Jillian Chantal

This week, the authors of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt, stingy. I am in my story where the heroine can speak to the dead. She and Andrew Jackson are watching an interrogation and talking to each other.

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Stephen’s response made her sure of the reason. “My friends—if you really think you have my friends in custody—aren’t saying a thing. This is a cop tactic. I’ve seen Law and Order.  My mom likes that show. You guys lie about that stuff all the time. You got nothing on me.” He raised his arms slightly, rattling the cuffs. “You’ll soon be letting me go.”

“I do have something on you. I have witnesses who’ve seen you and your friends together.”

Stephen leaned forward. “What witnesses? And why am I not in a lineup already then?”

At the look on Malcolm’s face—that Lu knew was because his witnesses were long dead priests and General de Galvez—Stephen sat back again. “Thought so. No witnesses.” He barked a laugh. “See, Ma, Law and Order cop lies again.”

Lu didn’t know how to help Malcolm. After all, he was the trained professional. He knew how to interrogate suspects. But this guy was obnoxious and she wanted to see him go down. And hard.

Jackson paced the room. “The little miscreant needs to be sent to the Army. Make a man out of him instead of a sniveling pup.”

Lu tended to agree with him. The Army did sometimes make a change for the good in a person, but she’d also seen it break some people down entirely. But this guy, all he needed was a dose of the reality boot camp would give him. They wouldn’t be stingy in making sure he was brought down to earth with running laps or doing sit ups until he was too exhausted to mouth off.

The thought made her laugh. “I doubt this guy would make it through the six weeks of basic training with his attitude. He appears strong enough to handle it, but the drill sergeant would eat him for breakfast the second day.”

“Ahh, your training camps now must be as tough as the ones in my day.”

“I imagine they might be somewhat worse since people were hardier in your day. We’re soft. Indoor plumbing, air conditioning, electricity and indoor kitchens where we can zap a meal without having to find a cow, kill it, cure the meat, and all that stuff.”

“Not a delightful way to spend a life, I must admit. You have a lot of nice places to dine as well. Too many, really, from what I can tell.” Jackson shook his head. “Sometimes I wish I could still eat. I can recall so many nice meals, it would be nice to try them again. Alas, one of the things one misses when dead.”

As is appropriate, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt Turkey this week. I am working on my NaNoWriMo story.

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“You never talk about your family. So none of them live here? I thought you grew up here.”

“I did. Mom passed away. Dad remarried and moved to Ireland to love with the woman he fell in love with on a seniors’ cruise that some woman from his church organized.” Lu laughed. “Backfired on her though as I’m pretty sure she was angling to land him for herself.”

“And where is your sister?”

“She’s working for the Miss America organization. Travels a lot and lives in New York when she’s home. She rarely comes back to Florida. Unless it’s pageant related.” Lu paused. “I also had a brother. He was a war casualty. I miss him most of all. He was fun and always up for a good time. You couldn’t be sad around him. He just made people smile.”

“I’m sorry you lost him. I’d like to have had the chance to meet him.”

“You’d have liked him.” She touched Malcolm’s arm. “We both lost a pretty awesome brother, didn’t we?”

“We sure did. Something in common for sure.” He looked up at Galvez’s statue. “Mom wanted me to ask if you and Aneto wanted to come for thanksgiving dinner but I hesitated as I figured you might have plans. Now that I know you don’t have family plans, would you like to join us? Mom makes a traditional roast turkey and ham, but we also have naan and something curried. Pecan and pumpkin pies as well as kheer which is like a rice pudding.”

“I’m actually working a double shift that day. I normally do so someone who does have local family can have the day off. I’ll catch a nap when it’s slow and keep working.”

She could see the disappointment on his face. “You could have Aneto for the day and night. I know he’s like to gnaw on a turkey bone and your girls enjoy playing with him.”

“He does he feel about kittens? You made me take them, remember?”

“He’s fine with them. He loves to play with them. They’re young enough still to adapt to a dog, I would say.”

“We’d love to have him as our guest. You, too. Next year, don’t volunteer for the extra shift, okay?”

Thrilled he saw them together still as friends or maybe something more in a year, she nodded. “All right. We’ll plan on next year. Tell Meera I’m sorry to miss it.”

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to a picture prompt. I chose the one of a partially boarded up building. My story takes place in New Orleans which sadly still has a lot of buildings still with damage from Hurricane Katrina even after 17 years. Our heroine can see and communicate with spirits and she is talking to Andrew Jackson as they are on the way to the tomb of Marie Laveau. As we are limited to 300 words this week, I thought it best to give a bit of background for this part of the scene.

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“She does have the run of the city but likes to be in place during the day so she can listen to the pleas of her visitors and see if she can help.” He snickered. “And I personally think she loves the attention and likes to count the Xs on her tomb, as well as the circled ones.”

