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  "Jack," I shouted, "be careful!"

  He didn't look back, his strong arms slicing through the inky water. I looked around—did gators go to ground during storms, or did they slink around in the water looking for post-dinner snacks? Jack and Rosalyn were stirring things up, and if there was a gator out and about, he'd surely notice the ruckus they were making.

  Her head went under. Oh, Jack. Hurry.

  And as if he heard my thoughts, he seemed to swim faster, and as her head ducked a second time, he reached out midstroke, grabbed her by the hair, and pulled, yanking out some of her curlers, until he could take hold of the granny gown, which had probably wrapped itself around her legs and conspired to help drown her.

  Now it became an instrument of her salvation as Jack twisted it around one arm while wrapping the other around her shoulders under her chin. He seemed to be an extremely strong swimmer, and in only a couple of minutes, they were within reach of my little boat, which rocked wildly. I spread my weight as evenly in the middle as possible, arms stretched side to side, but the rocking just got worse.

  Jack and Rosalyn were within a few feet. Even in the darkness of the rainy night, I could see he was having trouble with her. She was obviously in full panic mode, her arms flailing as she tried to grab Jack around the neck. Her kicking feet kept coming to the surface.

  Jack was having trouble keeping his own head above water. He brought her up beside the boat. "Knock it off," he yelled at her. "You're going to drown us both."

  And he was right. His head went under as she tried to lift herself over him onto the boat. I moved to one side and leaned over, reaching out with both arms. And wouldn't you know it, that nut job grabbed me with one hand, the side of the boat with the other, and yanked.

  And me? I went headfirst into the cold, smelly pond water, splashing through the thick duckweed, my shoes and clothing pulling me straight down.

  Above me, Jack's legs stilled as if he were aware I was directly beneath them. He reached one arm down, but just as our hands nearly met, one of Rosalyn's feet connected with my head. Hard, but I didn't black out and still had enough of my wits about me to keep my mouth shut.

  I was aware of a frantic struggle going on above me. Rosalyn was kicking like a mule and pushing on Jack to try and lift herself into the boat. They were churning up the water like two gators fighting over a fat little muskrat while I sank deeper into the murky pond. It grew darker, and quieter, and even though I realized what was happening wasn't good, not only did I not do anything about it, I didn't care. It was calm down there. Peaceful even. I could just relax and float and…

  A hand—at least it seemed like a hand reached for me. The voice, present and clear, said, "Kick, Mellie gal, kick hard."

  Oh. Of course. I reached up, just missing the lowered hand and put my feet in motion in one hard thrust after the next.

  My hands found the edge of the boat. My head broke water, and suddenly Jack was beside me, lifting me up. "Pull, Mel," he said, his voice strong and authoritative but somehow different than the voice in the water.

  It only took a couple of minutes, or at least that was what it seemed like, for him to get Rosalyn, me, and himself situated in the boat. He put his back into the oars again, and our small craft headed toward the dock.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Odeo and two other workers ran up. Jack threw them the rope, and they looped it over the piling and then helped the three of us out of the boat.

  Penny and Lurch were nowhere in sight. Rosalyn seemed awfully shaky, so Odeo picked her up as easily as if she were a three-year-old and carried her back toward the main building.

  I stood shivering on the dock, confused, somewhat dazed, until Jack turned to me, tipped up my chin, his dark eyes gleaming in the feeble light. "Are you okay?"

  My voice wasn't ready to make a debut yet, so I just nodded.

  His eyes softened as he pulled duckweed from my hair and flicked it from his fingers into the water.

  "I smell like a sewer," I said and started to cry.

  He smiled, put an arm around me, and said, "Me, too. We should start a club. Let's get back inside and wash the eau de bayou down the drain."

  * * *

  Back in the lobby, Jack asked Lucy, the agent on desk duty, to call Billy Whitlock's room and get him downstairs to help his mother. Odeo put Rosalyn down and led her to a bench. She sat and looked up at him with grateful eyes.

