Chapter 8

Heat and Chills

A n ominous shroud hung over the French Quarter that evening, like the calm before a storm. The unsettling feeling of being watched followed me everywhere, even though I hadn't seen a suspicious miscreant. It must have been my overactive imagination. I should be relieved with my presentation over and it being well-received. Still, suspicions about SapphicLover69 needled me, consuming my concentration as I puzzled who it might be.

I had called Tracy before we left for dinner and asked her to check the web. Sure enough, the scoundrel had posted about how unimpressed she was to meet the imposter Aspen Wolfe in the flesh. "She's an arrogant wannabe with her head so far up her ass she doesn't even recognize real lesbian authors when she's face to face with them." There was no mention of my masterclass, but that doesn't prove she hadn't been present. The other authors were all so nice to me, and I was nice to them too. When was I arrogant? Or is she just making crap up?

A trickle of warm sweat rolled between my shoulder blades as we browsed the voodoo shop ten minutes before the tour was to start. Deciding it wasn't necessary to impress anyone that night, I dressed properly for the occasion in deep-pocketed walking shorts and a casual tank top. I still had my makeup—Alice promised this brand was perspiration-proof—and my hair down rather than in a tail. I wasn't ready to reveal an entirely authentic Mary to even this small group.

The gumbo had been extraordinary—the perfect blend of spice and heat with a flavor so savory I could have sworn it had been brewing in a big, iron kettle in the kitchen for days. I also had a catfish filet smothered in shrimp creole over rice that was to die for. Glancing at the wares inside the eerie mercantile made me wonder if that was exactly the fate New Orleans had in store for me.

"Isn't this great?" Elaine exclaimed as she swung a voodoo doll in front of me. "Here's a book of spells and a box of basic potions," she continued, piling them into my arms. "And this all-inclusive volume is a must!"

"Ooof!" I wheezed when she hoisted a sixteen-inch long hardcover thicker than War and Peace and A Game of Thrones put together on top. "Who's going to carry these for you while we're on the tour?" Because it wasn't going to be me.

Elaine's lustrous smile never wavered. "Beth said they can ride in the storage compartment of her wheelchair."

"That's right," Beth confirmed as she glided in beside us. She had pulled her hair back in a band, making me wish I had. "The store will be closed by the time the tour is over, and this is all I'm getting."

Beth dangled a pair of antique-looking earrings with an idiosyncratic design. "I'm sure they didn't really once belong to Marie Laveau, but I can still pretend they did."

"They'll make a great conversation starter," I replied, returning her smile.

Beth had a premium chair built for comfort and versatility. The plush, royal blue padded seat and back were attractive against the black frame, and the all-terrain wheels made riding over the fractured sidewalks and bumpy streets of the Quarter a breeze. One folding arm held a 360-degree, high-tech joystick, and the other sported a cupholder. Hanging around the back was a convenient wire basket to hold shopping bags. Naturally, the astute, older woman clutched her purse in her lap.

A plus-sized, dark-skinned black woman wearing a vibrant African-styled muumuu with a red scarf knotted around her head announced, "If you're on the tour, please make your final purchases and head out to the courtyard with your tickets. It's leaving in five minutes, with or without you." Her accent sounded Jamaican to my unsophisticated ears.

I carried Elaine's stack of goodies to the register and waited for Beth to pay for her earrings. Taking a glance out the door, I spied Winter peering in, nibbling her lip and twirling her fingers while Tammy's physique towered over her like a lumberjack's. They had changed into shorts and sneakers too. Winter's tee had a spaceship on it, and Tammy's short-sleeved button-up sported blue and white checks.

When we all gathered with the tour group in the courtyard, I approached Winter, my hands free of burdensome purchases. "Did you even go inside?"

With a fearful expression, she shook her head and glanced at her toes. "Those places give me the creeps, all those scary things and tarot cards and stuff." She hugged herself despite the sticky air.

I had to laugh. "You write about gross space aliens oozing green blood and digesting people like amoebas and you're terrified of a tourist shop?"

"That's different," she countered. "Oozy space monsters are completely fictitious; witchcraft and voodoo are real."

I threw an arm around her from the side and gave her a slight squeeze. "I'll protect you from evil spells and nasty-smelling chicken feet."

It was the first time I'd touched Winter and hadn't expected it would feel so nice. A part of me wanted to indulge my senses and the other part to run away as fast as I could. She was undeniably adorable, but it was astonishing that the waiter at the bar last night didn't bother to check her ID. She had to be, what—twenty-one, twenty-two years old? Well, this was New Orleans. If you looked older than twelve, they'd sell you a drink.

Her arm immediately latched onto my waist, and she rested her head against mine. She was a little shorter and a lot skinnier than me, and the idea of being her protector gave me tingles.

"Thanks, Aspen."

"It's the least I could do after the way you stood up for me today."

"This way, everyone," called the tour guide, a tall, tan fellow with a long nose and scraggly hair who reminded me of a scarecrow. "The French Quarter is one of the most haunted places in America, and tonight we'll visit the sites of historic hauntings and hear their histories. Keep your cameras ready, as people regularly get snapshots of orbs hanging over and around the LaLaurie Mansion, the Andrew Jackson Hotel, and the Old Ursuline Convent. We'll be stopping at these and other ghoulish attractions so keep your eyes and ears open. You never know what you'll discover lurking in the shadows."

