The Helena Diaries - Trouble in Mudbug (Ghost-in-Law Series Novellas) (7 page)

Harold and his floozies or hell.

When I got off earth, I intended to bend God’s ear about some of his children. Seriously bend.

Trouble in Mudbug—Chapter Sixteen

Wherein Helena is reunited with her husband

Well, it just figures. Mildred located Harold and small surprise that he hasn’t left the fleabag motel even though he said he would. Likely, he found having no money an obstacle to moving. Maryse is going to have Wheeler call about a fake document she’s drawing up, giving up her rights to the land, thereby passing them to Hank. She thinks it will prompt Harold to lead us to Hank.

 
I don’t want to think that my son is involved with trying to kill his wife, but if Harold is driving the bus, I suppose anything is possible.

The whole thing started off wrong. First off, Maryse wouldn’t let me sit in the front seat, claiming it would look like the nut was chauffeuring her around. She had a point, but I was tired of being relegated to the back of vehicles and the outside of buildings. I know I’m invisible, but everyone doesn’t have to treat me as such.

I didn’t even bother changing clothes until I got inside the fleabag motel. I figured it would be a whole other argument, and that exorcist comment still lingered in the back of my mind. As soon as I stepped into the lobby of the motel, however, it was on!

I concentrated on Rambo, and the jeans, T-shirt, and Nikes disappeared and were replaced by camo pants and shirt, and hiking boots. I attempted black lines on my face, but as I couldn’t see my reflection, I had no way of knowing if I’d accomplished them. Either way—I looked good!

The desk clerk was face-first on the desk, sleeping off a hangover from the smell of him. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t have been any use to me awake, so I stepped behind him and checked the board for Harold’s name. Sure enough, the loser was in one of the second-floor units.
 

I headed upstairs, feeling slightly nauseous about what I might see when I walked into Harold’s room. God knows, I’d seen things this week that had disgusted me, and a couple that I hadn’t even known could be done, but that was all other people.
 

Harold was my husband.

No, I didn’t love him. Was certain I never had, but he was still the single biggest embarrassment of my life. Hank was second. I’d been a stellar businesswoman, but had made a horrible choice for a husband and had raised a son who took more after his father than me.
 

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so rigid over the money. All those years ago, I should have written Harold a check and gotten rid of him when I was still young enough to start over.
 

That option was long gone now.

I paused in front of Harold’s room and took a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever might be on the other side. Then I clenched my eyes shut and walked through the door.
 

I stood there for several seconds, listening for the sounds that might indicate a sight I didn’t want to see, but all I heard was the television. I opened one eye and there he was—Harold in all his glory.

He looked like Al Bundy, sitting on the bed in his underwear, one hand clutching the remote and the other scratching his balls. I blanched. Thank God I’d kicked him out of the master bedroom decades ago. Who the hell could get a decent night’s sleep looking at that before bedtime?

I checked the clock on the nightstand, and realized I’d only entered the motel two minutes before. I hoped Maryse didn’t wait too long to prompt Wheeler. I had no desire to stand around watching Harold and his ball-scratching adventures for any longer than necessary.
 

I glanced at a chair in the corner, thinking I could take a load off, but the thing was covered with stains so questionable that I didn’t even think it was safe for a dead person to sit on. I moved to the middle of the room, trying not to pass through anything as I went.
 

It seemed like forever before the phone rang. Harold leaned over to reach for it and parts of him I never wanted to see again fell out of the boxers. I’ll just go ahead and admit it—I screamed like a little girl.
 

Harold grumbled on the phone and I could see his smile getting wider by the second. Maryse’s plan was working. He slammed the phone down and immediately lifted it again and dialed. He barked out Hank’s name and told him they had to meet right away, then he jumped up from the bed.

And his boxers ripped right in two and fell to the floor.

I screamed again and ran for the exterior wall, diving for the ground below as if I were jumping into the ocean. I hit the ground with a thud, but managed to remember to tuck and roll. I think Rambo would have been proud. Unfortunately, I had too much momentum—and not enough coordination—to bounce up and keep running like they do in the movies. Instead, I kept rolling across the dirt lawn like a tumbleweed until I finally slowed to a sprawl.

For a minute, I seriously considered the possibility that I’d died all over again. It felt like it anyway. But then my super-soldier persona kicked in and I jumped up and ran for the car. Okay, it was more of a stumbling jog, but it was faster than a walk.

I did a double-take when I saw that the car was empty, but when I jumped into the backseat, I realized that Maryse and Sabine were ducked down in the front seat. Smart thinking as a second later, Harold barreled out of the motel—this time all body parts covered—and rushed to the late-model sedan that I’d handed down to him when I bought the Caddy.

Harold took off way faster than he should have in that rust bucket, and Maryse pointed out that they should have had me ride with him. It seemed obvious now, but I have to admit, it hadn’t crossed my mind when I’d jumped through the motel wall. The only thing on my agenda had been getting far, far away. Even the distance of another car couldn’t erase the horrors I’d seen.

He drove deeper and deeper into the swamp, and just when I wondered where the hell he was going, he pulled off the road and disappeared into the brush. And that’s when it clicked that my family’s old hunting cabin was around here somewhere. Of course, my brilliant mental recall was met with a chorus of “why didn’t you tell us this before” rather than compliments about my acumen.
 

It figured.

Then to add insult to injury, Maryse sent me into the swamp to spy on Harold at the cabin. I stomped through the brush—after all, no one could hear me—until I found the cabin. Shack was a more accurate term.

