Heading toward Magazine Street and searching for a place to park, Jake wondered at his wisdom in asking Ashley to join him in the Quarter. He should have wandered the streets alone. But he wasn’t sure what he expected. He didn’t think the three killer “witches” would be calmly walking down Bourbon Street. They had to know they’d been witnessed.
Then again, there were costume parties going on all over the city this week. Halloween would fall on Tuesday—and it was Wednesday now.
Just six days to go.
What was frightening was the fact the body count could rise in those few days. People blithely walking around, in and out of costume, thinking nothing of seeing witches. Parks had told him they were putting out a newscast so people would be on the lookout. But…
It was Halloween.
Which witch was which?
He found parking and looked down the street. Shops were outfitted for the season. Spiders, ghosts, goblins—and witches—were set in window displays.
They were everywhere.
He found the art shop—“Picture This”—right next to one of his favorite donut shops. A little bell tinkled over his head as he entered.
Inside, he found a good-sized showroom with a few fake walls set up to allow more space for paintings.
He saw many of the usual images found in this kind of NOLA shop—artists’ visions of Jackson Square, the Cathedral, Bourbon Street, the river… Steamboats, musicians on the street. Day-to-day life in the Big Easy. Some renderings were realistic, some had a touch of fantasy.
There were other paintings as well. One wall, dedicated to Halloween, had a painting of a laughing bevy of ghosts. Another showed the torment in a man’s eyes as he went from being a man to a werewolf. Another showed a beautiful witch in a pointed hat, staring sadly at the moon as if she, too, would turn into something evil once it rose higher in the night sky.
“Hello?”
A woman came from a doorway in the back—there was an office to the rear, Jake assumed.
She was middle-aged, of medium height, with short, curly red hair and a pleasant manner. She wore jeans and an attractive tailored shirt and jacket.
“Welcome.” She smiled. “May I help you? All of our work is done by local artists. Yes, sometimes you can find them working down at Jackson Square. But we love having a real home for our local talent, and this is it.”
“Nice,” Jake said, offering his hand. “I have to admit right off that I’m afraid I’m not here to shop. I’ve come to ask you about Shelley Broussard.”
“Oh,” she said softly. Her eyes appeared to water and her smile faded. “Shelley,” she whispered, turning toward the door as if the girl might be coming through it at any moment.
“I’m sorry to cause you distress. But we’re determined to find her killer.” He produced his badge and credentials. “Jake Mallory, ma’am. I understand she left work here, and that’s the last time she was seen.”
The woman nodded.
“Are you the owner?” he asked.
She nodded again. “Myself and my husband, Nick. I’m Marty—Marty Nicholson. We—we loved Shelley. That’s some of her work over there. Her mother hasn’t come and we’re thinking we may need funds for her funeral. She’ll be buried up in the Garden District. She loved Lafayette Cemetery. She has some family there so she’ll go in with them.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jake said. “Can I ask you some questions? Detective Parks believed her closest friends were here.”
“Yes. My husband and I… We were very fond of her. And our other girls as well. They were all best friends.”
“Your other girls?”
“Samantha and Emily. We met Shelley on Jackson Square. We’re not local—not originally. We’re from Texas. Anyway, Nick saw Shelley’s work one day when we were just out walking in the Quarter. She had such talent. Nick was very taken with her paintings from the get-go—and she was asking practically nothing for them. So, Nick being the good businessman he is, conceived the idea of the store here. He found the place to rent and got it up and going in less than a week. We found some other locals who were working for a fraction of what they were worth—and we offered them a venue. Each artist works in the store a few hours per week.”
“That was very kind of you and your husband.”
“I told you he’s a good businessman,” she said dryly. “We’re doing quite well.”
“That’s great to hear. Can you tell me anything about the day Shelley was last seen?”
“It was like any other day. She and Samantha Perkins were working the floor. Oh, Emily Dupont was here as well—she had just brought in that gorgeous painting of the riverboat over there. They were laughing together, and talking about meeting up that night. It’s ironic—Nick was telling them all to be careful. We’ve had a rash of crime going on.”
Jake nodded but didn’t interrupt her train of thought.
“They were going to meet at Lafitte’s.” She paused, swallowing. “Emily and Samantha went out as planned, but Shelley didn’t show. It was the next day—Sunday—when they…when they found her.”
“You saw her leave the shop?”
“Yes. She headed out and down the street. She was on foot. Shelley didn’t have a car.”
“If she had just gotten off work, why didn’t she go up to her room?”
“She had shopping to do, she told us. She wanted to buy a costume for Halloween. There are all kinds of balls in the city. One that honors Anne Rice. One that’s just huge and run by a guy who does vampire balls all over the world. And more—and more and more—every year.”
“She just left, walking down Magazine. And none of you saw her again?”
