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.