Hallow Be the Haunt: A Krewe of Hunters Novella

by Heather Graham

  “I haven’t had the heart to clear out her things yet,” Marty murmured. “I need to do that.”

  Jake walked over to Shelley’s bed first. He sat for a minute and waited, trying to sense Shelley, get a feel of her spirit.

  Trying to see if, perhaps, it lingered.

  He opened the drawer on her nightstand. There were phone chargers, pens, little sample perfumes, and a paperweight with the NOLA fleur-de-lis.

  And a notebook.

  He picked it up and flipped it open.

  The first page was filled with enthusiasm about a new project. A painting of the Cathedral.

  The second page talked about a boy she had met—she’d been crazy about him. He’d had to return to school in Philadelphia.

  The third page…

  Had only one sentence.

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

  The rest of the notebook was empty. He set it back in the drawer. As he did so, he saw something he’d missed at first glance. A crucifix. Gold and intricately worked.

  “Beautiful,” he noted. “I’m surprised she wasn’t wearing this.”

  “Oh, well… She was a free-thinker. Maybe she thought it was wrong to wear. She had compassion for everyone. She might have thought the church was too hard on sinners or something—I don’t really know.”

  “I guess you’ll see that her mother gets it.”

  The mother who hadn’t bothered to come get her.

  “Yes, I suppose. I intend to box everything up. I’ll offer it to her mother—if she ever arrives. And if not… Emily and Samantha were her best friends.”

  Jake rose. “Did she have any enemies? Any disputes—no matter how small—with anyone?”

  “Good Lord, no. She was amazing. People loved her. Except—” She paused. “Oh, maybe it’s nothing.”

  “What, please?”

  “There was a young man. A really good-looking young man. He was in the shop several times. I know he had a thing for her. And she seemed to like him too, but… I think he came on a little strong. Nothing violent ever happened. I just heard her telling him one day she didn’t know. And he left in a bit of a huff.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe Emily or Samantha could tell you.”

  “Where can I find them?”

  “They’re both off, but they might be working at Jackson Square. I’ll get you their cell phone numbers. If you’re finished here?”

  “A moment,” Jake said.

  He opened Shelley’s dresser drawer. Nothing but jeans, leggings, T-shirts, and a few nice blouses.

  He went into the closet. Labels there hung above the neatly arranged clothing.

  Shelley Broussard had one long coat, a few jackets, and a few tailored shirts.

  He checked the pockets. Nothing.

  “Finished here,” he told Marty.

  “Come on down,” she said.

  In the storeroom below she paused at a desk, got paper, and looked in an appointment book, flipping to an address page. She wrote down numbers for him.

  “Come anytime, Mr. Mallory. Um, Agent Mallory?”

  “Jake. Call me Jake, ma’am. That will do. And yes, I’m sorry to distress you, but I probably will be back.”

  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.”

  “That’s great. Absolutely great. Congratulations.”

  The woman offered her hand. “Gerry. Or Geraldine. Sands. Gerry Sands. My signature on my paintings is hard to read. I can draw and paint, but go figure—my cursive is terrible. If you’d like that painting, I believe it will cost a great deal more once I’m moved over into the shop.” She laughed.

  “I do love the painting and I want to buy it. I don’t have a car at the moment, though.”

  “I’ll hold it for you. At the price on it now.”

  “Done deal.” Ashley wrote out a check, deciding not to explain why it listed a Virginia address when she’d just said she was from the area. Thankfully, Gerry didn’t seem to notice.

  Leaving the artist—and her newly purchased painting—Ashley continued her journey around the square. She realized now that many of the paintings being displayed were in honor of Halloween. Some were truly creepy.

  Many were of witches.

  When she left Jackson Square and crossed Chartres on her way up to Royal, she passed a number of places where Halloween was—just like at Donegal Plantation—out in full scale.

  Ghosts.

  Goblins.

  Creatures.

  Witches.

  Here, there, and everywhere.

  Watch out for witches.

  Yep. Great advice. At Halloween.

  She gave herself a mental shake at the sarcasm and hurried on to one of her favorite shops—Fifi Mahony’s—where she loved to browse the fantastic wigs created there and sometimes have her hair done in the salon.

  She was due to meet Jake in an hour.

  Witches.

  She passed more and more of them. They were pictured in decals, in hanging decorations, and by mannequins in the front of shops.

  Witches. Yes, here, there, and everywhere.

  But, at least, no trio of witches.

  She hurried up the steps and into Fifi Mahony’s.

  Chapter 4

  Jake walked down Magazine Street and watched the blur of activities. Halloween was still six days away and it was a Wednesday night, but the city was in full party mode. Some just walked the streets—locals who were weary of Halloween starting early, visitors totally into the mood, and those who were local and just loved Halloween.

  People did love Halloween. It was early and he already saw couples with children dressed as ninjas, Star Wars characters, and more.

  There were a few mummies and ghouls and the like walking the streets—one in particular delighted a number of children, stopping to make a howling noise, and then pretending to cry when they jumped back. People laughed. It was all in good fun.

  He was surprised when the ghoul walked up to him. “Jake? Jake Mallory?”

  Jake stared at the creature.

  “Football, man. It’s Sammy Riley. We played together in high school—I was one of your linebackers.”

  “Hey. How are you, Sammy?”

  “Good. Having a little fun with the kids. I’m doing a party tonight—Swamp Creatures. What are you doing here? Someone told me that you’re a Fed now.”

  “I am, and you?”

