The Helena Diaries - Trouble in Mudbug (Ghost-in-Law Series Novellas) (2 page)

That idiot Harold was at my house. Fortunately, he was ignoring my wishes once again and was attempting to air-condition the world. The patio door stood wide open, hot air drifting into the house and cold air drifting out. I drifted in with the hot air and went to see what Harold was up to.

I found him in the master bedroom, where he had no business at all. Harold had been living in a spare room for decades and wasn’t even allowed to set foot in my bedroom. If he needed something from me and I was indisposed, he had to use the intercom or wait.
 

He had a duffel bag on my bed and I saw a pile of rumpled clothes inside. That was fairly indicative of Harold’s entire life—rumpled and able to fit in a tote. On top of the rumpled clothes were my best silver candlesticks, and he was currently removing a crystal clock from the wall. I’d bet my life he was going to hock the items and then spend the money on one of his floozies.

Enraged, I swung at him, but my hands passed right through, making me even angrier. I tried tripping him as he walked past me, but no dice. Then I spent the next couple of minutes trying to remove my property from his duffel bag while he riffled through my panty drawer, probably looking for a hidden stash of cash. Like I’d be so vulgar as to keep money with underwear.

When a car pulled up out front, he zipped the bag and ran downstairs. I followed in hot pursuit. Wheeler, my attorney, opened the front door and walked inside. When he saw Harold, he got that look on his face like he’d smelled something bad, which I totally understand.

Harold blustered around, claiming he was going to stay overnight and help a sick friend, but it was clear Wheeler didn’t believe it for a moment. Rather than argue, Wheeler simply opened the door to allow Harold to leave. I’d bet anything Wheeler couldn’t wait until the reading of the will, which I knew would happen tomorrow. I’d left explicit instructions, knowing that if I died before Harold and Hank, things would have to move quickly or there would be nothing left to bequeath.

I followed Wheeler through the house as he worked, systematically checking, closing and locking every open door and window. In each room, he took pictures from every angle, documenting all the items in the house. I was pleased with his thoroughness. I’d always liked Wheeler and was glad to know he was on the job. Harold may have made out with a couple of items, but he wouldn’t be able to take more without Wheeler knowing about it.

Once he finished his walk-through, he pulled out his cell phone and made a call. Based on Wheeler’s side of the conversation, I deduced it was to a locksmith, whom he scheduled to change the locks late tomorrow evening, after the will-reading. Wheeler knew what was coming. Harold thought he knew, but he was wrong.
 

Tomorrow was going to be the Best. Day. Ever.

I stood at the front window smiling as I watched Wheeler walk to his car. Everything was falling nicely into place. I mean, as well as it could if you took into account that I was dead.
 

Then my smile faded as I realized the serious miscalculation I’d made.

I was locked in my own house!

No way to unlock and open a door. No way to call for help. Hell, I couldn’t even turn on a television. Good God, it was like being held hostage by the Amish. I’d have nothing to do but sit all night with my own feelings, and that was dire.

Maybe it was time to start hoping Harold would have the balls to come back for more to steal.

Wherein, for the first time in her life, Helena is happy to see Harold

I can’t believe I’ve been locked in this house for well over half a day. I tried walking through a wall—I’m a ghost, right, and that seems like something I should be able to do—but no dice. I ran straight into the wall like in a Road Runner cartoon. I swear, I even saw the twinkling stars above my head. Are things supposed to hurt that bad when you’re dead? I am flummoxed.

It is now morning, and I’m beginning the second day of my captivity. I have exhausted every creative thought and even got desperate and ran up and down the stairs to exercise. I made it up and down once, then decided I’d rather be bored.
 

I tried sleeping, but apparently ghosts don’t need to sleep, so basically you’re just lying there like a lump. A lump with an overactive brain and nothing for it to do. And do you have any idea how frustrating it is to know about all that glorious food in my gourmet kitchen but not be able to open a single cabinet? It’s worse than death.

Oh, wait a minute—it IS death. Hmmmm.

That idiot Harold dragged himself home around 10:00 a.m. He reeked of alcohol and cheap perfume, which is nothing new. I assume the alcohol gave him the strength to walk back into his own house and put on a change of clean clothes. At least, it was his own house until one o’clock.
 

I clapped my hands, unable to contain myself.

Harold took a shower and changed into one of the suits I’d forced him to buy in order to attend events with me. Even a thousand-dollar suit didn’t make Harold look better, but no one could fault me for lack of trying. He went downstairs and promptly set out attacking the food in the refrigerator, as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.
 

The best cheese and caviar, fresh fruit, sliced smoked ham…my mouth watered as I looked at the layout of incredible edibles that I’d handpicked for myself. Harold was a bologna-and-white-bread kind of guy, and it really chapped my butt that the quality of that food was swiftly going to waste.

When he finished shoving my high-quality food down his low-quality throat, he grabbed the keys to my new Cadillac from the key holder in the kitchen.
 

No way! He had some nerve driving my new car. He hadn’t even been allowed to be a passenger in my new car when I’d been alive.
 

Death sucks.

When he opened the door to the garage, I realized I had to get a move on or I’d be stuck in the house indefinitely. I raced across the kitchen, barely squeezing out the door before he slammed it shut. I wasn’t certain how to get past Harold’s big ass with my own big ass to get into the car, but I decided to just go for it.
 

As soon as Harold opened the door, I ran like a linebacker and dove for the front seat. Then a most interesting thing happened—I passed right through Harold and landed in the car. Why could I launch through a solid object now but not last night when I tried to leave the house? It’s a question I will dwell on after the will-reading.

