Dying to Dream

By Kathryn Long

When Jack Robesaux is found lying dead on a Louisiana beach, psychic Marin Seurat must use her gift to prove it is murder and not suicide. Though Marin knows her dreams with their messages from the dead could help, she struggles with the idea of returning home and facing a troubled past―but a phone call informing her of Jack's murder and the return of the family curse gives Marin that final push. In a surprising turn of events, Marin discovers a mystery from long ago that somehow connects to recent deaths. With the help of cryptic messages delivered by spirits, Marin races to solve the mystery of Saint Toulere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MainlyMurderPress
• Release date: Jun 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988781627

Kathryn Long

Kathryn Long is a native Ohioan, born and raised in Barberton, the "Magic City". She is the youngest of five children, although the closest sibling in age is a brother sixteen years her senior. Being raised like an only child, Kathryn found reading and writing as favorable forms of entertainment. In high school as a member of the Writers' Club, she continued to nurture her writing talent.After high school Kathryn attended and graduated from the University of Akron with a BA degree in French. Before marriage and children the author managed a Waldenbooks store and continue writing short stories and song lyrics as a hobby. In 1987 she returned to school for a Bachelor's in Education. She has been an employee of the Green Local School system since 1990 and currently teaches SLD students at the high school.Writing took a more serious turn a few years ago as Kathryn completed her first novel-length work and discovered that mystery was her nitch. Early on, determined to improve her craft, she developed a habit of spending most of her free time in the summer and on weekends during the school year, writing story after story. Mystery merged with the color of Native American culture to create Oklahoma's Gold and A Pleasant View. Venturing into cozy mysteries and romantic suspense writing, Kathryn has created three novels with the cozy, Whips, Cuffs, and Little Brown Boxes; a romantic suspense, A Deadly Deed Grows; and the recently completed, Dying to Dream, another romantic suspense.Kathryn has also written short stories, two of which are published in The Piker Press: "A Good Man" and "Betrayal in a Letter". She also has ventured into the young adult genre, writing the modern-day fairytale, Cinderella Geek, under the pen name, K. Sean Jennkrist.Keeping connected is an important element of writing. Staying in tune with what goes on in the writing world and being visible are reasons why Kathryn is a member of Sisters in Crime and maintains a blogsite - Writers & Teachers as well as a facebook page.

Book preview

Dying to Dream

by

Kathryn Long

Mainly Murder Press, LLC

PO Box 290586

Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

www.mainlymurderpress.com

Mainly Murder Press

Copy Editor:  Paula Knudson

Executive Editor:  Judith K. Ivie

Cover Designer:  Karen A. Phillips

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Copyright © 2013 by Kathy Long

Paperback ISBN 978-0-9887816-1-0

E-book ISBN 978-0-9887816-2-7

Published in the United States of America

Mainly Murder Press

PO Box 290586

Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

www.MainlyMurderPress.com

Dedication

Gary – your love and support are constant, even when I disappear for hours into my imaginary world!

And to my three muses, Kristin, Sean, and Jennifer – your inspiration is genuinely appreciated.

One

The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe.

I know that ghosts have wandered on earth.

-- Emily Bronte

Summer, 2011. The sweltering Louisiana heat steamed up from the ground and carried through the air along with the salt and acrid stench coming from the Gulf. It burned the nostrils and caused an ache from head to toe. It didn't matter where, a body felt it. However, this particular morning it carried more, the odor of blood and urine, mixed in with other smells all too familiar to Trent Robesaux. It violated his senses while he struggled to hold back the bitter taste gagging his throat. Swallowing hard, he concentrated on the words spoken by Sam Tomaso.

Found him about three this morning. Somebody trolling the beach—searching with one of those metal detectors, I guess—come up on his body. The sheriff of Saint Toulere wiped a handkerchief across the back of his neck.

When will you be releasing him? I need to call Rochere's sometime today and make the funeral arrangements. Trent kept his eyes on the swelling ocean water, anywhere but below with the scene of Jack Robesaux, his head marinating in a bloody pool, and the homicide team gathering around him. A collage of images scrolled through his mind; he filtered out the happy ones to remind him of the father who raised him.

No need to rush. I expect homicide and the coroner will be taking their time to figure it out. Sam Tomaso wadded the sweaty handkerchief and stuffed it into his back pocket. His boot pushed at a shell resting on the sand, back and forth, he moved it in mindless play.

