“So that’s it,” Ashley said, facing the façade of “Picture This.”
It was like any other art shop. The large picture windows featured some of the best of what was to be found inside. An Open sign was in the front door.
They had left the French Quarter behind for the wonders of Magazine Street, which was lined with more restaurants, clubs, and shops, many of these the favorite haunts of locals.
The costume shop was still down the street. But the art shop fascinated Ashley. And Jake hadn’t yet reached the other two girls—Emily Dupont and Samantha Perkins.
One—or both of them—might be working now.
“I say we go in,” she added.
Jake looked at her uneasily. “Maybe you shouldn’t be associated with me.”
“Ah, but maybe I should be.”
Ashley didn’t give him a chance to protest. She opened the door. A bell tinkled as she did so.
There were others in the shop. An attractive brunette of about thirty was helping a couple who were enamored with a painting of Royal Street. The picture captured the beautiful Hotel Monteleone and a group of musicians playing just across the street, all facing the neon lights of Canal Street.
Ashley began to wander, and Jake followed close behind.
“These are beautiful—and interesting,” Ashley said, pausing before a group of paintings.
They were odd. One was of a werewolf—tortured as he changed from man to beast.
Another showed a witch—not a cackling, big-nosed witch, but a lovely young witch with huge round eyes. She was staring up at the moon with fear. The painting was both beautiful and somehow tragic.
“They were created by our victim,” Jake said softly. “Shelley Broussard.”
“It’s as if her mind was…tortured.”
“Maybe she knew she didn’t have much time left,” Jake murmured. “Maybe her paintings were a cry for help.”
“Yes. And maybe a way to…to lead people to her killer.” Ashley turned. “She was afraid, Jake. She was afraid of exactly what happened to her. She did something—or maybe didn’t do something? But what was it exactly?”
Jake had reviewed his notes in the car so he didn’t need to look at them now. In fact, he’d memorized the words.
“I believe…but what is right is right, and what is wrong…is very wrong.”
“It sounds as if she was having a crisis of faith—or maybe heart? Something.”
“Possibly.” Jake shrugged. “Tomorrow I’m going to reach that girl’s mother—the one who can’t quite get herself to leave Texas to claim her daughter’s body.” He shook his head.
The thirtyish brunette came over to them wearing a big smile. “Hello, welcome. I’m Emily Dupont. May I help you?”
Ashley quickly put out a hand. “Hi. I met Mr. Nicholson today and he told me I just had to come and see the shop. I’m Ashley.”
“An art connoisseur?” Emily asked. She seemed to be an easy, relaxed person, happy where she was and eager to share art with others.
“Hardly.” Ashley laughed. “I tend not to be too fond of modern art—or paintings called ‘Black’ that are just black. I pretty much fall in love with a piece or I don’t. It might be a child’s rendering or something hailed in the art world as the next great thing.”
Emily laughed softly. “That’s an art connoisseur to me. So how do you like the shop? And, by the way, I’m not here to pressure you. Just to help.”
“Thank you.”
Emily looked at Jake, who hadn’t yet introduced himself.
“I’m Jake Mallory,” he said. “I was here earlier today. I’m consulting with the police. We’re going to solve the murder of Shelley Broussard.”
Emily’s smile faded. Tears sprang into her eyes. “Shelley,” she whispered.
“I’m so sorry,” Jake said.
Emily quickly wiped her face. “Sorry. We’re trying to keep things going here. Sadly, eating and bill paying come out of working, and so… But poor Shelley. I still can’t believe it.”
“You were close friends,” Ashley said.
“We lived together, we worked together. I loved her. She was a—sister.” Emily paused to look around. The couple was still studying the painting of Royal Street or Rue Royale, as the painting had been titled. “I have no idea what she was doing, or where she was going, or… I just don’t know.”
“Why was she upset?” Jake asked her.
“Upset?”
