Hallow Be the Haunt Page 6

  “After.” He brushed her lips with his. “Let’s have an almost romantic dinner first.”

  The maître’d showed them to their table. Ashley loved the sense of history at Antoine’s. And the food was amazing too.

  Once they were seated and had ordered, Jake smiled. “Wedding plans. How are they going?”

  “The space is all cleared out for the wedding. We have plenty of room—luckily, a lot of our friends come as couples, so doubling them up won’t be a problem. No rooms are rented out for the weeks before and after. Oh, and you know how the main hall has the winding staircases on either side? I’ll come down the left with Frazier. He’s so excited. We’ll be married at the base of the stairs, and then take the reception out to the grounds. It really should be beautiful. Actually, whatever we do will be beautiful. You know, I’d be fine with a justice of the peace.”

  “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.”

  “Wow.” Ashley couldn’t imagine a mother being that uninterested.

  “I know.” Several emotions played over his face.

  “The notebook bothered you?”

  “Yes. It was as if she was sticking to her guns about something. And when she was found, she had a sign on her that read Traitor. But that’s not all. There was a crucifix in her drawer. A really beautiful gold crucifix. It bothered me that she would have such a piece and not be wearing it.”

  “People don’t always wear their jewelry.”

  But Jake still seemed disturbed. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Unless she was changing something about her life. She might have been raised Catholic, and then when her mother remarried she changed? It doesn’t seem right. I don’t know, but—” He seemed to shake off his thoughts. “Let’s focus on something a little lighter for now. We can rent costumes in a store that’s near the art shop, right?”

  “Let’s do it.” She smiled at him. “We’ll skip dessert. Champagne and crème brûlée next time around.”

  “Ashley,” Jake murmured.

  “Jake,” she countered, knowing he was concerned for her safety. “It’s ridiculous—for one—to assume these murderers are going to a particular party. You did intend to just walk around and watch what was going on, right? Hoping you’d pick up on some kind of clue.”

  “Yes.”

  “Stop worrying. And when we’re home… Well, maybe something silk can really fall your way. Or mine.” She smiled. “Remember when we tried the silk sheets?”

  “Yes. We wound up on the floor. Actually, even that—”

  “We did have a few bruises. Anyway, stud, that’s for later.” She motioned for the check.

  They were going to a party.

  “Ashley…” He tried one more time.

  “Jake, I’m in this with you. I’ve always been in this with you. And we’re in New Orleans. Orleans Parish. We’re home. Have faith in me. Don’t just love me, have faith in me.”


  “I do,” he swore softly.

  Jake looked at her, his eyes serious. “I don’t know how I could survive—function—if I didn’t have you.”

  She reached across the table and took his hand. “It’s going to be fine.”

  His expression told her he wasn’t so sure. “We’ll get through it. Together.”

  Chapter 5

  “So that’s it,” Ashley said, facing the façade of “Picture This.”

  It was like any other art shop. The large picture windows featured some of the best of what was to be found inside. An Open sign was in the front door.

  They had left the French Quarter behind for the wonders of Magazine Street, which was lined with more restaurants, clubs, and shops, many of these the favorite haunts of locals.

  The costume shop was still down the street. But the art shop fascinated Ashley. And Jake hadn’t yet reached the other two girls—Emily Dupont and Samantha Perkins.

  One—or both of them—might be working now.

  “I say we go in,” she added.

  Jake looked at her uneasily. “Maybe you shouldn’t be associated with me.”

  “Ah, but maybe I should be.”

  Ashley didn’t give him a chance to protest. She opened the door. A bell tinkled as she did so.

  There were others in the shop. An attractive brunette of about thirty was helping a couple who were enamored with a painting of Royal Street. The picture captured the beautiful Hotel Monteleone and a group of musicians playing just across the street, all facing the neon lights of Canal Street.

  Ashley began to wander, and Jake followed close behind.

  “These are beautiful—and interesting,” Ashley said, pausing before a group of paintings.

  They were odd. One was of a werewolf—tortured as he changed from man to beast.

  Another showed a witch—not a cackling, big-nosed witch, but a lovely young witch with huge round eyes. She was staring up at the moon with fear. The painting was both beautiful and somehow tragic.

  “They were created by our victim,” Jake said softly. “Shelley Broussard.”

  “It’s as if her mind was…tortured.”

  “Maybe she knew she didn’t have much time left,” Jake murmured. “Maybe her paintings were a cry for help.”

  “Yes. And maybe a way to…to lead people to her killer.” Ashley turned. “She was afraid, Jake. She was afraid of exactly what happened to her. She did something—or maybe didn’t do something? But what was it exactly?”

  Jake had reviewed his notes in the car so he didn’t need to look at them now. In fact, he’d memorized the words.

  “I believe…but what is right is right, and what is wrong…is very wrong.”

  “It sounds as if she was having a crisis of faith—or maybe heart? Something.”

  “Possibly.” Jake shrugged. “Tomorrow I’m going to reach that girl’s mother—the one who can’t quite get herself to leave Texas to claim her daughter’s body.” He shook his head.

  The thirtyish brunette came over to them wearing a big smile. “Hello, welcome. I’m Emily Dupont. May I help you?”

  Ashley quickly put out a hand. “Hi. I met Mr. Nicholson today and he told me I just had to come and see the shop. I’m Ashley.”

  “An art connoisseur?” Emily asked. She seemed to be an easy, relaxed person, happy where she was and eager to share art with others.

  “Hardly.” Ashley laughed. “I tend not to be too fond of modern art—or paintings called ‘Black’ that are just black. I pretty much fall in love with a piece or I don’t. It might be a child’s rendering or something hailed in the art world as the next great thing.”