“No,” she whispered.
“May I see her room?”
“Sure.”
Marty Nicholson locked the front door and switched the Open sign to Closed.
She led him into the back, where there were canvases and easels, rows of paints and brushes and other paraphernalia.
“Stairs are here. And right in back, there’s a set that leads down to the street too.”
“Kind of you to give the girls a place to live.”
“Kind—and good business,” Marty said. “This way, there’s most often someone on the property. We have an alarm system, but if people know someone is almost always here, that will deter most petty crooks.”
“Good thinking.”
He followed her up the stairway. At the top was a small landing. There were three doors, all of them open. One was to a bathroom, one to a compact kitchen, and one to a dorm-like room.
No one was present.
The dorm room offered three beds, each with a nightstand by it. There was a closet and a large dresser. The drawers were labeled Emily, Samantha, and Shelley.
“I haven’t had the heart to clear out her things yet,” Marty murmured. “I need to do that.”
Jake walked over to Shelley’s bed first. He sat for a minute and waited, trying to sense Shelley, get a feel of her spirit.
Trying to see if, perhaps, it lingered.
He opened the drawer on her nightstand. There were phone chargers, pens, little sample perfumes, and a paperweight with the NOLA fleur-de-lis.
And a notebook.
He picked it up and flipped it open.
The first page was filled with enthusiasm about a new project. A painting of the Cathedral.
The second page talked about a boy she had met—she’d been crazy about him. He’d had to return to school in Philadelphia.
The third page…
Had only one sentence.
I believe…but what is right is right, and what is wrong…is very wrong.
The rest of the notebook was empty. He set it back in the drawer. As he did so, he saw something he’d missed at first glance. A crucifix. Gold and intricately worked.
“Beautiful,” he noted. “I’m surprised she wasn’t wearing this.”
“Oh, well… She was a free-thinker. Maybe she thought it was wrong to wear. She had compassion for everyone. She might have thought the church was too hard on sinners or something—I don’t really know.”
“I guess you’ll see that her mother gets it.”
The mother who hadn’t bothered to come get her.
“Yes, I suppose. I intend to box everything up. I’ll offer it to her mother—if she ever arrives. And if not… Emily and Samantha were her best friends.”
Jake rose. “Did she have any enemies? Any disputes—no matter how small—with anyone?”
“Good Lord, no. She was amazing. People loved her. Except—” She paused. “Oh, maybe it’s nothing.”
“What, please?”
“There was a young man. A really good-looking young man. He was in the shop several times. I know he had a thing for her. And she seemed to like him too, but… I think he came on a little strong. Nothing violent ever happened. I just heard her telling him one day she didn’t know. And he left in a bit of a huff.”
“What was his name?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe Emily or Samantha could tell you.”
“Where can I find them?”
“They’re both off, but they might be working at Jackson Square. I’ll get you their cell phone numbers. If you’re finished here?”
“A moment,” Jake said.
He opened Shelley’s dresser drawer. Nothing but jeans, leggings, T-shirts, and a few nice blouses.
He went into the closet. Labels there hung above the neatly arranged clothing.
Shelley Broussard had one long coat, a few jackets, and a few tailored shirts.
He checked the pockets. Nothing.
“Finished here,” he told Marty.
“Come on down,” she said.
In the storeroom below she paused at a desk, got paper, and looked in an appointment book, flipping to an address page. She wrote down numbers for him.
“Come anytime, Mr. Mallory. Um, Agent Mallory?”
“Jake. Call me Jake, ma’am. That will do. And yes, I’m sorry to distress you, but I probably will be back.”
He headed on out.
Right now, Jackson Square seemed the place to be.
* * * *
The wedding was set for Saturday, November 11. Luckily, many of the Krewe members were couples—maybe because they were some of the only people who might really understand one another and truly be able to share their lives. It would be easy to fit them into the main house and into some of the other outbuildings on the property. Donegal had never been burned, and many of the slave quarters remained. Frazier’s father had been the one to see that a sign above each read Lest We Forget.
Ashley had spent several hours talking about the wedding with her grandfather and Beth. Frazier was so excited—he’d been giving them very strong hints about marriage for a long time now. “I finally get to walk you down the staircase. And bless the saints, I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
“I’ll see that you make it to a hundred,” she promised.
But after they’d spoken, she was restless. Beth really had the whole “haunted plantation” going smoothly and Ashley didn’t want to interfere.
She thought about taking her horse out for a ride, but decided what she really wanted to do was go ahead and get to the city. Beth offered to drive her but she decided on Uber. It was an hour’s drive, and she felt a little guilty at the cost, but when her Uber driver arrived, he was enthusiastic—fare in, and fare out. It was a nice little piece of change for him.