  “I’m a contractor—and a scare actor at Halloween. Love it—I have so much fun.”

  “I saw that. Great.”

  “You should come to the party.”

  “Don’t have an invite or a ticket.”

  “You don’t need one. It’s put on by a group of artists and musicians and even writers in the city. A really cool rich dude who got a bunch of movies made from his stuff—on the science fiction channels—pays the groundwork and the venue. No open bar, but you should come. It’s in a warehouse between the CBD and the Irish Channel.”

  “Sounds good, but I’m meeting up with my fiancée, Ashley.”

  “Bring her. Oh, my God, of course, Ashley. Ashley Donegal.”

  “Yes, that’s her. We were really just going to have dinner.”

  “I guess Donegal Plantation is crazy enough. Still, man… We’re having all kinds of cool stuff. And these people really get into it. Vampires, werewolves, aliens, witches, you name it.” He broke off, his eyes going wide. “Have you seen the news? Maybe there won’t be any witches. I mean, people won’t want a witch association right now, huh? Oh, hey, man, are you here because of the news?”

  “I know about it,” Jake said. “And, naturally, it’s a crime, and I am a Fed…”

  “Maybe you should come. What if there are witches there?” Sammy asked. He looked different with white makeup enhanced by shades of red and black covering his face and bandages wrapped around his body.

  “No costumes, I’m afraid,” Jake said.

  “There’s a place just down the block that rents them,” Sammy told him.

  “Well, maybe later. We’re going to have dinner at Antoine’s. Then, we’ll see. We just show up?”

  “Get to the door and use my name. They’ll bring you right in. Do come. It’s great to see you. It’s been too long.”

  “Great to see you, too.”

  Sammy started to walk on, but then he hesitated. “How long you been here? I mean, did you know about the witches? Do the Feds come in when it has to do with kidnapping, state lines, and witches?”

  “We actually came to plan the wedding, Sammy. You’ll be invited.”

  “At Donegal Plantation?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ah, man, I’ll be there.”

  Sammy waved and continued on his way. Jake hurried to the car, pulling out his phone as he went. A feeling of fear registered in his gut and he suddenly wished he hadn’t urged Ashley to come into the city.

  It made no sense. One victim, sweet, talented, and beloved. Another, a dangerous hood.

  Ashley was bright, smart as a whip. Through the years, when she’d been in meetings or just working with some of the agents one on one, she’d had an insight the rest of them hadn’t fathomed.

  She’d be fine. She was smart. She was prepared.

  But he began to worry. She’d also had a dream, a nightmare. It was being back at Donegal.

  Memories were popping up.

  They’d visited Donegal before. But this was…

  He dialed her number.

  “Hey, Jake,” Ashley answered with her normal enthusiasm. He decided to bury his fears. For now.

  “Antoine’s? That’s romantic, right?” It took everything in him not to beg her to stay at the plantation.

  “Antoine’s would be great. See you there.”

  He heard the background noise and realized she must already be in the Quarter. “Where are you?”

  “Just leaving Fifi Mahony’s. I ordered some new wigs for the next re-enactment and met up with some old friends.”

  “Nice. Okay. Well, the streets are a little crazy.”

  “A little? Yes. Actually, the streets are always a little crazy.”

  “Crazier.”

  “I’m fine, Jake. See you there.”

  Ashley rang off.

  She was fine, Jake told himself.

  Witches…

  Like Sammy had said, the witches just might not be out. They knew they’d been seen.

  Which just meant that they’d be dressed up as something else. And he wanted to stay in the city to see what he could see.

  It was a big city. If there were witches about…

  They might plan on attending a big party.

  * * * *

  Ashley loved a number of the restaurants i
n the French Quarter and surrounding area, but Antoine’s had always been a favorite. Her parents had brought her here when she’d been a child after she’d seen the movie Dinner at Antoine’s. The memory was a good one, and coming back always reminded her of them in the best way.

  She sat at the bar with a soda while she waited for Jake. It seemed as if she shouldn’t imbibe, but she wasn’t sure why. Except that she didn’t want any dreams or visions that weren’t…

  Real?

  Fueled by alcohol?

  She pulled out her phone to check the news—and to see if she could discover what the whole thing about witches was.

  The first thing to pop up on her screen quickly told her.

  She read about the murder of the young artist Shelley Broussard, and then about the man who had seen his friend—a man with a record—murdered by witches.

  It wasn’t that New Orleans was crime-free. It was a big city and had never been immune to violence. But she hated to see what had happened. Hated that a beautiful young woman had been murdered.

  Hated that it had happened around Halloween.

  And by witches.

  “This seat taken?”

  She turned and smiled. Jake was there, looking exceptionally handsome in a casual jacket and trousers. No tie, shirt slightly open. He was very tall—six-four—and his shoulders were nicely broad, but he could appear almost lean. His hair was at a rakish angle over his forehead.

  “I’ll make room for you, sir,” she said.

  “Soda?”

  “Yes. With lime. Makes it fancy.”

  He ordered for them both and took her hand, twining their fingers. “Should be champagne.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “No, not tonight,” he agreed. “But, I promise…”

  She heard the guilt in his voice and tightened her grip, willing him to understand. “Jake, it’s all right. I promise. This isn’t just what you do—it’s who you are. And, I’m proud of that.”

  “You’re doing okay, right?”

  “Of course. Oh, because I was dreaming.”

  “I really don’t like what’s going on.”

  “With me—or the murdered girl and the slashed hood?”

  “All of the above,” he sighed. “But for now, let’s focus on dinner.”