“Why here?” Pippa asked.

  “Why not here?” She moved back a step, hoping the interrogation was over.

  “Don’t get me wrong—New Orleans is great, but people usually dream about going to New York, not the other way around.”

  “Sometimes you need to slow down, and you found me the perfect house in which to do that.” Compliments always did wonders when she wanted to walk away, and this time was no different. She left Pippa basking in her words and waved when she headed back into the storm. It would have been a good shot if her life was a movie.

  * * *

  She became aware of the intense scrutiny the moment she stopped in front of what could only be described as a dump. Maybe the term fixer-upper meant something different in this town. If the lot contained a yurt full of raccoons smoking hookahs it would’ve been better than what she was looking at. She wanted to keep her eyes on the house—or the pile of firewood, if she was honest—but the guy next door was staring intently at her, as if he had to remember every freckle on her ass as well as every smudge on her vehicle so he could report it to the police.

  “Time enough to sort Mr. Nosy later.” She turned her attention back to the house, and it seemed like a sign from the renovating gods when the mailbox clutched its chest and keeled over like someone had poisoned it. “Or maybe it just decided to do itself in to stop the misery. If this is an old home in need of some TLC, then Pippa writes better fiction than I do.”

  She pulled into the overgrown drive and took a breath before opening the truck door. Getting out felt like making a commitment, and she was still weighing her options. The area outside the truck seemed safe enough, so she took another breath and stood in front of the Fuller place. Her second impression was that this house would never be as popular a tourist’s destination as the Leaning Tower of Pisa, so the porch would have to be added to her TLC list of things to do.

  The wannabe stalker was still standing in his yard, so she waved, since that’s what people did here, and put her foot on the first step of the porch. It was iffy it’d actually hold her weight, but the side yard beyond the drive was way too overgrown to chance it. She went up the stairs slowly as if she was trying to sneak up on someone and made it to the house on boards that bent with every step she took.

  She put the key in the lock, and trying to get it to turn was like trying to make a frigid woman come. It took some finesse, but the lock finally gave way, and she waited by the front door to make sure she was alone. There was a quiet when she closed the door that she’d thought only existed in space. The two rooms she could see from where she stood were so cluttered, they still appeared lived in.

  Everything was dated, musty, and eerie in a way that Stephen King might find homey. If the Fuller family had really removed anything from the house, then they all would be great candidates for that hoarder show. She watched that on nights when the sandman got caught up somewhere like Poughkeepsie and missed her house. You’d think there would be something better to watch, considering the five thousand channels she had.

  “I should’ve brought a television. If there’s one here, it’s probably one of those ancient sets trapped in a big piece of furniture.”

  The dining room had lost some of the plaster in one corner, and the front sitting room had wallpaper nightmares were made of. “And it’s all mine.” She was glad the electricity was on—she’d gone online and taken care of power and water while she was at a rest stop on her way down.

  It took a while to explore the rest of the house, and then she went out for her bag. She sat at the old Formica and chrome table off the kitchen and opened the file Pippa the con woman had given her. The first page was the history of the first couple who owned the house, Sam and Lydia Fuller. There wasn’t much about Sam, but Lydia was known for baking, especially for her snickerdoodle cookies, and for mothering every kid in the neighborhood. The couple raised eleven children here, and both Sam and Lydia died here, at ninety-eight and a hundred and two respectively.

  “That’s a minor miracle,” she said, putting the file way. “This house is big, but thirteen people in here must’ve been a tight squeeze.” She had to give the couple credit for their patience and for not killing any of their eleven kids.

  “If you’re still both here, you should know—I scare easily.” She said that loudly as she went upstairs to find a place to sleep. “Let the fun begin.”

  Chapter Seven

  It took a couple of days for Wyatt to fall into the same rut she’d been digging for herself back home. The sweatpants were cleaner, but she hadn’t changed them from that first day. After unpacking the small duffel she’d brought and the bag of groceries from her trip to the Esplanade Mini Mart, she wandered around the house, trying all the bedrooms except the largest. The room she decided on was the closest to the upstairs bathroom and had the firmest mattress. Saying that was in no way an endorsement of the bed she was sleeping on, but it was decent enough to lie on while staring at the ceiling.

  Picking that bedroom cut down on the possibility she’d be haunted by the numerous Fullers who’d died in the house, leaving all their shit behind. The only other option was calling a priest over, but she wasn’t feeling social, and she also wasn’t Catholic. Today was a new day, though, so she listened to her mother’s pep talk—since she’d had no choice—and decided to get up and at least look outside.

  Baby steps eventually got you to China if you also swam—because you couldn’t literally walk to China. A glance at the clock meant an early start wasn’t in the cards. After a trip to the bathroom, she stared out the window. It was strange that the place next door gave her a glimpse into every room, the windows bare. Furniture and small touches proved it was occupied, but she hadn’t been curious enough to get up and study the house at night.

  The same guy who stared her down the first day was standing at the waist-high wrought iron fence that separated the yards, looking up at her. His yard was meticulously kept, and he had what seemed like a permanent expression of annoyance, probably because her yard was not meticulously kept. “Maybe you should worry about putting up some curtains, you nosy bastard.”

