Drake shook his head. “But I can search our police records for any and all Pepitones in New Orleans.” He inhaled deeply. “Do you know any details about him that might aid us in our quest?”
I nodded as I tried to recall the various articles I remembered reading from the Times-Picayune newspaper archives. “He lived at the rear of his grocery store, and if I remember correctly, was in his middle to late thirties.” I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to recall the address I’d written down on the white sheet of paper, but the only thing I could remember probably wouldn’t do much good. “I know he lived on the corner of two streets. I just can’t recall what those two streets were.”
“More information is better than less,” Drake said with a sigh as he ran his hands through his shiny, soft-looking hair. “I have debated and argued with myself for hours regarding what should be done this evening,” he said with another sigh. “Although I would prefer to alert all of the officers at the station, I cannot do so because everyone will question our knowledge, and probably not believe our story. Even though New Orleans as a whole is understanding of ghostly activity, I cannot say the police are.” He took a long breath. “Or, worse yet, they might accuse us of conspiring with the Axeman, since we are in possession of information we should not know.”
I nodded and agreed, thinking his line of reasoning made total sense. “Right. Telling anyone about it probably wouldn’t be very smart.”
“Oui,” Drake said, rubbing the back of his neck as if he was frustrated or overwhelmed by his thoughts. “Oui, oui,” he repeated as his voice started to fade. He began chewing on his lower lip and zoned out on the floor. After a few seconds, he faced me again. “This means we will only have ourselves to rely on.”
“Right,” I said again, wondering why it was taking him so long to reach this conclusion. For myself, even though I’d figured such was going to be the case, I couldn’t say I felt good about it. Instead, my stomach was in knots and my heart was beating so fast, I was afraid I might have a heart attack.
“I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to risk your life, ma minette,” he stated as he set his jaw in stubborn defiance.
I started shaking my head immediately and worry soured my stomach. If Drake didn’t allow me to come with him, I’d never be able to do what I’d come to do. “I have to go with you, Drake,” I insisted. “If I don’t expel the demon and send it back to wherever it should be, all hell will break loose on Tuesday!”
Drake nodded that he understood, but didn’t look convinced.
“So I’m going with you,” I insisted, straightening my posture and daring him to argue with me. “End of story.”
“Mon Dieu, tu es une poignée!” Drake exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air like I was a lost cause.
“And just what’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.
“It means you are quite a handful!” he replied. I could only smile because it appeared I’d won the argument.
“Regardless,” I started, dropping my hands from my hips, and inspecting my pinky finger. I wanted to see if the cut had reopened because it had begun to sting like an SOB. “What’s our plan for today going to be?”
Drake nodded and started rubbing the back of his neck again. He was quiet for a few seconds before he cleared his throat and his eyes found mine. “We find you a new pair of shoes and some warmer clothes,” he started, and I bobbed my head in eager agreement. “Then, I pay a visit to the police station to look up Mike Pepitone’s address.”
“And where do I go?” I asked.
“You, mon chaton, can take a walk or perhaps you would like to busy yourself by enjoying a meal?” He wrapped his arm around me and started escorting me down the hallway to the stairwell. “You will have to keep yourself otherwise preoccupied.”
“Why can’t I just come to the police station with you?” I asked.
He immediately shook his head. “I do not want us seen together, ma minette. I do not know what the aftermath of this situation will be; and I do not want to endanger you.”
I figured it was a good point because I didn’t really know how long I was going to be stuck in 1919 since I didn’t have the remainder of Guarda’s tonic to return home. That thought only brought me unbearable grief, so I immediately pushed it into the back of my mind. I had more important things to focus on. “Okay,” I said in a softer tone.
“First things first, mademoiselle,” Drake continued. “As I said, we must get you some warmer clothes and new shoes.” Then he pointed to my shoes, which he’d placed beside the front door. Even though I spotted a slice in the sole of one of them, I didn’t have any other shoes, so I guessed I was SOL until we could buy a new pair. Then something occurred to me.
