Hallow Be the Haunt (Krewe of Hunters #22.5)(16)

“I would never do that to your grandfather,” he chuckled.

“No, I guess not.” She grinned.

He leaned toward her, twirling soda in his glass. “So, do you have plans for later?”

“I always have plans.” She loved that she could be playful with him.

“You really are beautiful, my love.”

“Thank you.” She touched his hand. “You’re not too shabby yourself.”

“Think I have a chance of getting lucky tonight?”

“Keep up the good lines.”

They were leaning close over the glittering place servings and snowy white tablecloth.

“I might just seduce you, handsome. If you play it right.”

“Hm. Let’s see… In a movie, this scenario might lead to you slipping off something silky you’re wearing and teasing me with it…”

“Oh?” Ashley set her hand on his knee.

“Um.”

“Like this?” She winked at him.

He stared at her, seemingly shocked, as she slid a piece of fabric over his lap.

“Ashley…” His face had gone a wonderful shade of red.

“Sorry, stud. It’s just a napkin.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay.”

“I want to hear about today.”

He took a breath as they both sat back in their chairs. And then he told her. First he told her about his meeting with Isaac Parks, and then his time at the store. He even mentioned running into Sammy.

“So we’re going to a party?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t have had you come in.”

“Yes, you should have. There will be security at the party—you know that. And we can rent costumes. Let’s do it.”

“Ashley, from what I understand,” he said very seriously, “these killers slash so fast there’s no time to react.”

“But we’re forewarned. And I’m with you. And you’re an armed federal agent.”

He still hesitated.

Ashley suddenly sat up straight.

“What?” Jake was instantly on alert.

“What was the name of that art shop?”

“Picture This.”

“Really? I met the man who owns it.”

“You did? I met the wife. Were you on Magazine? Ashley, where did you see him? Nick. Nick Nicholson, right?”

She nodded, digging into her bag and handing him the card the man had given her. “I fell in love with some paintings by an artist on Jackson Square. While I was admiring her work, some other customers came up. And then I heard her talking to someone. I looked at him and he was looking at me. He wanted to know if I was an artist, too. I told him no, and he gave me the card and asked me to stop by. Then, when he was gone, the artist I liked told me that he’d asked her to come show with him. But they don’t just show…”

“Right. The artists work in the shop a few days a week. And the Nicholsons, naturally, take a percentage of all sales.”

“Yes. But the artists get—”

“Free room and board.”

“Jake—”

“I think they need to bear a much heavier scrutiny.”

“Because?”

“Because Shelley Broussard was living there when she was murdered. Because that shop was the last place she was seen alive. She—she isn’t even in the ground and they’re busy giving her room away.”

“They might just be good people.”

“Sure,” Jake conceded. “They might—and they might not.”

“He was strange,” Ashley said.

“How so?”

“I don’t know. He’s a handsome man, dignified looking, but there was something about him…”

“Did he look like a witch?”

“No. Not at all. Like a corporate bigwig, the kind who could charm you into giving him your savings for a hedge fund. What about her?”

“Very… normal. But…”

“But what?”

He sat back. “I tried to reach the other two girls living there currently, Emily and Samantha. They didn’t answer their cell phones, but I left messages. Neither called me back.” He drummed his fingers on the table.

“Maybe they were busy. Artists, right? Maybe they were painting.”

“Maybe.”

Jake was thoughtful. And Ashley understood. She didn’t want to explain why she’d had an odd feeling about Mr. Nicholson. Because Jake—being Jake—would worry about her. And that was the last thing he needed on his mind right now.

Finally he shook his head. “Apparently, they’re set up to house three young women at one time. There’s a room upstairs with three beds. I went through the drawer in Shelley Broussard’s nightstand. She left a notebook and she had written something about right being right and wrong being wrong. I have the exact words in my notes. At least, I think they’re the exact words. I waited until I got to the car—I didn’t want it to appear like anything really interested me. Unless I have something solid, I need people to keep welcoming me. Shelley Broussard has a mother living in Texas, but according to Parks, she hasn’t even been that interested in coming for her daughter’s remains.”