Hallow Be the Haunt (Krewe of Hunters #22.5)(26)

“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.

Three women and one man emerged from the car. She recognized Lavinia Carole, Valerie Deering, and Rhonda Blackstone from the staff meeting. The man was Jonathan Starling—looking young and very normal—by day.

Another car drove into the lot.

Ashley realized that it was afternoon, and it was getting close to time for the cast and crew to get ready for the night. If she was going into the city of New Orleans, she was going to have to hurry.





Katherine Willoughby—nee DuLac—was at the door when he arrived, evidently as anxious to talk with him as he had been to speak with her.

“Jake Mallory. Nice to meet you—in the flesh,” she told him.

She was a woman with a quick and beautiful smile, of medium height, a little on the plump side, with a charming, cherub’s face. “I followed your exploits when you were in high school. Pretty impressive. I know we’ve never met, but I had a crush on you through the local section of the papers. You were so—sporty.”

He grinned, shaking her hand. She wasn’t just plump, he realized. She was pregnant.

“Well, thank you. And thank you for this. For seeing me.”

Katey no longer smiled. “Come in. I have coffee on.”

They sat in her kitchen—a place freshly painted in shades of yellow and blue, homey and comfortable.

“I was stunned when I heard about what had happened to Shelley. She was… Shelley was so incredible. She loved everyone, helped everyone… And she might have made it big. She was really an amazing artist. She used to do paintings at Mardi Gras time, people in masks and costumes. From the time we were little kids, she loved painting.”

“Did you two keep up with one another?”

Katey stood and walked over to the refrigerator. She moved a magnet and some coupons there and came back to the table with a sketch. It was of a toddler, smiling. A little boy with golden curls that resembled Katey—a small Katey.

“She sent me that a little while ago. She was going to come and stay here with me a bit after the baby was born.”

“So you were close?”

“Not really. I seldom saw her lately. She was so busy, working all the time. But she was happy. The other girls had promised to cover her shifts at the studio so that she could stay a week with me. My mom can come—she’s living in Houston now—but if she waits that one week, she’ll be cleared from her job to stay a whole month.”

“I see.” And he did. They hadn’t seen much of each other lately, but they had still been good friends. And Katey had loved Shelley Broussard.

“You never called the police?” he asked her.

She hesitated. “My husband said that I needed to stay out of it. And as far away from anything to do with Shelley as I could. For the baby.”

“But you’re seeing me now,” Jake said gently.

She inhaled. “You called me. I had to see you. And I did love Shelley.”

“Why was your husband afraid? Do you—know something?” He decided to push her a bit. “She was found with a sign around her neck. A sign that read Traitor.”

Katey hesitated. “If I really knew anything, I would have called.”

“But something is bothering you. Was there trouble where she was working? At the art gallery?”

Katey arched her brows. “No, she loved the gallery. They were giving her a real opportunity. Do you know how many artists flock to New Orleans and vie for space and sales around Jackson Square? Making a name as an artist isn’t easy—especially here. The competition is fierce. It’s a great community for artists, but making a living isn’t easy. No, she loved the gallery.”