“Um, Drake, I don’t have any money,” I blurted out, realizing the only thing I did have were the clothes on my back.
“Unimportant,” he answered while shaking his head. “Leave the finances to me.”
“But . . .” I started.
Drake chuckled. “I am certain you will find a way to pay me back,” he said with another devilish smile, his eyes twinkling. “Or perhaps you will allow me the chance to choose your payback method?”
I shook my head as he opened the front door for me and we walked outside into the brightness of Prytania Street. As soon as I saw the scenery surrounding me, I felt my stomach flip. The view was so familiar and yet, so different. The street was still lined with the same oak trees, but they weren’t as large as those I knew. And the walkways weren’t quite as torn up by their invasive roots.
Once outside, my attention turned to the various automobiles parked on the street. They looked pre-industrial age to my untrained eye, like something you’d see from an old black-and-white movie about Bugsy Siegel. As I stared at them, openmouthed, Drake hurried past me and approached a shiny, four-door number, which was painted a dark forest-green. It appeared to be a convertible, and the black rubber top was pulled down behind the second row of seats. The wheels and tires were so thin, they reminded me of bicycle tires. The front of the car had a long hood, which ended in an iron grille, flanked by two round headlights. Smaller headlights also appeared on either side of the windshield.
“Mademoiselle,” Drake said as he opened the passenger door for me. The only windowpane was the one above the dashboard. Other than that, the car was completely open and subject to the elements.
“Thanks,” I said, plopping myself down onto the black, plush, couch-like seat. The front seat, like the back, was long and continuous, similar to a loveseat rather than the usual bucket seats I was familiar with. The back was raised a bit higher than the front seat was. “What kind of car is this anyway?” I asked, as I ran my hand over the metal dashboard.
“An Overland,” Drake replied as he patted the steering wheel in a proud sort of way. “I purchased it last year.” Then he turned on the ignition and smiled at me. “Isn’t she a beaut?”
I laughed, finding it funny to hear Drake use slang. Ordinarily, he sounded so prim and proper. He put the Overland into gear and we were off, bouncing down the street in a series of uncomfortable and jarring bumps as the narrow tires traversed the road.
As we drove down Prytania Street, I couldn’t keep my eyes from bugging out as I observed my surroundings. Drake hung a left on Seventh Street and then we reached St. Charles Avenue. People meandered this way and that, dressed in suits and ties, bowler hats, and nondescript, unflattering dresses, such as the one I was wearing.
I glanced up at the buildings as we drove by, reading the signs that hung above them. “Imperial Shoe Store.”
“Oui, mon chaton, and that is our stop.” Drake pulled the Overland up to the curb and parked it, before turning off the ignition. He exited the driver’s side quickly to open my door for me. “Mademoiselle,” Drake said as he smiled down at me and offered me his hand. I gratefully took it and couldn’t help loving how real he felt to m
e, so warm now, and so three-dimensional. It suddenly occurred to me that if Drake and I had lived in the same time period, maybe something special could have existed between us. As it was, I continued having a hard time remembering that everything surrounding me wasn’t reality, and I would hopefully be returning to my own time soon enough.
We walked into the Imperial Shoe Store, arm in arm, and Drake immediately started for the women’s section, which was located at the front of the store. There, countless pairs of shoes lined the shelves on the walls—some dressy and some not so dressy, but all looking antiquated and archaic. I never hoped to see a pair of Nike tennies more than right then. “I can’t walk or run in any of these shoes, Drake,” I said.
“Pourquoi pas, ma minette? Why not?”
I shrugged. “Because there’s a good chance I’ll need to be quick on my feet tonight, and that’s something I can’t accomplish in heels!”
“I do not believe you have much choice in the matter, mon chaton,” Drake said, and I sighed, resigning my poor feet to a terrible fate as I searched for the shoe that looked the least confining. I reached for a pair of boots that resembled an extra-rigid white sock that had been mounted onto black high heels. The leather boot featured sixteen white pearlescent buttons down the front.
