Sisters of the Mist Read online

  Sisters

  of the Mist

  Eric Wilder

  Published by Gondwana Press

  Edmond, Oklahoma

  Front Cover by Andres Grau

  © 2017 by Gary Pittenger

  All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Please check out all of Eric’s books at his Smashword’s homepage and his Website.

  Front Cover by Andres Grau

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or in part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  Thanks for taking the time to read this book. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or tell your friends about this series to help spread the word. Thank you. I greatly appreciate your support.

  I wish to thank Don Yaw for providing hours of editing and structural advice. I also would like to thank beta readers Michael Redd, Ray Roush, and Linda Hartle Bergeron for all their helpful recommendations. I want to thank my wife Marilyn, and the readers for being wonderful.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Excerpt – New Orleans Dangerous

  Book Notes

  Other Books by Eric Wilder

  About the Author

  Eric's Links

  Chapter 1

  A silent moan died in my throat as my cat Kisses awoke me from a recurrent nightmare. She was standing on me, kneading dough on my chest as she licked my face with her emery board tongue. My heart raced, and I wondered if she could feel it. When I’d regained my senses, I gave her a full-body stroke that ended with the tip of her mostly missing tail.

  “Did I wake you?” I said.

  After arching her back to maximize my caress, she stopped licking and kneading and jumped off the bed. Grabbing my old robe, I followed her to the door leading to my second-floor balcony. The wind had blown it open sometime during the night, and a chill breeze greeted me as I stepped out onto the little terrace overlooking Chartres Street. Though it was dark, the lack of visibility resulted from more than just a power outage.

  Thick fog rolling in from the river had all but engulfed the French Quarter thoroughfare. Headlights penetrated dark gloom as I stared up the street. A slow moving taxi, searching for one last fare, passed beneath me, honking its horn at a stray dog. The taxi swerved to miss the dog, and then disappeared into murky darkness. The foghorn of a passing freighter on the nearby river sounded muted and far away. Feeling a damp chill in the air, I pulled the robe tightly up around my neck.

  Kisses stood at the edge of the balcony, her head protruding through the wrought iron railing, staring at something I couldn’t see.

  “What is it, girl?”

  Whatever she was staring at was invisible to me because of the dimly illuminated rolling fog. It didn’t matter. Cats see in the dark. I had no doubt something had focused Kisses’ attention. It was then I saw it: another set of headlights shining through the fog as it moved toward us.

  Unlike the glare from the taxi, this was as dim as the fog itself. I watched, transfixed as the long hood of a ghostly white limousine penetrated the fog. It passed beneath me on the street. More vehicles followed. Except for one, all were ghostly white, their passengers but gray outlines through the smoky windows.

  A black carriage pulled by a prancing stallion, tendrils of steam wafting from its nostrils, appeared through the dense fog. In the back of the carriage, wreaths and garlands of white roses draped a gold coffin. The carriage was a funeral hearse. It had no driver.

  One last vehicle followed the black hearse: a pearly white, stretch limo. Its tinted windows, all except for one, were closed. As I stared at the passing vehicle, the young woman in the window with snowy white hair gazed up at me. It was a person I recognized. Rushing to the railing, I leaned over and called to her.

  “Desire, is that you?”

  She followed me with her eyes; bewitching eyes I could never forget. Sadness masked her face, and she didn’t answer. The limo had disappeared down the street when I realized the passing funeral procession had never made a sound.

  Chapter 2

  A gloomy day had turned rainy and overcast as Eddie Toledo waited in the drizzle outside the main building of the racetrack. Rain had begun dampening his long hair. Pulling the trench coat over his head, he gave up his grandstand seat and made a run for the entrance. After a quick glance at his watch, he let the door shut behind him.

  His friend, Wyatt Thomas was thirty minutes late. It was still an hour before the first race. Plenty of time to lay a bet or two. He double-stepped up the escalator to an upstairs bar he liked, planning to settle in at a table overlooking the track.

  Eddie had invited two attractive women he’d met at Bertram Picou’s Chartres Street bar. They hadn’t shown, and he was miffed. He needed a stiff drink and a racing form. The racing form could wait, and he could get a scotch in the dark bar. As he approached the bar, a familiar voice called to him.

  “Trying to ignore us, Mr. D.A.?”

  Eddie could barely see the person who had just spoken, though he recognized the gravelly voice in an instant.

  “Mr. Castellano,” he said, shaking the older man’s hand.

  “It’s Frankie,” the man said. “My dad was Mr. Castellano.”

  Castellano was probably mid-sixties with dark hair just beginning to gray around the edges. A red carnation matching the silk handkerchief in his coat pocket protruded from the lapel of his suit. Had it not been so dark in the cozy fern bar overlooking the expansive racetrack, you could have seen your reflection in his thousand dollar shoes. Frankie wasn’t alone. His companion, a very attractive, middle-aged woman, bounded from her seat and hugged Eddie.

