It had taken some time, but sitting in Parks’ office at the station, Jake finally got through to Mrs. Alice Hunt—Shelley Broussard’s mother.
The woman answered the phone impatiently. She didn’t sound like someone who had just lost a beloved family member.
“Mrs. Hunt, this is Special Agent Mallory with the FBI.”
“FBI? I thought the police were investigating. She was murdered in New Orleans. Who are you? Is this a prank?”
He stared at the phone. “This is no prank. Are you really Miss Broussard’s mother?”
There was a surprising silence on the other end.
“No.”
“No?”
“Shelley was the child of my ex-husband’s no-good sister. We were getting married, so… Well, you know. We adopted her legally. But was I really her mother? No.”
Did that explain it? Could anything explain someone being so cold about the murder of a child they had raised?
“All right.” He changed his approach. “Did Shelley Broussard grow up with you?”
“Yes. Until she was seventeen and she ran away. Then my no-good husband ran away. I remarried soon after. I have three children under the age of five, Special Agent whomever. If that’s who you really are. I can’t just drop everything for a girl who basically kicked up her heels eight years ago and left.”
“Why did she leave?”
“Her father was crazy.”
Her father—not you? Jake found himself feeling very sorry for the three children under five.
“All right. Are you coming to New Orleans?”
“I’ve spoken to a woman who will have her interred in a family tomb in New Orleans. There’s no reason for me to come. I mean, she’s dead already. Not like I can help.”
“Well, maybe you can help. Without coming to New Orleans. Can you give me the names of any of Shelley’s friends when you still saw her?”
The woman was quiet. For a moment, Jake thought that she was going to refuse to help.
Then she mumbled, “A bunch of wackos.”
“Why do you say that?” Jake asked.
“Who the hell else pays for a stranger’s funeral and interment?” the woman asked.
Jake heard a dog barking and a child crying—then another child jabbering.
“I’ve got to go,” Mrs. Hunt said.
“I understand. But please, just one name.” He hated to beg, but it would be worth it if she could provide a lead.
“Katey,” she sighed. “Katey DuLac. They were friends for years. Pen pals and such. She lived in New Orleans but visited her grandparents here in Houston every summer. And when she did, the girls were inseparable.” She paused. “That’s all I know. Please don’t call again.”
And she hung up.
Jake shook his head and stared at the phone. He still couldn’t grasp the uncaring attitude, but focused on the small bit of information she’d provided.
He tried directory assistance first, looking for a Katey or Katherine DuLac. No luck. Then he called Angela Hawkins—Jackson Crow’s right hand, second in command, and master of research. Not to mention his wife. She, like Jake, had been part of the original Krewe team.
On the first case.
Where it all began. Right here in New Orleans.
“Jackson is on his way,” Angela assured him.
“I know. I need your help.”
“Okay.”
“Katey or Katherine DuLac. She was from Orleans Parish. She’d be about twenty-five now.”
“I’m on it.”
He hung up and concentrated on the crime board he’d prepared with Detective Parks. Pictures of the dead man and the dead woman in life—and then in death. When their bodies had been discovered, and once again, at the morgue.
One a crook. One a well-liked artist—with a wretched past, or so it seemed. There was information about Tink, about his arrest record. And there was information about Shelley’s work and “Picture This.”
But he wanted more information on Marty and Nick Nicholson.
An idea occurred to him and he picked up his phone. But even as he did so, he saw that Angela was calling back.
“She’s still in New Orleans,” Angela reported. “Her name is now Katherine Willoughby. She’s in the Bywater area.” She gave him the exact address and a phone number.
Jake thanked her. “I’m going to go out and see her. Will you check something else for me?”
“Go,” Angela said.
He asked her for information on Marty and Nick Nicholson—and on murders of known criminals. “In New Orleans and surrounding areas—and in Houston, Texas.”
“You think that these people are killing crooks?” Angela asked.
“Maybe. I’m going to go through what they have at the station here, but you seem to have a magic touch.”
“You know how to flatter,” Angela told him. “By the way, how are the wedding plans going?”
