Hallow Be the Haunt: A Krewe of Hunters Novella

by Heather Graham

  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.

  Chapter 6

  Clowns, not witches.

  But a trio.

  And Ashley had seen clearly they were heading for the man dressed elegantly as Henry VIII.

  They had been coming her way. And they stopped—as if stunned—when they’d seen her. Why? Because she’d resembled the woman in the painting?

  It might be a stretch of the imagination, but with Jake out on the street—hopefully catching a clown—she moved through the still-laughing crowd toward the stage, listening.

  “That was great,” someone said. “An FBI guy in a cape chasing clowns.”

  “Isn’t that life?” someone else replied.

  “This party gets better every year. You just never know what you’ll see. Performances all around,” another woman said.

  Ashley was by them. King Henry VIII was up near the stage, clapping. The performance had just ended and the band was picking back up where it had left off—now playing a Journey song.

  Henry VIII turned from the stage and the thudding music to Ashley. She couldn’t tell much about him—he was wearing a wig, cap, and fake facial hair—but he seemed to quickly size her up.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m Richard Showalter. Nice to meet you. And you are…?”

  “Ashley,” she said. He didn’t really want her last name. He was thinking about the direction in which the night might take them.

  She hesitated, not sure how to ask a man why three evil clowns might want to kill him.

  “Did you—see the clowns?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Cool costumes.”

  “They seemed focused on you.”

  “Maybe they’re fans.”

  “Oh? What do you do?” Ashley asked him.

  “Well, I blog. Mainly. I have a few books out, too. Nonfiction. The state of man and all that. You’re sure you’ve never heard of me? I’m on local TV often enough.”

  “I’m sorry. The state of man. What exactly do you see the state of man being?”

  “Well, it’s rather sad, to be honest. I was just on TV—local network affiliate—talking against some of the laws being bandied about. Florida—and that ‘stand your ground’ thing. People are taking the law into their own hands. And, because of it, other people are being murdered. It’s not a self-defense thing. Okay, so yes, we get crime waves. But then you get idiots out there who want to shoot up the crooks. And end up shooting others. Or baiting crooks to come on over and get shot. I did a great piece on supporting our local police, bolstering them up instead of tearing them down.”

  She stared at him, wondering where to go from there. Was someone in the city wanting to murder crooks—and then, maybe, murder Richard Showalter for not wanting crooks to be murdered in the street?

  But that brought them back to Shelley Broussard. She was no crook.

  She didn’t have to say anything more. Jake was back, panting a little. Obviously concerned as he caught up to her.

  “This is Richard Showalter. He writes a blog,” Ashley told him and studied his reaction. He shook his head slightly.

  He hadn’t caught up with any clowns.

  “And I have several books out,” Showalter said, shouting to be heard over the music. He was being polite, not necessarily interested in the conversation any more—now that another man was involved. He knew he wasn’t going to be taking Ashley home with him.

  “About?” Jake asked.

  At least Showalter’s ego was such that he had to stay and tell Jake what he did.

  Jake didn’t hesitate.

  “I think those clowns were about to kill you,” he said flatly.

  “Hey, I’m not your size but I’m not a shrinking violet either. I could have held my own—until security reached me, at least. Until the law stepped in.”

  “No,” Jake said. “They didn’t mean to beat you up. They wanted to slit your throat.”

  “Ah, come on, it’s Halloween,” Showalter said, clearly not taking the threat seriously. “But really, enough is enough. You two are obviously together. If you don’t mind, I’d kind of like to meet a new friend tonight.”

  Jake pulled out his credentials.

  “Where’d you buy that? Looks real,” Showalter said.

  “It is real,” Jake snapped, his patience evidently on edge. “You heard about the witches who killed the man the other day.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I believe that was them.”

  “Those were clowns.”

  “Oh, good God!” Jake exploded. “They were dressed up as witches. Now they’re dressed up as clowns. And they seem to have a vendetta against you. They were heading straight for you.”

