Mischief in Mudbug Page 2

  Dr. Breaux nodded. “I know you’ve exhausted all of your available channels, but sometimes if one is, um, creative, one might find information by matching medical records.”

  Sabine stared at Dr. Breaux. “So did you find someone?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Breaux said. “Your aunt had a nephew.”

  Sabine straightened in her chair. “A nephew? How is that possible? I asked, over and over again, and she always denied having any family at all.”

  Dr. Breaux looked down at his desk for a moment, then back up at Sabine. “My guess is she didn’t want people to know.”

  “Who is it?” Sabine asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  Dr. Breaux sighed. “Harold Henry.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Maryse jumped up from her chair. “Harold Henry? Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Dr. Breaux replied.

  “I’m related to Harold Henry?” Sabine asked in dismay.

  Maryse slumped back into her chair. “Not that it matters. Harold won’t work. Even if he wasn’t in jail and he agreed to do it—which would never happen—he’s old and has fifty million things wrong with him. High blood pressure, heart problems, and God knows what else.”

  “I agree,” Dr. Breaux said. “Harold wouldn’t be a very good choice, even if he was a match.” He hesitated for a moment, obviously not wanting to say the next thing on his mind. “But Hank might be. You’re the same blood type, anyway, so that’s a start.”

  Maryse groaned and covered her head with her hands. Harold and Helena’s son, Hank Henry, her ex-and always-disappearing husband, made professional illusionists look like amateurs with his ability to vanish into thin air.

  “And there’s no other way?” Sabine asked, starting to feel more than a little desperate. “Can’t we look for another match, outside of my family?”

  “Of course we can look,” Dr. Breaux said. “I’ve already started the process, but I don’t have to tell you the odds of finding a perfect match outside of a family member or the odds of success with anything less than a perfect match. I want the best possible odds.”

  Sabine nodded. “I understand. So what do we need to do now?”

  Dr. Breaux picked up her file. “We’ll start the chemo right away. There’s an opening next week if you can arrange it. If there’s any chance you can locate another family member…just in case…”

  Sabine sighed. “I’ve been searching for my family since I was old enough to read, Dr. Breaux. Unless there’s a miracle, I don’t see it happening now when it hasn’t all these years.”

  Dr. Breaux gave her a sad nod. “I understand, Sabine.”

  “But we’ll be happy to try again,” Maryse said. “Hank can’t hide forever, and maybe it’s time to try less traditional methods.” Maryse stared at Sabine, obviously trying to communicate more than her words. “Who knows, something might appear now that didn’t before.”

  Helena! Well, it was certainly a less than traditional route, and God help them both—it was the best idea Sabine had heard in years.

  Chapter Two

  Raissa Bordeaux stared across the table at Maryse and Sabine, an uncertain look on her normally focused face. “So let me get this straight,” Raissa began, “Maryse started seeing her dead mother-in-law weeks ago, and now you see her, Sabine?”

  Sabine glanced over at Maryse, looking for permission to tell Raissa everything. Maryse nodded, and Sabine began her explanation. “No. I can only hear her. We’re not sure why I can’t see her, but Maryse still can.” Sabine hoped her mentor—a real psychic—might have some answers.

  Raissa’s bright green eyes glowed with interest. “Okay. So both of you can hear her, and Maryse can see her, so what exactly do you need from me?”

  “Does that sound normal to you?”

  Raissa laughed. “Hell, no. It’s probably the most bizarre thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Sabine sighed and tried to control her disappointment. “Darn. We were really hoping you would know what was going on with the audio/video display.”

  “This one is a first for me,” Raissa said.

  “Okay,” Sabine replied, “then this is our next problem. You know I’ve been trying to locate my family.”

  Raissa nodded.

  “Helena once created an image of my parents for me to see. She said she looked on the ‘other side’ and asked for them, and they appeared. Unfortunately, she can call them and see them, but they don’t answer when she talks to them.” Sabine frowned at the thought of being so close, yet so far away from an answer. “We thought that if Helena could create the image again, you could draw it, and it might give us more to go on. I’ve never even had a photo of them, so this could be a huge breakthrough.”