  Lurch stood in the open doorway, shaking himself like a big ol' wet dog and drying his cell phone with his shirttail, while Penny marched over to Rosalyn and laid into her. "Just when I was telling everyone how much better you are, you have to go and make me look like a fool. What were you thinking, screaming through the place like that? And what in the blue blazes made you think you could handle a boat?"

  Rosalyn reached up and took hold of both of Penny's hands, shaking them. "Come to my room with me. Please. You don't understand. I'm telling you—she's after me. Cecile."

  Penny shook her loose and stepped back, shaking her head. "Cecile's dead, Rosalyn. And I'm the psychic here. If Cecile's spirit was going to contact anyone, don't you think it would be me?"

  One of the women on housekeeping night duty came with several blankets and passed them out.

  "Well…" Jack turned speculative eyes in my direction. "You heading off to your room for a hot shower?"

  "I…" Stuttering, swell. But the look he was giving me absolutely made me wonder if he was waiting for an invitation to join me there. That sounded good to me as well—after all, the man had saved my life. "Thank you for saving me, Jack."

  "I just helped you into the boat. You pretty much saved yourself, Mel. And it was a good thing too. Rosalyn was so freaked out, I thought she was going to drown us both. I had my hands full just handling her."

  "But you did reach down for me, when you told me to kick—and then you helped me grab onto the side of the boat?"

  He frowned and laid his hand against my upper arm, curling his fingers lightly around it. "Are you sure you're okay? I mean, she kicked you, right? In the head?"

  "What?" I said, suddenly uncomfortable.

  "I didn't reach for you, Mel," he said kindly. "No one did. I barely got Mrs. Whitlock over the side of the boat when you burst to the surface and latched on to the side. I didn't reach down for you. You reached up."

  I just stared at him. "No. You took my hand." Didn't he? If it wasn't Jack then…maybe I was more confused than I thought.

  But no matter. Cap'n Jack had saved me from the murky deep, and I wanted to spend the night wrapped in his arms. "Jack, I—"

  Rosalyn's shrill voice interrupted what could have been a pivotal moment in my life. "It was her! I swear it. Cecile. She thinks I killed her. She's after me, I tell you."

  Billy Whitlock came stumbling down the stairs singing "All About That Bass" and began to waltz with the young woman from housekeeping. His slack mouth, lack of focus, and unsteadiness were red flags that he'd spent the night at the bar in the Presto-Change-o Room, throwing back hurricanes.

  After a few minutes he noticed his weeping mother, went to sit beside her, and began to remove what few curlers were left hanging in her wet and tangled hair.

  She whimpered and laid her head on his shoulder. "Billy, let me stay with you tonight. I'm afraid."

  "Stay?" he mumbled. "With me? I'm planning on hooking up." He stood so abruptly Rosalyn nearly fell off the bench. She threw her arms around his waist and started to cry all over again.

  "Geez, Mother." He pried her hands off him. "You're killing me here. Can't you see I'm making my moves? You need to knock it off and go do something about my bar bill. The house says they're cutting me off if I don't take care of it."

  She sniffled. "Bar bill? Don't you have a credit card, sweetie?"

  "Yeah, I have a credit card, but it's maxed out. And I drained my checking account before we came down here. Just handle it, will ya, Mother? I've got bigger fish to fry." He winked and staggered back to where the girl
from housekeeping stood waiting for any further requests. He began to flirt with her—well, sort of. In reality it was more like a dog sniffing around a steak. From the look on her face, he wasn't going to get lucky, at least not with her, at least not tonight, but he didn't seem to notice.

  Rosalyn turned her pleas to Penny. "Can I stay in your room tonight, Penny? Or could you stay with me?"

  Penny crossed her arms, her posture and expression completely disgusted. "Don't be ridiculous. Get yourself together, and go to bed. If you're not careful, someone's going to call a sanitarium."

  That sent Rosalyn into fresh waves of sobbing and shaking. "I'm frightened. So frightened. I can't be alone tonight. She'll come for me. I know she will."