  Whoever this guy was walked to the other side of the house when she didn’t acknowledge him. “This will either be a funny story I tell at cocktail parties or will make me drive back to New York with some sort of paranoia. Whatever it’ll be can’t be decided now since I have to have coffee.”

  She inventoried her groceries as the water for the French press heated. There were still a few frozen dinners and a handful of Slim Jims left from her shopping efforts her first day. Not that she’d been desperate enough to actually eat any frozen dinners or compressed meat sticks, but they were on hand if she felt the need to finally hit rock bottom. For now, she went with her usual of buttered toast and black coffee.

  “You’re going to get rickets,” her mother said.

  “I have to remember to google rickets later to find out what the hell that is.” She ate her toast as the hot water miraculously turned into coffee. Not really miraculous on the scale of the loaves and fishes, but it was to her. Once it was perfectly prepared, she went back upstairs and studied the house closely. She was here, and she wasn’t going back to her great house in New York anytime soon because that would be admitting defeat. The room she was pretending to sleep in had light pink wallpaper with big yellow roses. “I wonder if this is original. If it is, Pippa has to be a relative of the Fullers.”

  She picked a corner of the hideous decorating choice and pulled as she sipped her coffee. An hour later she stood ankle deep in shreds of paper that had been covering numerous holes. It seemed bad wall coverings hid a multitude of sins. The weird thing was that some of the holes were small but uniform. This wasn’t from time ravaging the house but someone making them for some reason.

  “Not what I planned for the day,” she said, wishing the house had a microwave, so she could heat more coffee. The holes were almost perfect squares, making her curious enough to stick her hand inside. “What the hell?” She found something wrapped in a linen towel. Unwrapping it uncovered a few alligator leather journals, and the writing inside was done by someone who had patience with a pen.

  She stared at them for a long moment, and everything that had dominated her thoughts for months disappeared. Mysteries were her livelihood, but this was different. Finding someone else’s story in a wall, if that’s what this was, made the purchase and the drive totally worth it. If the journals held a tragedy, then she wouldn’t be the only miserable bastard to exist. She inhaled sharply, realizing she’d been holding her breath.

  The find necessitated searching the other holes, and sure enough, they all held journals, all written in the same beautiful handwriting, and she was curious why no one else had found them. By the dates she’d seen on some of the entries, whoever had left them wasn’t a recent tenant. Her problem now, though, was that her walls had holes, giving whatever lived in the walls an invitation to crawl in her ear on the off chance she fell asleep.

  She knew exactly who to call for help. “Hey,” she said when Pippa answered the phone. “Sorry to bother you. Is there a hardware store close by?”

  “What do you need?” The enthusiasm in Pippa’s voice made her fear a visit. Pippa gave off the same vibe as Blanche—she seemed to want a more personal relationship that’d probably drive Wyatt to commit murder.

  “To know if there’s a hardware store nearby.”

  “You’ll have to leave the Quarter if you need a lot of supplies, but there’s a small place about a mile from you.” Pippa gave her the information on all things hardware as if she’d be graded on it. “If you want, we can go to lunch, and I’ll help you shop.”

  “Thank you for the offer.” She was beginning to regret the call. “That’s all for now, and what a shame, I already have plans for lunch.”

  “Do you want me to come over and show you where all these places are, then?” Pippa sounded hopeful.

  “That’s okay. The house isn’t up for guests, but you should know that.” She hung up and remembered how many times Pippa had used the term TLC. TLC, her ass.

  She put on her shoes and went down to the truck, to empty the back for everything she needed to get. “And now we know why I got lousy gas mileage down here.” Every tool she could think to need was stacked in the back. She teared up when she spotted her dad’s leather tool belt close to the tailgate. He’d used this all the time, so it had to be close at hand.

  She’d seen the damn thing around her dad’s waist all her life and was glad it had survived. It was time to start remembering the good days, like working with him and his crew during the summers. Her father had not only built countless houses around Brooklyn but had a reputation as a man who was fair and a straight shooter. She’d helped him build the house she’d grown up in and knew he would’ve loved working on this wreck of a house she’d been conned into. Well, maybe not conned. The ad did say it needed love, and she’d seen the pictures, so she’d known it wasn’t exactly luxury. Easier to blame peppy Pippa, though.

  “Let’s see if I can remember some of what you taught me, Dad.”

  By nightfall she’d emptied the truck, and the holes in the bedroom were larger and ready for repairs. If she ever had something to hide, she’d do it like a normal person and put it under her mattress. The weather was thankfully still on the cold side, but even with that, her clothes were dusty and she’d sweated off a pound by the time she was done. Right now the house’s lack of central air-conditioning wasn’t a problem, but that would have to be rectified before the summer, or her problems would disappear when she succumbed to heatstroke. A New Orleans summer wasn’t for the weak.

  She turned off all the lights and headed for the shower. The bathroom setup was bizarre, with a window in the shower, and the damn thing had no covering of any kind. “Why in the world would you put a window in the shower?” She’d gone back to talking to herself as she mentally started a shopping list of the supplies she’d need.

