“No, your father’s still a stud. I thought it’d help me understand what you think is sexy.” It sounded like her mom blew a kiss. “Now tell me what George’s been up to lately.” Her mom used George’s ramblings as a way to assess any potential threats.

  The real problem was George himself. He rambled, all right, but this time his stream of consciousness hadn’t yielded anything useful other than Butch was a foreigner. Big help that was, she thought, as Butch punched through the wall at a different spot. From this angle she could see her rip through the paper and reach inside the hole. This time she pulled something out, but she couldn’t tell what it was. Curious.

  “We have a new neighbor, and according to the town gossip, she’s a foreigner.” She watched Butch move to the next spot and use her fist again.

  “That’s all George knows? I’m disappointed.” Her mom paused and hummed. “Hold on while I get a pen.”

  “For what?” She was going to keep Butch’s activities to herself for now. Whatever she was up to made her wonder if Butch knew something about the Fuller house that the heirs didn’t. Why else would someone like Butch move into a house that should’ve been condemned years ago? Maybe there was some great treasure hidden in the walls, and Butch was punching a way to it.

  “Does the foreigner have a car?”

  “A truck, actually. Again, why?” The hunt was over, and Butch stood with her hands on the wall as if she was tired.

  “I need a license plate number. Anyone who moved in next door is either on the run from the police or is planning something that will cause them to be on the run from the police. There’s no way I’m going to let anything happen to you.”

  The passion both her parents had for the lives they chose to lead made her smile. “I think this is more of a case for HGTV’s house flip than a serial killer in training.” She yawned as the sun started to rise and it got lighter outside. The last glimpse she got of Butch was as she fell into bed. “I’ve been slammed at work, so I haven’t had a chance to go over and introduce myself.”

  “Don’t go in the house, whatever you do. That’s how they get you.”

  “I love you too, Mom, and I’ve got to start getting ready.” Hugo rolled over and stared at her. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

  “Don’t forget the plate number, and be careful.”

  “I promise, and if George comes up with anything new, I’ll report in. He had bowling Wednesday, so he should be dying to tell me something.” She hung up and decided perhaps she should make an appointment to have her head examined. Wishing for George to come over, no matter what, and doing highly personal things to herself in front of an odd stranger were surely grounds for a mental health checkup.

  * * *

  The bed squeaked when Wyatt finally fell into it. She might have time for a short nap before her workmen arrived after she’d had another night of staring at the ceiling. That had finally gotten boring, and to have something to do, she’d gone on a Lydia journal hunt. She’d found another thirty-eight to go with the thirteen she already had, which meant Lydia had suffered very little writer’s block in her long life. Lydia might’ve been popular and known for her cookies and child-bearing ability with the eleven she’d brought into the world, but she’d had plenty to write about and had somehow found the time. Either that or she was a freak of nature who never had to sleep.

  She read a bit more after destroying more of her walls and found more recipes mixed with the novel Lydia was writing. At least that’s what it seemed like she’d been doing. The thought of a small old lady sitting at her desk writing about what was expected of demure Southern girls made Wyatt smile. Yep, Lydia sounded like a woman who’d moved the needle when it came to the women’s movement that’d paved the way for everyone else.

  She enjoyed putting characters like Lydia in her own books as a reminder that all modern women stood on the shoulders of people like Lydia Fuller. The only reason the feminist needle had moved at all was because the Lydias of the world had enough of the bullshit and had done things to change the status quo. Where some of the recent crop of white supremacist conspiracy theorist women in politics came from was a bigger mystery than the thrillers Wyatt was known for writing. They did prove, though, that women could be bigger assholes than men.

  She closed her eyes and managed a good half an hour before sleep became an impossibility, so she got up and thought about coffee. Her problem was water, or rather the lack of it. There were fifteen different choices of things to drink in her refrigerator, but water hadn’t made her list. Water was usually something she enjoyed only after it magically turned into something else, like coffee or an old fashioned. There was no chance anyplace would be pouring coffee at this early hour, but she bet she could walk to the Quarter and get a Harvey Wallbanger. New Orleans did have its priorities.