Trent's eye caught the gesture, and he felt a flush of anger. Why take their time? What's the point? You've got one dead fisherman, one who decided life didn't leave anything for him to do but put a bullet in his head. Pretty damn obvious, if you ask me. With steps punctuated by his outburst, Trent hurried away before he'd say more or do something that might reserve him a place in jail. The oil spill took another victim; that seemed plain enough. No foul play here. And he refused to spend another minute thinking about what he could have done to stop it. That's right. Just blame it on the damn oil spill. The bitter words released in a low rumble.

Where you headed? In case I need to get in touch, Tomaso called after him.

Fontaine's. I'm going to the Fontaine Bleu and get trashed, Trent shouted over his shoulder while he kept moving. Anywhere but here, he thought, the bitter, sour taste still lingering in his mouth.

Two

I look for ghosts; but none will force their way to me.

--William Wordsworth

Marin kicked at the covers as she tossed and turned in her bed. She struggled to awaken but felt helpless. The dream pulled her deeper into sleep, resisting her attempts to tear free. She could hear the swish of silk, feel it brush against her thighs. She sniffed the damp, cold, musky air, and it chilled her. She moaned as the dream took hold.

 Picking up her skirt, she hurried along the corridor. The poor lighting cast a shadowy veil this time of evening. Only the dim, yellow glow from the candles shone. She chose her way carefully, but the fast pace her legs took led down a reckless path. Mon petit, where are you? Come to me, Jacques. Marin felt the emotions of the spirit overtaking her. Her voice sounded uncomfortably strange. Yet she carried on, when a sudden burst of noise broke the evening's silence. Slowly Marin sensed herself fading away and into another dream.

Madame Marguerite. Should you be up and around so late?

The words made her jump, and Marin pivoted quickly to see who said them. She exhaled slowly. Really, Girard, I don't need you advising me on how late I should be up and around, as you put it, she snapped. That's hardly your position.

Of course, Madame. Girard bowed, backing away. Monsieur Etienne felt concerned and asked me to come find you.

The mention of Marguerite's husband seemed to upset Marin, and it did nothing to improve her mood. She lifted her chin and sent Girard a steely glare. You can inform my husband that I must attend to urgent business. I will be along when I am good and ready. If this does not please him … well, then he may come join me in my search.

Search, Madame? Girard looked puzzled.

With an exasperated sigh Marin turned on her heel and headed off down the corridor once more, calling out as she picked up her pace, N'importe pas, Girard. Just tell him I will join him when I am finished.

She left the servant standing there as she hurried around the corner, but her steps came to a halt when she heard the cry, a faint sound.

Jacques? she whispered and tilted her head. The long silence brought nothing more. No sound of the child, his footsteps, nor his laughter, just the small cry, a faded echo left behind.

Her anxiety built. Marin felt Marguerite fill her mind with words from Etienne's conversation she’d overheard earlier that evening. Marin trembled as she sensed the cold, cruel tone of his voice. It left her knowing that something was very wrong. Jacques. She drowned in her desperate thoughts of him; she must find him.

When she reached the next corridor, Marin imagined she heard a whimper. Her eyes squinted in the dim light. She waved the lantern back and forth and saw no movement, only the sound, so faint, its existence almost undetectable to anyone. Only a mother who had lost so much could recognize the desperate plea, no matter how slight. She picked up her pace and ran.

Jacques? she cried as she neared the turn in the corridor. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed, still faint enough to give her safe distance, but there all the same. Marin felt the cold shiver through her body and began to cry. She put her ear to the wall to listen. Any moment, he would answer. She wanted to awaken, but Marin felt the emotions of Marguerite pull her closer.

Maman. Help me, maman.

Marin gasped. She put a hand to her throat. Her eyes widened with fear, but she leaned close to the wall. Jacques? C'est tu? Is that you, mon cher? Her lips brushed the cool dampness of stone. Jacques? she whispered.

The loud wail, a pitiful cry for help, sounded once more. Maman. Please, please save me.

She fell back as tears welled in her eyes. She struggled to hold onto some semblance of calm until the sound of heavy footsteps echoed, growing louder each second.

She felt the trembling of her heart and rapid, shallow breaths escaped her. When the steps grew silent, her breath caught and held there.

Marguerite.

 She recognized the voice, as familiar as her own. And just as Marguerite, Marin knew she must face it. Her heart raced, the terror and confusion merging. She felt herself pulled even further into the spirit of Marguerite until they became one.

Mon Dieu, please forgive me, she cried as she slowly turned around.