Harold left the house in plenty of time to make the will-reading. In fact, at the rate of speed he was driving MY car, we would arrive early, but then he took a right turn off the highway and I felt a flush of anger rush through me. As he pulled up in front of what could only charitably be referred to as a shack, my worst fears were confirmed.

Harold intended to let one of his floozies ride in my new Cadillac.

It was all I could do to scramble over into the backseat before the nasty assembly of bleached-blond hair, fake boobs, skintight clothes, and cheap perfume climbed into the passenger’s seat. Harold leaned over to kiss her but I noticed she did more of an air kiss than a real kiss. Then he pulled the super-sexy move of squeezing her boob like a stress ball while staring down her shirt.
 

She rolled her eyes. I gagged.

Once we were back on the road, the floozy immediately launched into speculation about how much of the estate would go to Harold. I smiled. Even this cheap, completely useless woman had no interest in Harold except for the money she thought he had coming. When this will-reading was over, Harold’s life was going to move from bad to rock bottom.
 

I couldn’t wait.

Wherein Helena screws Harold from the grave

Harold dropped his floozy off at a diner around the corner from Wheeler’s office. She looked more suited to walking the street outside, but then, she was with Harold, so that stood to reason.
 

Maryse was already in the waiting room and didn’t look overly pleased to see me again. She didn’t even perk up when I hinted that Harold was going to get his just rewards during the will-reading. Clearly, she was distracted. She was probably hoping my useless son would show up so she could serve him with divorce papers, but even Hank wasn’t that stupid. He’s got problems with the law a mile long. Any number of law enforcement officers could be sitting outside the attorney’s office just waiting for an easy pickup.
 

It wasn’t long before we filed into Wheeler’s office. As predicted, Hank elected to join the reading by phone. As otherwise predicted, Maryse was mad as hell. I found her outburst somewhat satisfying, as it showed she has backbone and a lot of anger in her. Those will come in useful when she’s looking for my killer.

The nun almost passed out when she heard what I left to the orphanage, but they’ve been my best tenant for years, so it seemed only fair. Harold looked mad as hell. He knows how much income my New Orleans real estate produces, and he would have been a big enough bastard to put a bunch of orphans out on the street. But despite his obvious anger, he wasn’t saying a word—obviously still banking on the big payout.
 

The one that wasn’t coming.

Harold’s sour expression worsened when he found out I’d left my house and all its contents to the Mudbug Historical Society, along with my real estate holdings in Mudbug. This morning had been his last stroll through my mansion. I hoped he’d stolen everything he wanted, but rather doubted it.

Hank’s cursing could be heard over the speakerphone when he found out that the conditions of his inheritance included remaining clean, sober, and gambling-free for five years. Maryse was pleased. She probably thinks it’s an impossible list for Hank to manage. She’s probably right, but he’s my son, so I was well within my rights to parent, even from the grave.

Then came one of the moments I’d been waiting for—when Harold found out I was leaving him the Lower Bayou Motel. He was mad, but didn’t explode like I thought he would. But I knew the explosion was coming.

I inched closer to Wheeler for the last assignment of property. This was the one that Harold had been waiting on—the one he thought he and Hank had in the bag. The one that would set them up for life.

And World War III ensues!

Harold tried to choke Wheeler when he found out I’d left the game preserve to Maryse. Only a relative could inherit the property, but since my fool son had ducked Maryse’s many divorce attempts, like it or not, she was still family.

I liked it.

Maryse was completely stunned, but I made a good choice. She’s the only person I know who would preserve the land in a way that keeps Mudbug the way it is. Hank and Harold would have squeezed every dime out of it until the town faded away.
 

Once Harold stopped throttling Wheeler, he turned on Maryse and threatened her before stalking out of the office. I hurried behind him.

No way was I missing the show when he told the floozy he hadn’t gotten shit.

Trouble in Mudbug—Chapter Three

Wherein Helena gets the last laugh on Harold and the floozy

It was all I could do to keep up with Harold and hop in the car before he squealed away from the curb. I had no idea he could move that fast. Apparently, anger was like Red Bull for Harold.
 

The floozy was standing on the street corner outside the café, looking like she belonged there, and had an expectant smile on her face as she jumped into the Cadillac. The first words out of her mouth were, “What did you get?”

I leaned forward until my head was almost in the front seat, unable to stand the suspense.
 

“I got a motel,” Harold said. “But that attorney of hers hasn’t heard the end of this. I was married to that bitch for almost thirty years. She can’t cut me out of everything. I’ll get what I’m due one way or another.”

The floozy frowned, clearly disappointed that she wasn’t riding in a Cadillac with a millionaire, but then she forced on a fake smile. “Well, a motel is not a bad take, right? We can make some serious money with a motel. I have all kinds of ideas about services we can offer.”

I rolled my eyes. I just bet she did.

Then she asked the sixty-four-million-dollar question: What motel is it?

Harold hesitated before answering, and it was clear from his expression that he knew the gig was up. When he finally told her, she exploded in rage, throwing out all kinds of lies like “I’m too high-class to stay in that rattrap. I only met you there to seal this deal” and “Do you really think someone of my caliber would be with someone like you for anything but the money?”

It ended with her insisting he pull over and let her out of the car. She probably thought she could pick up a better mark on the backstreets of New Orleans. Given that she only had to improve on Harold, it was a solid gamble.
 

Harold shouted a few choice words at her like “money-grubbing bitch” as she slammed the door and walked away, and I fell over in the backseat and laughed until I cried. This whole ghost thing definitely had its benefits—you could watch people when they didn’t know you were watching, and you could laugh and yell and tell them exactly what you thought about them without them even knowing you were there.