It was beautiful, the oldest of the city-operated municipal cemeteries. Like in all the burial grounds in New Orleans conceived utilizing aboveground vaults, those spaces bore the mark of time, adding to a haunting and somewhat mystical appearance of the place. Begun in 1832, it held more than seven thousand dead, and while that was nothing compared to a few of the big cemeteries in New York, like many of those NY cemeteries, it held the dead from dozens of countries and American states. There were at least a thousand family vaults, laid out in a crosslike pattern with beautiful avenues and foliage where possible.

His family’s tomb was in a row behind the horizontal beam of the cross. The name Oliver had been carved into a stone archway at the top of the tomb. The first Oliver who had come to New Orleans had immigrated from Ireland around 1810, along with large numbers of other Irish as well as German immigrants who had settled the Irish Channel area around the same time. While Louisiana had a city named Lafayette west of New Orleans, Lafayette was once the area now encompassing the Irish Channel, the Garden District and the cemetery, hence the name of the cemetery.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come to stare at the family tomb.

While he’d been born in Florida himself—his mom had been a Gainesville native—he’d always loved New Orleans.

He was still fond of his home state, but he’d been haunted by the murders there—and the feeling that justice had not been served.

He’d had to leave.

As, apparently, had Katie Delaney. Then again, her cousin had been here. He had become her legal guardian. But, as an adult, she’d chosen not to go back.

He understood.

He could be interred in this tomb himself one day if he chose. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In New Orleans, one became ash pretty darned quickly: the blazing heat was said to cremate a body fully within a year and a day. And when one did, their remains were swept to join other remains in a holding cell to allow more of the dead to join the family.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted yet, and he hoped he had a while to decide.

Even if the life he had wanted was one that invited danger. Not that spying on errant husbands seemed to offer much danger at the moment.

“Buck up, cowboy,” he heard.

The soft voice was feminine and teasing. He turned to see a woman leaning against his family’s tomb.

New Orleans was known for the strange. For those who liked dress-up and masks.

This woman was dressed for a 1920s dance hall, in a form-skimming sheath with sequins and fringe, stockings and heels, and a cute little cap that was slightly askew on her head. She was posed with a long cigarette holder complete with a cigarette.