Hallow Be the Haunt (Krewe of Hunters #22.5)(13)

He headed on out.

Right now, Jackson Square seemed the place to be.





The wedding was set for Saturday, November 11. Luckily, many of the Krewe members were couples—maybe because they were some of the only people who might really understand one another and truly be able to share their lives. It would be easy to fit them into the main house and into some of the other outbuildings on the property. Donegal had never been burned, and many of the slave quarters remained. Frazier’s father had been the one to see that a sign above each read Lest We Forget.

Ashley had spent several hours talking about the wedding with her grandfather and Beth. Frazier was so excited—he’d been giving them very strong hints about marriage for a long time now. “I finally get to walk you down the staircase. And bless the saints, I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

“I’ll see that you make it to a hundred,” she promised.

But after they’d spoken, she was restless. Beth really had the whole “haunted plantation” going smoothly and Ashley didn’t want to interfere.

She thought about taking her horse out for a ride, but decided what she really wanted to do was go ahead and get to the city. Beth offered to drive her but she decided on Uber. It was an hour’s drive, and she felt a little guilty at the cost, but when her Uber driver arrived, he was enthusiastic—fare in, and fare out. It was a nice little piece of change for him.

She decided to treat herself to a late lunch in the Garden District at Commander’s Palace. Then she roamed Lafayette Cemetery for a few minutes, marveling at the beauty that had been given over to the dead. A stop in a Garden District bookstore enthralled her for nearly an hour. She made a purchase—a new book on the history of Orleans Parish—and then called another Uber and headed for Jackson Square.

Once there, she just walked around. Palm readers and spiritualists of all kinds were busy in front of the Cathedral.

And all around, musicians were playing.

Artists were hard at work, displaying their paintings and sketches and doing caricatures. She wandered, admiring a great deal of it, and then she paused, really loving a painting of the equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson that stood in the center of the square.

She saw that the artist—a woman in her early thirties, brown hair bound back in a bandana—was watching her.

“Stunning,” Ashley said.

“Thank you. I love the statue. I love… Well, I love everything here. I love New Orleans.”

Ashley smiled. “You’re not from here?”

“New York City. Can’t you tell?” The woman grinned.

Ashley laughed. “Ask me if I want a cup of coffee—that will let me know. Seriously, no, I didn’t. You don’t have much of an accent.”

“I’m from Manhattan. I guess the accents are mainly the Bronx and Brooklyn. Maybe Queens. Anyway, I came down here, and that was it. I’m home. I love this place. You’re local?”

“From about an hour away,” Ashley said. “And I understand. I love the city, too. I love the old architecture. The music. The Cathedral and the buildings surrounding that magnificent statue of Jackson. The mule-drawn carriages, and the river and… Well, everything.”

A number of people were looking at the woman’s paintings so Ashley excused herself. She studied another piece, one that pictured buskers playing on Royal Street by the Omni Hotel. A crowd gathered while others walked by. The painting appeared to almost come to life.

“Oh, yes. Yes,” Ashley heard the woman say, and turned.

She was talking to a man who had walked up. He was probably close to fifty, but his age fit him well. He was tall and lean, with graying hair and a truly handsome, charismatic face.

He looked up and saw Ashley watching him. He smiled and she was surprised to feel a small sense of trembling. Of unease, almost.

She smiled in return and he walked over to her.

“Are you an artist, miss?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m a tour guide in Alexandria.”

“Well, if not an artist, you could certainly be an artist’s model. And if you like art, you must come by my place.” He produced a card and handed it to her. The card was well done, with pale images of the very area where they stood backing up the words. Picture This—Nick and Marty Nicholson, owners and operators.

“It’s on Magazine Street. Oh, are you familiar with the area?”

“Yes, I know Magazine Street,” she said.

“Come by. Miss Gerry here will now be displaying with us. We do our best to find the most amazing local talent—and then give them all a showcase. We… We’ve recently had a loss and we think that Gerry will fill it well.”

“That’s lovely. I will stop by,” Ashley said.

“Do,” he said softly. “And good day to you.”

If he’d been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it, Ashley thought. But he merely smiled and inclined his head, and then turned around and headed toward Chartres Street.

“Wow,” the woman he’d called Gerry said.

“Wow is right,” Ashley told her.

“Seriously, being asked to be a member of his shop… That’s huge. He gives you a place to live and everything. All I have to do is work at the shop for a few days each week. I’m so lucky.”