Love Can Be Murder

there were many souls about.
    She attributed the sensation to the spooky lore surrounding the Archambault family—that old Dr. Archambault, Troy's great-grandfather, had conducted bizarre experiments on transients and anyone who needed extra cash...and that some reportedly never left the house to spend their hard-earned money. At least those were the stories that Hazel Means embellished for tourists who paid six dollars for the forty-minute tour, and the tales were fodder for local gossip at Caskey's bar when a homeless person disappeared, although migration to the city was the far more likely scenario.
    The phantom moans continued as she stepped onto the footpath that ran along the side of the house and followed it to the crooked stone walkway that meandered in front.
    The Instruments of Death and Voodoo Museum had become quite the attraction since it had been added to an interstate sign a couple of years ago (Troy's brainchild). Dark and hulking and surrounded by the same shoulder-high, iron fence that she had slipped through, the structure resembled every haunted manor in every classic horror movie. The many additions over the decades had left it looking like an architectural experiment gone wrong, with accidental arches, railed walkways, mismatched gargoyles, landings that went nowhere, and occasional stained-glass windows. The asymmetrical structure was topped with various turrets and finials and a cupola worthy of Rapunzel, except for the fact that bats had taken up residence in its ceiling and could be seen flapping around at dusk. The tourists loved it.
    In honor of the festival, a large sign had been posted near the steps announcing when voodoo rituals would take place in the main parlor—harmless fun and child friendly in comparison to the more serious rituals that would take place in a specially constructed peristil, a shelter of sorts, in the town square. For a week at least, the town would be steeped in voodoo.
    A noise startled Penny. A man dressed in a dark business suit emerged from a set of stone steps that appeared to lead to the museum's basement, which housed, if she remembered correctly, the tools of torture display, like the chair of nails and the human stretching machine, complete with a sound track of inhuman screams.
    The man mopped at his forehead with a handkerchief, his gaze down, his movements jerky. Penny blinked in astonishment. "Deke?"

Chapter Five

    A spoonful of surprise...

    DEKE LIFTED HIS HEAD, and surprise replaced the worry lines on his forehead. "Penny...hi."
    Emotions stabbed at her. She hadn't seen him since the divorce papers had been finalized at a brief courthouse meeting with little eye contact. He looked lean and artificially tanned and, thanks to the hair transplant, much the way he had looked in college when they had fallen in love ten years ago. But the laid-back, smiling young man who had convinced her to sneak him into her dorm room on hot, steamy nights was long gone. These days he seemed alternately anxious and arrogant. Instead of his usual slacks and sport coat, his suit had a European cut and the tie, a funky, trendy print. His business must have picked up, she thought wryly...or maybe Sheena's many personal injury settlements were providing extra cash flow for the designer duds.
    By comparison, she felt ugly and awkward in her overalls and wet sandals, silently wishing she'd taken the time this morning to smooth a flatiron over her curls and put on a little mascara. Feeling self-conscious under his gaze, she gestured to the building behind them. "What are you doing here?"
    "Business," he said abruptly, tucking a blue folder under his arm.
    She knew that the museum kept him on retainer, but she couldn't resist a jab. "Let me guess—Sheena took a tour and is suing for mental anguish?"
    "Jealousy isn't becoming to you, Penny."
    A flush ran up her neck, spreading over her face. She had asked for that one.
    He turned to walk away, and she shook her stick at his back in mute frustration, then followed him, blurting out what was really on her mind. "Did you have to paint the house pink, for God's sake?"
    His shoulders drooped. "That damned house." He turned to face her, suddenly looking tired. "It's my house now, remember? I wanted the rental property, but you wouldn't budge. Besides, the color isn't that bad."
    "Are you smoking crack? The color is revolting."
    "It's what she wants."
    He sounded so protective that a lump formed in Penny's throat. What about what