  I couldn't take it anymore. I sat down beside Rosalyn and put my arm around her. "I'll stay in your room with you tonight, Rosalyn." I looked up at Jack. The expression on his face was…what? Regret, maybe? But he gave me a small nod of encouragement. "I don't blame you, Rosalyn. If Cecile's ghost is wandering around The Mansion, I'm not too crazy about sleeping alone either."

  But sleeping in her bed wasn't exactly what I had in mind.

  * * *

  Rosalyn waited in my room while I took a hot shower then threw my sleep shirt and toothbrush into a bag. We went straight up to her room, a junior suite, which made my standard room look like a broom closet.

  Rosalyn left the door open while she showered, steaming up the bedroom where I stretched out in the king-size bed watching The Tonight Show while Jimmy Fallon and Kevin Hart smashed eggs against their heads.

  A fresh flannel nightie, her hair smelling like shampoo, she crawled into bed with me after taking three extra pillows from the closet and lining them up between us.

  Don't worry, sweetie. You're not my type.

  The poor thing must have been as exhausted as I was, because she was already snoring softly as I drifted off to sleep. In the back of my mind were questions about why Billy was so broke he couldn't even pay his bar bill, while he'd sworn, "I had the old biddy wrapped around my pinky," and "When I needed money, she was Johnny-on-the-spot with the checkbook."

  I didn't know what time it was, but something was wrong—like when you wake up in the middle of the night because there's water dripping in a sink, or the ceiling fan starts creaking, or sometimes even just a shift in the atmosphere of the room sends your Spidey-sense on full alert.

  Well, that was what happened to me. And it was a darn good thing it did, too.

  I opened my eyes and was suddenly aware Rosalyn was sitting up in bed with the sheet pulled over her head, whining.

  Understandable.

  Because floating at the foot of the bed was a ghoul—a girl ghoul, at least, I think. Its hair was long and stringy, as much spiderwebs as anything else. Its face was skeletal in appearance with hollow sockets where the eyes should have been and bared teeth in a lipless mouth. Under a gauzy robe-like gown, an unholy light shown from its chest up onto its horrible glowing face. Its cry went straight to my very core, gripping me in an icy thrall that matched the specter's long bony fingers.

  "Holy shit!" I dived under the covers too. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Close beside me but separated from me by the stupid pillow barrier, Rosalyn's breath was fast and shallow.

  "Make it go away!" she whispered. "Get rid of it!"

  Sure. No problem. Let me just get my handy-dandy proton gun, maybe even cross the streams.

  The ghost began to wail in a guttural alto. "Rosalyn, Rosalyn, why did you kill me? I loved you as if you were my own daughter. You broke my heart." A long, earsplitting shriek that seemed to go on awhile set my teeth on edge as every spooky tale my grandmother told me through the years leapt to the frontal lobe of my brain. Haints. Specters and spirits. Ghouls and ghosties. She had a dozen names for them, but in the end it all boiled down to the same thing—namely ugly, creepy things that can make a grown man scream like a little girl. I began to shake.

  Rosalyn took hold of my wrist in a vicelike grip. "I told you. I told you she was after me."

  "You were right!"

  I didn't know what to do, but one thing was f'sure. I couldn't just sit there with the sheet pulled over my head.

  When it came to getting rid of pesky spirits, Grandmama Ida said, "First of all, they don't always know they're dead, and they may just be hanging around waiting to make a run to Popeye's Chicken or something—so you have to tell them. Second of all, you can't just kick them out of your house—you have to host an intervention from the other side by the haint's family members. Be sure to tell the haint to go into the light so it doesn't just boogie on over to your neighbor's house. Third, burn some sage sticks and spread the smoke by walking counterclockwise around here and there. And fourth, make sure you're stone-cold sober while you're doing this, or the haint may just take the opportunity to make that chicken run in your body."

  "We have to send her to the light," I whispered to Rosalyn. "You don't happen to have any sage lying around, do you?"

  Even in the dim light I could see she was looking at me like all my dogs weren't barking. "Sage? What are you talking about?"

  The ghost's moaning and wailing grew louder. Was it getting closer? I couldn't tell without looking, and I wasn't ready to do that just yet.

  It was a shame about the sage—would really have liked to have it, but you work with what you've got.