Jake nodded. “Her murder was personal. She had a sign around her neck. It read Traitor. Who did she betray?”
Emily shook her head. “She didn’t say anything to me. Or Samantha. Samantha is our other roommate. My other roommate now, I guess. We talked every night. Oh, we weren’t wed to one another—we all went out with other friends and did our own thing. But we were together so often at night—as if we were back in high school and it was a slumber party.”
“I believe…but what is right is right, and what is wrong…is very wrong,” Jake said.
“What’s that?” Emily asked, frowning.
“Something Shelley wrote in her notebook,” Jake said.
Ashley watched Emily as her face knit in consternation. She seemed to change color slightly—either baffled or disturbed.
“She was cheerful—she was supposed to meet Samantha and me the night she… The night she just disappeared.”
“She didn’t come home,” Ashley said. “None of you were worried?”
“Well, she’d hinted that she’d met a man.”
“I heard she’d fought with a man—maybe not fought, but had a negative response to him. Do you know who he was? A boyfriend?”
Ashley heard a door opening—not the front door, but a door in the back of the shop.
She looked up. The tall, dignified man she’d met earlier was coming in.
He might have been in the back—perhaps trying to listen to what was going on.
But now, he headed straight for them, beaming.
“Hello. And welcome. So, miss, you took me up on my invitation. The shop is wonderful, right?”
This time, Jake chose to identify himself. “Special Agent Jake Mallory, Mr. Nicholson. I met your wife earlier. And you happened to meet Ashley in the Square. We’re about to head to a party, but saw the shop was open.”
“We keep these doors open until eleven—we’re on a street with clubs and restaurants and lots of people,” Nicholson told him. “We do a great business when others might well be closed. No hardship on anyone, between our artists and my wife and myself. Anyway, what do you think?”
Ashley was surprised when Jake answered bluntly. “I’m surprised that you—that you had a young woman so close to you brutally murdered—and you’re going about business as usual.”
Emily gasped.
Nicholson’s jaw locked for a moment.
“We have to keep living,” he said finally. He pointed to the painting of the witch that had so captured Ashley. “We have to keep living, and we’re trying to see that we can bury poor Shelley. You have your nerve, Special Agent.”
“Sorry, I’ve just seen the crime photos,” Jake said. “You don’t have any video surveillance. Isn’t that a bit…odd?”
“Careless, you mean,” Nicholson said. “No. One of us is usually here.”
“Can you tell me anything about this man who seemed to be after Shelley?” Jake asked.
“Oh.” Nicholson inhaled and exhaled. “I’m going to say six-feet tall, or maybe six-one. Sandy blond/brown hair, short, but with kind of a piece that would go over his forehead now and then. Medium build. Twenties to, say…” He paused and looked at Emily.
“Twenties to thirties,” Emily said. “He came in several times. He always asked for Shelley. She was nice to him, but I think he wanted more from her. I saw her get a little sharp with him one day. And he appeared to be upset.”
“But you know nothing about him? Not even his name?” Jake asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Nicholson said. “Emily?”
She shook her head. “No. Nothing. I’d ask her if she knew him, and she’d look a little upset and say he was just a pain—one of those customers who didn’t really want anything except to bother the help.”
“Thank you,” Jake said. “Oh, by the way, was Shelley religious?”
Nicholson frowned. “Um, not that I know of.”
“I think she was Catholic,” Emily said. “I think I saw her go into the church by St. Louis.”
“Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel, on Rampart Street,” Jake said.
“I guess,” Emily murmured.
“Thank you,” Jake said. “Thank you so much. Mr. Nicholson, I’ve been asked by the police to pick up Miss Broussard’s notebook.”
“Her notebook?” Nicholson asked.
“It’s in her drawer upstairs.”
“You were in my room?” Emily asked.
“With Mrs. Nicholson,” Jake said.
“Oh, I see,” Nicholson said. “Well, I’ll go get it for you.”
