Marisa Carroll - Hotel Marchand 09 Read Online Free PDF Page A

that would be the case. I will wait to hear from you, then. And in the meantime, if there’s any way I can be of service to you, do not hesitate to call on me.”
    “How kind of you,” Sophie said, and she meant it.
    Marjolaine appeared at her elbow carrying a china plate with a ham and cheese sandwich and a sprig of green grapes as the old man walked away. “Here’s your sandwich.” Sophie took the plate with a grateful smile. “I see you met Hugh Prejean. He’s a dear old soul. Maude and I were helping him research the opera house records. We’re hoping we can come up with enough facts and figures to get it on the state historical register.”
    “Mr. Prejean was just explaining all that to me.”
    “I hope you’ll allow us to keep digging through the attic. Most of the old records are still stored up there and the roof is none too good. We’d like to get them someplace safer before they deteriorate any further.”
    “I already promised him I would let him know as soon as I have possession of the keys to the opera house.”
    “Thanks, I appreciate that, too.”
    “No problem.” What she omitted telling Marjolaine was that while she certainly meant what she said, she also didn’t intend to confront Alain Boudreaux one minute sooner than she absolutely had to.
     

    “T HERE SHE IS .” Marie looked though the narrow opening of the partially closed pocket doors that shielded Maude’s mourners from drafts of wet January air. “She’s sitting at that little table by the window talking to Marjolaine.”
    They were huddled in the big, high-ceilinged foyer of the funeral home, Cecily, Yvonne and Marie, each holding a casserole dish and dripping water onto the polished wood floor. “Don’t trip, Mama,” Cecily cautioned. “This floor is like glass.”
    “I wonder how Marjolaine gets it to shine like that?” Marie mused, sliding the open toe of her stiletto heels over the glossy wood. Cecily looked down at her own sensible black, two-inch pumps.
    “I have no idea and I’m not asking her.”
    “Good evening, ladies. You’ll be wanting to take those dishes into the kitchen, I imagine.” Henry Roy, the undertaker who worked for Marjolaine, glided through the pocket doors separating the foyer from the viewing room and slid them shut behind him with the ease of many years’ practice, shutting off their view of the principal mourner. “But first let me take your coats, won’t you.”
    Once he’d divested the women of their coats and umbrellas, Henry opened a door beneath the sweep of the main staircase and ushered them down a narrow hallway to the kitchen. “ Merci, Henry, we know our way around,” Yvonne said as the undertaker pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen. “You can go back to the front.” Henry and Yvonne were old allies in the rituals of small-town death. With a nod he retreated down the dark, narrow hall.
    “This place always gives me the willies,” Marie complained when they were alone again.
    “It’s just a kitchen,” Cecily sniffed.
    “A funeral home kitchen.” She shuddered and folded her hands beneath her breasts. “The whole house is creepy.”
    Footsteps echoed in the hallway. “Hush,” Yvonne warned.
    “Hello, Yvonne, Cecily, Marie.” Marjolaine entered the room just as Yvonne slid the last casserole into the big oven. “Henry told me you’d arrived. I see you have everything you need.”
    “Gabriel has everything laid out for us,” Cecily said, patting the braided bun that hung heavily on the back of her neck. Marjolaine had long, straight hair the same as she did, but she always wore hers in an intricate French braid that Cecily had never had the patience to learn how to produce.
    “He’s a good boy,” Yvonne approved.
    “He tries hard.” Marjolaine smiled, but her eyes were troubled as they usually were when her mentally challenged younger brother was the topic of conversation. “The tables are set up in the Ladies’ Parlor. I’ll have Gabriel