Page 49 of Jasmine Street Blues

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“Sonny said there were a dozen,” Mac said as he pulled his patrol car to the curb a block away from her studio. “Looks like fewer than that, maybe nine?”

“Oh, is that all?” Loran snapped. Nine people out for her blood. Nine people here to accuse her of… whatever. She’d heard it all, over the years. Murderer. Witch. Con.

Mac left the car and circled around to open the door for her. Normally she would’ve opened it on her own, but hesitation set in. Maybe it would be better to let Mac take care of the mob, as he’d suggested. If she slid down in the passenger seat far enough, no one would see her.

He offered a hand. “Come on. We can do this together. Might as well get it over with. If I run them off they’ll just come back, and if I have my way you’re not going anywhere. Except to Florida, temporarily.”

Loran placed her hand in his and slipped out of her seat. He was right. She wanted to stay; she had a reason to stay. And dammit, she hadn’t done anything wrong, no matter what Henry and the others said.

She held onto Mac’s hand as they walked toward the crowd. Nine people. Nine portraits. There had been others, of course, but a few years back she’d started hiding the portraits so maybe she wouldn’t be found out. Since so many others were looking for her, that was kind of like locking the barn door after the horse had escaped.

She’d thought about burning those newer portraits, but she couldn’t make herself do it. They represented something, she’d just never been sure exactly what. Other than a pain in her ass. There were probably close to fifty portraits in a storage facility in Tennessee, and she’d stored quite a few of the more recent paintings in her blue house on Jasmine Street. It was her duty, in a way she couldn’t explain. A duty, a curse, a compulsion.

As she neared the crowd the subjects of nine portraits, the dead, the ghosts, popped into her head. It was like remembering someone you hadn’t seen for years, seeing them in your mind, hearing their voices. This was the way she saw them when she was compelled to paint. Ghosts. A whisper of a memory. Spirits that were no longer of this world, or shouldn’t be.

Henry saw her first. He pointed, and others turned to look. The faces before her were angry, puzzled, shocked. Some reactions were delayed because she didn’t look exactly as they remembered her. She’d changed her hair color, her clothing style, sometimes even her way of walking as she took on a new persona.

The Seawolf Beach Loran was her. All her. But in years past she’d made an effort not to be herself. On the outside, at least.

If not for Mac, who was intimidating even without his Police Chief uniform, she was certain some of them would’ve rushed her by now. Instead they stood still, a stunned, angry muddle of people blocking the sidewalk. In an hour downtown would be bustling, and they’d have to move. Toward her? Away? Into her studio?

She gathered every speck of strength she possessed and said, “I hear you’re looking for me.”

They started talking all at once, chattering, words over words so that she couldn’t understand any one of them. One woman… Loran had painted a portrait of her son six years ago… sobbed uncontrollably. She was beyond words.

Mac lifted one hand and they all went silent. Even the sobbing mother got herself under control.

“You all have questions,” he said in his best authoritarian voice, “and they’ll be answered, but… one at a time.”

The questions started flying and Mac silenced them all again. “One at a time, and not here. Follow me.”

He circled the crowd, then released her hand to grab his phone and start texting.

“Where are we going?” she whispered. The crowd behind them was getting restless again. She could swear she felt their hate and confusion pummeling her.

“The only place I know we’ll find some answers.”

16

Mac banged his fist on the record shop door, rattling the glass until it seemed like the door might come off its hinges or the glass might shatter. Colt arrived before either of those things could happen. It was close enough to opening time that he’d been in the main public area. A couple of his employees were already setting up for a busy Saturday.

“What the hell?” Colt asked as he opened the door.

When Colt stepped back, Mac walked inside. Loran came with him, her hand still snug in his. “It’s an emergency.” He looked at his friend. “A ghost emergency.”

“I figured if it was a record emergency you’d just text,” Colt grumbled. “Who the hell are all these people?”

Anna appeared on the steps near the back of the room, on the stairway that led to the loft where the newlyweds lived while their house was being built. “You left your phone and it’s…”

She stopped walking and speaking when she saw the crowd near the door.

“I did text,” Mac grumbled.

Henry and the others who’d come to town looking for Loran filed into Hart’s Vinyl Depot. They were all confused; many were angry, still. They wanted answers, answers Mac and Loran couldn’t give them. Maybe Colt could.

“You know about Loran’s portraits,” Mac said.