I could hear Harold’s obnoxious, high-pitched bitching before I even walked through the wall. I have to admit that my heart tugged a bit when I saw Hank standing there. I know I’m his mother, but I’m going to say it anyway—he’s such a handsome boy.
 

And I don’t think that’s mother hormones talking. All the girls used to run after him…except, now that I think about it, Maryse. Maybe that was the attraction.
 

That idiot Harold raged at him for being so useless I didn’t leave the land to him in the first place. Hank stood his ground, though, arguing that he didn’t know anything about the will until the day he heard it and couldn’t be expected to read my mind. Then Harold said none of it mattered because he’d scared Maryse into giving up the land—recalling the bogus phone call from Wheeler.

I should have expected it, but I was still shocked. It was one thing to believe someone was evil enough to kill for money, but it was a whole other thing when it was the man you’d shared a house with since you were nothing more than a grown child. Deep down, I’d known Harold was probably involved, but a tiny part of me hadn’t wanted to believe that I’d housed and nurtured a monster all these years.

Even worse—what if the way I’d forced him to live had created one?

I’d heard enough, so I hightailed it back to the car, but things still didn’t make sense. I’d come to terms with the fact that Harold was an evil man and could have hatched a murderous plot, but what I couldn’t reconcile is the how. I simply didn’t think he had the skill set to get it done.

Which meant he had help.
 

But who?

Wherein Helena is both worried and relieved

I’m not sure whether to be impressed or concerned. Maryse made us stop at a pawnshop on the way back to the motel, and she came out toting a stun gun. I have to admit, it was kinda cool. Sabine dropped her off in front of Mildred’s hotel, and I hopped out and took off for Johnny’s, hoping someone would be talking about Harold and his questionable military record. Something about the entire mess didn’t add up.

I hit pay dirt with a couple of fishermen sitting at the bar, shooting the breeze at the bar and ogling the latest two-bit floozy bartender that Johnny had hired. They were speculating on the likelihood that Harold had been responsible for Maryse’s cabin explosion. All of them agreed that he definitely had motive and opportunity, but no one could get a grasp on Harold having the skill set to deliver.

One of them was about to launch a theory when a man burst into the bar, claiming someone had tried to shoot Maryse in front of the Mudbug Hotel and that Hank, of all people, had pushed her out of the way and gotten shot in the process. I ran out of Johnny’s just in time to see the ambulance screeching to a stop in front of the hotel. I hoofed it down the street and made it just in time to leap inside before they took off for the hospital.

I almost passed out when I saw all the blood. Can a ghost pass out?

Hank moaned the entire ride, and the moaning got louder as they wheeled him into the emergency room and lifted him off the gurney and onto a hospital bed. I dashed down the hall after them as they moved into a private room and stood at the end of the bed as the nurses and doctor went to work cleaning the wound.

My knees almost buckled with relief when I saw that the bullet had only grazed him on the side. The doctor declared that all his internal organs were intact and in working order, and one of the nurses began to clean and bandage the wound.

Of course, Hank wailed like he was dying, but as he’s a man, it was expected. I swear, if men had to give birth, society would have died out a long time ago.

Once they got the wound cleaned and dressed, they moved him to a room on the second floor and gave him something for the pain. He took the meds and promptly started snoring. I took a seat in the corner, figuring the police would show up here eventually, and I wanted to hear everything Hank told them.

Part of me was happy because Hank getting shot meant it wasn’t him and Harold trying to kill Maryse. The other part of me was worried.
 

If it wasn’t Harold and Hank, then who was it?

Trouble in Mudbug—Chapter Seventeen

Wherein Helena’s cat is out of the bag

Since no one thought to bury me with a watch on, I had no idea how long I’d sat there before I heard the room door creak open.
 

Make a note, people: Bury your relatives with watches. You never know.

I perked up from my stupor as a detective walked in and roused Hank from his slumber. Hank looked a bit groggy, but as the blue uniform and badge came into focus, he shifted from groggy to panicked. The officer immediately launched into a million questions about what had happened and what he’d seen.

Once Hank realized the cop had no interest in the many other indiscretions he was wanted for, he relaxed, but was unable to provide much information. Hank said he’d been on his way to the hotel to speak to Maryse when he saw her outside the hotel on the sidewalk. As he approached, he heard a whiz and the sound of cracking glass, then a second whiz sounded and he saw bits of brick fly off the hotel wall.
 

When he realized what was happening, he tackled Maryse to the ground and took a bullet to the side in the process. The officer went on to ask him some pointed questions about the inheritance and Harold, and Hank surprised me once more by telling the officer where he could find his useless father.
 

The detective appeared frustrated at the lack of information Hank could provide on the shooting, but I knew when my boy was lying, and this time, he was telling the truth.
 

The officer ducked out of the room to make a call—probably to send someone to round up Harold—and I watched Hank as he fiddled with his bandage and winced. Damned kid never could leave things alone.

The door opened again a minute later and I expected to see the officer come back in, but Harold stepped inside. Hank bolted upright, then grabbed his side and groaned.

“Are you crazy?” Hank asked. “The police were just here, and they’re looking for you.”

“I was waiting outside and saw the detective leave. From the way he tore out of the parking lot, he’s not coming back any time soon.”

As they launched into yet another argument, I heard footsteps in the hallway outside the room. I rushed through the wall just in time to see Maryse coming down the hallway. Thank God I’d caught her before she went in Hank’s room.
 

I told her to turn her fancy cell phone on record, and she recorded an earful—an earful of Harold confessing to killing me. But it was all wrong. He said he put rat poison in my coffee, but I’m certain that whatever killed me was in the brandy. And rat poison was nowhere on the list of things that Maryse said could have caused my death.