The Wish Collector

PROLOGUE

Jonah‘s whistle echoed off the marble walls as he strode purposefully down the empty courthouse hall. Glancing at the domed ceiling, he inhaled deeply, appreciating the timeless smell of law and order. God, I love it here, he mused, satisfaction filling his chest.

He’d been coming to the Orleans Parish Criminal District Court since he was just a boy, trailing behind his father and hoping someday to be looked at in the same way others had eyed his dad—with respect, but also laced with a hint of fear.

“If others don’t fear you a little, son, you’re not doing it right.” Of course, his dad applied that same theory to his parenting as well. If anyone ruled his home with an iron fist, it was Edward Chamberlain.

“Have a good day, Mr. Chamberlain,” said the blonde attorney in the pencil skirt as she passed through the metal detector. She was entering on the other side and looked over her shoulder as she passed, running her eyes quickly down his body and biting her full bottom lip. She’d been sending him come hither signals for weeks, and although he’d been too busy to indulge in extracurricular activities, as soon as this case was over, he was going to take her up on her “offer.” The thought of peeling that conservative suit off her shapely body and finding out what she wore beneath caused a pleasant twitch between his legs.

He jogged down the stone steps outside, swinging his leather briefcase by his side. The world is my goddamned oyster, he thought with a grin.

Applegate, Knowles, and Fennimore was less than a mile from the courthouse and he chose to walk, whistling again—that damn song that had been stuck in his head since Palmer Applegate’s retirement party two days before.

Palmer was the senior of all the senior partners at the firm, who, by the way, wasn’t anywhere close to a jolly good fellow. The old guy was a “Stodgy, Lifeless Bore,” but Jonah supposed a tune by that name might not have gone over quite so well at an honorary event. In any case, he would now be boring his new trophy wife on a full-time basis rather than the rest of the employees at the firm Jonah had been hired at six months ago.

The prestigious law firm occupied the entire top two floors of the brick building Jonah entered, whistling a few bars yet again as the door swung shut behind him.

That nobody can deny!

The elevator ascended smoothly, dinging as the doors slid open.

“Good afternoon, sir,” his secretary, Iris, greeted.

“Iris. Any—” His words cut off abruptly when the man sitting in a chair in the small waiting room to his left stood. Justin.

“Sir, I told this gentleman your schedule was packed but—”

Jonah gave her a nod, concealing a grimace. “It’s okay, Iris. This is my brother, Justin.”

“Oh,” Iris said. “I didn’t realize . . .”

It spoke to how little anyone at the firm really knew him—though he spent the majority of his time there—that they didn’t know Justin Chamberlain was his brother. Justin was a lawyer as well, though the law firm Justin worked for was in a far different zip code, and from what Jonah could tell, took on more pro bono cases than paid clients. It was a wonder they could afford office space at all.

He gripped his brother’s hand, smiling as they shook. “What’s up, bro? Long time no see.”

Justin gave him a thin smile. “Do you have a minute?”

“Not really—”

“It’s important.” Justin shoved a hand through his dark brown hair, exposing the Chamberlain widow’s peak before his hair flopped over his forehead again.

Jonah glanced pointedly at his Rolex as Justin continued. “I’ve been calling you for weeks now. I even stopped by your apartment a couple of times.”

Jonah sighed. He’d received the messages. He just hadn’t had time to call his brother back. What the hell could be that important anyway?

He signaled Justin to follow him to his office down the hall. “I’ve been slammed. You know I’m in the middle of this big case. I’m preparing to cross-examine the victim tomorrow. This could be—”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.” Justin shut Jonah’s door, and Jonah felt a moment of pride as he watched his brother take in the small but luxurious office with a glimpse of the New Orleans skyline out the window. But when he turned his eyes back to Jonah, Justin’s expression was grim.

“Don’t do this, Jonah.”

“Do what exactly?”

“This case.” He shook his head, his bleeding heart making his eyes glisten in a way that made Jonah want to roll his eyes. “Murray Ridgley committed this crime and you know it.”

Jonah leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “The partners took on his case because they believe in his innocence, Justin. True, it doesn’t look good. The circumstantial evidence is . . . extensive. But he deserves a fair trial and good representation just like any other citizen.”

“I’m not arguing with that. All I’m saying is let someone else talk to the news cameras from here on out. Let someone else cross-examine the victim. I know you, Jonah. You’re a damn good attorney. You’ll crush her if that’s your aim. But please don’t, I beg you. Don’t be tied to this. Don’t have this case be the one you’re remembered for. This is not something you want to hang your legacy on.”

