Down the Hatch
Down the Hatch
by
Constance Barker
Copyright © 2020 Constance Barker
All rights reserved.
Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Thanks for Reading
Catalog of Books
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.
“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.
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 m
y 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.
I didn’t disabuse her of her story. I was pretty sure that by the end of the day, Thomas died from half a dozen arrows and had his face eaten off by rats. Like anywhere else, stories always grew over time. Despite the stories, I was still a bit shaken. Thomas was not exactly a friend, but he was an acquaintance. And as flirts came, he was pretty harmless.
The gentleman who bought an antique ink pen handed back the extra five I had managed to give him.
“Your books aren’t going to balance,” he said with a smile.
“I apologize,” I said. “It’s been a long morning already.”
“Don’t I know it,” he said.
I watched him leave, and I wanted to march across the room and tell Roxanne to cut it out and be quiet. I had had enough of her wailing and weeping. Orchid and Zephyr were doing their best to keep Roxanne somewhat quiet, but they weren’t having much luck. I might have done it if Gwen hadn’t walked into the store.
Gwen was my older sister, and like me, she was a witch. People said we looked alike, and I guessed that was true, except for the eyes. Hers were brown. Gwen liked mental magic, using spells to nudge people toward certain behaviors. As a psychologist and therapist, her nudges helped in her work. Her patients always seemed to get better, but she did not push too hard. Spells could not replace a change of attitude. People had to heal themselves. And when she sometimes worked the antique shop in my stead, I strictly forbade her from using spells to sell merchandise. I hated handling the returns when the buyer realized they really didn’t want that old leather bag.