“Me too. It’s real vintage New Orleans. My grandparents owned it. I used to come for summers, but I grew up in Chicago. Dad’s job.”
“Chicago is a great city, world class jazz and blues and museums and more,” Ashley said.
“Yes, that’s true. But I always loved this place. And I’m an only grandchild so it was mine if I wanted it. I work from home and I can handle the upkeep. My folks aren’t retired yet. They come when they can. As you can see, it’s plenty big.”
“You have no live-in help?”
He shook his head. “No. I have two housekeepers, but they come every couple of days. It’s just me. Not that big a mess.” He seemed to want answers then. “A guitar-playing G-man, huh? And you?”
“Jake and I have known each other since we were kids. We were in a band together at one time.”
“And now?”
“We live in Virginia.”
“But you’re locals.”
“Yes.” She shrugged and decided to say at last, “My name is Ashley Donegal.”
“Wow. Wow. Nice! I mean this house, I love it, but Donegal Plantation, that’s cool. Really cool.” He frowned. “They have G-men working on plantations now?”
“Trust me—NOLA has an office. With great agents. But Jake is part of a special unit. They’re in Virginia.”
“I see. I think.”
Jake came back to them, finished with his calls. “We’ll be splitting things up for the next twenty-four hours. NOPD and FBI,” he explained. “Officer Jacobs will be here soon.”
“How do we know we can trust him?” Showalter asked.
Jake frowned. “I thought you were all for the police.”
“I am.”
“So?”
“Can we trust him?” Showalter asked anxiously.
“I think so. He’s the nephew of the lead detective on the case—Detective Parks. Parks is great and intuitive—I’m glad to be helping him out. If he’s sending his nephew, he trusts his nephew.”
“And then?”
“Tomorrow, you’ll have a Krewe escort until…well, until we get where we need to be and you’re safe.”
“Krewe? Hey, it’s not Mardi Gras. I don’t need—”
“Krewe of Hunters. It’s a moniker for my special unit. You’ll be in good hands,” Jake promised him.
Showalter walked to the bar cart and offered them a drink. They refused.
“Fine. I’ll drink alone. No problem.”
He sat down, then nearly leapt up three feet when he heard the buzzer from his gate.
“That’s Jacobs,” Ashley said softly.
“Oh, okay. The key is there.” He pointed to the coffee table.
Ashley started to get it but Jake was ahead of her, sweeping it up and going back out to open the gate.
“I’m Larry Jacobs,” the young man in uniform was saying as Jake led him into the room. “Detective Parks sent me. Guard duty.”
He was young, lithe, and looked to be sharp as a tack. His hair was reddish and his eyes were a deep, intense brown. He looked around briefly and then asked, “Alarm system?”
“Yes,” Jake said, then he hesitated. “I don’t think anyone will come for him here—alarms cause a ruckus, though even the most sophisticated can be thwarted. This is precautionary. Just in case.”
“Understood. Nice to meet you,” Jacobs said to Ashley.
“A pleasure. And thank you,” Ashley said.
He nodded and held a hand out to Richard Showalter, who immediately offered him a drink.
“Not while I’m looking after you, sir,” Jacobs said.
Showalter seemed to appraise him, then nodded to Jake. “I like this kid.”
“Good. He’ll be with you until tomorrow, mid-morning. And don’t worry, someone else will be with you then,” Jake assured him.
“Until you all get tired of watching out for me, right?” Showalter took a swig of his drink.
“We don’t get tired of watching out for people,” Jake said.
Richard Showalter lifted his drink in a mock toast to Ashley. “And to think, for a moment I thought I was going to have a magical night.”
“It was a magical night,” Jake said curtly. “You’re alive.”
Showalter’s hand shook as he hastily put his drink down, slopping whiskey. “Yes, you’re right. Thank you both. I think.” He grimaced. “Maybe they were just clowns.”
“Good night,” Ashley told him softly.
“Goodnight, y’all,” Larry Jacobs called, and they bid him good night as well.
When they left, Ashley asked Jake, “You really do think the clowns were the witches, right?”
“Yeah, I do,” he told her. “They ran like hell when they saw me—instinct, I guess. I haven’t figured it out yet, but…”
“Vigilantes,” Ashley said. Jake seemed distant and—she thought—still upset with her. “But where does Shelley fit in? Or does she?”
Jake didn’t answer. “Tomorrow. I’ll get back on it tomorrow.”
He had said “I’ll.”
She wasn’t being invited into the city tomorrow.
She understood his worry. The clowns had stopped when they saw her. And the outfit she had chosen did resemble the one worn by the woman in the painting by Shelley she had purchased. The painting now in the backseat of the car.
When they reached Donegal, she was exhausted. “I’m going on up,” she said softly.
He stood in the foyer—between the two winding staircases where she had planned for them to marry—lost in thought.
“Jake?”
“I’ll be up in a bit,” he said.
But he wasn’t.
She showered and lay awake. He didn’t come.
But the dream did come. Again.
She was back on Bourbon Street, once more headed from Canal toward Esplanade. Hawkers were about, people laughing and talking. Music blared.
She knew now she was searching for the young woman. And suddenly there she was, the pretty blonde with the huge brown eyes.
“Please,” the girl whispered again.
“Are you Shelley?” Ashley asked.
The question startled her. “I… Shelley. Yes, I’m Shelley. And I’m so frightened and so lost. Please…”
“Oh, Shelley, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m dead. I know I’m dead. I don’t… I don’t know…”
“Who did this to you?”
“I’m… I’m lost. I felt it. I was so afraid. I painted it, in the picture. I could feel it, and it was wrong and there was something… I wanted to find out. Oh…” She was looking down the street. Ashley turned.
The mist, the black mist like a massive wave of ravens’ wings, was coming again.
And soon, the girl would disappear.
“Wait!” Ashley cried.
But the apparition was gone. And the ebony darkness seemed to be coming closer and closer.
She woke with a start. Jake must have come to bed at last because he woke instantly at her gasp.
“Ashley?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“A dream? A nightmare?”
He was already worried about the costume she had chosen. About the way the clowns had stopped and looked at her.
“No, I just rolled wrong and woke myself up,” she lied.
He pulled her into his arms. “I love you so much,” he whispered.
“I love you.”
He held her. In time, they made love.
She didn’t sleep again.
When his phone rang the next morning, Ashley knew that it was going to be a very long day.
Chapter 7
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.”
&n
bsp; “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.
Hallow Be the Haunt Page 8
