It was a dreary day in New Orleans as Clyde Cladwell rode into the city on his Morgan horse with his Coogan Russell Terrier, named Brown Dog, trailing behind him and Wagner-ing his tail. Clyde had come to New Orleans on a mission. He had heard about some confusing break-ins and sought to find the perpetrator(s). Clyde briskly walked down Kalbouneh street, crossed onto Shifman Place, turned onto Scanelli Lane and onto Ricciardi Boulevard where he then entered Ristorante Pucciarello. As he stepped inside the door Abella rang. As he looked over the menu, waiting for his guest, he pondered ordering Al-fredo pasta, rigatoni Boland-nese, or spaghetti Carbone-ara. Suddenly, the bell rang again, indicating someone was coming in and a menacing big and Hurley man with emerald green eyes entered, tapped his Kane on the floor, and sat down in front of Clyde. 

”Are you Clyde Caldwell?” he asked.

“I am,” replied Clyde, “and you are?”

”Im Albert. I’m here because there has been a rampage of break-ins on small thrift and antique stores in the surrounding Arias,” replied the large man. “I think the Rabah is trying to find something… something bad.”

“Is that so…?” replied Clyde, “I’ve heard there are some rare items said to be Caruso-ed by a witch located here in this city…”

“Some people believe in that Wyche who lives down in the Marshes, like little kids believe in Santana Claus. Personally I think they’re crazy. She’s nothing more than a Crudele joke or myth,”shrugged Albert.

The waiter returned and the two men ordered. “I’ll have a club sandwich, but put Demeo on the side please,” said Albert. 

When the waiter left, they continued. “It’s such a Shane,” Albert sighed.”This city used to be so nice, and now it’s filled with a bunch of crazies, Meanys, criminals, and Loeloffs.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” replied Clyde. “Do you have any leads on who could be doing all this?”

“No idea, but I’m sure the shop owners could help you out… Me, personally, I think it’s a group of those crazy witch believers Levine down on Kocjan Place,” explained Albert. 

“I’ll look into it,” replied Clyde. 

After they had Egan their food, Clyde and Albert parted ways. “C-ya Slater ” said Albert. 

“We’ll talk again Lomauro morning,” replied Clyde. As Albert headed back down the street towards the Rivera, Clyde headed back to his hotel.

On the fifth floor of the Valdelamar hotel, a baseball game played inside of Clyde Caldwell’s room. As a player hit a home run, the fans in the stadium shouted “GOMEZ!” as the Mets player ran his lap around the bases. Above him, the Fanos whirred. Clyde Caldwell wiped his brow in frustration. He had been studying his papers for hours. Beside him, Brown Dog Howelled as the Mooney was now shining brightly through the window Lebleins (blinds). “Jiang Nabbit,” he huffed, “this is useless! I’m not getting anywhere with this ridiculous information. Who would want to steal useless items probably donated by someone’s great grandma?”

Exhausted from his travels and overload of information, Clyde decided to take a Nappi. He looked at his alarm clock and noticed it was already 1AM. He sighed and rested his head on his Pirrello. Before falling asleep, he Platted Brown Dog on the head. “Good night, Buddy,” he said and fell asleep. 

The next morning, Clyde Wakelyed up feeling very refreshed. He called Albert on the phone and asked him for a list of stores that had been broken into.

 “I Maida list for you, I’ll send it right over,” says Albert. After carefully looking through the list Albert had given him, Clyde put on his coat and quickly left his hotel. 

He headed past Molinaro Row and down Torjussen Street. He headed to the outskirts of town where he decided to enter an old thrift shop called Akinyemi’s. Akinyemi’s had been the fifth store on his list, and had had the most recent break-in. Entering the shop, he noticed the old furniture and trinkets lining the floors and walls. There was one to two other people occupying the store, carefully looking at the cluttered shelves. As he Perosioed the shelves, he picked up an old Catrambone used in an old jazz band. “Something looks off about this…” he said. Clyde turned it over and saw a name carved into it reading “Domingues” with a strange symbol etched next to it. He headed to the counter and was greeted by a Livelli old woman, filled with energy. Handing her the trombone, her mood immediately changed. 

