Page 93 of Frankly, My Dear

“I believe God sent you here for James,” Mrs. Baptiste added, as if reading her mind.

Selene’s eyes widened with amazement.

“Have a beignet, my dear. I had Blossom make them especially for you,” she offered with a soft smile. And when Selene’s mouth was full of the delicious confection and she was unable to voice a protest, Mrs. Baptiste added, “I need your help to kill the ghost.”

Oh, boy.

“Of course, it’s Giselle…”

Oh, boy.

“…aided by that diabolical Victor.”

Oh, boy.

“Have another beignet. Oh, did I fail to mention…Giselle was having an affair with Victor before she married James?”

Oh, boy.

Selene started to choke, and Mrs. Baptiste poured her another cup of tea.

“I discovered that Giselle was conspiring with Victor from the beginning of her marriage to my son, and that’s why I killed her, of course.”

Oh, boy. A huge chunk of beignet lodged in Selene’s throat, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. This is not happening to me. I have not landed in Bedlam. This is not Joan Crawford in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? I just imagined that this demure lady sitting before me, sipping tea, said that she killed someone. But if I see anyone remotely resembling Bette Davis come down those stairs, I am definitely going to pee my pants.

“I enjoyed killing her, you know. I shouldn’t admit that, but I did. She was an evil, evil woman who deserved to die.”

“Mrs. Baptiste, you really need to talk to James about this.” And a priest or two. Not to mention a psychiatrist.

Mrs. Baptiste ignored her advice with a dismissive wave of her fingers. “I’ve been saying a rosary a day in penance since the day I killed Giselle, but God must not have forgiven me yet. That’s why the ghost comes back to haunt me, and Bayou Noir. That’s why I…drink.”

Selene put her cup on the table and rubbed her furrowed brow, trying to understand Mrs. Baptiste’s jumbled words. “Let me get this straight…you killed Giselle? How?”

“I had seen her making love with Victor. I had to stop the wickedness, especially when their devious plots spread to my son and grandson, endangering their lives.”

“You didn’t answer my question. How did you kill Giselle?”

“Poison,” she said matter-of-factly. “Then I dragged her body down to the bayou, near the quicksand pit, and watched as it started to sink—”

“Oh, my God!”

“—but her spirit was picked up by a dark figure in a long black cloak. I think it was Satan.” She said the last on a hushed whisper and made the sign of the cross.

“Mrs. Baptiste, confide in James. You must.”

“Non, non! I could never do that. James would feel even more guilty than he already does.”

Selene frowned, unable to understand the relationship between James’s guilt and his mother’s actions.

“They argued fiercely that night, as was their pattern so often. I don’t think they had even shared a bed for many months,” she told her with a knowing nod. “If he suspected what I’d seen and done, he would be consumed with guilt. And he would kill Victor, perhaps be imprisoned and executed for the crime. There are too many risks.”

Selene’s brain reeled with all that Mrs. Baptiste had told her. “And you want me to help you kill a ghost?”

Mrs. Baptiste giggled, putting her fingertips to her lips in a girlish fashion. “Oh, there’s not really a ghost, my dear. Surely you knew that.”

“Of course.” Yep, this is Bedlam, and I’m beginning to feel like the star attraction.

“It’s Victor who’s trying to kill James, and maybe even me. The ghost is, no doubt, his placée, Giselle’s half sister, Fleur.”