She decided to treat herself to a late lunch in the Garden District at Commander’s Palace. Then she roamed Lafayette Cemetery for a few minutes, marveling at the beauty that had been given over to the dead. A stop in a Garden District bookstore enthralled her for nearly an hour. She made a purchase—a new book on the history of Orleans Parish—and then called another Uber and headed for Jackson Square.
Once there, she just walked around. Palm readers and spiritualists of all kinds were busy in front of the Cathedral.
And all around, musicians were playing.
Artists were hard at work, displaying their paintings and sketches and doing caricatures. She wandered, admiring a great deal of it, and then she paused, really loving a painting of the equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson that stood in the center of the square.
She saw that the artist—a woman in her early thirties, brown hair bound back in a bandana—was watching her.
“Stunning,” Ashley said.
“Thank you. I love the statue. I love… Well, I love everything here. I love New Orleans.”
Ashley smiled. “You’re not from here?”
“New York City. Can’t you tell?” The woman grinned.
Ashley laughed. “Ask me if I want a cup of coffee—that will let me know. Seriously, no, I didn’t. You don’t have much of an accent.”
“I’m from Manhattan. I guess the accents are mainly the Bronx and Brooklyn. Maybe Queens. Anyway, I came down here, and that was it. I’m home. I love this place. You’re local?”
“From about an hour away,” Ashley said. “And I understand. I love the city, too. I love the old architecture. The music. The Cathedral and the buildings surrounding that magnificent statue of Jackson. The mule-drawn carriages, and the river and… Well, everything.”
A number of people were looking at the woman’s paintings so Ashley excused herself. She studied another piece, one that pictured buskers playing on Royal Street by the Omni Hotel. A crowd gathered while others walked by. The painting appeared to almost come to life.
“Oh, yes. Yes,” Ashley heard the woman say, and turned.
She was talking to a man who had walked up. He was probably close to fifty, but his age fit him well. He was tall and lean, with graying hair and a truly handsome, charismatic face.
He looked up and saw Ashley watching him. He smiled and she was surprised to feel a small sense of trembling. Of unease, almost.
She smiled in return and he walked over to her.
“Are you an artist, miss?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m a tour guide in Alexandria.”
“Well, if not an artist, you could certainly be an artist’s model. And if you like art, you must come by my place.” He produced a card and handed it to her. The card was well done, with pale images of the very area where they stood backing up the words. Picture This—Nick and Marty Nicholson, owners and operators.
“It’s on Magazine Street. Oh, are you familiar with the area?”
“Yes, I know Magazine Street,” she said.
“Come by. Miss Gerry here will now be displaying with us. We do our best to find the most amazing local talent—and then give them all a showcase. We… We’ve recently had a loss and we think that Gerry will fill it well.”
“That’s lovely. I will stop by,” Ashley said.
“Do,” he said softly. “And good day to you.”
If he’d been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it, Ashley thought. But he merely smiled and inclined his head, and then turned around and headed toward Chartres Street.
“Wow,” the woman he’d called Gerry said.
“Wow is right,” Ashley told her.
“Seriously, being asked to be a member of his shop… That’s huge. He gives you a place to live and everything. All I have to do is work at the shop for a few days each week. I’m so lucky.”
“That’s great. Absolutely great. Congratulations.”
The woman offered her hand. “Gerry. Or Geraldine. Sands. Gerry Sands. My signature on my paintings is hard to read. I can draw and paint, but go figure—my cursive is terrible. If you’d like that painting, I believe it will cost a great deal more once I’m moved over into the shop.” She laughed.
“I do love the painting and I want to buy it. I don’t have a car at the moment, though.”
“I’ll hold it for you. At the price on it now.”
“Done deal.” Ashley wrote out a check, deciding not to explain why it listed a Virginia address when she’d just said she was from the area. Thankfully, Gerry didn’t seem to notice.
Leaving the artist—and her newly purchased painting—Ashley continued her journey around the square. She realized now that many of the paintings being displayed were in honor of Halloween. Some were truly creepy.
Many were of witches.
When she left Jackson Square and crossed Chartres on her way up to Royal, she passed a number of places where Halloween was—just like at Donegal Plantation—out in full scale.
Ghosts.
Goblins.
Creatures.
Witches.
Here, there, and everywhere.
Watch out for witches.
Yep. Great advice. At Halloween.
She gave herself a mental shake at the sarcasm and hurried on to one of her favorite shops—Fifi Mahony’s—where she loved to browse the fantastic wigs created there and sometimes have her hair done in the salon.
She was due to meet Jake in an hour.
Witches.
She passed more and more of them. They were pictured in decals, in hanging decorations, and by mannequins in the front of shops.
Witches. Yes, here, there, and everywhere.
But, at least, no trio of witches.
She hurried up the steps and into Fifi Mahony’s.