“Jesus, listen to yourself. Are you telling me not to win?” In the last few weeks, he’d become the face of this case—the partners had designed it that way and he hadn’t needed to ask why. He was handsome, and he had the smile of a golden boy. Women liked looking at him; men respected him. The jury trusted him.

“I’m telling you not to be like Dad.”

That stopped Jonah like a punch to the gut. He knew that Justin, being the oldest, had taken the brunt of the discipline in their house. The lion’s share of the pressure Edward Chamberlain pressed upon his sons had landed on Justin’s shoulders. As a little boy, Jonah had watched and learned. He knew what brought about his father’s wrath and what gained his approval, and he strove always for the latter.

“Dad wasn’t all bad.”

“Is anyone?”

Good question.

Maybe Murray Ridgley if he had in fact committed the crime. Jonah had plenty of doubts himself. And he had this notion that there was something the partners weren’t telling him. But he had no proof of that, just some whisperings behind closed doors as he’d walked past.

And this case . . . this case was the one that could catapult him to the next level. If he impressed the partners, it could literally make his career.

One of the junior partners was taking Applegate’s vacancy, but one of the other two remaining original partners, Knowles, was practically a walking corpse. In the next couple of years, he’d retire or die, and if Jonah played his cards right, he could make junior partner and then partner thereafter. Partner! Even his dad hadn’t made junior partner until he was thirty.

Jonah had worked his ass off to graduate college in two and a half years, had attended an accelerated law school program, passed the bar on the first try, and had received a job offer at one of the most prestigious firms in New Orleans immediately after that. He was on the fast track. He couldn’t afford a stumble.

Jonah met his brother’s gaze. “Dad was respected.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed. “Dad was a sonofabitch who cared about power far more than he cared about people. He ruined lives as easily as he buttered toast. That’s not you, Jonah. I’m your brother. I know—"

“All right, listen, I appreciate this whole do-gooder speech, but let me assure you that my conscience is perfectly clear where my job is concerned. Murray Ridgley may very well have committed this crime.” Murray Ridgley may very well be a monster. “But I’m not going to ask to be removed from his case. It would ruin me.”

Justin studied his brother for long moments before moving his eyes away again, toward the picturesque view. “I just have a feeling . . . you’re choosing a path here, Jonah.” He looked at him again, and this time Jonah detected sadness in his brother’s eyes before he gave him a small smile. “Quitting this case . . . you’re right, it would probably mean your career at this firm was over, but you always have a job with me.”

Jonah chuckled. “Fighting injustice for little more than pocket change? That’s your calling.”

Justin released a laugh that contained more breath than levity. “I could use a little help. There’s a lot of injustice in the world, bro.”

“Some might say it’s worthless to try to fight against it.”

“Some might.”

As he looked at the person he loved most in the world, something pressed on his chest, some weightiness he wasn’t sure how to explain. A feeling that— His phone rang, breaking the strange sort of trance that had descended upon Jonah. “I really gotta get back to work. Can we talk later?”

Justin nodded, his smile sad again as he moved past Jonah. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Sure, Jonah. Let’s talk later.” And with that, he turned and walked out of Jonah’s office, shutting the door behind him.

The phone continued to ring, but Jonah didn’t answer it. Instead, he walked to the window and stared out at the sweltering summer day, that feeling returning to his chest again—pressing. I miss my brother, Jonah realized. He had been avoiding him. But after this case was over, he would make it a point to see Justin more often.

Absentmindedly, Jonah brought his hand to the place where his heart lay and massaged lightly.

You’re choosing a path here, Jonah.

But he’d already chosen it. There was nothing to be done now.

Two weeks later, as Jonah lay in a pool of spreading blood, the charred smell of his mutilated flesh heavy and rancid in his nostrils, his brother’s words would come back to him, flowing lazily through his mind like the misty wisps of a forgotten dream.

You’re choosing a path. Let’s talk later.

But there would be no talking to his brother later.

His brother was dead.

The screaming dimmed enough for Jonah to register the high-pitched expulsion of air rasping from his smoke-drenched lungs.

He was whistling again.

Only this time, there was no tune.

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day

“Extend your arm. Clara, you are supposed to look like a swan but you look like a duck. Begin again.” The music came to a sudden halt and there was a collective—though quiet—groan from the other dancers. Heat rose in Clara’s face as she noticed the disdainful glares shot in her direction. Being the new girl in the New Orleans Ballet was proving to be everything she’d feared. And more.