  “I have to remember to google how to make those, along with what rickets is.” She talked to herself as she dressed to go out and get the last couple of boxes from the back of the truck. She needed to finish unloading her dad’s stuff so that she could go get wood to start her own projects on the house. Swinging a hammer and building something might help her sleep problems, she figured, so she was tackling the porch first. Having one of DJ’s guys fall through the damn thing might put a crimp in their working relationship.

  She eventually pulled the last box out and saw a surprise at the top when she pulled it open. “What’d you use these for?” On the top were five of the notebooks she’d wanted to go shopping for. “Damn, Pop.” There was a sticky note on one that had for Wy written on it in her father’s handwriting. She went into the kitchen to sit and cry. That was something she was getting mighty tired of doing. The other notebooks in the box were filled with her handwriting. Some of them were books she’d published, and others she’d thought were long lost.

  “Stop it, kid. It’s the kick in the ass I thought you’d eventually need,” her father said. It was improbable that she was having conversations with her dead parents, but she hoped this bit of insanity never went away. Losing the sounds of their voices from her memory would only add to her grief.

  The main bedroom had a small desk where Lydia probably wrote in her journals, and that’s where she dropped her dad’s unexpected gift. At the bottom of the box that had held her old journals were a couple of empty journals which actually resembled Lydia’s, right down to the linen paper. “Maybe you are on to something, Mom. Write about the unfairness of life and the things you wished you could change but can’t.” Wyatt’s life was unfair due to all she’d lost.

  Ballpoint pens weren’t her favorite, but she’d have to find a stationery store that sold ink before she could take out her leather sleeve of pens. The ink of a fountain pen penetrated the paper while ballpoint ink glided over it. Penetrating the page made the words permanent, lasting. You were wed to those words you wrote even if they eventually went into a word processing app and were edited. Right now, it was her and the page. Time to prove there was still a small part of her soul that housed the stories that hadn’t been shredded by grief.

  She opened one of the linen paper journals and smoothed her hand over it. She pressed the pen to paper and let her hand begin to flow. “It’s nice to know I haven’t forgotten how to do this.”

  An hour later she had a cramp in her hand, she raised her head to sunlight outside, and there was noise coming from downstairs. DJ was a man of his word and a reminder of the fact she had no working toilet. The bathroom at the grocery was a very long time ago, and she was about to use one of the many bushes in her yard, snakes or no. She had to take a few deep breaths to relax her bladder before she embarrassed herself.

  “Mornin’,” DJ said loudly when she took the stairs like an alpine skier. “Go down two blocks to the Magnolia diner. Maybelle makes great pancakes,” DJ yelled as she moved quickly down the street.

  The diner was on the corner, and she could see it from here. She hadn’t run this fast since her high school track days. If she’d known the need to urinate added this kind of speed, she’d have gotten a scholarship. As quaint as the place was, it was empty, and the bathroom was a thing of beauty. Thankfully, no one was in the one stall, or she’d have had to use the sink. “Sorry about that. It was an emergency,” she said to the cute waitress when she came out, close to weak with relief.

  “Don’t worry about it. DJ called and said you’d be running over. Who knew he was being literal.” The young woman pointed to an empty booth. “Thing is, you gotta eat something if you use the bathroom. Maybelle don’t play, so don’t get on her bad side, or she’ll make your life a misery. I speak from extensive experience.”

  “DJ said something about pancakes. I was frantic, so that might be wrong.” She took a booth close to the door and grabbed the menu.

  “We already got your pancakes on, so relax. You want coffee?” The woman put her menu back for her as if she didn’t have much say in what she got to order.