“Um, great.”
“We all can’t wait, you know. Jackson has arranged for the newest recruits to hold down the fort, so he and I…”
“Yes?”
She laughed. “Hopefully, it will be a beautiful wedding for you and Ashley. And then, Jackson and I intend on a little honeymoon of our own.”
“Sounds great,” Jake assured her.
When he hung up, his thoughts were conflicted. He was determined to see if his theory was correct. He wanted to find out what had been going on since the Nicholson duo had come to town and started recruiting struggling artists.
And he was worried too. Haunted by the way Ashley had looked in the costume.
Concerned about the way the clowns had stopped and stared at her.
He found himself praying that there would be a wedding. He was so worried that he wanted to drop everything and run back to her.
She’d be furious, of course. He picked up the phone instead. He was relieved when she answered right away.
“Hey, how’s it going there?”
“Great,” she assured him. “I went for a ride this morning. I really miss having horses.”
“Maybe we can figure something out. There are stables not that far from us. Not the same as having them right outside your door, but…”
“We’ll see. I know that Varina is happy here.”
“She’d be happy anywhere. With you. Like me.”
“Ah, that’s sweet. Anyway, I’m watching some of the quickie rehearsals for tonight—and then, later, I’ll be on porch duty with Beth. I might even check out the real stuff going on. I looked us up on some social media sites—we’re really cool. Five stars all over.”
“Great,” he told her, relieved. She sounded fine.
“How are you doing?” she asked him. “Any luck? Anywhere?”
“I’m going to try to find an old friend of Shelley Broussard. See what she has to say.”
“Good. I got a strange vibe from that man—Nick Nicholson. He comes across so polished. Kind, dignified. Dedicated to the arts and to young, struggling artists. The type of people who are in abundance in New Orleans. But there’s just something about him.”
“I agree. Jackson is coming in. Our local office has a team of men out on the streets with the cops. Hopefully there will be enough men—and women—to take down that trio when they show up next. In whatever costume they choose to wear.”
“I hope so. And don’t worry. I’m working here. You do your work—catch these horrible people. I’m fine and I won’t be alone,” she assured him. “I am busy, busy, busy, too.”
He smiled at her ability to soothe him and lighten the mood at the same time. She was the best, always. And as dedicated to the Krewe as he was. Determined to let him use his talents. First to save lives. And then to find justice for those that had been lost.
“Love you,” he said.
“You, too.”
He hung up. He was heading out to see Katey. Katherine DuLac Willoughby. And he hoped that she was the key.
For all their sakes.
* * * *
Ashley wasn’t busy. She’d been preparing an attraction with Cliff, but now she was in her room.
Studying the painting.
The painting created by Shelley Broussard.
Ashley realized, following news reports and her dream, that Shelley had painted a big-eyed version of herself in the scene. And equally, she knew why Jake had been so upset last night. She and Shelley had been built alike. True, her eyes were blue while Shelley’s had been a deep brown, but they both had long blonde hair, worn almost the same way. In the costume…
She might have looked like a ghost to the killers.
The very ghost now haunting her dreams.
Staring at the picture was getting her nowhere. She was convinced that she was right, and she knew that the ghost was trying to reach her, but only seemed to touch her dreams.
“Why me, Shelley?” she whispered to the picture. “And do you know what? I’m pretty good at this ghost thing. I don’t immediately think I’m crazy—or start to pass out the second I see a ghost. You need to speak to me. You need to tell me what happened to you.”
The picture was silent.
Over time, Ashley had learned that the dead were very much like the living. Some were outgoing. Some were confused. Some were shy. Some could manifest easily, and some could not.
She continued to stare pensively at the painting. Maybe Shelley Broussard hadn’t learned how to manifest herself into something seeable—hearable. She was a “new” ghost, and perhaps no one out there had helped her yet, shown her the ropes… So she wasn’t good at being seen or heard yet.
Sometimes it was possible to get close to the dead by touching their bodies.
Ashley walked out onto the balcony, thoughtful as she looked over her property. She had to get into the morgue. That sounded ghoulish, but they were running out of options.
