Thigh High by Christina Dodd

that—they’ve never held the shit end of the stick.”
    An involuntary gust of amusement caught her by surprise, and she shook with laughter.
    He watched her. “Right?”
    â€œYou most definitely are right.” So while he gave off the aura of wealth, at one time, he’d been poor. Poor enough to understand how poverty could grind one down, trap one in a dead-end job, and eat away at one’s confidence until that person feared to make a move because disaster loomed so high.
    â€œWhat would you do if you had to make the decision between honor and a meal on the table?” he asked.
    She thought of her aunts, and the tight ball of worry in her stomach twisted tighter. “I’d feed my family. But don’t tell anyone I said so.”
    â€œThe Civil War is long over.”
    â€œThe War between the States,” she corrected. “And it isn’t over here.”
    He looked down at her. Just looked, and she caught a sudden glimpse of how those long-ago Southern belles must have felt when the conquering Yankee troops marched into town. “Mardi Gras keeps the cabs busy. We won’t get one standing here. Let’s go up to Esplanade Avenue—it borders the French Quarter, and we’ve got a better chance.” She walked.
    He followed. “You were telling me about the history of the bank.”
    â€œRight.” She slid off her jacket and wished for a breeze. “A wealthy carpetbagger, a Mr. Frederick Vycor, bought the house next. He lived there for eighteen years, and it was he who turned the lower floor of the house into a bank. He built the vault to hold the fortune he collected by foreclosing on war widows and their children. He grew paranoid about his safety and would lock himself in with his money at night.”
    â€œA legend.”
    â€œMaybe. But as it turned out, Mr. Vycor was right to be paranoid. One morning he didn’t make his appearance in the bank. When the browbeaten workers finally unlocked the vault, they found him inside, bludgeoned to death.” She lowered her voice to a mysterious hush. “Money was scattered across the floor. But not a dime was missing.” She had told the story before, and she told it well.
    But rather than the usual expressions of horror and surprise, Jeremiah again stopped and looked back at the bank, studying every inch of its structure. “Then one of two things happened. He let his attacker in. That’s the most likely scenario. Or he built an escape hatch, and someone found their way in.”
    â€œFine. Ruin a great tale,” she muttered.
    â€œIt’s a tale that’s impossible to ruin.” He lowered his voice to the same mysterious hush she’d used. “Because no matter what the means of his demise, his greedy ghost still haunts the vault.”
    â€œYou’ve already heard this one?” she asked, disappointed.
    â€œI already know how to play this game.”
    She laughed. “I am properly abashed. And yes, his ghost does haunt the vault. I’ve been told an encounter is unforgettable, because at the time of his death he weighed four hundred pounds and smoked Cuban cigars.”
    â€œAnd indulged in wild sex?”
    â€œIn the vault? No, I never heard that.”
    â€œSo it’s a virgin vault?”
    If she wasn’t careful, she would come to like this Yankee. “New Orleans would have liked him better if he had indulged in wild sex—of any kind. We understand dissipation. No one understands a man who chooses to separate himself from his kind to better justify his cruelties.”
    â€œWas he cruel?”
    â€œWidows and children were left homeless on his behest.” A fate she intimately feared, if not for herself, for her great-aunts. “He owned property all over this city, beautiful homes, some of them—and he slept in a vault. He was a vampire.”
    â€œAnother creature for which New Orleans is famous.” Jeremiah