“What does the X mean that she likes to count them?”

“Pilgrims who have a wish they want her to grant draw an X on her tomb, turn around three times, knock on the side of the mausoleum and state their wish. They leave but if the wish is granted, they return, circle their X and leave her a gift to thank her.”

“That’s so interesting.”

“Not only will you see some flower offerings for her around her tomb, you’ll see a lot of coins as well. And kisses. Lipstick kisses which I find unappealing. The tomb is dirty and lip paint in my time was for harlots. I still wonder about it.” Jackson tipped his hat to Lu. “Except for you. You never wear that bright red color I do not like.”

“What’s he saying now?” Malcolm asked as he turned off the interstate toward the French Quarter. Several old buildings with plywood still on them from the unrepaired damage from Hurricane Katrina sat at the intersection, making Lu sad all over again about the devastation of that storm. So many people had never returned to the city and there were still way too many derelict buildings.

“He’s complimenting my subtle lipstick shade.”

Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t even want to know.”

This week, the writer’s of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt pan. I finally wrote the end of the Regency tale I’ve been sharing for what seems like forever. I am now working on Book Two of a series about a woman who fell and hit her head and can now see ghosts. I wrote the last one for NaNoWriMo 2021. It has been edited and is waiting for cover inspiration.

Here, we find out heroine and Andrew Jackson in the morgue while the coroner performs a necropsy. The Marie referred to is Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen. There has been a number of animals found victims of ritual killings and our heroine is assisting the police with the investigation–along with some help from Andrew Jackson and Marie Laveau.

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The coroner cut into the possum. He started with the cut on the top of the skull to remove the brainpan. When it was off, he gently placed it in the metal pan that was always used to hold the organs for weighing. It clanged a little on the stainless steel. Lu noticed Jackson shudder and turn away. So, something the old ghost finds distasteful?

Jackson had been strangely silent for the last moments and she wondered if he was also disturbed by the man with the screwdriver in his eye. He was the only one in the room besides her who could have seen the man sit up.

As if he’d read her mind, Jackson said, “I am not one who cares for this kind of show. I am only staying because Marie will want all the details.” He shuddered again. “Who created that tool that is in that gent’s eye? It seems a cruel weapon.”

She wanted to respond but wasn’t sure how to without alerting Broussard that she was talking to someone not there. Eventually, she figured it out. “Screwdrivers sure aren’t supposed to be used that way, are they? Can you imagine choosing it as a murder weapon?”

Broussard tsked. “No one says it was.” He glared over at her. “Except you, for some reason. And you’ve even got the detective believing it.” He waved his scalpel in the air. “Now, hush and let me get this nonsense done so I can get back to more important things.”

“This is important, Broussard,” Malcolm said.

They allowed him to work in silence for a while, with the only sound being the sound of cutting and Broussard talking into his little recorder making a record of his findings as he worked.

Even Andrew Jackson stayed silent which was not his norm.

This week, the writer’s of Tuesday Tales are writing to the work prompt sticky. I am still int he Regency story but I do see light at the end of the tunnel now. YAY! Long time coming, for sure.

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Once she was seated, Jane looked at both of the men. “Since you invited me to accompany you to this estate you mentioned last night and I have agreed, can you both promise me you will not try to change my mind about moving away from London?” She held her hand up. “And that does not mean you can try to force me to remain on that estate either. I need you to understand that I make the decisions about my life. Me. Only me. If you do not plan to honor that, let me know now and I will be on my way with Miss Smith on the next mail coach.”

“We both promise, don’t we?” The captain glanced over at his bosun. “Agreed?”

Jane slapped her hand on the table top. “I see you trying not to smile. I warn you, I am serious about this.” She lifted her hand. “Someone must have spilled ale here. It’s sticky. I would never allow this at the tavern where I worked. It is a shame when a barmaid does not take pride in her work.”

Her captain—who she still had to get used to calling my lord—did smile then. He addressed Jeremiah, “This is why she is so special. She takes pride in all she does. Even mopping up messes slovenly men make.”

“Stop teasing me. I am being serious.”

The proprietor brought over a trencher of sliced bread along with som ham and eggs for Jane.

Once he was gone, the captain said, “I have hired a carriage to take us all to London.”

“London? Surely that estate you spoke of is not in town. I do not recall any that are, in fact. Why have you changed your mind about the estate?” Her heart sank. She was not going to return to London. She had made her decision not to return there so now she would not be able to spend those last few days she had allowed herself before never seeing the new earl again. She took a bite of her ham.

“I have news that might interest you about London.”

She swallowed and stood. “I will get my baggage and wait for the mail coach. I am not returning to London.”