Read Online Southern Ruby by Belinda Alexandra - Free Book Online Page B

protector was shattered and, driven to drink, died the following year.
    It was a heartbreaking story, but instead of being moved the tourists glanced at their watches. Sally had missed an opportunity to milk the tale for all it was worth. Maman would have told the story with tears choking her voice. Any decent storyteller would have!
    The tour came to an end and, despite looking less than satisfied, the tourists tipped Sally with notes not coins. Those people hadn’t signed up for a ghost tour like that, I thought, as I walked home. If they were interested in facts, they would have taken a historical or architectural tour. Instead they’d wanted to hear about objects moving by themselves, lights turning on and off, mysterious footsteps, and transparent figures appearingat the foot of a bed. They’d chosen a ghost tour because they wanted to be scared out of their wits. I knew I could run a better tour than Sally had.
    The following day, I jotted down ideas for ghosts who would interest tourists. There was no use taking them around the French Quarter, where I would be recognised by people who knew me and Maman, so I settled on the Garden District, which had plenty of grand and spooky homes of its own. It was a hundred and fifty years since the French had sold New Orleans to the Americans, and yet we Creoles still maintained our superior attitude towards them. The Americans had been industrious people who worked around the clock and lived prudently in order to make money. We were people who valued leisure and frivolity above all other pursuits. These days, with a sick mother to think about and the de Villeray fortune a thing of the past, perhaps a bit of prudence wasn’t a bad thing.
    As I gathered material for my stories, I decided that I would need to dress the part of a ghost tour guide. My pale skin and dark hair would work well for an ‘otherworldly’ style; all I had to do was wear dark red lipstick and a black velvet dress Maman kept in the back of her wardrobe and hadn’t worn for years.
    I had business cards printed up and left them at luxury hotels like the Roosevelt and the Monteleone:
    Selene Moon
    Specialist Ghost Tour Guide — The Garden District
    Three o’clock, Tuesday and Thursday afternoons
    Corner of St Charles Avenue and Washington Avenue
    â€˜Oh!’ said Mae, shaking her head when she learned what I was up to. ‘No good can come of this, Miss Ruby. No good at all! All those stories you’re making up will catch you out one day. Besides, you don’t even have a licence from the city.’
    â€˜Don’t be so pessimistic,’ I told her. ‘Of course good will come of it. Wouldn’t you like to see Maman better? Wouldn’t you like a washing machine?’

    To my delight, on my first day twenty tourists turned up at the intersection of St Charles and Washington avenues. As they stepped off the streetcar, I sized them up. The women’s eyes sparkled with excitement, but the men stood with folded arms, aloof and superior.
    I asked the tourists to say where they were from. A couple from New York seemed like hard nuts, while two sisters from Wisconsin shifted from foot to foot eagerly. The others — Texans, Washingtonians and Californians — were difficult to read. It was a varied group to deal with, and I knew that like in a game of vingt-et-un I had to get the upper hand quickly.
    â€˜Ghosts are everywhere in this city,’ I told them before we embarked on the tour. ‘We New Orleanians talk about them as naturally as you might speak about the weather or the price of oil. They are part of the fabric of the city.’ I leaned forward and added in a whisper, ‘The wraiths of New Orleans will sit with you in a restaurant and all you’ll feel is a chill on your arm; they’ll stand behind you while you watch the parades and whisper in your ear; they’ll ride with you on the streetcar and the only clue will be a