“Yes, Madame Fournier.” Clara returned to her mark, positioning her body as the music began again. I am a swan. I am a swan, she chanted in her mind.

The problem was, despite her focus on a gracefully extended arm, Clara felt like a duck. One very much out of water.

As practice ended and the other dancers began gathering their things, Clara walked to her duffle bag, putting her foot on the bench and untying the silken ribbons of her pointe shoes.

“A girl I know went to the Goddard School with her,” Belinda Baker whispered from behind Clara, clearly referring to her. “She was the recipient of that Dance For Life Scholarship, otherwise she never would have gotten in.” Clara swung her duffle bag over her shoulder, glancing back at Belinda, who obviously hadn’t realized she was there, her eyes widening in surprise as their gazes met. Clara turned and quickly walked out of the theater.

It was true what Belinda had said: Clara’s father had sacrificed in every way possible so she could follow her dream of becoming a professional ballerina. But he never could have afforded that school without assistance. Clara was proud of that scholarship, and she wouldn’t let a couple of gossipy girls make her feel differently.

Still, thoughts of her father caused that familiar ache to take center stage in her chest and she had to force herself not to tear up. Her recent move to New Orleans had been hard, the fact that her reception in the ballet had been less than . . . warm only compounded that hardship, and this feeling of melancholy seemed to be her constant companion.

She spotted the bus rounding the corner and speed-walked to make it to the bus stop a block away, fumbling for her phone. “Thanks,” she said breathlessly as she scanned her mobile ticket, and the bus driver gave her a wide, welcoming smile. She smiled back, grateful for what felt like a little sunshine on a cloudy day.

Thirty minutes later, she stepped off the air-conditioned bus, the heat hitting her and causing a physical jolt. If she were living a story, the New Orleans summer heat would be a character all its own. A large, corpulent fellow with sleepy eyes and steamy breath. Intense and all-consuming.

A lock of blonde hair fell loose from her bun and Clara tucked it behind her ear, as the smell of something savory and delicious met her nose, wafting from the house on the corner and distracting her from the mugginess. Comfort food. What was it about almost all the Louisiana cuisine she’d sampled that seemed to minister not only to the palate but to the soul?

The smooth, plaintive sound of a saxophone from an open window somewhere nearby wound through the tree branches and seemed to penetrate Clara’s skin.

Is there anything lonelier than the distant sound of a singular instrument floating on the wind? she mused.

But then another sound joined that lonesome melody—a sweet, rich voice accompanying the notes, weaving, growing louder, clearer. The music—both distant and close by and yet somehow still a seamless duet—filled Clara, causing her skin to feel charged and her heart to lighten. She knew that voice. It sounded like smoke mixed with molasses and so often carried hymns along the street where Clara lived.

The voice halted. “Well hello, darlin’.”

Clara smiled even before she looked up at Mrs. Guillot rocking in her rocking chair at the end of the block where Clara rented a small garden apartment.

“You looked so deep in thought I hardly wanted to disturb you,” the old woman said with a smile.

Clara opened Mrs. Guillot’s black, wrought iron gate and slipped inside, climbing the brick steps and sitting on the second wooden rocking chair that usually sat empty. “Just going over the moves from practice today.”

“Ah. How is it going with the other swans?”

“All right. I just wish . . . ” What did she wish? That they didn’t act so petty? That she’d make a friend? Feel more accepted and not as if she were being judged and found lacking? Clara shook her head. “I wish I knew at least one person here. Starting from scratch is harder than I imagined it would be.”

Mrs. Guillot smiled kindly. “Well, you do know one person. You know me.”

“Oh, Mrs. Guillot, I didn’t mean—”

“Nonsense, child.” She laughed. “I know what you meant. I was only teasing you. A young woman like yourself needs other young people. You’ll find them. Don’t you worry your pretty little head now.”

Clara released a breath. “I know. And that will be nice. But I’m grateful for you too.” It was true. Mrs. Guillot had been so kind to Clara since she’d moved to New Orleans two months before, offering up her knowledge about the city, giving her directions when she needed them, and sitting and chatting when Clara had a few minutes now and again.

“I know, darlin’.” She paused. “How’s your dad? Have you spoken to him?”

A stab of pain pricked at Clara’s insides as she shook her head. “I wish. His moments of clarity are so few and far between now.”

