been up there, it even explained the thumps. A worker searching for “whatever” had dropped it down the stairs. However, it didn’t explain why the worker had never followed. What it really didn’t explain was why nothing had actually fallen down the stairs in the first place.
Which only meant the house had weird acoustics. Something had fallen elsewhere, but sounded like it was on the other side of the wall. Made more sense than any of the alternatives.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Raye murmured. “Though from the way you’re scowling, they’re worth a lot more.”
“Cold cases,” he blurted, though he wasn’t sure why. “Sometimes I think about them.” Just not right now.
“Is there one that bothers you in particular?”
No one had ever asked him that before, and it was a pretty good question.
Bobby rubbed the back of his neck, which often tingled whenever he thought about this particular case. He figured there was something he was missing, which was why it so often came to mind. “There’s an old hotel in the quarter.”
“French Quarter?”
“Only one there is, cher.”
She lifted her brows at the endearment but he could tell she liked it. He’d used the term a thousand times before. In New Orleans cher tumbled from nearly everyone’s lips, especially the Creole. Technically it meant dear, though it had the connotation of sweetie, cutie, honey, baby. Most folks used it to avoid keeping track of names. In his profession, considering how many names he heard, how few were real, how often he forgot, cher was helpful. But right now, here, with her, he actually meant it.
“Aren’t most of the hotels old in the quarter?” she asked.