Marin gasped as she woke. Her heart pounded, each beat striking her chest wall, and she struggled to grasp her reality. She wiped away the tendril of a blonde curl tickling her cheek. Spreading her arms out with a careful touch, she felt the sheets. The beating rhythm inside her slowed as she glanced around to see the familiar signs of her bedroom, and hear from outside the sounds of cars passing by.

The dream. Her dream and no one else's, she reminded herself. She closed her eyes once more. She needed sleep, the peaceful, restful kind. Yet, with a heavy sense of dread, she admitted the images would revisit her again some night soon. They weren't the haunted spirits belonging to other folks who sought her help, their loved ones who passed on and anxiously waited for a chance to speak. Somehow, those she considered safe.

She drifted and soon sensed the warm sunlight kissing her face, the scent of the salty ocean breeze and the gentle touch of hands that soothed her. All of it flowed in and out of her mind until the sound of tapping on her bedroom door pulled her back. A glance at the clock made her groan, and she pulled the covers up and over her head. Go away!

No. You promised, Marin. Today would be the day. I'm not waiting any longer, so stop putting it off. Charlie's muffled words spoke from the other side of the door.

Marin threw the covers back off her head and sat up but kept the scowl pasted to her face. I hope you made coffee. She tried not to smile as she heard the frantic retreat of her cousin. Raising her voice, she added, and don't forget the creamer!

She would be sad when Charlie left tomorrow. Her visit gave Marin some much needed company, family company. Even though she'd been conscious of feeling lonely and disconnected for the past several months, that awareness hadn't pushed her to do anything about it. At least, not on her own. It took Charlie with her energy and compassion. Marin laughed. And her agenda.

Okay. Coffee's here. Now open up, will you? Charlie barked at her.

Yes, ma'am. Marin laughed once again and ran to the door. It wasn't even locked, silly goof. Remember how it sticks? She looked up at Charlie and watched her raise her left brow, arching it in a salute. A loose brown curl hung over to one side as she tilted her head. Just from the face with its dimpled cheeks and round shape she looked like a child. Her five-foot-ten frame revealed otherwise.

Here's your coffee, smart ass. Charlie handed Marin the cup, sidestepped around her to get into the room and sat on the bed. Now, let's talk. She patted the covers.

Marin sighed and walked slowly over to the bed. For days she had chewed on every argument, digested every fact and spit out the same answer each time Charlie brought it up, the game now stale and overdone.

Charlie, the answer is still no. I can't face … now, don't you go shaking your head at me. No is what I mean. Marin prepared herself for the next wave. Charlie should have been a litigator, she decided. Instead, she stood for hours on her feet every night, serving up beer and seafood at the Fontaine Bleu Bar and Grill. Such a waste of skills.

How can you turn away and go on, knowing he needs your help?

Marin laughed. Ash Baulliere doesn't need anyone's help, especially from me. That would be like Caesar helping Judas. A Seurat and a Baulliere at the same table? Not in this lifetime.

Charlie scooted over closer to Marin and gave her the soft-but-earnest speech. It's time to bury that feud, don't you think? And what better person to do that than Marin Seurat, psychic extraordinaire?

Oh, you're good, Charlene Seurat, and getting better each time we go down this path. But there's one thing you seem to skirt around, and that's what baffles me, Marin said.

Charlie saluted with her eyebrow again.

Come on, Charlie. Tell me why this is so important to you. Why do you want me to help?

I don't know what you mean.

Yes, you do. You may be a kind and compassionate person, but you possess that one particular Seurat gene everyone in the family, including me, managed to inherit, Marin argued.

I'm only thinking of Ash and Drew. They are people just like you and me, and they need help.

First of all, they are not like you and me. I'd say about six figures different, and their money is only a part of our differences. So let's come back around to it. If you can fess up and tell me what's in this for you, I might consider looking into it.

Charlie stared into her coffee cup for a moment, and then raised her eyes to meet Marin's. Fair enough. The truth is I like Drew Baulliere. More than like, I think I'm in love, Marin.

Oh, Charlie.

Yeah, I know. It's like Romeo and Juliet, modern day style, but that doesn't matter because you can help the Baullieres, and then all that silliness between our families can disappear. The Capulets and Montagues united.

Marin shook her head. Oh, Charlie.

You said that already. Charlie chided.

Marin looked around her bedroom. Photos covered every flat surface, the nightstand, dresser and bookshelf, each with a moment from her life, the people and places in it. Saint Toulere, her home along the Louisiana Gulf with fishing as the main course of living, stood out in the backdrop of photos.

