Jillian Chantal

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.”

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt Mint. I am still in the Regency but I am determined to finish it this week. I plan to do NaNoWriMo so I need to push on with this and wrap it up before November 1. So, next week will probably be the last of this one since we post these Monday evenings. My heroine is on the run and has had an encounter with an oaf.

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Back at the carriage, she sat on a fallen tree limb and ran her hand idly over the wild mint growing at the base of the tree. She thought about the last weeks of her life. How she had gone from happily—well, mostly happily—working with Bessie for Mr. Baines and waiting patiently for her sea captain to be in port to being chased out of her home by one sailor who would not leave her alone to today with a man trying to take advantage of her, was a mystery.

Except it is not, is it? This is not the first time such a man has acted in such a way. What is wrong with me that these kind of men are always interfering with me?

She idly wondered why the captain had never tried such actions, but then felt ashamed. Of course her captain was an honorable man. He had never done anything to cause her to fear him or wonder if he would treat her in a way to bring shame upon her.

In a few moments, the others returned with the villain between them, still sputtering and yelling. “You will regret this. I tell you, you will regret this. You don’t know who I am. You will pay for these indignities on my person.”

The driver led the group to a large tree and they pushed Mustache Man to the ground. “Sit there and shut your mouth before I gag you.”

“Gag me? You’ll regret that for the rest of your life. In fact, you are going to already regret this day for a very long time to come. Wait until I get free, you’ll see then. Oh, yes, you will.”

Jane was not sure how long she could stand to listen to the man and hoped the gag would appear soon. She stifled a giggle. Seeing that man gagged would be the best part of the day.