  “That’d be fantastic.” Another older woman came out of the kitchen and took the mug and carafe from the woman she’d been talking to. The newcomer picked up another mug and sat across from her before she poured. She reminded Wyatt a little of Pam Grier only with shorter hair. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” The woman studied her for as long as it took Wyatt to fix her coffee. “Gwen, baby, check on the pancakes, will you.”

  There were certain people she’d met through the years who spoke in a slow cadence that was mellifluous and relaxed. It was like nothing could rush, spook, or intimidate them to hurry what they had to say. Most of those people lived in this city, as her new friend proved. It didn’t appear she was leaving, so maybe this was a service they provided to people they felt sorry for because they were dining alone.

  “Do the pancakes come with bacon?” Why did people force conversation on you when it was clear it was the last thing you wanted? Wyatt wondered about that, and it was probably the reason there were serial killers. “You can just add that to my order if not, and that’ll do me.” She thought that was enough of a hint she’d like to eat alone.

  “What, you shy or something?” The woman smiled and held her hand out. “I’m Maybelle Jackson, and I own this place.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Jackson.” Maybelle’s miss days were long gone, but in New Orleans it was an acceptable title. She had to stop herself and remember the name she’d given DJ. “I’m Joe.” It might be conceited of her to think she’d be recognized when there were very few photos of her in the public eye, but you never knew when you’d run into a mystery fan. She loved her fans, but right now she didn’t want to deal with people, or more people than she had to.

  “What are you doing here, Joe? Aside from tearing up Lydia’s house, that is.” Maybelle lifted her right eyebrow to an impressive height.

  Some people liked the direct, no beating around the bush type of approach, even if the person being subjected to it was someone they’d just met. Maybelle was that type and wasn’t apologetic about it. “Is interrogation one of your sides, like toast? Or are you by chance the sheriff moonlighting as a diner owner?” The woman she now knew was Gwen came out of the kitchen with enough pancakes and bacon to feed her and all the guys at the house, and still have some leftover.

  “They don’t have diners where you’re from? Dishing a little about yourself if you’re new is part of the diner rules. Gossip is a must, so I can then add to the story and totally exaggerate it to keep my regulars entertained.” Maybelle pushed the syrup in front of her and raised the amazing eyebrow of death again. “You locking yourself in that house like a hermit has already started the rumor mill, so tell Maybelle all about it.”

  “That’s kind of funny. I never thought my life was all that interesting, and I’ve only been here less than a week.” When in doubt shove a wad of pancake in your mouth. The size of the bite bordered on rude and disgusting, but the situation called for drastic measures.

  “Girl, you’ve met George, I’m sure. By tomorrow he should have your DNA and fingerprints, so watch what you throw away.” Maybelle refreshed her coffee, adding more cream and sugar for her. “You’re new, which means you’re nothing but interesting.”

  “Sort of like an exotic pet, huh?” She cut another too big bite of pancakes, glad they were really good. Using food to shut down uncomfortable conversations was a talent of hers, but when the food was disgusting it was hard to maintain.

  Maybelle’s demeanor changed, and she dropped her steel magnolia routine. “What kind of exotic pet? There’re children here.”

  “A snake kind of exotic. The Burmese python isn’t a lapdog, but they can be left alone if you have plans for the weekend.” She shoved in more pancake and bacon, waiting for Maybelle to say something, but she seemed shocked for some reason. “Then there’s the satisfaction of the reaction anyone dumb enough to break in has when they run across an eighteen-foot snake that weighs four hundred pounds and can sense fear.” She took another large bite and smiled, sure she looked like a deranged squirrel with her cheeks full of pancakes.

  “That’s not normal, and I hate snakes. You’re interesting, Joe, and you haven’t told me who you’ll be working for here.”

  “Right now, my job is runaway.” She pushed the plate away and grabbed her wallet. Any more pancake to avoid talking to Maybelle and she’d be sick, and she had no working bathrooms.

  “What does that mean?” Maybelle waved off the money. “Explanation please.”