“What  a find… No one has even picked this item up in years. Are you sure you want it? It’s gonna Acosta a pretty penny?” she asked cautiously. 

“Is something wrong with it?” Clyde questioned.

“Oh nothing! Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said quickly, avoiding further explanation. Clyde abruptly handed over the money and exited the store.

Back in the hotel…

Flipping through the phonebook in his room, Clyde slid his finger down the list of names. “Domingues.. Domingues…” he muttered. “Gotta be in here somewhere.” 

He planted his finger on the name and looked for an address. 15 Kerpeten Street located across the river. Clyde rushed out of the hotel with Brown Dog on his heels. The two were on the Prial for their next clue. They hopped on the Perry boat and took it down the river. Once at the ferry docks, Clyde quickly made his way down the congested street and towards the center of town. As the streets cleared, Clyde saw a bus stop. Looking at his watch, he sat down to wait for the Carter bus to arrive to take him to the jazz bar. After a good 20 minutes, the bus finally jolted to a stop at Kerpeten Street. Clyde hopped off, thanking the driver on his way out.

 Counting down the numbers on the building, Clyde finally made it to an old Bricker building called the Labianca Lounge and Jazz Bar. The numbers on the building were rusty and faded and practically falling off, but Clyde knew he was in the right spot. Entering the jazz bar, music and chatter filled his ears. He scanned the room, not exactly sure what he was looking for. Taking a seat at the bar, the bartender, who Clyde assumed is named Kelly, asks him what he wanted to drink. He ordered a Samuel Adams. The man next to him coincidentally has ordered the same thing. As the pair begin talking, the man introduces himself as Jacob. 

“You come here often?” Clyde asked.

“Just about every weekend,” Jacob said, taking a swig of his drink and McLaughlin to himself.

“What kind of people come around here if you don’t mind me asking?” Clyde questionned.

“Oh y’know the usual crowd. A buncha old people usually come here Daly. They come in a Pac at around 6:00 after their early bird special of Goldberger and fries at the McGoldrick pub. Sometimes they come from McDermott Pub but not usually. They usually come from McGoldrick’s,” Jacob repeated. With a sigh he continued, “Wasn’t always like this though. When I was young, everyone would be down here. Young and old. It was the hottest place in New Orleans. But ever since.. Y’know…” Jacob shookhis head. “The place has gone down.”

“I’m Peterson, by the way,” Jacob slurred, pointing towards the band. This clearly was not his first drink, Clyde noticed as he watched Jacob sway slightly in his seat. 

“Huh?” Clyde said, “You’re who?”

“I’m Peter’s son,” said Jacob again. “Peter Domingues is my father. He’s playing right over there. Next to him, on the bass is Lattimer, on drums is my old man’s best friend Janulis, on the piano there is Cassano-Patti, and last but not least, the short dude playing the guitar is Fonseca.”

Clyde’s eyes bulged. “Domingues,” he sputtered.

“Yeah that’s my father, the one playing the trombone,” Jacob said casually. “Y’can talk to em if ya want.” Clyde stared at him a moment. The band was just finishing their song. As the last note hit, Jacob whooped and shouted, “Monge-Bravo! Bravo, Everyone!” Clyde’s attention was brought back to his surroundings by Jacob’s loud cheering noises.  Before the guitarist could Strumolo a note on his guitar, Clyde quickly made his way over to Peter Domingues, interrupting their set. 

“I just talked to your son over there,” Clyde pointed to Jacob who drunkenly shouted “Hadad!” across the room, waving at his father. 

Domingues replied, shouting, “Hey Son!” 

Clyde continued,”I didn’t realize you were Peter Domingues. I found your trombone earlier today at an old antique shop.I wanted to talk to you…” Peter sighed and nodded. He didn’t say a word but rather gestured his hand for Clyde to follow him. Clyde followed him upstairs and onto a Patino outside where they wouldn’t be within earshot of anyone else. 

