Cover Spell (10 page)

He flipped the red button on the back of the microphone, and the low hum in the speaker silenced. Ignoring Mr. Sanders’s repeated statements, the reporters peppered him with Emmy Harper questions.

“Who was the last person to see Emmy?”

“Is the movie shut down permanently?”

“Is it true Emmy Harper’s in Paris?”

“Is this just a publicity stunt to drum up interest in the movie?”

Frank Sanders’s expression did not change. He turned his back to them and instead huddled with the small group behind the podium. Officers from the New Orleans Police Department ushered the reluctant-to-leave journalists out of the hotel and onto the wet sidewalk. The cluster of reporters was slow to disband, leaving a few undeterred zealots behind. It would only be a matter of hours before the national paparazzi would flock to the city now that the Emmy Harper story was a public headline.

Finn patted one of the other New Orleans detectives on the back and strolled over to meet me behind the palm.

I lowered my voice so no one would hear us, and leaned in toward Finn’s shoulder. “What is going on?”

“I wanted to talk to you before the press conference started, but they were eager to get it over with. Emmy still hasn’t shown up on anyone’s radar or on social media, which I guess is unlike her. They are launching a soft investigation. I’m afraid the movie is going to be on hold until she’s found.”

I unlocked my folded arms and was about to ask what I could do to help when I saw the same officers who had herded the reporters into the rain guiding
Masquerade’s
leading man through the lobby. I darted around Finn and over to Evan.

“Wait. Wait.” Evan nodded toward the officers, and the small escort service halted so I could speak to him. “Where are you going? Are they taking you in?”

I looked down at his hands and was relieved to see they were handcuff-free.

“Darlin’, they just have a few questions for me. I want to help anyway I can. I want to find Emmy. Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you finish a cup of coffee.” He squeezed my shoulder, but I didn’t feel comforted.

He smiled as the officers prodded him through the side corridor. At least they weren’t forcing him to exit the hotel through the main entrance. Some of the reporters were still trolling in front of the revolving door.

I walked back over to Finn and the palm, but he was pacing, on the phone, and was using his serious detective voice. I waited for him to wrap up his conversation so he could answer my questions about the circus ring I had waltzed into this morning. However, my witchy tingle started to surge.

There was a slow wave of dark energy emanating through the lobby. It was barely tangible, but the little pricks hit me the farther I stepped away from Finn. Like a beam from a flashlight, the sinister force only illuminated a small space. Finn was still talking, and I couldn’t get his attention. Searching the lobby for the source, I felt someone’s stare penetrating the side of my face. First, I looked down at the floor and pushed my foot around as if I was bored, and then let my gaze rise over my right shoulder.

Sitting in the corner, drinking a cup of coffee, was a man with dark hair and delicate-looking hands. A light bruise mark lined the top of his right cheek. He placed his cup on the china saucer, exposing a gold watch below the cuff of his coat. It flickered under the light of the chandeliers. I began to shiver. The man bowed his head at me and walked out of the lobby. He was wearing a long, tan trench coat, but instead of an umbrella, he pulled a folded newspaper from inside his coat and shielded his face from the rain with it as he merged into the pedestrian sidewalk traffic. There was something eerily familiar about him that I couldn’t put my finger on. My mind zipped through a catalog of faces, but I couldn’t place how I knew the man. It was one of the many hazards of time travel. I jumbled decades of faces. I looked at Finn to see if he had seen him, but he was still engrossed in his phone call.

“All right, babe, gotta go, detective stuff, you know?” He winked at me and tucked his phone in his pocket.

“You’re leaving? Do you have a lead on Emmy? Why did they take Evan?” Everything was happening so fast, and Finn hadn’t answered a single question I had thrown at him.

Finn’s eyes narrowed when I mentioned Evan’s name. “Are you worried about him?” I didn’t answer. “It seems he had more than one public argument with Emmy. They’re just asking him a few questions to see what he knows. It’s standard procedure.”

“What he knows? Like a suspect? Those arguments with Emmy Harper were nothing, just creative differences. Taking Evan Carlson in is ridiculous!” My voice was starting to carry, and Finn put his finger to his lips. “Sorry. But it is ridiculous; he didn’t have anything to do with Emmy’s disappearance.” I locked my arms in place and glared at him.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But that’s my job, not yours.” He squeezed my arm and took a step back. The small group of officers was waiting for him by the revolving door. “Dinner tonight. We’ll talk.”

He didn’t wait for me to reply, and jogged off to meet them. They walked out into the rain and into a fleet of New Orleans PD cars. I watched as Finn hopped in the front seat of one of the cars and drove off.

I guess I would have to wait to tell him about the strange evil-buzz in the lobby, and the man in the coat. I was hoping he had felt it too.

“Ivy? Ivy, you coming?” One of the girl’s from the sound crew was motioning me to follow her into one of the hotel’s many conference rooms. “We’ve got a meeting.” She rolled her eyes. “Image consultant.”

I shuffled into the room with the rest of the production staff. I had heard about image consultants and had spent many a night with a glass of wine in hand, glued to my favorite show about a professional image fixer, but this was unreal. How did I end up in this meeting? There was a short, long-haired brunette in a white linen suit, with stiletto heels waiting for the group to quiet down. Wow, she even looked like a professional fixer.

“All right, everyone. I’m Kelly Saint-James and I’m here on behalf of the studio.”

I saw eyebrows shoot up on the faces around me. I was apparently the only one who hadn’t heard of Ms. Saint-James. Her name alone made an impression on her audience.

