False Pretenses - Kathy Herman [12]
Carter nodded. “Ghosts are just made-up stories. Mommy and Daddy and me looked everywhere in this whooole house, and we didn’t find any ghosts.”
“You’re absolutely right, but some people believe they’re real. In fact”—Mike’s gaze seemed probing—“I just saw a TV program about haunted houses being big business. If a place can practically guarantee that their guests will bump into a ghost, it’ll stay booked all the time.”
Vanessa tapped her fingers on the table and tried to hide her indignation for Carter’s sake. “Deputy Doucet, do you think we’re making this up as some sort of stunt to rouse curiosity and drum up business?”
Mike sat back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. “A harmless ghost story on the record certainly couldn’t hurt future business.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ethan said. “But if we were going to make up a ghost story, we could’ve come up with someone a lot more convincing than an unshaven African-American man who told a four-year-old he was made of chocolate and gave him lemon drops. Give me a break. There’re plenty of ghost stories about Josiah Langley wandering the halls. That would’ve made a lot more sense if we were trying to draw curiosity seekers.”
Stone put down his pencil. “Mr. and Mrs. Langley have a good point.”
“Actually what we have,” Ethan said, “is an unwanted intruder and no explanation for how he got in or what he wanted. Our four-year-old might understand the difference between what’s real and what’s pretend, but he’s not so discerning between who’s dangerous and who isn’t. We want to make sure this man doesn’t get back in here. What do you suggest we do?”
“You might consider having security lights installed,” Stone said. “Motion detectors would be even better. An alarm system would be better yet.”
Ethan sighed. “We’d be throwing away money if we sank it into security measures when we know the renovation crew is going to be in here, knocking out walls.”
“How soon do you anticipate the work starting?”
“We still have to approve the blueprints,” Vanessa said. “But sometime in the next few weeks.”
Stone put his reading glasses back in his pocket. “Since this plantation house has historic significance, I doubt we’d have trouble convincing Sheriff Prejean that a temporary patrol check a couple times a day would be in order. Once the renovation starts, the constant flow of trucks and workers will be all the deterrent you’ll need.”
Zoe walked up the stairs from Zoe B’s, went in the apartment, and closed the door. She picked up the mail on the breakfast bar and went through the arched doorway into the living room. She set the mail on an end table and went out on the gallery, one of many that extended out over the sidewalk on either side of rue Madeline.
The evening air was thick with humidity and the faint scent of mesquite smoke coming from the Texas Cajun Grill on the corner. Swirls of blazing orange and purple painted the western sky. She stood at the wrought-iron filigree railing, savoring the evening breeze just beginning to stir, and watched the tourists stroll the sidewalks where dozens of shops and eating establishments vied for their business.
She smiled. Had business at Zoe B’s ever been better? She went inside and sat in the overstuffed chair, propping her feet up on the ottoman, and started looking through the day’s mail. The electric bill. The water bill. The cell phone bill. A credit card solicitation. An envelope with her name typed on the front. This didn’t come through the mail. Was the Merchant’s Association trying to save postage again?
She slit open the envelope and unfolded a piece of white 8 ½ x 11 paper, on which letters had been cut from a magazine and glued to form five words: I know what you did.
Zoe stared at the words, her mind racing with the implication. Was this a prank? How could anyone know what she had done? And why now, after ten years—
“I thought I heard you come in.”
Her pulse quickened. She turned to see Pierce’s tall frame filling the arched doorway. “You startled me, cher. I thought you were taking a nap.”
“I