Oohs and giggles rippled through the group of around twenty as we struck out of the courtyard onto Royal Street. Pinks, purples, and deep blues streaked the evening sky, and the picturesque streetlights glowed in the twilight. Three young women bounded into view—well, two bounded and one slunk with her hands jammed stubbornly into her pockets. I let go of Winter to receive their devoted attention.

"Ms. Wolfe!" exclaimed the one who'd bought a hundred dollars worth of my books this morning. "Imagine seeing you here."

"Indeed," concurred Mardis Gras hair— Nan, I think. And the exuberant one is Demi—right?

The lurker stared at me from three yards away in a manner I found unnerving, but I had fans to placate.

"Are y'all coming on the tour?" I asked. Winter fell in beside me as I walked to keep up with the group, and the fans danced around to my other side.

"Why come to the Quarter and not take the tour?" Nan answered my obvious question with a rhetorical one.

"I can't believe I'm going to spend the night walking around the French Quarter with Aspen Wolfe!" Demi bubbled.

"Hey, I'm not the only sapphic author here. This is Winter Bliss, an extremely talented young woman who writes spectacular sci-fi, and, up there, the tall, built one is Tammy Fairfield, an award-winning historical fiction writer. On her other side, with the honey-blonde hair, is Elaine Parker, author of magic stories about young adults."

"Oh, I have several of her books!" Demi chimed as she bounded by my side. "They're fun."

"You should go talk to her," I suggested. "She's so excited about seeing the haunted places."

"Yeah, I will."

"So, sci-fi." Nan wedged herself between Winter and me to talk to her. It made me feel better to no longer be the sole focus of their admiration.

Soon Demi and Nan moved on to Elaine, who seemed delighted with the attention, while the broody third wheel trudged along behind staring holes in me. Could she be SapphicLover69? She hasn't volunteered any information—not even her name—and she keeps giving me hateful looks. Thinking about it added to my unease. I glanced over my shoulder. She was still there, pacing along, not saying a word, like a sticky seed that you can't get off your pants, socks, or shoelaces. I tried to shake off my suspicions and enjoy the picturesque architecture with wrought-iron railings around balconies bursting with pots of flowering plants.

We had just arrived at Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop when I caught a shadowy figure out of the corner of my eye. Stories about specters stuck here after the 1812 Battle of New Orleans and chilling horrors perpetrated by long-dead slave owners were still fresh in my mind, and several of the tourists were comparing orb photos when the hairs on the back of my neck rose. A macabre sense of dread knotted in my stomach, and I scanned the area, straining to perceive something substantial.

The prickling sensation wasn't from a freak chill in the stifling air. Then I saw someone dash by, a person dressed in black who had been watching me—I knew it. Observing me from the shadows, creeping and prowling about. It could be a wino, but how could one move so fast? A pickpocket hoping to make off with tourists' wallets? Maybe. Why did I think this culprit was targeting me? Nerves? The atmosphere? The ghost stories?

I stepped a few feet away from the group while the guide recounted the tale of how the pirate Jean Lafitte haunted the building that was now a bar. Bourbon Street was jammed with pedestrians, and police officers hung out on every corner. I craned my neck to where the lone figure, amidst the bustling crowd, had captured my attention. There she was—yes, a female with long, dark hair dangling over part of her face. Her one visible eye stared right at me and my heart began to pound. A muscle in my arm twitched, and the trickle of sweat escalated into a river.

What should I do? This could be SapphicLover69. She's been skulking around since last night, always taking off once I caught her looking at me.

This whole bizarre affair was driving me crazy. I had to know who she was, why she was following me, and get this stalker business over with. Tons of witnesses and the police milled about, so I should be able to confront her without getting stabbed.

Stabbed. Does she want to kill me? A jolt of fright rushed through my nerves as I considered how far the deranged offender aimed to go. Did she just want to ruin my reputation, or perpetrate something more sinister?

I couldn't remain trapped in the mire of indecision for long, or she'd bolt again. Sensing a protective presence nearby, I glanced over my shoulder to see Tammy, eyes keen and jaw set.

"Did you see something, someone?" she asked in a serious tone.

"I think it could be her," I answered with a slight nod in the shady stranger's direction.

In an instant, Tammy took off like an Olympic sprinter, weaving through the merrymakers to the sound of Dixieland Jazz spilling out of a nearby establishment. I raced after her.

"Hey, what's wrong?" rang Winter's worried voice behind me. If this woman was out to get me, if she had a knife, I didn't want sweet little Winter anywhere nearby, so I just kept running without granting a response.

We were three blocks down and in the murky negligence of a side street by the time I caught up with them. Tammy had the dark-haired woman by the collar interrogating her when I skidded to a halt, leaning my hands on my knees to pant. Tammy may have been in her fifties, but, man, could she run! And now her intimidating stance had reduced a quivering, young woman to tears.

"Hold on," I said between labored breaths. "Let me talk to her."