  “Crap, that doesn’t sound good.” The pipes imitated the starting of a muscle car when she turned the knob, but water came out where it was supposed to and was reasonably clear, so she stepped in and put her head under the cold water. If she didn’t want pneumonia before tomorrow, she’d have to find a plumber. Hopefully the house actually had a hot water heater, which meant it was plumbed for hot water.

  She wiped her face and glanced down at her nipples—they’d never been this hard in her life—and then movement from next door caught her attention. As luck would have it, the two bathrooms lined up perfectly and had one thing in common. No curtains certainly did wonders for friendly neighbor relations.

  “This must be Mrs. Nosy.” She spoke softly, as if the naked and very attractive woman would hear her. “That makes Mr. Nosy a lucky bastard.” She really should look away, but her neighbor was gorgeous. The woman showered in a way that made it impossible not to stare, even though she could only see from the collarbones up. “Okay, I see the allure of having a window in the shower, but why the hell isn’t it bigger?”

  She turned when she heard the rattle coming from the wall. “What the hell?” The noise got louder right before a stream of putrid rusty water spewed all over her. The water stopped working after that. “Just great. Just fucking great.” She turned the knobs, and nothing happened. And now she smelled like week-old trash that had stewed at the bottom of a rusty dumpster, swimming in raw sewage.

  “Okay, Karma, I get it. Watching my sexy neighbor shower is a bad thing.”

  Chapter Eight

  Hayley was finally meeting with Cheryl to discuss her ongoing projects. Her trip to see her parents had put her behind, but with some late nights the piles on her desk were slowly disappearing.

  “That brings us to the last thing,” Hayley said, and Cheryl’s shoulders slumped. That wasn’t the body language she was going for.

  “The anthology?” Cheryl asked. The poor woman sounded like she was being led to the gallows where someone would flog her for pleasure before hanging her to death.

  “That’s the one. You do realize that your job is to edit the assignments I give you, right? I’m trying my best to work around your”—she had to pause and think, not wanting to be sued—“objections, but there’s only so many cookbooks we publish in a year.”

  “I realize that, and I tried—I really did, but erotica, Hayley? And lesbian erotica at that. I have no experience with anything like that.”

  And it definitely shows. The words were dying to come out of her mouth, but she held back because of polite human behavior. Also because of the lawsuit thing. “If I give Joel this book and you the one that he’s working on, you’d be ready to work?” Joel was editing the male version of what she’d given Cheryl, and her question was a little out of line, but it made her smile. She figured Cheryl thought gay sex, no matter who was having it, was tantamount to joining a witch’s coven.

  “No, I’m not saying that. We shouldn’t build our brand on sex, Hayley. It’s not right.”

  She was ready for the small cross Cheryl wore around her neck to break off in her hand, Cheryl was fooling with it so much. “So our brand should be built on what, exactly?”

  “Good Christian content wouldn’t kill us. All this gay stuff is going to turn people off.” Cheryl squirmed, but her righteousness had risen and spewed forth like it always did when she felt cornered.

  “All the gay stuff sells, Cheryl, and as for turning people off, erotica actually does the exact opposite, so that sells as well. With or without you we’ll be releasing three anthologies that deal with sex later this year. It’s up to you to decide your involvement.”

  “I don’t want to be involved—that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  She sighed. She hated sighing. It seemed clichéd, but sometimes there was just no better response. “Then I’ll take your refusal as your resignation. You’re a good editor, and we’ll be sorry to lose you.”

  “Wait, I’m not resigning.” Cheryl leaned toward her so fast Hayley tensed, thinking she’d have to defend herself. A small gold crucifix sticking out of her forehead would be hard to explain in the emergency room. “I don’t want to do that book is all.”

  “This is the fifteenth project you’ve asked to be excused from. This is the schedule.” Hayley handed it over. “There’ll be no deviations or excuses from the assignments on there. Either get it done, or tender your resignation—it’s that simple. Sex is a part of life, Cheryl, and in this case, all you’re doing is editing the work, not performing it.”

  “I want to talk to Marlo,” Cheryl demanded.

  “Go ahead.” She waved to the door. “Let me know how it turns out, but know that I’ve already discussed this with her.”

  “Shit.” It was the best description for Cheryl’s exit as she stood and slammed the door. Hayley sighed again and rubbed her stomach. Conflict wasn’t something she enjoyed or thrived on, and it upset her. A knock at the door signaled her next meeting was there. “Hey, Joel.” The door cracked open, and he came in.

  Joel was one of her best editors and also knew her pretty well. He handed over a cup of tea and sat. “I couldn’t help but overhear the righteous queen of New Orleans. The day she unravels, she’s going to take out half the city. Do you want me to pick up the slack?”

  “I love you, but no. I’ll review what we have and do the anthology myself. It might remind me why I should be out looking for a girlfriend.” She started packing her stuff, glad she’d scheduled Joel after Cheryl. Like Fabio, Joel was happily married to a guy who was in upper management at a large accounting firm. They were complete opposites, but they fit perfectly.