“I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.”
Nicholson was about to protest, Ashley was certain. “And while you two are up there, I’d like to talk to Emily about buying a painting. One of Shelley’s paintings—I love it, and I’d like to help the cause as well.” She spoke enthusiastically.
“Sir, let’s get the notebook,” Jake said. “Maybe there will be a clue to the young man harassing her.”
Nicholson apparently decided protesting would make him appear to be defensive—or guilty of something. He shrugged. “All right.”
When they were gone, Emily stared at Ashley. “You don’t really want that painting,” she accused.
“I do. I think it’s haunting and beautiful. And tragic.”
When Emily told her the price, Ashley realized she’d gotten a bit carried away with art that day. But it suddenly seemed incredibly important to her that she own the painting.
Because in that painting, Shelley had been saying something. Ashley was sure of it.
As she finished the transaction and Emily wrapped the painting, Jake and Nick Nicholson came back into the studio. Jake was thanking the man sincerely for his help and cooperation.
“Anything to help,” Nicholson assured him.
When they were about to head out, Jake said, “Really, thank you. I haven’t been able to reach Samantha Perkins, so I will be back. When is she working next?”
“Tomorrow, during the day,” Emily answered.
“Thank you,” Jake said.
“Oh, and I understand you’ve filled her space with that lovely and talented young woman we both met today,” Ashley told Nicholson.
He nodded. “I try. I try to help all that I can.”
“She’s brilliant. She’ll do well.”
Emily was staring at Nicholson. She hadn’t been told yet that their third had already been replaced.
Jake took Ashley by the arm. Thanking Emily and Nicholson again, they headed on out.
“You think something is going on there,” Ashley said.
“Smells like a duck, looks like a duck…”
“But it would be impossible for his ‘girls’ to be the witches—Shelley was killed before the witches were even seen. And it could be crazy to associate the two murders. I mean, you said yourself Shelley was sweet. Tink was—well, he was pretty much a monster.”
“Quacks like a duck,” Jake said. “They bear watching. Now, what do you want to be for the party?”
“Uh, whatever. Anything.”
“Except a witch.” He muttered.
* * * *
Ashley had chosen to be a witch.
Not an ugly witch. Not a green witch with a huge hooked nose.
Instead, she’d found a costume that resembled the black gown worn by the girl in Shelley Broussard’s painting.
“No.” Jake didn’t agree with her choice. At all.
“I can’t possibly be mistaken for one of those creatures Tink saw. This is a good witch’s outfit,” Ashley said.
She stood on a little dais in the dressing room area, surrounded by mirrors. She was truly a beautiful witch. A jaunty black hat emphasized the gold in her hair. The raven-black color of the fabric enhanced the shimmering blue in her eyes.
There was no reason she shouldn’t wear the costume, except…
She could have been the girl in the painting.
“What did you choose?” she asked.
He’d found a costume that was some kind of a movie rip-off. Black cape and black mask.
No one would know who he was.
“Ashley, I’m just in costume. While that…”
“I think it’s important. Somehow.”
The clerk approached, offering assistance. The costumes could be rented, but they were ridiculously cheap so Ashley said they’d purchase them.
Jake was still unhappy. Angry, even.
He wouldn’t be having Ashley come to meet him here again, he determined.
They left the shop, heading to the parking lot he’d found to get the car. The streets were busy.
A crazed trio of murdering witches was alive and well, but Halloween and tourism must go on, he mused.
Maybe he was taking this one a little too closely. But rather than focus on that he slid behind the driver’s seat to head to the refurbished warehouse in the CBD where the party was being held. He didn’t speak as they drove.
“Jake, you’re in danger all the time.”
“And I’ve been through rigorous classes in self-defense.”
“I’ve been with you through all of this for a long time.”
He didn’t answer her. Finding parking now was truly a project, so he concentrated on that instead. He had to drive around the area a few times and then slide into a parallel spot just as someone else was pulling out of it.