And Shelley needed to be heard.
Just as the thought came to her, she saw one of the giant spiders creeping up the column and some of the ghosts clinging to the railing of the wraparound porch. Everyone preparing for the festivities.
In truth, she wasn’t a ghoul, but she did need to get into the morgue. If she just went back into the city, Jake would get her in.
He wouldn’t like it, having been unnerved by the clowns staring at her last night, but he’d do it.
She’d promised that she’d stay here tonight. But sometimes promises needed to be broken when help was needed. And for some reason, she knew she had to help Shelley.
As she weighed her options, a car swung onto the property and pulled into the area to the far right of the house where a sign read Cast Parking. It carried several of their scare actors for the coming night. Evidently, their “witches” knew one another.
Three women and one man emerged from the car. She recognized Lavinia Carole, Valerie Deering, and Rhonda Blackstone from the staff meeting. The man was Jonathan Starling—looking young and very normal—by day.
Another car drove into the lot.
Ashley realized that it was afternoon, and it was getting close to time for the cast and crew to get ready for the night. If she was going into the city of New Orleans, she was going to have to hurry.
* * * *
Katherine Willoughby—nee DuLac—was at the door when he arrived, evidently as anxious to talk with him as he had been to speak with her.
“Jake Mallory. Nice to meet you—in the flesh,” she told him.
She was a woman with a quick and beautiful smile, of medium height, a little on the plump side, with a charming, cherub’s face. “I followed your exploits when you were in high school. Pretty impressive. I know we’ve never met, but I had a crush on you through the local section of the papers. You were so—sporty.”
He grinned, shaking her hand. She wasn’t just plump, he realized. She was pregnant.
“Well, thank you. And thank you for this. For seeing me.”
Katey no longer smiled. “Come in. I have coffee on.”
They sat in her kitchen—a place freshly painted in shades of yellow and blue, homey and comfortable.
“I was stunned when I heard about what had happened to Shelley. She was… Shelley was so incredible. She loved everyone, helped everyone… And she might have made it big. She was really an amazing artist. She used to do paintings at Mardi Gras time, people in masks and costumes. From the time we were little kids, she loved painting.”
“Did you two keep up with one another?”
Katey stood and walked over to the refrigerator. She moved a magnet and some coupons there and came back to the table with a sketch. It was of a toddler, smiling. A little boy with golden curls that resembled Katey—a small Katey.
“She sent me that a little while ago. She was going to come and stay here with me a bit after the baby was born.”
“So you were close?”
“Not really. I seldom saw her lately. She was so busy, working all the time. But she was happy. The other girls had promised to cover her shifts at the studio so that she could stay a week with me. My mom can come—she’s living in Houston now—but if she waits that one week, she’ll be cleared from her job to stay a whole month.”
“I see.” And he did. They hadn’t seen much of each other lately, but they had still been good friends. And Katey had loved Shelley Broussard.
“You never called the police?” he asked her.
She hesitated. “My husband said that I needed to stay out of it. And as far away from anything to do with Shelley as I could. For the baby.”
“But you’re seeing me now,” Jake said gently.
She inhaled. “You called me. I had to see you. And I did love Shelley.”
“Why was your husband afraid? Do you—know something?” He decided to push her a bit. “She was found with a sign around her neck. A sign that read Traitor.”
Katey hesitated. “If I really knew anything, I would have called.”
“But something is bothering you. Was there trouble where she was working? At the art gallery?”
Katey arched her brows. “No, she loved the gallery. They were giving her a real opportunity. Do you know how many artists flock to New Orleans and vie for space and sales around Jackson Square? Making a name as an artist isn’t easy—especially here. The competition is fierce. It’s a great community for artists, but making a living isn’t easy. No, she loved the gallery.”
“Was there a man who might have done this?”
“There was someone she was seeing. And then not seeing. She was disturbed because he kept coming into the studio.”
“Did you ever meet him? Do you have a name for me?”
“Yes, I do.” She stilled and her tone dropped. “Jonathan. Jonathan Starling.”