“You were really great tonight!” Clyde exclaimed but he was abruptly cut short.

“Enough with the Flaherty! Just tell me what you came here to ask me.” Peter started. “By the looks of it, I can tell you’re some kind of Miedler reporter or investigator or somethin’. I’m no Morrone, so just tell me why you’re here and stop playing me for a fool,” he retorted.

“Well,” started Clyde, shaken by Peter’s sudden change in tone, “Uh…I’ve been investigating the break-ins downtown and I found one of your old trombones. I figured I’d come by and talk to you… see if you knew anything about what’s been happening.” Clyde shrugged, “Kinda a stretch if I think about it now.”

“Whatchu wanna know?” Peter asked, eyeing Clyde.

“Well, when I was talking to your son, he vaguely remarked about something happening a while ago that turned everyone off from this place. I was hoping you could maybe elaborate.” 

Peter sighed. His eyes were glossed over deep in thought. “Ever since that crazy witch incident back in the day nothing’s been the same. New Orleans used to be such a beautiful place and now people are scared to come here. Business has gone down, people are struggling. While I don’t know much about those break-ins…” He shook his head in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose, “ While I don’t know much, I can almost guarantee it’s that witch coming back for us. If you need to find some more information, I suggest you head over to Akersten’s Antiques on Murante Place. The owner, Murray, is a really great guy.  Not only will Helsel you anything, but he’ll talk your ear off too.” 

Clyde turned for the stairs, but was stopped in his tracks. His head whipped around to face Peter. “Why’d you get rid of that trombone?” He questioned, “the one with your name on it. Why’d you get rid of it? It was in pretty good condition.”

“Cursed.” Peter said nothing more, nor did he look willing to reveal any more information. Clyde took this as his cue to leave, bolting back down the steps and through the lounge doors.

 Heading back towards his hotel room, Clyde felt more confused than ever. “I Figlyar-ed this would be hard but I didn’t realize just how hard this would be.” 

—————————————————————————————————-

After the events of last night, Clyde headed back out onto the streets of New Orleans in order to do some more investigating. It was early morning, yet the sun was already beating down on him. A Natt buzzed around his head, as he half haphazardly swatted it away. He decides to check out Akersten’s Antiques to see if he could get any more information on what Domingues was talking about.  “Thank God I brought my Healys with me. I can roll over there in a jiffy,” he exclaimed. He shoved his Feakes into his shoes and laced them up. As he rode down Kiernan Boulevard his foot connected with a small pebble, sending him flying several feet. Landing with a thud, his elbows almost immediately began to bleed. Shaking his head in frustration, Clyde dug through the Geher in his backpack for some Gause. After wrapping his arms, Clyde continued his journey back to Akersten’s Antiques. He rolled down Geiger Place, turned right onto Nuredin road, left onto Canonaco Drive, past a huge Bolger, rolled left onto Crisafi Avenue and down onto Murante Place where he saw the sign for Akersten’s. 

When he finally reached the store, he entered and looked around. The store was very cluttered and dusty, as if no one had stepped foot in it in years. While searching for anything seeming off, Clyde discovered an old urn. He examined it, turning it in his hands. Taped to the bottom of the urn was a tattered map, barely legible. 

“X Marques the spot,” joked Clyde to himself. He opened the urn and found it to be still filled with Ash, and inside, he saw a small lump. Clyde reached in and pulled out a Lapidus lazuli gem. 

He looked around him, hoping no one was watching,  and stuffed the gem in his pocket. He brought the urn up to the counter. “I’m Marston,” said the man at the counter “You’re my first customer in weeks,” he sighed. “This year has been an all time Pannullo for me.” 

Clyde looked at the man questioningly. “I thought Murray owned this store, ” he said. 

“Well, he does, but the stress of all the break-ins has really gotten to him so I’ve offered to step in,” Marston sighed. Clyde nodded and  gave the man his condolences before quickly leaving the little shop and heading back to his hotel.