  “You’re going to have to be happy with that explanation for now. A little mystery is good for the soul. And gossip.” She pushed the money back. “Thanks for the use of your bathroom and for breakfast. Your pancakes really are good.”

  “Let me get you some change. If you’re going to be a regular, and you are going to be a regular, then we don’t want to appear to be taking advantage of you by keeping too much money.” Maybelle handed the bill to Gwen, studying her again. “Do you cook? You don’t look like the type.”

  “What type do I look like?” She really needed to stop falling into these traps.

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I knew that. If you don’t mind me mentioning it, you do look like you should find some nice girl to take care of you.” Maybelle waited, but she stayed quiet. “You got one of those?”

  “You sound like my mother.” She almost laughed when she thought about how many times her mother really had said those words. “Right now the girl will have to wait.”

  “So you cook?” Maybelle was persistent.

  “No, not really in my skill set.” Gwen brought back what seemed like too much change, so she gave her most of it back in a tip. “This was fun, but I have to go. Thanks for the pancakes and the hospitality.” The diner was good and close, but she’d only come back if there were other customers for Maybelle to visit with. Gulping down food in large bites gave her indigestion but not as much as talking about herself.

  She loved writing because it was a thrill to put the pieces of a good story together, but it was done alone. A solitary sport requiring no chatty teammates except the ones in her head. The only time she interacted with a lot of people was at signings, and she’d enjoyed the conversation and relationships she’d made through the years, but she was always glad to get back to her solitude too. In the ten years after graduate school, she’d written twelve books. It was a blessing to find that she was good and successful at it. She understood and had never taken for granted how lucky she was.

  DJ was waiting for her when she got back and gave her directions to a lumberyard on Tchoupitoulas Street, and then he spent five minutes teaching her how to pronounce Tchoupitoulas. She left them ripping out more stuff, and DJ promised he’d have a couple of his guys start pulling up the old porch while she went shopping. She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like there were a lot more people in her house than yesterday.

  “And one of my friends has a heavy-duty lawnmower. Once they clear all that crap and find your grass, they can work on it and nurse it back to health.” DJ spoke about seventy decibels too loud.

  “Great, but try for a toilet today. I don’t want to end up with some sort of kidney disease.” There was that, and if they mowed the lawn there was a chance her neighbors would see her in the yard if the situation got desperate. “Can they deal with the gardens as well?” Right now she was growing plenty of vines with killer thorns on them and didn’t want to touch them herself.

  “You got it, and the neighbors will love you for taking those down. You gotten a chance to meet any?”

  She shook her head and followed him down the stairs. “Not yet, but soon.”

  “Just remember what I said about the pies. Karen brings one of those over, and you’ll think she’s trying to get you to move.” DJ’s stage whisper needed work, but the little guy meant well.

  “Thanks, DJ, I haven’t forgotten.” She drove to Papier Plume on Royal in the Quarter for an ink bottle, then to the other side of Canal Street, where the old part of the city divided from the newer sections, for her wood. Maybe this would be her life. It was time to let go of the old and embrace the new even if that meant there wouldn’t be any more Wyatt Whitlock mysteries.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Can you blame her for getting rid of the wallpaper, Hayley? How people didn’t go batshit crazy staring at that all day and night is a mystery.” Marlo was slouching in one of Hayley’s chairs while they talked about their lineup and Butch.

  Hayley’s house was two blocks from Marlo’s. That morning because of street work, Marlo had driven by her house and noticed the freshly mown lawn and the missing porch. She’d also been to Hayley’s house more than once and had seen the wallpaper next door.

  It’d taken Butch three days to rip the leaning structure out, load a dumpster, and revamp the yard. All that work took place while Hayley wasn’t home, so she’d only gotten glimpses of Butch, her tool belt, and her talent for demolishing and fixing walls. There were too many holes now to make sense from their placement, and she tried not to dwell on that, so she concentrated on the overall picture. The house still looked crappy, but she was optimistic.