Hallow Be the Haunt (Krewe of Hunters #22.5)(11)

She looked up. Lavinia Carole was waiting politely for her answer.

Well, at least she was no longer with a “trio” of witches.

She was with just one.

She smiled, shaking her head mentally. Donegal Plantation witches could have nothing to do with other witches.

“Lavinia, I won’t make it tonight. But I will be here tomorrow.”

“Oh, good. I hope you’ll like what we do.”

“I’m sure I will,” Ashley said. “I hear the good guys always win.”





Chapter 3



Heading toward Magazine Street and searching for a place to park, Jake wondered at his wisdom in asking Ashley to join him in the Quarter. He should have wandered the streets alone. But he wasn’t sure what he expected. He didn’t think the three killer “witches” would be calmly walking down Bourbon Street. They had to know they’d been witnessed.

Then again, there were costume parties going on all over the city this week. Halloween would fall on Tuesday—and it was Wednesday now.

Just six days to go.

What was frightening was the fact the body count could rise in those few days. People blithely walking around, in and out of costume, thinking nothing of seeing witches. Parks had told him they were putting out a newscast so people would be on the lookout. But…

It was Halloween.

Which witch was which?

He found parking and looked down the street. Shops were outfitted for the season. Spiders, ghosts, goblins—and witches—were set in window displays.

They were everywhere.

He found the art shop—“Picture This”—right next to one of his favorite donut shops. A little bell tinkled over his head as he entered.

Inside, he found a good-sized showroom with a few fake walls set up to allow more space for paintings.

He saw many of the usual images found in this kind of NOLA shop—artists’ visions of Jackson Square, the Cathedral, Bourbon Street, the river… Steamboats, musicians on the street. Day-to-day life in the Big Easy. Some renderings were realistic, some had a touch of fantasy.

There were other paintings as well. One wall, dedicated to Halloween, had a painting of a laughing bevy of ghosts. Another showed the torment in a man’s eyes as he went from being a man to a werewolf. Another showed a beautiful witch in a pointed hat, staring sadly at the moon as if she, too, would turn into something evil once it rose higher in the night sky.

“Hello?”

A woman came from a doorway in the back—there was an office to the rear, Jake assumed.

She was middle-aged, of medium height, with short, curly red hair and a pleasant manner. She wore jeans and an attractive tailored shirt and jacket.

“Welcome.” She smiled. “May I help you? All of our work is done by local artists. Yes, sometimes you can find them working down at Jackson Square. But we love having a real home for our local talent, and this is it.”

“Nice,” Jake said, offering his hand. “I have to admit right off that I’m afraid I’m not here to shop. I’ve come to ask you about Shelley Broussard.”

“Oh,” she said softly. Her eyes appeared to water and her smile faded. “Shelley,” she whispered, turning toward the door as if the girl might be coming through it at any moment.

“I’m sorry to cause you distress. But we’re determined to find her killer.” He produced his badge and credentials. “Jake Mallory, ma’am. I understand she left work here, and that’s the last time she was seen.”

The woman nodded.

“Are you the owner?” he asked.

She nodded again. “Myself and my husband, Nick. I’m Marty—Marty Nicholson. We—we loved Shelley. That’s some of her work over there. Her mother hasn’t come and we’re thinking we may need funds for her funeral. She’ll be buried up in the Garden District. She loved Lafayette Cemetery. She has some family there so she’ll go in with them.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jake said. “Can I ask you some questions? Detective Parks believed her closest friends were here.”

“Yes. My husband and I… We were very fond of her. And our other girls as well. They were all best friends.”

“Your other girls?”

“Samantha and Emily. We met Shelley on Jackson Square. We’re not local—not originally. We’re from Texas. Anyway, Nick saw Shelley’s work one day when we were just out walking in the Quarter. She had such talent. Nick was very taken with her paintings from the get-go—and she was asking practically nothing for them. So, Nick being the good businessman he is, conceived the idea of the store here. He found the place to rent and got it up and going in less than a week. We found some other locals who were working for a fraction of what they were worth—and we offered them a venue. Each artist works in the store a few hours per week.”

“That was very kind of you and your husband.”

“I told you he’s a good businessman,” she said dryly. “We’re doing quite well.”

“That’s great to hear. Can you tell me anything about the day Shelley was last seen?”

“It was like any other day. She and Samantha Perkins were working the floor. Oh, Emily Dupont was here as well—she had just brought in that gorgeous painting of the riverboat over there. They were laughing together, and talking about meeting up that night. It’s ironic—Nick was telling them all to be careful. We’ve had a rash of crime going on.”