Mrs. Guillot studied Clara for a moment, her gaze filled with the sincere sympathy of someone who knew the pain of loss. Of course she did. How many times had Mrs. Guillot grieved in her lifetime? “Well now, sweet thing, that’s two wishes. Go give one of them to Angelina.”

“Angelina?”

“Mm-hmm. You’ve been in New Orleans for a couple of months now. You haven’t heard of the weeping wall?”

The weeping wall. A strange tremble went down Clara’s spine. “No. Where is it?”

“Why, it’s at Windisle Plantation.”

Windisle Plantation. Clara took the duffle bag from her lap and placed it on the ground next to her chair, leaning forward slightly. “Will you tell me about it, Mrs. Guillot?”

Mrs. Guillot’s gaze moved away from Clara, out to the ancient magnolia tree that grew in the yard next door, its giant white blossoms and glossy green leaves shimmering in the last rays of the summer sun.

She settled herself back in her chair, the old wood squeaking as her eyes met Clara’s once more. “It’s a sugar plantation that was built more than two hundred years ago.” Clara realized she was holding her breath. She released it slowly so as not to distract Mrs. Guillot from her story. “Oh, some call it sacred. And some call it cursed. But everyone does agree that it’s haunted.”

Mrs. Guillot’s brown, gnarled hands gripped the arms of the rocking chair, the wedding ring she still wore glinting in the final vestiges of daylight. “You see, darlin’, a young woman named Angelina Loreaux, broken-hearted by her lover’s betrayal, took her own life in the rose garden, and that is where her restless spirit lingers still, along with the ghost of the man who rejected her, denied eternal peace by the tragic results of his worldly actions.” Mrs. Guillot smiled ruefully. “Though I’ve always thought if such a thing were true—if people are destined to haunt the earth because of their selfish human choices—why, there wouldn’t be any souls in heaven at all.” Mrs. Guillot’s lips tipped, and internally, Clara agreed. No, in that case, she suspected heaven would be quite empty.

“What a heartbreaking story.”

Mrs. Guillot nodded solemnly. “Oh yes.”

“Who was she? Angelina, I mean. Was she the daughter of the plantation owner?”

“Well, yes. Robert Chamberlain was his name. But she was also the daughter of Mama Loreaux, a kitchen slave who bore his illegitimate daughter. Mama Loreaux was a striking woman with dark, perceptive eyes, they say, and known among her fellow slaves to practice a West African form of voodoo passed down by her mother and her grandmother. She used herbs and charms to provide relief from every ailment under the sun. Their daughter, Angelina Loreaux, was a beautiful, spirited child, beloved by her mother and her father. It’s said that Robert Chamberlain was enchanted by his little girl and would rock her on his knee on the front porch of the plantation house . . . much to the chagrin of his wife and legitimate children, who tolerated Angelina though not much more.”

Intrigued, Clara tilted her head in wonder, soaking in every word of the story. How utterly tragic. It stole her breath.

“Angelina grew up in the Chamberlain kitchen under the careful watch of her mother, charming her own family of slaves and visitors to the plantation alike. Quick to laugh, possessing kindness as warm as sunshine, a spirit as delicate as the wings of a hummingbird, and the rare beauty of an exotic flower, she was very easy to love. Or so it’s been said.”

“Where does all this information come from, Mrs. Guillot?”

“Oh, the other slaves who lived at Windisle, I imagine. It’s been passed down through generations. Why, my own grandmother told me the story of Angelina Loreaux and John Whitfield when I was knee-high to a mosquito.” She laughed, the sound melodic and sweet.

“Anyway, the way the story goes, when Angelina was seventeen, she met John Whitfield, a young southern soldier from an extremely wealthy family, who was at the plantation. They spent only a short time together but John became enchanted by the beautiful Angelina.” Mrs. Guillot frowned. “It’s said they both fell in love, but I find it hard to believe due to what occurred later.”

“He betrayed her,” Clara whispered. “And she took her own life.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Guillot nodded. “But before that, they became lovers in secret.”

In secret. Of course, Clara thought. What a completely different world they lived in. Her own problems, her own sadness suddenly seemed . . . well, not minor exactly. But how terrible would it be to fall deeply in love with someone and have to keep it hidden like a shameful secret? It would be unbearable, wouldn’t it? “How did he betray her?” Clara asked, almost afraid to know.

“Well, oh I guess it’d be in 1860 or ’61, John was called to serve in the Civil War. He left Angelina, making promises to return to her. Angelina waited, loving him unendingly, her pure and tender heart filled with hope for the future they'd somehow create together. She must have been a dreamer, that one.” Mrs. Guillot looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps it seemed to her that she'd finally found a place to belong in a world where she felt part of nothing at all.” Mrs. Guillot smiled. “But that’s just my own supposing.”