  “You want me to draw a portrait of your parents from a dead woman’s image?”

  Maryse laughed. “You know, Raissa, for a psychic, you seem to be having an awful lot of trouble with this.”

  “I get visions, not apparitions.” Raissa shook her head. “Sabine, I thought you’d finally put this behind you. Why are you starting it all up again now?”

  Sabine swallowed. “I need to find a family member.”

  Raissa’s face cleared in immediate understanding, then sympathy. “You have cancer, don’t you?”

  Sabine nodded, struggling to maintain composure.

  “Oh, Sabine,” Raissa said, “I am so, so sorry. How are you planning to use the drawing?”

  “I don’t know yet, exactly,” Sabine admitted. “Show it around? Maybe run an ad in the newspaper?”

  Raissa was silent for a moment, then looked at Sabine. “Several years ago, a client mentioned a private investigator here in New Orleans who specializes in missing persons. I think he’s usually working on more recent cases—consulting with the police, that sort of thing. But if you’d like, I could contact him and see if he’s available to help you. I remember his rate being quite reasonable.”

  Sabine nodded. “If you can recommend someone, that would be great. I started saving to buy a house, but this is a little more important.”

  “I can help, too,” Maryse added. “Since I’ve got the grant with the medical research company in New Orleans, I don’t need my own lab equipment anymore. I still have a lot of the money from my inheritance.”

  Raissa nodded. “If you need any more, I’ve got a bit stuck back myself. And let me know if you need someone to cover at your shop. I can always shift my clients around.”

  Sabine felt tears gather in her eyes and she sniffed. “Thank you both so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Raissa smiled. “That’s what friends are for, right?” She looked over at Maryse. “Well, if you two think this ghost can produce the image, I’m game to try it. Hell, it would probably be the most interesting thing I’ve ever done. Is the ghost here now?”

  Maryse rose from her chair and opened the front door of Raissa’s New Orleans’ shop, then motioned to someone on the sidewalk.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Sabine could hear Helena the Horrific Ghost bitching before she ever entered the shop. “Leaving me standing out on the sidewalk like some vagrant. That’s not respect, I tell you.”

  Maryse waited for Helena to enter the shop, then closed the door behind her.

  Raissa looked over at her. “What? Is she not here?”

  Sabine shook her head. “Oh, no, she’s here, believe me. I might not be able to see her, but I could hear her bitching from three parishes over.”

  Maryse nodded her head in agreement. “That’s why we left her outside. Trying to have a conversation with Helena around is like trying to watch a movie with a two-year-old.”

  “I see how it is,” Helena ranted. “You expect me to do you favors, but you want to insult me. And what the hell are we doing here anyway…talking to another nutbag?”

  Sabine closed her eyes and sighed. “Raissa is an artist, Helena. I want you to reproduce that image of my parents so Raissa can draw it.”

  “H
mm. A new approach to your lifetime of futility. Why don’t you let this go, Sabine?”

  “I have my reasons, Helena.” Sabine and Maryse had already agreed that the less Helena knew, the better. The ghost would be certain to want to “help.” And Helena’s help was something they were hoping to do without, except on a very selective and clearly instructed basis. “Can you produce the image or not?”

  “Of course I can produce it. Tell the nutbag to break out her charcoal.”

  Sabine looked over at Raissa and nodded. “She’s ready whenever you are.”

  Raissa pulled a drawing pad and pencil from a table behind her and flipped to a blank sheet. “Ready.”

  “Go ahead, Helena,” Sabine instructed.

  There were several seconds of dead silence, and for a moment, Sabine was afraid that Helena wasn’t going to be able to pull it off. Then a small orb of light began to glow just to the side of the table. Raissa gave a small start when the orb appeared and watched in fascination as it grew in size and detail, ultimately depicting a man and woman standing in the center of the light.