“This is a quick meeting. I won’t take much of your time. You all have one responsibility. Only
one
. Don’t talk to the press. No media contact. What. So. Ever.” She drew out the word and paused. “Just act normal, get your work done, and stay away from the reporters. We’ll update you when we have some information on Emmy Harper.” She folded her hands in front of her. “Ok, that’s it. You’re free to go.”

The group mumbled and filed out of the conference room like herded sheep.

Five minutes ago, the deafening hum of journalists, detectives, and hotel onlookers flowed through the nerve center of the hotel, and now the only sounds were from the front desk’s ringing phone and the low hum of the television. The press was banished, the police had dispersed, and the movie crew had retreated to his or her room. The spot where Evan and I sat yesterday afternoon on the faded yellow velvet couch was unoccupied. I waved down a waiter from the restaurant and asked him to deliver a cup of coffee to me. I nestled into the couch’s corner and waited.

I watched the rain drip from the Hotel François window awnings and splatter droplets along the sidewalk, adding to the gloomy atmosphere hovering over everyone inside the hotel. Low muttering voices filtered throughout the lobby, and except for the occasional waiter, eager to refill my coffee, hours passed and no one ventured near my little station or me all day.

The television news anchors scrolled through the same headline track every fifteen minutes. The meteorologists rapidly scanned their hands over the green rainstorm on the radar sweeping through the lower part of Louisiana. My eyes bounced between the revolving door and the TV. I wasn’t sure what or whom I was waiting for exactly: Evan, Emmy, or Finn. I just knew I had to wait.

New Orleans, 1945

With her tightly packed suitcase in hand, I trailed Josette down the dimly lit hall. I was impressed she had crammed so many outfits into one bag. She tiptoed past each room, hesitating in front of each of the doors before taking the next step. She turned the corner at the end of the hall to start her descent down the winding staircase. Expertly fastening her hat on her head, she hugged the railing closest to the wall. I watched as she stepped to avoid certain planks on the stairs. I guessed this was not her first time sneaking out of the house. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing. Following her lead, I placed my feet in the same spots as the beautiful, love-struck teenager, and silently made my way down the spiral stairs.

The foyer was dark. Heavy, gilded oil paintings of the former consul generals lined the great hallway. A small brass plaque tacked under each frame identified each man. Josette rolled her eyes at the man in the first painting. I assumed it was her father, and recognized her pale blue eye in the portrait of a man featured in the rounded entrance of the embassy. I eyed the lineup of Frenchmen and thought about the quick introduction I had received about the history of the house.

As my only escape to Holly’s persistent nagging, I booked a trip to New Orleans. She encouraged me to widen my travel radius and experiment with a more adventurous city. After Finn and I broke up, I started traveling more on weekends and working out the quirks in my
Time Spell
. I had always wanted to see New Orleans, and with no one soaking up my free time, she was right—it would be a great getaway.

I looked up a bed and breakfast on Trip Advisor, and booked my stay for the historic home in the Garden District.

Upon arrival, I was greeted by a cute white-haired couple, who had bought the home and spent a decade returning it to its original state. Over the years, the new owners had compiled a scrapbook on the history of the mansion and all of the French consul generals who had lived in the house. They were so proud of the house’s history. During cocktail hour, which consisted of one glass of wine and a cheese plate, they told me as many stories as they could fit into their designated thirty minutes of entertaining guests.

“Oh dear, you wouldn’t believe the stories within these walls.” My hostess grabbed me on the elbow. “So many stories—such history.”

“Mrs. Betts, the house is absolutely amazing.” I eyed the wainscoting bordering the drawing room. “What is your favorite story about the house?”

Mrs. Betts looked at Mr. Betts and sighed. “It’s a legendary tale now.”

“Really?” She had my interest piqued.

The hostess launched into the tale. “There was a girl who lived here once. She was only in New Orleans for a couple of years before she disappeared. She was the daughter of one of the consul generals who lived here.”

“Disappeared? What happened to her?” I clutched my wine glass.

Mr. Betts put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “It’s hard to say. No one knows for sure, but the story is she ran off with a Navy boy.”

“Wow. That sounds romantic. What a great story for the house. Do you have any pictures of her in your scrapbook? I’d love to see something.” I loved these kinds of stories.

“This is the part of the story that is heartbreaking, dear,” Mrs. Betts interjected. “When her father, the consul, realized she was missing, the story is he destroyed all her pictures and packed up all of her things. It was as if she never existed. They say he went mad trying to find her. He resigned as consul general and devoted his life to finding her.”

“But he never did?” I asked. This was a heart-wrenching story.

“No. No one knows for sure what happened to the girl, and her father disappeared too. Maybe back to France, we’re not sure. But that’s when Consul Donatien came to the house. He was the last consul here before they moved the residence to another part of the city.” She pointed to a black-and-white picture on the wall of the house’s final government official.

As Mrs. Betts rattled on about the parties and dinners the house had hosted since the 1800s, I thought about the girl she mentioned. I wanted to know what happened to her.

When I was sure all of the other guests and my happy hosts were sleeping, I crept to the hall closet on my floor, locked the door from the inside, and
Time Spelled
to 1945. I didn’t know how to find the mystery girl, or if I could begin a search in the wide time continuum of the house’s history. Either luck or perceptive skill brought me to Josette the night of her escape. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. I needed to keep an eye on her next steps.