The French Quarter and its mystique enticed Alphine.

New Orleans librarian Alphine was intrigued by two things in life: the dangerous vampire lifestyle of the French Quarter and Ralph, the quiet, shy young man who shelved books at the library.
After she left work on Friday afternoon, she decided to drop by the neighborhood drugstore to buy a new scent of perfume for her escapade in the French Quarter Saturday night. Inside the store, which looked entirely too modern for its surroundings, Alphine found a modest selection of perfumes, none of them satisfactory. An array of the best brands was locked in a glass case.
Catching her eye was a bottle of perfume worn by her mother’s late aunt Ticey. When Alphine and her parents attended the funeral for Ticey’s husband, she asked her great aunt the name of the scent. Cavort, Ticey replied. It came in a black bottle.
Alphine had only met her aunt Ticey two or three times at family reunions. Ticey looked and smelled like she always enjoyed a good time, which evidently was the reason Alpine’s mother had never invited her to dinner into her sanctuary of piety. If that perfume could put such a happy face on Ticey, that was the perfume for Alphine.
Looking around for a store clerk, she spotted an elderly woman, spraying Windex on the next counter and vigorously wiping it off with a paper towel. Alphine walked to her.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m interested in one of the perfumes in the locked glass cabinet.”
“Let me get the key,” the clerk said without lifting her head. “I’ll meet you over there.”
The voice sounded familiar, and Alphine could not quite place it. When the old woman arrived with key, Alphine’s eyes widened when she saw the clerk’s face.
“Madame Du Baucherie!”
Unlocking the case, the woman laughed. “Oh dear me. What a name. And which perfume are you interested in?”
“I know you! You’re the lady at Vamporium in the French Quarter!”
The old woman, dressed in a light blue skirt and white lace blouse, lifted her withered finger to her pale lips and shushed the young lady.
“Oh dear me, no. My name is Bessie Jones.”
Alphine recognized the black fingernail polish. “Of course. You’re right. Perhaps I made a mistake. I’m sorry. Let’s see, I want Cavort. It’s in the black bottle.”
“Yes, miss.”
The old woman brought it to Alphine, opened it to let her sniff the scent.
“Do you recommend this particular perfume?” Alphine asked.
“My gracious. I’m just a drugstore clerk. I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to purchase.”
Alphine handed her the credit card. The clerk ran it through the machine and handed it back with a sweet smile. “Now, you have a blessed day.”
On her way home she drove by the Vamporium where she had bought the dress. The sign was down, replaced with a Realtor sign. For sale. She stopped her car, got out and went to peer into the window. The shop was bare.
Out of curiosity, Alphine drove by Club V-Vampire to make sure it was still there. It was, but rather pedestrian looking in the sunlight. An old man swept the sidewalk and then rearranged the wrought-iron table and chairs in front to make sure they looked just right for the revelry that night.