“This is our balmoral cut, with a button closure and a straight fly,” a man announced from behind us. I figured he must be a salesman.
“They’ll do,” I said, sighing as I wondered if I could even walk more than a few yards in them.
“Your size, miss?” The salesman inquired.
Instantly at a loss, I wondered how shoe sizes were determined in the 1900s and figured I was about to find out. “Um, I don’t really know,” I answered sheepishly.
“You don’t know?” the man repeated as he sighed, without saying anything more. He looked at my foot for a few seconds while frowning as he scratched the side of his head. “I believe you must be a size eight,” he mentally calculated.
Silently, he disappeared into the rear of the store while Drake looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Quels grands pieds, mon amour! You should pray your feet grow no larger as I do not believe size nine even exists!”
“Ha-ha, funny!” I grumbled as he continued to chuckle. I pretended to punch him in the stomach, which only resulted in louder chuckles. Then, apparently feeling sorry for me, he draped his arm around me, as if to apologize. The salesman returned from the rear of the shoe store with a shoebox under one arm. Pulling out the shoes from the box, he knelt down and removed my ballet flats. He slipped the boots onto my feet and then forcibly yanked them up my calves. He started buttoning them, which seemed to take an eternity. When he was finished, he placed my feet on the floor and I walked a few paces forward. “They fit,” I said, although I refused to lie and say they were comfortable.
“Very well,” Drake said with a smile as he reached into his pocket and retrieved his black leather wallet. He handed the man a bill and then faced me again. “Our next stop is the dress shop, right next door,” he announced as we started for the front door. The salesman met us in the front of the store, handing Drake his change.
When we walked outside, we swung a left. We entered a store called Bromley-Shepard Co. The first thing I noticed was the large assortment of dress coats on mannequins at the very front of the store. “You will require a proper coat as the evenings get quite chilly, ma minette,” Drake advised me as he stopped walking. Silently taking stock of each coat, he narrowed his eyes as he studied every one of them.
“Are they all fur?” I asked, the tone of my voice suggesting I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the concept.
“Yes, of course,” the salesman answered as he came up behind us unexpectedly. The thought crossed my mind that 1919 salespeople had a lot in common with stealthy ninjas.
“Oh, mon chaton, I like this one,” Drake said as he reached for the sleeve of a reddish-brown jacket.
“You have very good taste, sir,” the salesman said, nodding. He cleared his throat and smiled, revealing teeth that looked like someone had stuffed his mouth full of Cracker Jack. “This is our best selection of very fine coats. This particular coat is made completely of wool, trimmed with genuine beaver pelt, and lined in silk. Again, this is the finest coat made, sir.”
Drake agreed as he looked over at me with his eyebrows raised. “Well, mon amour?”
I shrugged and leaned forward, glancing at the price tag that hung from it. “Forty-nine ninety-five!” I said, aghast. I frowned while trying to figure out what the coat would have cost in my own time, adjusting for the inflation rate. But lacking a calculator, and not knowing what the rate was, I just figured it cost a lot. “Drake, we really don’t have to get the most expensive coat in the store,” I argued, shaking my head.
“Non-sens, mon chaton! We will take it,” Drake told the salesman, ignoring me and facing him. The salesman simply nodded and pulled the coat from the mannequin, draping it over one of his arms.
“Very good, sir,” the salesman said as he smiled gratefully at Drake. He boxed up the coat and wrapped it with brown paper.
When the transaction was completed, Drake offered me his arm and we started for St. Charles Avenue again.
“You didn’t have to spend so much money, Drake,” I said after he had me comfortably seated in the Overland. He placed my coat in the rear seat before opening his door and sitting down beside me.