Tammy loosened her grip but didn't let go as she scowled at someone much smaller and younger than she was. As I neared them, it became apparent the gal spying on me might not even be old enough to call a woman at all. My brow furrowed in concern.

I laid a hand over Tammy's, coaxing her to release the girl's shirt. From the look of her, I'd guess she was Hispanic and maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. "Hi," I spoke in a gentle, non-threatening tone. The terror that had gripped me earlier evaporated. Maybe it had been the oppressive energy from haunted places after all. Tammy took a step back but blocked the girl's escape by smacking fists on her hips.

"Why have you been spying on me?"

She sniffed, frowned, wiped a hand under her eye, and shrugged.

"Don't give us that ‘I'm so innocent' crap," Tammy thundered. "Are you Aspen's stalker? Do you like to use the handle SapphicLover69?"

Tammy was sweet, protective like a bulldog, and about as subtle as one too. However, I detected honest alarm in the girl's expression as her eyes widened and she sucked in a nervous breath.

"Who? What? I don't know any sapphic lover, and I sure wasn't born in ‘69."

I had never thought my enemy was born in 1969—more like the sexual position reference.

"OK, say we believe you," Tammy said, giving her a suspicious side-eye. "Then why have you been following Aspen and running off? That doesn't seem so harmless to me."

The girl wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against a dingy, brick wall. This street smelled like urine and rotten rubbish that overflowed from a dented, rusty dumpster. Doors and windows were barred, and a clunker parked along the curb had a flat tire. It occurred to me this wasn't an alley I wished to linger in.

"I'm not out, OK?" she scowled. "I don't want people to see me."

"Where do you live?" I asked. "Do your parents know you're in the French Quarter alone at nine at night?"

She shrugged. "My mom works late. I thought I wanted to meet you until I found out you were thugs." She kicked at a bottle cap on the broken sidewalk.

"You should be safe in your house, not out here spying on us," Tammy advised in a gentler tone. "You could've just walked up and talked to us like a normal person. Then we wouldn't have chased you down and accused you of being a stalker."

"Will you tell us your name?" I entreated.

"Teresa. I work at a bookstore with an LGBTQ section, and I like to sneak off and read, you know, about girls like me."

I twisted my lips and propped a hand on my hip. "You know my books aren't intended for minors."

Teresa shot a horrified look at me and snapped into an upright posture. "I'm eighteen! Sure, I live with my mom. Who can afford their own place at my age? But I'm not a child."

"Just in the closet," Tammy concluded.

Teresa grimaced, nodded, and lowered her chin.

"Why are you afraid?" I asked. "Did you think someone you know would be at the conference and out you?"

"It could happen," she muttered. "Happened to Chico. Then some guys busted him up."

"I thought New Orleans was a gay-friendly city," I commented. Of course, so was Gulfport, and I'd been hiding away in my closet. That was different. I had to keep my job until I didn't need it anymore. What will happen if my royalties dry up and I have to go back to teaching?

"Parts of it, only not my neighborhood. My mom would be beside herself if she found out. She has all these plans for me to marry a doctor or something."

"Well," Tammy mused in a grandmotherly way. "You could always marry a lady doctor. Maybe that would suffice."

The first hint of humor escaped Teresa's lips, and she snapped her head from side to side. "I doubt it. Besides, what lady doctor would look at me?"

Reaching my hand slowly toward her, I pushed the hair back from a lovely, youthful face bedazzled with big, brown eyes. The insecurity in them revealed volumes and, in an instant, I felt like I knew her. I read every insult, slight, and berating comment someone had made to her, the painful sting of guilt and shame because religious people had convinced her all queer folks were horrible sinners, the battle she had waged with her disposition for years. She'd probably slept with a few boys just to prove she wasn't gay, only it didn't go away. It doesn't work like that.

"I'm a mother," Tammy said. "I know I don't look like one, but, once upon a time, I tried to be straight. Your mother might not like it, she may not understand, but I think she'd love you no matter what. I know that's how I feel about my grown-up kid."

"Yeah, well, maybe," she fudged. "Anyway, I didn't mean to upset you, and I wasn't stalking."

"I know. We're sorry for scaring you and assuming the worst," I offered in apology.

"Someone has been sending Aspen threatening messages, and she's at the conference, so we had to find out if it was this shadowy character with the long, dark hair," Tammy explained.

"There you are!" Winter raced up, face flushed, sweat pouring from every pore in her northern-midwestern body. "Is this her?"

"No," I answered. "She's alright."

"OK," Winter confirmed as she huffed out heavy breaths. "I don't know if we'll find the tour now."

"Of course we will!" Tammy pulled out her phone and pushed a button. "Hi, hun. False alarm. Where are y'all now?"

I smiled at Winter, whose face shone with relief, and/or perspiration. "Winter Bliss, Teresa, a young fan of our genre. She works at a bookstore. Teresa, care to walk back with us to a nice, well-lit street?"

Producing a smile for the first time, she answered, "Sure." Together, we left the stench and hazards of the alley for the prevailing scent of alcohol and ghostly dangers that awaited us at the next stop on the tour.