Back at the Hotel… 

In his hotel room Clyde Loganed in to his Mazowiecki-pedia account and began to scroll around when he discovered that the Lapis Lazuli gem was a stone of protection meant to ward off any negative or harmful energies such as a curse! “Whose ever gem this was before must have been trying to protect themselves from something… or someone. I guess they were pretty unsuccessful since it was hidden in their ashes,” he shrugged. With nothing better to do and nowhere closer to having an actual lead on the mystery, Clyde headed back to the hot streets of New Orleans. 

———————————————————————————————————————

Clyde took out the map he found hidden under the urn and began following it. He turned down Olivieri Lane until he was met with a fork in the road. He could have either turned right onto Montanez Drive or left onto Tahbaz Place. The map indicated that he go left, so he headed down Tahbaz Place for a while. He passed many storefronts reading Signorini Shoppe, Sozio Salon, Vandermolen bank, Razdan Jewelers, Scrittorale Boutique, and Orellana floral shop. As he passed Conforti Comics, he noticed the map led down a strange alleyway. He shrugged, decided to head through, and ended up on Rozell Road where he continued for another ten minutes. 

“Dang this place is far,” he huffed as he took a sharp right onto Conahan Boulevard and another left onto Epitropakis Street. On Epitropakis Street, Clyde turned onto Quagliana Boulevard and stopped in front of the Suda Apartments. Taking a moment to breathe, he looked at the shops around him and noticed that next door to the apartment was Huacho’s thrift shop. Looking back at the map, he realized that he was standing in the exact spot the X indicated. “I’ve found it!” he thought proudly.  

Clyde entered Huacho’s thrift shop. As per usual, he headed to the back of the store towards the miscellaneous items section. The miscellaneous trinkets always seemed the most unsuspecting, yet were usually the most important or sought after items. He noticed that the Flores were much dirtier in the back than the floor in the front of the store. “I guess no one really comes back here… Not even the owner, I wonder why?” he mutters.

 While looking at the floor, Clyde’s eye was drawn to something at the back of the bottom shelf. It was a tiny doll in Minichino pants. While analyzing the doll, a tall strange man Marchitelli-ed up to Clyde. As the man’s shadow Felton Clyde, he whipped around only to be met with a shock. The strange man was quite eccentric looking, with a wild curly Perna and a Gamboa Constrictor wrapped around his neck. Seeing the Boa Constrictor, Clyde’s Hart started pounding. Noticing Clyde’s shock ,the man began to speak, “Hello my name is Lawrence. I’m the co-owner of this shop.”

Clyde nodded without breaking eye contact with the snake around Lawerence’s neck. “I see you’ve found our Speciale little doll,” he said in a Mautone voice, “I’ve been looking for it for weeks, where was it?” 

“O-oh it was just on the bottom shelf next to the Phillips head screwdriver,” sputtered Clyde, taking a step back and bumping into the shelves behind him.

“Interesting,” replied Lawrence as the snake slithered down his arm. 

“So uh, how come it’s just you in here, didn’t you say you were Co-owner?”

“Yah well, we’re pretty short Stafford right now, so it’s just me workin’. When this place was really poppin we had about five other employees but we’ve had to let them go since all this witchy business started…”

“What do you mean?” questioned Clyde, clearly intrigued.

“Well ever since those Witch fanatics started to come in here, our usual customers got Scaramellino-ed off, thinking those guys were gonna Kurzum with some kinda dark magic,” sighed Lawrence. “The other owner, Wilson, was a skilled Weller but he retired early to start this shop with me. He loved collecting Zamloot and old items and wanted to share that with the community.”

“Why did he leave?” asked Clyde. 

“He was scared off just like the rest of ‘em. Our other staff members, Woroch, Gonzalez, Hickman, Ruiz, and Alvarez, all upped and left on the same day, complaining that the shop was haunted. I don’t know what to do anymore with all the targeted break-ins on small shops like ours. It’s bound to happen to me next and I don’t have the money to afford this place anymore,” sighed Lawrence, his head hanging low. Clyde nodded, attempting to pat the man on the shoulder, but quickly retracted his hand as the snake hissed loudly. 