  Raissa stared at the image, her eyes wide, then finally asked, “How long can she hold that?”

  “We’re not sure,” Sabine said.

  Raissa laughed, her expression still mingled with excitement and disbelief. “Then I best get to drawing.”

  Raissa closed the door to her shop a little early that evening. She didn’t have any late appointments scheduled, and walk-ins would just have to wait until the next day. Maryse and Sabine had left, happy as clams, a couple of hours before with a fistful of photocopies of Raissa’s drawing. The original and a couple of spare copies, Raissa had locked away in her filing cabinet for safekeeping. Her door secure, Raissa closed the blinds, emptied the cash and receipts from the register, and carried it upstairs with her to her studio apartment above the store.

  The apartment was cool in contrast to the store, where the door admitted summer heat and humidity along with the customers. She shrugged off her black robe, a necessity for her customers even though what she wore made no difference as to how she did her job, and pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. There was a nice chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio in her refrigerator and she was tempted to pour herself a glass, or two, and pile up on the couch with a good book, but she knew her mind was whirling too much to relax even if she drank the whole bottle.

  She settled for a bottled water and sat at her tiny kitchen table. God knows she’d seen things that any twenty people would never run across in their lifetimes…and that was a good thing. But nothing had prepared her for what she’d witnessed today. She’d drawn a sketch of two dead people from a hologram created by a ghost. That and a plane ticket would get her a spot on Jerry Springer.

  Or an even smaller apartment with padded walls.

  She reached across the tiny table for her laptop and connected to the internet. There was something about the man in that drawing that looked familiar, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what.

  She did a quick search for private detectives around the area. She clicked on the first link and studied the list of names and numbers. Atwater, Baker, Cooke…none of them was right. Deacon, Farris, Howard, Lawther…no, further down. Villeneuve—that was it. Raissa reached for the cordless phone on the cabinet behind her and dialed the number on the listing. The detective answered on the first ring.

  “Villeneuve,” he said, his voice strong and crisp.

  “Hello, Mr. Villeneuve. My name is Raissa Bordeaux, and I’m interested in hiring you to locate some family members.”

  “Are the family members missing, Ms. Bordeaux, or are you performing a historical search?”

  “More of a historical search, I suppose, but my goal is to find living relatives.”

  “What do you have to go on?”

  Raissa sighed. “Not much, I have to admit. A couple of surnames and a drawing of two family members.”

  “I assume this is your family?”

  “Actually, no. It’s a friend of mine who’s looking. I’d love to help her, but I simply don’t have the knowledge or connections to research something like this. I understand you’re an expert at this sort of thing, and I think you being from the area is an advantage. I’ve already exhausted all the resources I have.”

  “And what sort of resources would those be, Ms. Bordeaux?”

  “I’m a psychic. I talked to dead people.”

  Beau Villeneuve walked into a café in Mudbug, Louisiana wondering why he’d ever agreed to this job. He didn’t need the money and never would thanks to a reclusive grandfather who hoarded every penny he’d ever made.

  So the job was never about the money, which allowed him to be selective…pick only the cases that interested him. The harder the better. And that was the crux of it, really. Boredom. Some days he wished he’d never left the FBI, but that was another thought for another day. Maybe another year.

  And there weren’t too many cases more challenging than missing-family searches. He had yet to take on one that turned out well. When people disappeared without a trace, there was usually a reason, and it was rarely a pleasant one. Plus, people who had gotten away with disappearing for ten, twenty, thirty years were never happy to be “found.” He’d discovered that firsthand.

  Still, Beau had recognized the determination in Raissa Bordeaux’s voice. If he didn’t take the job, she’d just move on to the next detective who would. A detective who most likely wouldn’t have the experience and skill at working these family situations. A detective who most likely would open a rash of shit for the searcher and have no idea how to deal with it. And Beau just didn’t want that to happen. Raissa seemed genuinely concerned for her friend and really wanted to help.

