Chapter 1
Roxanne was in the corner, weeping and wailing. Orchid and Zephyr were with her, and they were doing their best to keep her quiet. They weren’t having much luck. That wasn’t unexpected. Roxanne had been wailing and weeping for more years than I had been alive, more years than anyone in the store had been alive. I was guessing more years than most of the antiques that I was trying to sell. My large store was stuffed with antiques, but there weren’t that many shoppers. Tourists never shopped hard, because they didn’t live nearby. They bought the smaller items, things they could take on a plane or in a car. They ignored Roxanne and the others. The tourists couldn’t hear the wailing. That was because Roxanne, Orchid, and Zephyr were ghosts.
New Orleans was rife with magical beings. Ghosts, witches, warlocks, and fairies hid in plain sight. As a witch, I could see and hear most ghosts, but the non-magical couldn’t hear unless the ghost wanted to be heard and seen. I had warned the ghosts many times that if they made a nuisance of themselves, I would evict them. And that would be difficult for me. Orchid and Zephyr had been attached to the store for a long time. Roxanne was a more recent addition and not an entirely welcome one. She attached herself to Richardson’s Antiques because it possessed an old and ever-changing inventory. It made some sense, since she was looking for something old.
It was Orchid who came over when I glared at the group.
Orchid was fiftyish, as she had never revealed her age at the time of her death, which was before I was born, way before. She wore an old-fashioned, antebellum dress, something seen only in parades, and there were a lot of parades in New Orleans. It wasn’t just Mardi Gras. The city seemed to have a parade every other week. Orchid liked to watch the parades pass by. She thought the participants often didn’t wear enough clothes, but then, Orchid was from the land of cotton. She had been attached to the store since my father acquired an armoire from an estate in Baton Rouge. My father never met Orchid. My father couldn’t perform magic.
“We’re sorry,” Orchid said. “But Roxanne is beside herself. She thinks the necklace might be in a vase.”
“There are many vases in the store,” I said loud enough to be heard by the shoppers. “If you can’t find one you want to buy, I have more in storage.”
I hoped Orchid would take the hint and guide Roxanne to the second floor where the unprocessed inventory was stored. I didn’t care if the ghosts roamed the second floor.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Orchid said and returned to the corner. She did manage to quiet Roxanne somewhat. It was a bit strange about Roxanne, but that was the way of ghosts.
Roxanne had been a child bride. At seventeen, she looked fifteen, and the necklace was a wedding present from her older husband. She possessed the attractions that came with youth, which would have dissipated over the years. She died before she turned eighteen, when a flu epidemic swept through New Orleans, shortly after the war of 1812. Immature, she wanted the necklace to be with her in death. Her husband had other plans. So, Roxanne had chased the necklace for over two centuries. She had latched onto my antique shop, in the hope that her necklace would appear—as if by magic.
Since Orchid had come over to chat, Zephyr thought she needed equal time. I thought a frown would hold her at bay. I was wrong.
“Roxanne thinks that perhaps the necklace might be in a letter box.,” Zephyr said.
Zephyr was younger than Orchid, exactly twenty-nine, according to Zephyr. She wore a flapper dress, like the ones she wore before her death. She was a singer in a speakeasy during the 20s, killed during a shootout between two New Orleans bootleggers. She was attached to an old, upright piano that my father found in the basement of a dilapidated movie house. She was pretty, and she could sing, although I asked her not to. She and Orchid were kindred spirits and enjoyed each other immensely. I liked them because they were good at spotting shoplifters. On more than one occasion, a would-be thief had had a prize pulled back out of a purse or bag. I told the ghosts that as long as they protected the inventory, they could stay. They took me seriously.
“We have a fine collection of letter boxes,” I announced. “They are located on shelves on the east side of the store.”
The shoppers looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Perhaps, I had. Dealing with ghosts would drive anyone insane.
“Thank you,” Zephyr said with a smile. Then, she hurried back to the corner. All three spirits moved toward the letter boxes.
Letter boxes had been popular when people still wrote letters. Some were ornate, and all held paper, ink, and pens. Many an afternoon was spent with a box on a lap and a pen in hand. I could have told the ghosts that I had been through all the boxes on the main floor and not found Roxanne’s necklace. But that would have kept them in the wailing corner. It was better to send them to the other side of the building.
I watched them move, until the bell over the door rang, signaling a customer. I turned with a smile.
I shouldn’t have.
“Girl of my dreams,” Thomas said. “Come away with me to the river.”
Thomas Jamison was a drunk. He wasn’t drunk at that particular moment, but he had been drinking. He would be drunk later, as he perched on some bar stool and sipped not-so-good whiskey. Thomas was well known in the French Quarter, where he moved from tavern to tavern and flirted with every woman he met. The woman didn’t need to be young and pretty, although that helped, Thomas was an equal opportunity womanizer. He would occasionally stop in my store and try to be charming.
“Thomas,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“Y’all can make me the happiest man on earth,” he said. “Just lock up the shop and have a drink with me.”
Had I not had Roxanne wailing across the room, or Orchid and Zephyr managing to do nothing about it, I might have traded a chat with Thomas, but I was stressed. I didn’t need his prattle.
“Y’all know you’re the prettiest woman in the quarter,” he said. “I would be honored to share the evening with you.”
“Your charms are easily resistible,” I said. “But I do hear a bar stool calling your name.”
He laughed. “Darling, y’all are the reason I stay in New Orleans. I could not bear to leave, knowing I would never see your gorgeous face.”
Thomas’s shock of blonde hair was a bit more unruly than normal, and his brown eyes not yet bloodshot. He possessed the puppy-dog eyes some women preferred. He possessed the neediness, some women preferred. Some women liked to have someone to raise and train. I was not one of those women.
“You’re married,” I reminded Thomas. “What would Jennifer say if she heard you flirting like this?”
“Jennifer is the spawn of Satan,” he said. “She doesn’t understand me like you do.”
“I think she understands you all too well,” I said. “So, you had best move along.”
“Helga, Helga, Helga, y’all cut me to the quick. Say you will have a drink with me later. Meet me at Lord’s. We’ll laugh the night away.”
“Not today, not any day,” I said. “Move along, Thomas.”
He stuck a dramatic pose and swung his arm, and a picture frame went flying. It landed with a crash that cracked its antique glass. And that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I grabbed his collar, and I whispered a spell that would add power to my petite frame. I looked away from the shoppers, as magic turned my blue eyes silver, a common event for magicals around here. While the shoppers couldn’t see my eyes, Thomas could. His face said the eyes scared him.