  “How you been?” she said in her Italian-laced, old Metairie accent.

  “Adele! Been missing you, babe. How’s marriage treating you?”

  “Frankie swept me off my feet the first time I met him. Things haven’t changed. We been to Italy twice, Bermuda and two cruises. Believe me when I tell you I’m ready to stay home awhile and cook cannolis and lasagna for my wonderful husband.”

  Adele had dark hair and eyes, and a perfect olive complexion.
Her welcoming smile left no doubt about how much she liked Eddie. Another woman was with the happy couple. When Eddie’s eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, he saw she looked like a young Sophia Loren. Their eyes locked. For the first time in his life, he was speechless. Frankie rescued him.

  “Don’t have a coronary. This is my daughter, Josie.”

  “Then you better shoot me now because I think I’m in love.”

  The comment brought a frown to Frankie’s face, and a smile to the young woman as Eddie grasped her hand. He was wrong. She didn’t look like Sophia Loren. More like a Greek goddess with dark liquid eyes and black hair braided in intricate cornrows. Her black dress matched Adele’s, and he could only catch his breath.

  Adele bumped his shoulder with the palm of her hand. “What’s the matter, Eddie? Never seen a pretty girl before?”

  “Sorry,” he said, regaining his senses. “It’s just I didn’t expect to be in the presence of the two most gorgeous women in New Orleans.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” Adele said, hugging him again.

  “Watch it,” Frankie said. “Don’t be disrespectful or I may have to bump you off.”

  “Something I would never do,” Eddie said. “But you’d kill me now if you knew the thoughts I’m having about your beautiful daughter.”

  When Frankie frowned and started to stand, Josie grabbed his arm. She was laughing, her eyes dancing.

  “He’s just kidding, Papa. Isn’t someone going to introduce us?”

  “This pretty boy with the big mouth is Eddie Toledo. A Federal D.A. who works with the G-men downtown.”

  Josie ignored her dad’s sarcasm. “Happy to meet you, Eddie,” she said. “Will you join us?”

  Frankie grumbled as Eddie grabbed the chair beside Josie. His daughter’s laughter had stemmed his anger. It helped when Adele kissed his forehead, sat in his lap, and squeezed him to her ample breasts.

  With the races nearing, patrons had begun pouring into the bar. Frankie’s table was the best seat in the house with a panoramic view of the track through the wall-sized window fronting the room. Frankie’s frown returned.

  “What’s the matter?” Eddie asked. “Your horse throw a shoe before the big race?”

  “I don’t own quarter horses,” Frankie said.

  “Oh, why not?”

  “Thoroughbred racing is the sport of kings. Nobody likes quarter horses except a bunch of damn Mexicans.”

  “You kidding me?” Eddie said. “Quarter horses are among the fastest animals on earth. It’s still misting rain, and just take a gander at all those people filling the outside grandstand. What do you have against Mexicans?”

  “They been flooding the place ever since Katrina. Taking jobs that should go to Americans, living off welfare and paying no taxes. They also control the quarter horse business around here, and it’s time someone investigated.”

  “Is that a hint?” Eddie asked.

  “Someone needs to stop their nonsense.”

  “Most Mexicans I know are hard-working, church-going, law-abiding citizens,” Eddie said.

  Frankie snickered. “Now I get it. You’re a tree-hugging, bleeding heart liberal. I hope, at least, you’re not on their payroll.”

  Eddie let the thinly veiled accusation of corruption pass without replying to it.

  “I’m here to watch the ponies run, not to talk politics,” he said. “If you don’t like quarter horses, why are you here?”

  Josie raised a hand. “Blame me. They’re my favorite. I wanted to see the races today, so I dragged Dad and Adele along. He couldn’t come to a horse race without an entry, so he bought one.”

  “You’re running a horse today?” Eddie asked. “Thought you said you don’t own quarter horses.”

  “For Josie, I made an exception.”

  “And where did you get the horse?”

  “Just an old nag I picked up for next to nothing. Like Josie said, I hate watching a horse race unless I have one running.”

  “Uh huh. How’d you get a trainer and a jockey so fast?”

  Josie answered the question for him. “Dad has a horse farm north of Covington. Murky Bayou Farms. One hundred eighty acre working horse facility. All pasture under fence with pipe on three sides. Three stock ponds, sixteen-thousand square foot metal barn with twenty-four twelve by twelve stalls, tack room, feed room, wash rack, stocks, and storage galore. Exceptional apartment above barn with three bedrooms and two baths. Ten loafing sheds in the pasture.”