  “Witches, clowns, whatever. I’m not a criminal,” Showalter said indignantly. His confidence, however, seemed to be fraying. “The guy who was killed… He was a criminal. Sure, that’s my platform—people just can’t take the law into their own hands. It’s against everything we stand for as Americans. And it causes more and more damage. Oh, my God.” He stopped, his face draining of color as the situation became clear to him. “Do you really think that they were the killers and… You think they wanted to kill me? Right here? Now? In this crowd?”

  “It’s damned possible,” Jake said.

  The demeanor of the man had changed completely. “So—so what do I do now? I don’t own a gun. I’m not a violent man. I can’t even leave here. They could be waiting for me. And I won’t even know them. I don’t know if they’ll be witches or clowns or just people walking down the street. I don’t even know if they were men or women.”

  Good call, Ashley thought. It was true. From what she understood, the witches’ makeup had concealed any concept of a real face, and the clowns had been wearing masks. They could have been male or female or a mix.

  “You have to protect me. You have to.” Richard Showalter was working himself into a panic.

  But it was true. He was now their responsibility. Ashley looked over at Jake.

  They both knew it was true.

  “Where do you live?” Jake asked.

  “Garden District.”

  “Okay. You have a car here?”

  “Took an Uber. I knew I’d drink.”

  “All right. We’ll get you there, and then I’ll have the cops watching your place. Please tell me you don’t put your real address out anywhere,” Jake said.

  “No, I use a P.O. box,” Showalter said.

  “Thank God for small favors,” Jake muttered.

  They all turned to leave. The music stopped and Ashley turned again, looking back at the stage. Sammy Riley was up there now, and he called out to her loudly. “Hey, Ashley—where are you guys going? Thought you were going to come on up and do a number.”

  “Next time, Sammy,” Ashley called.

  “That’s next year,” Sammy said.

  “Next year then,” Ashley said cheerfully and waved.

  She wished he hadn’t called out to her, drawing attention to her and Jake and Richard Showalter.

  “Hey,” Showalter said, balking.

  “What?” Jake asked.

  “Are you guys just fooling with me? You’re musicians? Is this all a crock—is that I.D. of yours a costume piece?”

  “I’m an agent who loves his guitar. The badge is real.”

  “It’s real,” Ashley swore. “I don’t know what to say to convince you. We need to see you’re—safe.”

  Showalter sighed. “So h
elp me, if this isn’t the truth… If you hurt me, kill me, I’ll… I’ll haunt the hell out of you.”

  Ashley smiled. “Join the party,” she murmured.

  “Let’s go,” Jake said firmly.

  “All right, all right.” Showalter moved.

  And Ashley still hesitated, just a second.

  They had been watching people. They’d come to watch people.

  But she was afraid that people might have been watching them too. It was just a feeling, but…

  She shook her head and stopped that line of thought, hurrying out behind the men.

  “I’m not a violent man. I don’t even carry a gun,” Showalter muttered as they went.

  “Not to worry. I do,” Jake assured him.

  The streets were busy. Jake urged Ashley and Showalter ahead of him until they reached the car. Once in, Jake got Showalter’s address and they drove the distance.

  Showalter’s street in the Garden District was quiet at night. Stately old residences—most of them fenced, and most with alarm systems—sat quietly in the night like the Old Guard.

  “There’s an alarm system?” Jake asked.

  “Of course,” Showalter said.

  “Excellent.”

  “You have a dog?” Ashley asked.

  “Sorry, I have a cat. A guard cat—honestly. I have a huge old mutt cat I think has some wild cat mixed in. He’ll go after you.”

  Showalter opened the gate with his key and they followed him up to a handsome Georgian residence. He hesitated just a second, then opened the front door and stepped inside, hitting numbers on the alarm pad just inside the door.

  “I’m confused. Are you staying? I mean, you’re not leaving me, right? Killer clowns, or witches. Or… Damn.”

  “Jake will call the NOPD,” Ashley assured Showalter. “They’ll see that someone comes to watch out for you.”

  “I don’t want just anyone in my house. Wait a minute. A good cop—a really good cop. Sure—he can be in my house. I mean, you’re not just going to get a cop to drive by every hour, or anything like that, right?”

  Jake ignored him and stepped away to organize things on the phone.

  Ashley watched him and tried to chat with Showalter too, aware he was actually making two calls.