I marched Thomas out the door and flung him into the street, where he tripped and went down hard. I wasn’t worried about him. God protected drunks, or so, it seemed.
“Don’t come back until you’re sober!” I ordered.
He sat on his butt and stared at me. My eyes had turned back to blue, and I was pretty sure he would blame himself for the change he had seen. Drunk’s were highly unreliable when it came to memory.
“Helga?” he asked mournfully.
I looked around. The sidewalks were still filled with tourists, and they stared. I knew I looked like some kind of evil shrew. I thought perhaps I could give some kind of explanation, a justification for throwing a grown man into the street.
I couldn’t.
Instead, I slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame. I looked at the shoppers, and I immediately regretted what I had done.
“The man is a notorious drunk,” I announced. “While I might have been a bit rough, he got what he deserved. That being said, I want everyone to just keep shopping. That little scene is over.”
I returned to the counter, and I knew my little speech had done absolutely no good. The shoppers pretended to look about for a few more minutes, but then, they all left. I glanced out the windows and noticed a storm brewing outside the city. Like Florida, New Orleans was often the recipient of an afternoon thundershower, something fed by the heat and humidity. I knew the locals would take cover. The tourists, on the other hand, would roam the sidewalks until the last minute. And then, they would swarm the bars. There was nothing like waiting out a storm with a drink in one hand.
I locked the door and turned on the CLOSED neon sign. I didn’t need any additional shoppers, and I especially didn’t need another visit from Thomas Jamison.
Roxanne took that moment to come to me. Despite the centuries of tears, Roxanne was still pretty. I wondered if she had been a debutante. Then, I chided myself. Of course, she had been a debutante. The lowly didn’t have expensive necklaces.
“Helga,” Roxanne said. “I do apologize for my inability to control myself. It’s just that I have been searching for my necklace for more years than I can count. And I’m certain I’m close to finding it. When I think about it, well, I cannot stop the tears. I pray you understand.”
“I do, Roxanne, but I still must ask you to be as quiet at you can. I know the shoppers can’t see or hear you, but some of them can sense you. That’s how humans are. So, if you can’t control yourself, can you at least stay upstairs until closing time?”
“I shall endeavor to do that,” she said. “And I must express my thanks once again. You are truly the best of witches.”
I watched Roxanne return to Orchid and Zephyr. The three of them winked out, and I knew they had moved upstairs to go through the inventory I had not yet processed and priced. In some cases, the item needed a bit of refurbishing or care. I couldn’t very well sell a chair that was going to collapse the first time someone older than an infant sat in it. Of course, those were my rainy day projects, what I did at night and on long weekends. I could have paid someone to do the work, but that seemed like a waste of money. My father did his own restoration—unless the item was beyond his skills. There weren’t many items that he couldn’t make like new.
I looked out, and as hoped, the brewing storm had made a turn and no longer threatened the quarter. I pulled out an old book of spells that I had found at an estate sale in Baton Rouge. The family that sold the plantation thought the book was a volume of verse, with some rather odd poems. A witch would recognize the book instantly. That was for me. I opened the book, looking for some spells that would reveal the essence of things. Sometimes, if an antique had a past, especially a checkered past, a spell would bring the past to the present. I would get glimpses of what had happened. Such spells were handy, as there were always charlatans hawking “genuine” antiques. A desk didn’t have to say “MADE IN CHINA” to indicate it was manufactured in the 21st century. I was a third of the way through the volume when Andromeda spoke.
The storm is past.
Andromeda was my cat. Well, he wasn’t really mine. He came with the shop, and I’m not quite sure how my father found the black and gray creature. Andromeda was not magical, not in the sense he could cast spells or do magic. But he was intelligent. Since he couldn’t talk, we communicated telepathically. And it wasn’t just words he sent my way. When wanted or needed, he could cast his vision, what he saw. There were always places I couldn’t access. He could, and when he did, I was the recipient of his information. It was a wonderful relationship, even if he would disappear inside the store when he wanted to.
Do you want out?
Night has not yet arrived, but soon.
And night is roaming time?
Knowledge is gained by going.
I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I knew he wanted out. I unlocked the door, and he strolled into the gathering dark. That was when I decided I should leave also. The walk home wasn’t far, and it wasn’t dangerous. It would simply be louder as the night wore on. The tourists would see to that. For them, every night was Mardi Gras.
As I walked home, I wondered what New Orleans was like before streetlights. I supposed it was the era of doorways hidden in shadow, of lanterns and smoke . Even gaslights would have been close to the ground and dim. After all, the lamplighter had to be able to light the gas. It would have been nothing like the high-intensity lights of the modern era. In fact, it would have been so dark, so early that I never would have spotted the unruly mop of blonde hair sticking out from behind the dumpster.
There was something about a stricken person that was unmistakable. I wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps, it was the angle of the head or body, the lack of breathing, the splayed arms and legs, the mouth agape...or it could have been the arrow buried in the man’s chest.
Chapter 2
The man lying on the ground next to the dumpster was Thomas Jamison, the same man I had tossed out of my store. Along with the arrow in the bloody center of his shirt, Thomas’ face was decorated with lipstick kisses. All over. It was as if someone had wanted to make up for the arrow. I didn’t think the kisses came before the arrow. That didn’t make sense. Who was strong enough to bury an arrow in Thomas’ chest? I didn’t bother to check for life. There was no blood being pumped. There was no breathing. His lips were decidedly blue, even in this light. So, I did what every good citizen is supposed to do. I called 911.
The police arrived quickly, and they verified my diagnosis. Thomas was indeed dead, very dead, the arrow in the middle of his chest. They didn’t detain me, just took my statement and told me to be available for more questions the following day. That was fine with me. I walked home, past the clubs and bars, where the jazz music drifted into the streets. The evening hardly started, according to New Orleans standards. Later, the drunks and near-drunks would sip drinks and sway to the music. It was a New Orleans tradition. I had had my moments in the quarter, and I was happy to be going home. My house was big and old, left to me by my father. Like the store, it was filled with antiques, the best my father had run across. I was thankful for everything he left me.
The next day began as did most of my days. I bought a big cup of coffee from The Daily Grind, a coffee shop that wasn’t part of some huge chain. Claudia, the owner, brewed a great cup of coffee and fed me the local headlines. Her tip for the morning was that Thomas Jamison was dead. According to Claudia, Thomas had been shot three times with three different arrows. And his face had been covered in roses.