  My voice shook like a high-rise during a Richter eight earthquake. "Ghost, er, lady…we need to let you know that, well, you're dead, girl. Six feet under, kicking up daisies, bought the farm—dead. And you need to go into the light." I turned to Rosalyn. "You think there's a light? I didn't see one. You think she sees one?"

  Rosalyn shrugged. A lot of help she was turning out to be.

  "It is time to leave here, all is well. There is nothing here for you now. Go into the light. Gooooo. Intoooo. The. Liiiiight. Farewell."

  There was a thump, followed by a soft "Oooof." Then nothing.

  Oooof? Really? Did it run into the pearly gates going into the light?

  Rosalyn and I looked at each other. I could barely see the shine of her eyes. "You think it's gone?"

  "Only one way to tell." I took in a deep breath and held it then slowly pulled the sheet back off my head.

  Rosalyn didn't move.

  I looked around. All around, and slowly exhaled. The room was empty. No more ghost.

  I touched Rosalyn's shoulder. "All gone."

  She let the sheet slide off her head and looked around too.

  I lifted my face and began to inhale. A familiar scent lingered in the room. Clean, rich, nutty. Like almond cookies. What the…? One would think ghastly ghouls from beyond the veil would reek of rotting flesh and decay, not smell like Mama's kitchen after school.

  Oh, well. I had other things to think about, like Rosalyn, who had collapsed into a quivering, weeping mess. I popped a couple of Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and handed them to her.

  She wiped her eyes, and then she blew her nose.

  I put my arm around her. "Well, at least they won't be calling the men in white coats to come and take you away."

  She turned to look at me. Her expression still frightened—the moonlight bringing out the fear in her eyes. "Men in white coats? Someone was going to call the men in white coats?"

  "Don't worry about it. At least if they do, you'll have company because they'll probably take me too."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sunday morning I was all set to meet Cat in the main kitchen where Valentine had promised she'd fix some extra grits, Andouille sausage, and scrambled eggs with sautéed onion. I'd been thinking about breakfast all morning.

  Cat and I both had full schedules at work today, but she insisted on coming in early to help me with trying to find evidence that would exonerate Fabrizio.

  Valentine plated food for us then went to go over the lunch menu with the waiters and kitchen staff.

  Cat and I were both in fifty shades of
ecstasy with the grits and sausage and eggs.

  I told her about the fun and games she'd missed the night before, and she proposed that while she was glad she was absent for the actual events, she was also glad to be there today.

  "There's something really weird about neither one of those boat motors working last night," she said.

  That same thought had come to me then made a quick exit when the ghost appeared last night. "Okay. It is weird. Odeo keeps those little boats in tip-top shape. It's a matter of personal pride to him."

  "So, maybe someone besides Odeo has been working on the motors."

  Our eyes met over our coffee cups. "What do you think about going out to the dock to have a peek at those boats?"

  With a keen look in her eyes, she took one last bite of eggs, wrapped a piece of sausage in a paper towel, and stood. "Sounds reasonable to me, sugah."

  "Let's get on with it. I have a customer at ten sharp. Mr. Livermore in 220. Says he wants a kitty. A kitty. I offered him a feral cat with a high back and scorching green eyes. He turned it down. Then I said, 'What about an intricate Cheshire cat with a gorgeous sweeping kaleidoscope of a tail?' Nope, didn't want that either. 'How about a panther? You know, on the prowl, high in a vine-covered tree?' I asked him. But no, this guy wants his own kitty tattooed on his chest. It's a little bit of a calico thing with big, sad eyes, and a pink nose. Honest to gosh, Cat, it'll take me all of ten minutes to ink it. I can't believe I couldn't talk him out of it."

  Cat laughed. "Can you imagine getting it on with that guy and coming face-to-face with the pussy on his chest?"

  My turn to laugh. "Speaking of pussy…do you honestly think a man who puts a permanent picture of his kitty on his chest is ever going to get laid?"

  We agreed it wasn't likely, went out the side door, and headed around to the lake.

  * * *

  There wasn't a single boat lined up at the dock.