Page 27 of Bewitched By the Djinn
A voice calls from the back, muffled and exasperated. “It’s in the filing cabinet!”
“I know that, but it ain’t here.”
“Are you looking in the middle drawer?”
“Of course I’m looking in the middle drawer!”
“Well, you’d lose your ass if it wasn’t attached to you!”
Ernie grumbles under his breath and slams the middle drawer shut. He yanks open the top one, peers inside, then does the same to the bottom before finally extracting the logbook—a battered spiral notebook that was probably black once but is now a faded, scuffed mess.
He flips through the pages, his frown deepening. “Hmph.” He flips back a few more entries, muttering to himself. “That’s strange. It’s not here anymore. I could’ve sworn she filled this out. I watched her do it.”
Great. She probably used magic to erase it.
“Did she mention where she was staying while she’s in town? Anything at all?”
Ernie shakes his head. “Nope. She had that friend with her, and I remember them talking about getting dinner, but they didn’t say where. Other than that, we only discussed the transaction.”
“Are you sure neither of them said anything about sightseeing? Maybe they talked to each other and you overheard?”
“Nope.”
Behind me, an object clatters to the ground.
“Oops,” Bennet says.
I turn around. The flashlight rolls across the floor, smacking into a shelf.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. “I’ll pay for that.”
Ernie shrugs, already moving on, while I fish out a ten-dollar bill I can’t afford to part with.
We exit the shop, leaving behind the musty scent of dust, wax, and old cigar smoke. I pick up my pace, the uneven sidewalk forcing me to navigate carefully. Bennet follows half a step behind.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“I don’t know yet. Who is Delores?” I slow down so he can walk beside me.
“Delores? She is my sister’s lady’s maid. A companion.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about her before?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Because she’s a servant?” I move out of the way of a stroller coming in the opposite direction.
Bennet follows my steps. “No, because she and Helen are always together.”
We weave through a cluster of tourists gathered around a guide, who’s dramatically gesturing toward the old Ursuline Convent and rattling off a spiel about voodoo, witches, and ghosts in New Orleans.
I’m halfway up the block when I stop short. Bennet’s footsteps are no longer behind me. I spin around.
He’s with the tour group, staring at the tourists, his eyes narrowed, brow furrowed.
It’s like wrangling a toddler. I stomp back toward him.
“What are the little boxes?” His attention is fixed on a couple of tourists holding up their phones.
