“Arthur Rogers,” Lance said. “The best bow maker in all of Louisiana.”
“That’s fabulous,” I said. “And have any idea where I might find Arthur?”
“Of course, but you won’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because Arthur Rogers died some years ago. He’s buried in St. Louis cemetery.”
At that moment, I could find no words to say. I had been so hopeful.
“Are you there?” Lance asked.
“Y...yes,” I said. “I was hoping he was still alive.”
“Yes, he was a great loss.”
A few words later, we said goodbye, and I turned to Jacob.
“Not good news,” I said. “Rogers died years ago.”
“End of the road. Without Rogers, we have no idea who might have one of his bows.”
“But we have a possible source.”
“His records? I doubt that they are still available. He’s been dead for years.”
“I’m an expert on old stuff,” I said. “But I think you’re right. I doubt his records were saved. I was thinking of something else.”
“What else is there? An assistant? How good a memory would an assistant have? No, Helga, this is end of this path. We have no place to go.”
“But we do,” I said. “We have the cemetery.”
“Cemetery? What are you talking about, a ghost?”
“Exactly. Perhaps Rogers’ ghost is attached to the grave. If that’s true, we can find out what we need to know.”
“You’re grasping at straws. Even if there is a ghost, it’s more than likely that he won’t remember all the sales. You’re chasing rainbows.”
I knew I had lost Jacob, as far as the bow was concerned. He wasn’t going to head for the graveyard. That would be my job.
Jacob’s phone chirped, and he looked at it.
“I have to go,” Jacob said. “You can make it home?”
“I’ll be fine. Go. Take another criminal off the streets.”
He grinned and walked away. I watched, knowing that he would do whatever he could to help as many people as he could. I felt a certain pride. Jacob had come a long way since high school.
At home, I ate some dinner and waited for dark. If there was a ghost to conjure into existence, it would be easier in the dark. There wouldn’t be people around, who might think I was some kind of weirdo, talking to the moon. I told myself not to expect anything. If there was something in the cemetery, good. But there probably wouldn’t be. I had to be all right with that.
It was full dark when I left the house for the St. Louis Cemetery.
Lazy clouds drifted across the half moon. The light wasn’t constant, and the walk to the cemetery was only a bit scary. While the tourists flocked to the cemetery during the day, they stayed away at night. With many caskets and monuments above ground, the shadows at night made the place more than a little spooky. Being old, the cemetery was filled with ghosts and spirits. Some of them eyed me as I slipped among the headstones. I didn’t engage them. I didn’t want to talk to them, although I wouldn’t have minded discussing Roxanne with them. That was wishful thinking.
I had looked through the cemetery map, so I knew the way to the grave. As I neared it, I paused. There was someone at the grave. In the semi-dark, I could tell that the person wore a hoodie, one of those sweatshirts that hides the face. And the person was doing something at the grave, but I couldn’t tell what.
“Excuse me,” I said.
The person turned to me, the face hidden in shadow. But I wasn’t looking at the face. My eyes were locked on the sharp knife in the person’s hand.
Chapter 14
The moonlight glinting on the knife was all I needed. In an instant, I turned and ran. I didn’t care who was chasing me, and I was certain someone was chasing. Dodging through the monuments, I had the feeling I was going to be caught, as I was never the fastest runner in New Orleans. So, as I ran, I whispered a cloaking spell. In an instant, I felt the change. I was invisible. Well, I was pretty sure I was invisible. So, I dived behind a huge pillar and stopped, trying to keep from panting.
A moment later, the knifer flashed past. But in the dark, I had no idea who it was. And that person didn’t stop. I didn’t give chase either. It wasn’t that I was an abject coward, but I had not come for a knife fight. That was something I would leave for Jacob, and I was sorry I hadn’t convinced him to come with me. Because the knifer had come after me without hesitation. I was supposed to die.
I waited ten minutes before I sneaked back to Rogers’ grave. I closed my eyes and felt for a ghost. No, Rogers’ ghost was not there. I was disappointed, but finding a ghost was always a long shot. It was then that I noticed something on the stone marker. Besides some wood shavings there was a small, wooden arrow. It was almost an arrow. I held the wood, and I interrogated the wood. The information that came through was that the carver, whoever it was, knew Thomas Jamison. And the carver wanted the secret of the murder dead and buried.
I waited for more, but the half-finished arrow provided nothing more.
Arrow.
It meant something, since the murder weapon had been an arrow.
What?
I didn’t know. But the animosity of the arrow came through loud and clear. The carver-knifer might have recognized me, even in the dark. If the carver-knifer knew me... I didn’t finish the thought. I needed a place to go to, a place to think. I turned around in a circle in the dark cemetery and wondered just where I could go.
“WHAT’S WRONG?” GWEN asked as soon as she opened the door.
“I think I’m in danger,” I said.
“Get inside.”
I passed Gwen who locked the door behind me. I heard her mutter a protection spell, and that made me feel better. Anyone trying to get in would find the entire house doubly locked. Only another magical would be able to get inside, and I was almost certain the carver-knifer was not a magical.
“Sit down,” Gwen said. “I’m going to call Penelope. I need help with this.”
I sat, but my mind and body didn’t sit. They were running on fear and adrenaline. I wanted to do something, but I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I was in danger. I was certain of that. The carver-knifer wanted to kill me. I had felt that. My head swam with possible people.
Eric.
George.
Jennifer.
All those men who had lost women to Thomas.
And I didn’t have a clue who the carver-knifer might be.
Gwen arrived with a shot of whiskey.
“Penelope is coming, and when she gets here, I want you to tell both of us what happened. Now, a bit of whiskey never hurt anyone. Down it goes.”
I took one look at the amber liquid and downed it in one swallow. The liquid burned, but, as Gwen pointed out, it didn’t hurt me. She patted me on the shoulder.
Minutes later, Penelope arrived. She sat next to me and took my hand.
“All right, Helga,” Penelope said. “Tell us what happened.”
“Well, it started with Lance DeChambeau.”
“Who’s that?” Gwen asked.
“An artist, and a good one.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Penelope said. “Go on.”