  He grabbed a local newspaper from the rack next to the door and took a seat at a table in the corner of the café with a clear view of the door. Raissa had laid out the case the night before at a local pub. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he’d met with the psychic, but she hadn’t looked or talked like a nut. In fact, he’d admired the way she’d presented the facts, minimal as they were, in such logical order. The only question she wouldn’t give him a straight answer to was where she got the image for the drawing.

  She’d claimed she’d had a vision, but Beau wasn’t buying it. Regardless of any so-called psychic ability, she was one hell of an artist. The drawing was highly detailed and ought to give him something to work from. He’d studied it for over an hour the night before, thinking about the job. Thinking about the people depicted. Like Raissa, he had the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he’d seen the man somewhere, but knew that was probably unlikely as the man in the photo had died more than twenty years before.

  Assuming Raissa had her facts—and her visions—straight.

  He was two cups of coffee down and halfway into a story about an alleged UFO sighting when the door to the café opened and a young woman walked in. Raissa’s description hadn’t done the woman justice.

  Certainly she was tall and thin with long black hair, but Raissa hadn’t mentioned the perfect skin with a beautiful tanned glow, or the grace with which she walked, almost like watching a dancer. Get a grip, Beau. Women are not part of the equation. Not then, not now, not ever. You don’t need the money. You should turn down the job.

  Against his better judgment, he raised a hand as she scanned the café. The vision nodded and headed toward his table. Beau felt his heart rate increase with every one of her choreographed steps. Maybe she isn’t near as impressive up close. Maybe she has buck teeth and a speech impediment. But when she reached the table, she gave him a shy smile, her pale blue eyes not quite meeting his own.

  “I’m Sabine LeVeche,” she said, the words rolling off her tongue like music.

  And that’s when Beau knew he was in serious trouble.

  Sabine slid into the booth across from the detective, her heart racing because of the task at hand and the appearance of the man who was going to perform it. He was so young, s
o rugged, so manly. Sabine had no idea what she’d been expecting, maybe some gray-haired man wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat…but that was ridiculous. Still, she’d only worked with a private detective once before and the chain-smoking, mid-fifties burnout hadn’t even remotely resembled the gorgeous man across from her.

  She took a deep breath, hoping to slow her racing pulse, and pushed a folder across the table, praying that her hands didn’t shake. “Mr. Villeneuve, I know Raissa gave you some information about my family, but this is everything I have. Twenty years of research.”

  He reached for the folder and flipped through the sparse set of papers Sabine had given him. “Not a lot to show for twenty years.” He looked over at her. “That must be very disappointing.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Beau studied her for a moment, a contemplative expression on his face. Then his expression shifted back to business mode, and whatever it was that Sabine had thought he was going to say was apparently pushed back. “So tell me what you do know,” he said. “I like to hear the story firsthand if I can. It gives me a better feel for the situation and sometimes opens up avenues of investigation that might not have been explored.”

  Sabine laughed. “If you can find an avenue I haven’t explored, then you’re the best detective in the world, Mr. Villeneuve.”

  “Call me Beau.”

  “Okay, Beau. I guess I’ll start at the beginning, what I was told of it anyway. I was only six months old when my parents had a fatal car accident.”

  “You weren’t in the car?” Beau asked.

  “I was in the car. Some folks around here called it a miracle, and I suppose it was, but apparently they were riding with the windows down and I was thrown clean when the car rolled. The fireman who worked the scene probably wouldn’t have found me at all, except they’d brought their dog with them. He set up a howl, and they found me perched in a clump of marsh weeds, not a scratch on me.”

  “Wow! That’s incredible.”

  Sabine nodded. “The police did a search to locate the closest relative, trying to find someone to care for me until the state could decide what to do. They came up blank on my father. His name didn’t appear in records anywhere except for a driver’s license that had been issued a little over six months before. They finally got lucky with my mother and came up with my greataunt in Mudbug.”