  “You sound like a real estate agent,” Eddie said.

  Josie nodded. “Because that’s what I am.”

  “Josie’s been in the ten million dollar club three years in a row,” Adele said.

  “Impressive,” Eddie said.

  “Are you in the market for a horse farm, Eddie?” Josie asked.

  He laughed. “Never gonna happen on my salary,” he said.

  Frankie frowned when Josie said, “You can visit Murky Bayou Farms anytime you like.”

  “Sounds like a great place,” Eddie said.

  “And so secluded. On the banks of a scenic bayou and ten miles from the nearest town. It’s like a slice of heaven on earth. Dad’s not a fan.”

  “Give me the city anytime. I don’t like having to drive twenty miles for a decent plate of spaghetti,” Eddie said.

  “You don’t have to drive anywhere,” Josie said. “Your very own world-class chef works full-time at the farm, and cooks you anything you like.”

  “That just ain’t the same,” Frankie said.

  “Sounds like heaven to me. Josie, I’ll take you up on that offer,” Eddie said. “I love horses.”

  “Want to see Dad’s quarter horse?” Josie asked.

  “Love to.”

  “You’ll miss the first race,” Frankie said. “Who you betting on?”

  “I don’t even have a racing form yet. You betting?”

  “Always, even if they are quarter horses.”

  “Then here’s a twenty. Can you pick a winner for me?”

  “You trust me with your money?” Frankie said.

  “You kidding? If I had your money, I’d burn mine.”

  Josie grabbed Eddie’s hand. “We’ll be back,” she said.

  She led him through the crowd starting to gather for the first race. It was still misting rain when they reached the paddock. Eddie didn’t care, too enthralled by the gorgeous young woman pulling him through the throng of spectators viewing the horses parading out for the first race. The crowd abated when they reached the stalls.

  “That’s Lightning Bolt,” she said.

  She petted the mane of the black stallion, its head protruding from the stall.

  “This is your dad’s horse?” Eddie asked.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “Doesn’t look like a nag to me. Check out his muscular hindquarters and barrel chest. He’s the best looking horse in the paddock area.”

  “He is simply beautiful,” Josie said. “I love the lightning-shaped blaze on his face. That’s how he got his name.”

  Eddie glanced at the horse. “What blaze?”

  Josie touched the wet dye on Lightning Bolt’s forehead.

  “Someone must have used shoe polish to cover it up.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “No idea. You’ll have to ask Dad,” she said,

  Even without the distinctive blaze, the horse was gorgeous. Someone had braided its mane and tail with a red ribbon and decorated his fetlocks with bright red tape. He looked ready for a horse show competition.

  “The way he’s all dolled up, someone must expect him to win.”

  “Dad says he’s never won a race. Precisely the reason he was able to buy him so cheaply. He’s forty-to-one in the morning line.”

  “Guess looks are deceiving,” Eddie said. “We better head back. From the sound of the crowd, the first race just finished. If we stay away much longer, your dad will come looking for me with a gun.”

  “He wo
uldn’t do that, silly. He’s a pussycat.”

  Eddie knew differently, though refrained from voicing his opinion. He followed her through the crowd of people, some with smiles, others with frowns, returning from the betting windows.

  “If you say so,” he said.

  Adele was back in Frankie’s lap, and both were smiling when Josie and Eddie joined them at the table overlooking the track. Frankie handed Eddie a wad of cash.

  “You won,” he said.

  “Wow! Must have been a long shot.”

  “Can’t make any money betting on the favorite,” Frankie said.

  “How’d you know it would win?”

  “Betters’ luck,” Eddie said. “There’s no other way to bet on these damn quarter horses.”

  A waitress in a revealing skirt and skimpy blouse brought everyone fresh drinks. Josie saw Eddie glancing at the young woman’s long legs clad sexily in black mesh stockings. She smiled at him when he realized she’d caught him looking. He grinned back at her and shrugged his shoulders. Adele also noticed.

  “Eddie likes the ladies,” she said.

  “Guilty as charged, your Honor,” he said.

  “At least he ain’t looking at my legs,” Frankie said. The comment caused both Josie and Adele to erupt into laughter. “What’s so funny?” he demanded.

  Neither of them answered, or stopped laughing. Frankie rolled his eyes as he sipped his drink.

  “Can I have a look at your racing form?” Eddie said.

  Frankie handed it to him. “For all the good it’ll do you,” he said.

  Eddie thumbed through the magazine. “Is pure speed all you look at?” he asked.

  “Lots more than that,” Josie said.

  “Please tell me.”

  “The races are short. Most are less than a quarter mile and last only twenty seconds, or so.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “There isn’t much time to correct a mistake made coming out of the gate. A bump can end a horse’s race before it starts. There’s also the matter of track bias.”