With a charming grin, he said, “I am aware of that, ma minette,” and started the engine. As we pulled into the street, he revved the engine and downshifted, smiling at me boyishly. He took the curves in the road a little too recklessly, which made me suspect he enjoyed driving fast. Luckily for him, as an officer, he could probably talk his way out of a speeding ticket if he ever got one. I could just imagine what he would have done behind the wheel of a Ferrari or Lamborghini.
“I am fortunate that money is no object,” he announced. “And, besides, I enjoy spoiling you, I must admit.”
“Well, thanks,” I said as the feeling of the wind in my hair made me smile. Glancing out of my window, and seeing the quaint city, I thought perhaps it really wouldn’t be that bad to live in New Orleans in 1919. Then I remembered Prohibition, and the fact that women couldn’t vote, and then it didn’t seem quite so great.
“I must go to the police station now to search for the address of Mike Pepitone, mon chaton,” Drake informed me as we came to a stop sign. “Would you like to return to my home, or would you prefer to busy yourself by shopping in town?” Feeling my nerves on high alert and not exactly thrilled with sightseeing on my own, I opted to return to our house so I could attempt a little rest and relaxation. I figured I could use all the rest I could get, given the fact that I had no idea what awaited me this evening.
It was ten minutes to eleven and Drake and I were just on our way out of his house and headed to Mike Pepitone’s home. “Here, ma minette,” Drake said as he paused just before the front door. He reached beneath his uniform jacket and produced a gun, which he then handed to me.
“What?” I hesitated, looking down at the gun but making no motion to accept it. Having never shot a firearm in my life, I wasn’t particularly thrilled with the prospect of shooting one now.
“I would prefer you to be prepared, ma minette, should trouble come our way.” He answered and thrust the gun at me again. This time, I gripped the handle and held it so that the muzzle was facing the floor. “That is a thirty-two caliber revolver,” he informed me.
“Where did you get it?” I asked, unable to keep my nervousness from my voice. “From the police station?”
“Non,” he replied with a chuckle. “As I said earlier, I am attempting to keep a low profile where you are concerned, mon chaton. The firearm is from my own collection.”
Whether the gun was his or not really wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I had no idea how to shoot it. And, furthermore,
I wasn’t convinced it would do me any good anyway. I glanced up at him and shook my head. “What good is a gun going to do us in the first place?” I asked as I found his mirthful eyes already focused on me. “We’re hunting demons, remember?”
Drake cocked his head to the side and nodded. “Oui, I have not forgotten, mon amour. But demons must occupy a host, correct?” I nodded, immediately glomming on to where he was going with his line of reasoning. “Correct,” he answered his own question. “And a mere human can be killed by a bullet, ma minette.”
“Okay, point taken,” I grumbled. “So where’s your gun?”
He pulled his police jacket to the side where I spied a holster wrapped around his waist, the butt of a pistol resting alongside his left hip. “Thirty-eight caliber Colt Police Positive double-action revolver,” he said, and, from his tone, he sounded impressed.
“Okay,” I repeated as I inhaled deeply. “This might come as a surprise but I have no idea how to shoot one of these things.”
Drake shook his head, playfully sighing like I was a nuisance. But then he stood behind me and, gripping each of my arms, held them out straight in front of me. “Use both hands to grip the handle,” he started. I did as instructed and couldn’t help the surging feeling of giddiness that attacked me as soon as I felt his warm breath against my neck. I could only imagine that Guarda’s sex candle was still at work. “Once you have a firm grip on the firearm, hold your arms out straight in front of you. Lock your elbows, mon chaton. Doing so will stop most of the recoil when you fire.”
“Okay,” I whispered, doing my best to pay attention to his instructions and not the feel of his large hands on my upper arms.
“Now you simply aim,” he continued, apparently completely unaware that my breath was coming fast and it was all I could do to force myself not to drop the silly gun in order to turn around and kiss him. Yep, this had to be Guarda’s magic at work because I couldn’t imagine I would naturally be so stupid as to be having sexual thoughts about Drake when my life could come to an end that very evening.
Once Haunted, Twice Shy (The Peyton Clark Series Book 2) Page 23
