Chapter 3
“You may feel I talked you into the haunted history walking tour, but I heard the questions you asked Ichabod toward the end of the tour,” I said. “You enjoyed that last stop, didn’t you?”
“Aside from the fact the red stains on the brick weren’t bloodstains, I did. It was an interesting story.”
Cade was a retired detective and chief of police, so it didn’t surprise me that we reached the same conclusion—the “blood” Ichabod pointed out seemed like nothing more than paint spatter.
“I wasn’t buyin’ all the stuff he said about people seein’ the spirit of Esmerelda roaming the streets. What about you?”
“Through the years, I’ve stumbled on things that defy explanation. I remain doubtful, yet something in me stays open to the unseen.”
We rounded the corner, strolling hand in hand down the historic main street, our shoes clicking against worn brick and weathered wooden planks.
Old storefronts lined either side, their painted signs faded but proud, each one telling a story in chipped lettering and curled edges.
It was as though the town itself still breathed in time with a newer century.
“What do you reckon?” Cade asked. “Do you think you could ever live in a place like this, a town that looks like it’s been frozen in time?”
I considered the question. “I like the life we live now, traveling around in the RV several months out of the year and spending the rest of it in our condo in New Orleans. It’s a good life.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
In the distance, a lone bell tolled the hour, and we went quiet for a time, taking in the surroundings.
We passed an antique shop with lace curtains that had a pair of rocking chairs on the porch out front.
A plaque on the wooden door indicated the shop was established in 1912.
Next door was Sweet Hearth Bakery, which looked fresher and more up to date than many of the other shops we’d passed.
On the glass door hung a photograph of a woman, secured with tape, a tender tribute written beneath it. I stopped, drawn in. Her name was Betty Belmont, and the message told of the deep bond she’d shared with the bakery and what its patrons had meant to her in her life.
Cade leaned in. “Whatcha reading?”
“I guess the original owner of this cute little sweet shop passed away last year.”
“That’s too bad.”
Cupping my hands against the glass, I leaned closer, straining for a better look inside. Shadows filled the shop, yet under the pastry case lay a sight I hadn’t braced for—a man collapsed, facedown across the cold tile.
I wiggled the door handle, finding it was unlocked.
“What are you doing?” Cade asked.
“There’s a man on the ground in there. See?”
Cade leaned in for a closer look, and I opened the door, rushing to the man’s side.
The man was still, unmoving.
Tapping the man on the shoulder, I said, “Sir, can you hear me?”
No answer.
I felt for a pulse.
There wasn’t one.
“I can’t find a pulse,” I said.
Cade stepped in front of me. He rolled the man onto his back, and I clapped a hand over my mouth, my gaze locking on the blood-soaked shirt. It appeared he had been shot, a single bullet wound to the chest.
I leaned back and looked him over. His limbs were slack except for the faint stiffness creeping into his jaw and fingers.
A thin sheen of pallor had drained the life from his skin, replaced in places by a deep purplish flush where the blood had pooled.
His shirt, still warm in spots, clung to him, but his body was cooling, surrendering its heat to the damp autumn air.
Questions flooded my mind.
Who was this man?
Why had he been shot?
And who had brought his life to a sudden, final stop?