We started a podcast. I feel like that’s sufficient.
That was true. We had started a podcast, Gumbo and Gris Gris: Murder In the Crescent City, which thanks to Maggie had grown to be wildly successful. It was really her baby though, not mine.
But I don’t know calligraphy.
I’m sure there’s a font for that.
A car pulled up in front of the house while Maggie and I were texting. I glanced up and realized it was one of my guests. I shoved my phone into the pocket of my blue linen dress—bought to look like I belonged in the Magnolia Heritage Society and because, well, it had pockets.
The man heading up the walkway toward my porch was tall, silver-haired, and dressed in a linen suit. He looked both sophisticated and slightly like he might be a fried chicken spokesman. He had a rolling bag at his side and was studying the exterior of Midnight House the way people study paintings in a museum. Slowly, with his head slightly tilted, looking for the things that weren't immediately obvious.
"You'll notice the dentil molding along the cornice has been repainted," he said by way of greeting. "The original would have been a slightly warmer cream. What you have now reads more yellow in direct sunlight. Still, the bones are excellent."
I was well aware the cornice had been repainted. I had the painter’s bill shoved in a folder that Odette had left behind with an eye-popping number on it. In my next career I wanted to be a cornice painter.
There was no great response to that other than, “Hello. Welcome to Midnight House."
He seemed to register that he hadn't introduced himself and extended a hand. "Reginald St. Clair. I have a reservation."
"Harper Bergeron." I shook his hand. He had a firm and deliberate grip. "I’m the owner and your hostess this weekend. Come on in."
Reginald St. Clair stepped into the foyer and the head-tilt returned immediately. He was looking at the crown molding and the chandelier medallion. He made an involuntary sound of distress.
"Preservation architect?" I guessed.
He smiled thinly. "Is it that obvious?"
"Just a wild guess. You complimented the bones of my house before you said hello."
"Fair point." He glanced at Teddy, who had followed us into the house and was sitting at attention near the parlor doorway. "That's a skunk."
Reginald studied Teddy. Teddy studied Reginald right back. Neither was laying their cards on the table.
The stare down was more comical than threatening though.
"His name is Teddy,” I told Reginald. “He comes with the house. Well, technically he comes with me, but I come with the house so there you go. It’s me, good architectural bones, and a skunk."
"Does he have opinions on historic architecture?"
"He has opinions on everything," I said. "But he tends to keep them to himself."
I showed Reginald to Room One, which had the original plaster medallion on the ceiling that I personally refused to paint over regardless of what any contractor recommended, and left him to settle in. By the time I came back downstairs, a ride-share had deposited my second arrival at the curb.
This guest was somewhere in her mid-forties, with alert, watchful eyes. She had a carry-on, a tote bag, a canvas satchel, and a slightly mangled straw hat that had seen better days.
Her smile was warm when I opened the front door to meet her on the porch.
"This must be the place," she said. "The magnolia out front clinches it." She pointed at the enormous tree spreading its pale blooms over the left side of the house. "Symbolically appropriate, given the occasion. I'm Allison Klein."
"Harper Bergeron. Can I help with any of those bags?"
"Absolutely not, I've got a system." She climbed the porch steps with the confident efficiency of someone who had checked into a lot of hotels. "I write historical fiction," she added, as if I'd asked. "Louisiana-focused. The gala is research. Evelyn Carrington promised me an introduction to the Belle Rêve archivists, which I strongly suspect was a negotiating tactic and may or may not materialize."
A negotiating tactic for what?
"Evelyn Carrington," I repeated. She was top dog at the Magnolia Heritage Society and the gala's chair. "So you’ve met her?"
I had met her only once in person at the gala the year before.