“It makes sense,” Clara murmured.

Mrs. Guillot frowned. “However, John's heart was not as true, and he sent a note through his family telling Angelina he no longer loved her, and she should forget him as he'd already begun to forget her.”

She started to rock again, the squeaking of the chair breaking the silence that had descended upon the street. The saxophone player had put away his instrument at some point and Clara hadn’t even noticed. “Angelina was shattered and she fled to the rose garden. It was there, the place where she'd first met her beloved, that she took one of her father's razors to her wrists.”

Clara gasped, sorrow flooding her heart, though she’d already been told the outcome.

Mrs. Guillot nodded as if she’d perfectly understood Clara’s small intake of breath. “Yes, I know. Mama Loreaux found her daughter, and they say her keening cry of horror carried on the wind to every corner of Windisle Plantation and far beyond. She held her daughter's sweet head in her arms and cursed the love that had taken her precious girl, calling to the spirits that John never find true love, in this life or the next.”

Mrs. Guillot sighed. “John came home from the war and lived alone until his death, indeed never finding love at all. He was rarely seen in public, and it was said he suffered frequent flashbacks from the war. He contracted tuberculosis in his late thirties and died of the disease shortly thereafter.”

Good! Clara was tempted to say. But she didn’t. It seemed wrong to curse someone who was already dead. And already cursed.

They were both silent for several moments as Clara let the story filter through her mind. She felt somehow taken over by the sad tale, as if it had not only piqued her interest but had wrapped itself around her bones, her very being. “How is the weeping wall tied to the story? And why do people make wishes there?”

Mrs. Guillot’s deeply lined forehead lowered in thought. “From what I remember, it’s believed that John and Angelina's spirits wander the rose garden, even still, unable to find rest, unable to find peace, always seeking the thing that will free them of the burden of their earthly sins. The locals believe that Angelina, somehow tangled up in the curse in a way no one truly knows, will grant a wish to those who slip one through the cracks in the wall surrounding Windisle.”

Mrs. Guillot smiled. “Angelina grants wishes, they say, to encourage more people to come, hoping that one special someone will be able to solve the riddle and break the curse.”

“What riddle?”

Mrs. Guillot frowned again. “Well now, I don’t think I remember exactly how the riddle goes, but I do believe it was spoken by a voodoo priestess at some time or another. You could ask Dory Dupre at the neighborhood library. She’d probably remember or be able to look it up for you.”

Clara smiled, happy to be given a direction in which to learn more about the mystery. “I will. Do you know why it’s called the weeping wall?”

“It’s said that the wall weeps tears for the heartbreak and tragedy that came to pass behind it, for the spirits still trapped within. Now I don’t know about that as the few times I’ve been there, I never witnessed it, but it’s said that it will only stop weeping when John and Angelina's spirits are set free.”

“Who lives there now, Mrs. Guillot?”

“I don’t believe anyone does. It’s been empty for years.”

Clara’s thoughts were interrupted by the squeak of the gate as it opened. An old man holding a cane walked through, removing his hat and smiling bashfully up at Mrs. Guillot. “Bernice, fine evening, isn’t it?”

Clara glanced over at Mrs. Guillot, and though her skin was a beautifully deep mahogany, she swore there was a blush glowing on her wrinkled cheeks.

“Harry.”

Harry glanced at Clara, inclining his head. “I didn’t realize you had company. I was just on my evening stroll and thought I’d drop in and say hi.”

Clara stood, grabbing her bag. “Actually, I really should go. I have an early morning.” She leaned over and kissed Mrs. Guillot’s cheek, her papery skin as soft as velvet. “Thank you so much for telling me the story.”

“I don’t have a lot left, but I’m full to the brim with stories.” Mrs. Guillot laughed. “You go slip a wish or two through the cracks in that wall,” she said softly. “And say hi to Angelina for me.”

Clara nodded and shot a grin over her shoulder as she walked down the steps. “I will.”

“Oh and Clara dear,” Mrs. Guillot called. “I’ll have some more of that homemade liniment for you next time you stop by.”

Clara suppressed a grimace, smiling back at the sweet old woman. “Thank you, Mrs. Guillot.” She nodded at Harry as she moved past him, noting that he was looking pretty dapper in his pressed shirt and fedora for a simple evening walk. “Have a good evening, you two.”