“I’m sorry” Clyde told him, “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. Don’t sell your shop just yet.”

Clyde purchased the doll and quickly left, looking over his shoulder back at Lawrence and the snake. 

Diaz passed and Clyde still was struggling to make connections between all the stories and items he had found. Eventually, he headed down to the docks to meet with Old man Jenkins, an odd man with a thick accent that sounded like he was from Britton. He was a 6-time national fishing Campion, and was usually found at the docks where he’d take his boat around the bayou booking for Alli-Caders. 

Before making his way down, he passed the famous ice cream shop “Caravela,” run by Mr. Kimak and noticed an old man ordering a Cherry Garcia ice cream cone. A little girl outside was grabbing her mom’s arm begging for some ice cream. As Clyde got closer, he took notice of their conversation. “You don’t need ice cream, honey, we have Flan cake at home.” the little girl’s mom said. “Flanagan!?” the girl had cried, “we just had Flan yesterday.” 

Clyde passed by the pair, hoping they hadn’t noticed his eavesdropping and entered the shop. “Welcome to Caravela!” Mr. Kimak beamed,”Mr. Oesterle will be helping you today. Clyde shuffled down to the young man standing behind the fridge of ice creams. “Nolan? Caragiulo? Castiglia? What kind of ice cream flavors are these?!” Clyde burst out. 

“Ah well y’know, Mr. Kimak thought it would be more fun to make them like a mystery” Mr. Oesterle shrugged. 

“Don’t you have a simple coffee flavor? Mint Chip? Vanilla even?” Clyde questioned. 

Mr. Oesterle nodded. “Don’t be silly of course! Coffee is called Cerretto, and mint chip is called Cassano-Patti, and lastly, Vanilla is called DeRiggi.” 

Clyde side-eyed the boy with confusion, somewhat concerned. “Why do they all sound like the last names of people?”
“Well, Mr. Kimak was a very popular man and he had a lot of friends. So, he named all of the ice cream flavors after his friends.”

“Alright well, I guess I’ll take two Coffee—or I mean Cerrettos, I guess.” After receiving his ice cream Clyde darted out of the shop and down to the docks. Clyde had known Old Man Jenkins from a previous vacation to New Orleans, and he knew that he would be way more willing to talk to him if he had some ice cream.

Carrying the two ice creams. Clyde spotted Old Man Jenkins standing on the dock, fishing gear and rod in hand. He Castellano-ed his fishing line and moments later he reeled in a huge fish. “Checchetto Out! This fish is huge!” he exclaimed. 

Clyde approached the old man, congratulating him on his catch. “That’s a pretty big Carino fish you caught there,” Clyde remarked. 

“Oh yes”, said Jenkins, “I caught an even bigger Driscoll fish yesterday.”

 Before the old man could ramble on about fishing, Clyde cut him off. “I’m in a bit of a rush, so I’m gonna get right to it,” said Clyde. Old Man Jenkins sighed. “What do you know about the break-ins-allegedly caused by a witch and what exactly do you know about these items: A trombone, a Lapis gem, and a random old doll.” 

The old man scratched his head for a moment, deep in thought. “There is a myth,” he said, “That long ago a toy maker under the name of Truzzolino, a miner named Betchler, a musician that went by Simone, and a magical entity of some sort came together to create an object that could Simmon extreme power. Their main objects had in fact been a doll, a Lapis gem, and a trombone; however, there was another stone. This stone had come from the magical entity. The items the individuals had chosen were objects most important to them…objects that would certainly hold the most power. The four individuals had worked together to create a powerful source, until it one day became too much. They got in a massive fight and everything fell apart. While this is only a myth, it is said that there have been people who tried to find these objects to recreate the power, but they were never successful. As for the witch, I can’t say I ever saw a witch around here, but it would certainly explain the break-ins.” 