  Emily laughed softly. “That’s an art connoisseur to me. So how do you like the shop? And, by the way, I’m not here to pressure you. Just to help.”

  “Thank you.”

  Emily looked at Jake, who hadn’t yet introduced himself.

  “I’m Jake Mallory,” he said. “I was here earlier today. I’m consulting with the police. We’re going to solve the murder of Shelley Broussard.”

  Emily’s smile faded. Tears sprang into her eyes. “Shelley,” she whispered.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jake said.

  Emily quickly wiped her face. “Sorry. We’re trying to keep things going here. Sadly, eating and bill paying come out of working, and so… But poor Shelley. I still can’t believe it.”

  “You were close friends,” Ashley said.

  “We lived together, we worked together. I loved her. She was a—sister.” Emily paused to look around. The couple was still studying the painting of Royal Street or Rue Royale, as the painting had been titled. “I have no idea what she was doing, or where she was going, or… I just don’t know.”

  “Why was she upset?” Jake asked her.

  “Upset?”

  Jake nodded. “Her murder was personal. She had a sign around her neck. It read Traitor. Who did she betray?”

  Emily shook her head. “She didn’t say anything to me. Or Samantha. Samantha is our other roommate. My other roommate now, I guess. We talked every night. Oh, we weren’t wed to one another—we all went out with other friends and did our own thing. But we were together so often at night—as if we were back in high school and it was a slumber party.”

  “I believe…but what is right is right, and what is wrong…is very wrong,” Jake said.

  “What’s that?” Emily asked, frowning.

  “Something Shelley wrote in her notebook,” Jake said.

  Ashley watched Emily as her face knit in consternation. She seemed to change color slightly—either baffled or disturbed.

  “She was cheerful—she was supposed to meet Samantha and me the night she… The night she just disappeared.”

  “She didn’t come home,” Ashley said. “None of you were worried?”

  “Well, she’d hinted that she’d met a man.”

  “I heard she’d fought with a man—maybe not fought, but had a negative response to him. Do you know who he was? A boyfriend?”

  Ashley heard a door opening—not the front door, but a door in the back of the shop.

  She looked up. The tall, dignified man she’d met earlier was coming in.

  He might have been in the back—perhaps trying to listen to what was going on.

  But now, he headed straight for them, beaming.

  “Hello. And welcome. So, miss, you took me up on my invitation. The shop is wonderful, right?”

  This time, Jake chose to identify himself. “Special Agent Jake Mallory, Mr. Nicholson. I met your wife earlier. And you happened to meet Ashley in the Square. We’re about to head to a party, but saw the shop was open.”

  “We keep these doors open until eleven—we’re on a street with clubs and restaurants and lots of people,” Nicholson told him. “We do a great business when others might well be closed. No hardship on anyone, between our artists and my wife and myself. Anyway, what do you think?”

  Ashley was surprised when Jake answered bluntly. “I’m surprised that you—that you had a young woman so close to you brutally murdered—and you’re going about business as usual.”

  Emily gasped.

  Nicholson’s jaw locked for a moment.

  “We have to keep living,” he said finally. He pointed to the painting of the witch that had so captured Ashley. “We have to keep living, and we’re trying to see that we can bury poor Shelley. You have your nerve, Special Agent.”

  “Sorry, I’ve just seen the crime photos,” Jake said. “You don’t have any video surveillance. Isn’t that a bit…odd?”

  “Careless, you mean,” Nicholson said. “No. One of us is usually here.”

  “Can you tell me anything about this man who seemed to be after Shelley?” Jake asked.

  “Oh.” Nicholson inhaled and exhaled. “I’m going to say six-feet tall, or maybe six-one. Sandy blond/brown hair, short, but with kind of a piece that would go over his forehead now and then. Medium build. Twenties to, say…” He paused and looke
d at Emily.

  “Twenties to thirties,” Emily said. “He came in several times. He always asked for Shelley. She was nice to him, but I think he wanted more from her. I saw her get a little sharp with him one day. And he appeared to be upset.”

  “But you know nothing about him? Not even his name?” Jake asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Nicholson said. “Emily?”

  She shook her head. “No. Nothing. I’d ask her if she knew him, and she’d look a little upset and say he was just a pain—one of those customers who didn’t really want anything except to bother the help.”

  “Thank you,” Jake said. “Oh, by the way, was Shelley religious?”

  Nicholson frowned. “Um, not that I know of.”

  “I think she was Catholic,” Emily said. “I think I saw her go into the church by St. Louis.”

  “Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel, on Rampart Street,” Jake said.

  “I guess,” Emily murmured.

  “Thank you,” Jake said. “Thank you so much. Mr. Nicholson, I’ve been asked by the police to pick up Miss Broussard’s notebook.”

  “Her notebook?” Nicholson asked.

  “It’s in her drawer upstairs.”

  “You were in my room?” Emily asked.

  “With Mrs. Nicholson,” Jake said.

  “Oh, I see,” Nicholson said. “Well, I’ll go get it for you.”

  “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.”

  Nicholson was about to protest, Ashley was certain. “And while you two are up there, I’d like to talk to Emily about buying a painting. One of Shelley’s paintings—I love it, and I’d like to help the cause as well.” She spoke enthusiastically.

  “Sir, let’s get the notebook,” Jake said. “Maybe there will be a clue to the young man harassing her.”

  Nicholson apparently decided protesting would make him appear to be defensive—or guilty of something. He shrugged. “All right.”

  When they were gone, Emily stared at Ashley. “You don’t really want that painting,” she accused.

  “I do. I think it’s haunting and beautiful. And tragic.”

  When Emily told her the price, Ashley realized she’d gotten a bit carried away with art that day. But it suddenly seemed incredibly important to her that she own the painting.

  Because in that painting, Shelley had been saying something. Ashley was sure of it.