“No, not all the victims were Italian, and a few survived. There’s a theory the killer was a man named Momfre and he was shot and killed by the widow of the last victim, a man named Pepitone, in California. The problem with all of it is that records were sketchy in the early 1900s. People were arrested but later released. Previously, there had been an uncaught killer known as the Cleaver in New Orleans, but he took money. The Axeman never took anything. He broke into residences by chiseling out portions of doors. He used a knife and an axe—”

“The news this morning said this killer is using a knife and an axe,” the husband said knowingly. “They’re suggesting he—like the Axeman—might be some kind of a demon.”

Katie arched a brow, glancing back quickly. “A legitimate news station suggested the killer is a demon?”

“Well, no, they mentioned the old Axeman had claimed to be a demon.”

“He sent a letter to the Times-Picayune on March 13 in 1919,” Katie told them. “He claimed, yes, to be some kind of a demon.”

“And he made people play jazz!” the other woman said.

“Yes, he said he wouldn’t kill anyone playing jazz on a certain night,” Katie said wearily. “Four days later, the night of the nineteenth.”

“And?”

“People played loud jazz. No one died that night,” Katie told them. “We’re going to be passing Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar. It’s one of the oldest structures remaining. There were horrible fires that ripped through the French Quarter, destroying much of what was original to the city. The bar might have been where the Lafitte brothers sold their booty. They were popular among the people!”

No matter how she tried to change the subject, her group was obsessed with the Axeman of New Orleans.

She hadn’t memorized all the facts and figures regarding the Axeman, but in her training to be a guide, she’d learned about the attacks. There were different ideas, of course. And at the time, there had been arrests—wrongly, in one case. A surviving victim had accused her neighbors—an old man and his seventeen-year-old son. They’d gone to jail, looking at the death penalty, and the woman had later recanted. Many of the journalists who had explored records believed the police had pushed her into identifying her neighbors. Others believed she had done so out of jealousy or spite.

Katie’s tour ended. As the group crawled down from the carriage—tipping nicely and giving her their thanks—she saw an older man was waiting. He was watching her. He had to be waiting for her, she thought, because he was at the curb by her carriage, and she couldn’t imagine any stranger choosing one of them over the other.