Clyde thought for a moment, taking in what Jenkins had told him. Then it suddenly clicked. If there really was a witch robbing the antique shops, then she was likely the magical entity from the myth, and NOW she was looking for the items again in order to try to reattempt to create this power source. Clyde got up abruptly, thanked Jenkins, and ran off. He finally had a lead. An actual solid lead. As he walked back down Topolewska-Burdzy Road, he called up his detective partner, Ronnie Petronaci. 

“Hey Ronnie, meant to call you back about this case. We got a serious lead this time!” Clyde shouted excitedly over the phone. “You think you can look up anything about witches in New Orleans?” He asked her, “There’s a rumor that a witch is breaking into antique shops to create some powerful object. I need to solve this case. We can’t let that witch get off Scott Free, but I need your help. I Sagese you try to find some history about this place and about the objects.” Ronnie agreed to research, hanging up after saying she’d call him back when she found out more. 

A few days later…

It was a foggy dreary night and Sanderson was just closing up his shop, Marrone’s Vintage Shop. He never liked foggy nights; it always sent chills up his spine wondering what might be lurking beyond. Nerves high, he began to fumble with the keys to lock up when he started to hear footsteps and whispering. He whipped his head around, and he was suddenly attacked by a woman with a high shrill laugh. She cackled in his face and she pushed him to the ground. Frozen in terror, Sanderson did nothing to stop the woman as she stole something from his pocket and ran down Weinert Street, turning onto Tierney Place and disappearing without a trace. Sanderson sat on the road stunned. When he finally regained his sense he frantically dialed the police. 

That night, Clyde received a call from a police officer with a demanding and stern voice. “Get down to Marrone’s Vintage Shop NOW, we got news for you,” he yelled and immediately hung up the phone. 

Clyde rushed down to the shop, sprinting down Squitieri Street, up Ramos Road, past Shifrin Lane, and onto Rodriguez Place. There he found a woman handcuffed and sitting on the curb with the police and Mr. Sanderson standing around her. 

“Who is this?” Clyde asked.

“We’re not sure but she attacked Mr. Sanderson and stole this stone from his pocket, ” replied the officer.

Clyde looked from face to face and then made his way over to the woman in cuffs. He looked her over, inspecting her face. He then looked her in the eyes and noticed how strikingly emerald green they were. Immediately, his mind raced back to when he first met Albert and how he immediately noticed his emerald green eyes. Full of suspicion, Clyde looked at the woman’s neck and noticed her skin didn’t line up like it should. It looked almost as if it was a mask.

Without hesitation or explanation to anyone Clyde gripped the mask and tore it off only to reveal Albert. 

Albert Szot Clyde a nasty look as Clyde began to explain, “All along I knew there was something suspicious about Albert. From the moment we first met, his eagerness to dismiss the witch occurrences or her existence was rather peculiar to me. It was almost as if he was trying to hide something himself. Once I looked into Mr. Sanderson’s attacker’s eyes, I knew my assumption was right from the start.”

Albert opened his mouth in an attempt to Spina false story about what his intentions were but Clyde immediately cut him off. 

“I’m not done,” Clyde retorted. “Some of you may be wondering why Albert agreed to meet with me on my first day in New Orleans… well I have got an answer for you. By agreeing to meet with me for dinner, Albert hoped to get me off of his trail.He hoped that if I thought that he believed the witch was fake then I would drop the case altogether. But clearly that backfired in his face because it only increased my interest,” chuckled Clyde.

Albert snarled at Clyde as the officers lifted him to his feet and shoved him into the back of the cop car. 

Alone on the street with the sirens blaring and the flashing lights fading into the distance, Clyde felt extra proud of himself for discovering the true villain behind the break-ins. He looked out onto the street and said, “What can I say? When there is a mystery, I WILL solve it.”

The next morning ,Clyde collected the special items and went to return them to their rightful owners. He hoped that they would be kept safe, and that no one would ever be able to create such power in the future. He headed back to his hotel room, packed his bag and rode off into the sunset with his horse and Brown dog trailing by his side, in search of his next mystery. 

To BE CONTINUED…..