When Good Ghosts Get the Blues

Nothing spoils a vacation faster than a dead body.

All I wanted was ten ghost-free days to enjoy sightseeing New Orleans with my boyfriend. I dreamed of mornings spent wandering through art galleries and afternoons listening to live jazz music. Oh, and eating beignets until my pants stop buttoning.

I might as well have asked Santa for a unicorn.

Within thirty-six hours of setting foot in the Big Easy, an ancient ghost warns me of a murderous spirit lurking in the city, a strip-mall psychic tells me I look pregnant (I blame the beignets) and, oh, yeah, a dead body shows up on the set of my boyfriend’s TV show and he lands himself at the top of the suspect list.

If this karma, I must have been an ax murderer in a previous life.