If I do this—and I do mean if—it's on my terms. Not Ash's, not yours, nobody's but mine. You understand? Marin sent her cousin that cold, steely stare that she reserved for rare moments like this one. Charlie would recognize it, the don't-you-give-me-no-shit stare.

Charlie nodded and brought out her infectious smile as she squeezed Marin so hard that coffee sloshed back and forth in the cup. I knew you'd come around, you and that oversized heart of yours.

Yeah, but don't send your hopes up there in the clouds. I might take one look at Ash Baulliere, turn around and head back north, all in one minute.

But you won't, not once you get a taste of it, Charlie said and wagged a finger at Marin.

How can you be so sure? I've got a sweet life here in Verscenne, teaching those innocent little French Canadian urchins English by day and perusing the darker side of spirits at night. What makes you think I want to leave all that?

Simple. You'll spend at least one night in Saint Toulere, and if you're anywhere near dead cousin Francis, you'll be sucked in, and not even Ash Baulliere himself will be able to scare you away.

Marin rolled her eyes and glanced over at the silver framed photo of her father Cal and mother Katrine, taken on their twentieth wedding anniversary, the year before Katrine died in a horrible accident. Being only eighteen and left with an ache in her soul, Marin decided she could either escape or fall into a drunken depression along with Cal. As far as she knew, he was still there in it.

It doesn't work every time, you know.

Charlie nodded. But it will this time. Ash says Francis visits most every night. He can hear him, feel him, says he thinks Francis is trying to tell him something important, but just can't figure out what. Now, once you get inside his head …

Charlie, Marin interrupted, I can't order up the dream like a five course meal at a restaurant. When I sleep, I could be dreaming about almost anything.

But if Francis is trying to tell Ash something, something really important, then he'll want to communicate through you, don't you think? I mean, that makes sense, doesn't it?

It did, Marin admitted. That's what people paid her thousands of dollars to do. Because of her special gift, she could give them what they wanted. If a spirit called on her, she would go to sleep, night or day, it didn't matter, and she would dream. Then she'd wake up to tell about it. Only she wasn't the author of her dreams. On the contrary, her dreams became those of the spirits around her. Their lives played out in her head like a picture show. In that way, Marin learned about them, what they experienced, what they thought, what they felt. In other words, she became them.

Marin shivered. Each time she thought about what she could do, it frightened her. She never talked to anyone about her ability, not openly, but in those circles where people accepted the paranormal, word got around. One by one, Marin would get the calls from those who needed her help. She never refused.

I don't know, Charlie. I mean, if this is just one of his schemes to use me, to use us … it's happened before. Marin couldn't put her mind straight about it, yet she knew how much her gut distrusted Ash Baulliere. Her mind pondered that when her phone began to ring. Relieved by the interruption, she answered the call.

Hello?

"Chère? Is that you?"

 Marin's eyes opened wider as she recognized the gravelly tone on the other end. Tante Louise?

Of course, who else? Look, I don't have much time. I'm packing to come home, but you hear me, child. You must come back to Saint Toulere.

Marin frowned.Why would I need to do that, Tante?

"Ah, the family curse, I think it come again. I think it bring trouble, chère."

Tante. You always blame the family curse for everything that happens, even when you fell and broke your leg. Really now, I don't know if …

"No, no, chère, Louise interrupted. This is different. Not a broken leg. Much, much worse. You come home. Such bad things going on, I think. I just knew it when I talked to Jack Robesaux. I just knew." She hummed under her breath.

Jack? Okay, Tante, you aren't making much sense. Jack isn't family, so why mention him? Marin's patience thinned. Everyone in the family thought of Louise as the eccentric one, the aunt who played with voodoo and maybe tipped toward the crazy side, but still a special lady who usually guessed right about things, even if her comments sounded vague and mysterious.

I say I knew he'd come to no good, and now it will happen again. That curse will touch many more, maybe even you. I am telling you, Jack's dead, and the curse will touch us. Come home, Marin. You are the one to help. Only you can do this.

Tante Louise's voice rattled out the words, but Marin refused to believe them, not yet. Jack's dead? How do you know, Tante?

I just know.

Did you talk to someone, like Sheriff Tomaso? Marin couldn't stop thinking of how Trent Robesaux must feel.

I just know. It came to me. I knew it when I talked to him. What he said to me … his crazy plan with that devil? Yes, bad business, it was. You don't mess with his kind, I warned him, and now he's dead. She paused for a moment. I must go. Got a train to catch. I'll be home when you get there.

Marin heard the phone's dial tone. She turned to Charlie, whose expression probably mirrored her own. Tante Louise.

Charlie nodded.

"She