But they’d arrived. They could see others, dressed in all manner of costumes, ready to enjoy the party. He took Ashley’s hand as they headed on in, stopping at the door for Jake to tell the bouncer they’d been invited by Sammy Riley.
Then they were in. And Jake started looking for witches—and trios.
Sammy found them almost instantly. He hugged Ashley and congratulated her, saying how glad he was they’d come. “Hey, some of the band guys are old friends of yours—yours too, Ashley. Remember when you were kids? Well, when we were all kids. Jake and his guitar. Both of you and your vocals.”
“I was never going to be Jimmy Page,” Jake said. Most people knew Page as one of the founders of the band Led Zeppelin, but Jake considered him to be the best guitar player in the world.
“He’s a liar. He still plays all the time.” Ashley laughed. “Three guitars in the living room alone.”
“Maybe you could have been Jimmy Page,” Sammy said. “But never mind. Jimmy Page is Jimmy Page.”
“And I’m really satisfied and fulfilled with what I do,” Jake said under his breath.
“Still, you could sit in,” Sammy said. “And Ashley… Hey, man, maybe you could do that medley thing? That “Battle Hymn of the Republic with Dixie” riff you used to play. That would be really cool.”
“Maybe. Think we’ll hang for a while,” Jake said.
“Sure. Have fun. See you in a bit. I’m on.”
They made their way down to the floor before a large stage. The band introduced the “Ghouls at Halloween,” and Sammy took part in a really cute little skit about ghouls who wanted to dress up as children to get candy for Halloween.
Jake half watched the stage.
And half watched the audience.
He realized someone was watching him as well.
It was a man dressed as a vampire—“Vampire Lestat,” he realized, from the Anne Rice books. Such costumes were popular.
He was maybe just about six-feet. Average build.
Like half the males in the area.
But this guy looked as if he wanted to come and talk to Jake.
He almost moved over toward the man. But just then, Ashley tugged at his sleeve.
“Jake, there!”
He turned quickly.
A trio had come to stand near the stage, watching the players.
They weren’t witches.
They were clowns.
Evil clowns. Well, he thought, it was a party filled with musicians, artists, and writers. The attendees were definitely honoring beloved authors such as Anne Rice and Steven King. The clowns might have come right out of a novel.
They were moving toward a man dressed as King Henry VIII. There was something about their movement that caught his attention.
“Stay here,” Jake told Ashley.
He started their way, glad the gun in his holster was his own bureau-issued Glock and not the costume piece that had come with the outfit. His black cape covered the truth of it.
It wasn’t easy getting through the crowd.
Even as he neared them, the clowns had moved. One of them had seen him. And known. Known that he was coming for them.
The clowns turned and started heading out.
They’d be heading straight toward Ashley.
He changed his own pace. And as the clowns seemed to converge on Ashley, he shouted out. “FBI! Get down!”
His words were met with applause and laughter. It was, after all, a costume party.
The clowns were almost upon Ashley. They stopped. And they stared.
Something about her—or the costume she was wearing—had given them pause.
They broke apart—twenty feet from Ashley.
And began to run.
Jake went after them. Logic said he had to go after the closest, but even the closest was blocked by a throng of people.
Ashley was safe—from the clowns at least.
Jake burst out onto the street. “Where’d the clowns go?” he demanded of the bouncer.
“The clowns? Buddy, this place is full of clowns.”
He saw one down the street and ran. This clown stopped, terrified, as Jake reached him and caught him by the arm.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”
The clown was a young man—high school age. He was purely terrified, and seeing his face now and the makeup on it, Jake knew he hadn’t been one of the masked clowns that had drawn his attention inside.
Beaten, he determined to find his way back to Ashley as quickly as possible.
He needed to do three things. Get to Ashley. Find out just who the hell was wearing the Henry VIII costume. And figure out why in hell the clowns would have been after him.