Homemade Sin (38 page)

“Pool zombies?” the sheriff sneered. “I told you, there ain't no such thing as zombies; that's only in the movies. I don't know how you did police work in New Orleans, maybe when you had a case you couldn't solve, ya'll would say ‘vampires, werewolves or zombies did it' … but here, we don't lay off cases on monsters.”

“Do you know anything about voodoo, Sheriff?” Jones said.

“Voodoo?' said the sheriff incredulously. “You mean sticking pins in dolls and such? That voodoo? Bunch of mumbo jumbo and the power of suggestion.”

“I wouldn't sell voodoo short, Sheriff,” said Jones. “I've seen some damned strange things happen in New Orleans, and that city is full of voodoo. My fiancée even dabbled with it a little, threw some conjures once in a while. I grew up in the lower Ninth Ward; just a bunch of blue collar, black folks in crappy little shacks, not much more than plywood hammered together with tarpaper on top, but a bunch of those houses weren't blown down by Katrina. You know why?”

The sheriff had leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, prepared to ridicule. “Why didn't they get destroyed?” he said in a condescending, humoring voice.

“There was an old voodoo woman named Mama Legba who lived over in the Quarter. She was a combination doctor, financial advisor, marriage counselor, and fortune teller. Folks lined up down the block to see her. Right before Katrina hit I saw her all over the Ninth Ward, drawing little symbols on buildings, houses, stores, bars. The symbols kind of looked like snowflakes. I suspect she drew those symbols on the buildings to protect them from the hurricane, probably took food or whatever the businesses were selling as payment. That's how she worked.”

The sheriff looked at him, growing impatient.

“Anyway,” Jones said, “this preacher who ran the African Baptist, he wouldn't let her draw those symbols on his church. He said they were pagan signs or worse. When Mama Legba tried to draw her signs on the church he chased her away, called her a devil worshiper and all kinds of other names. There'd always been rivalry between that preacher and Mama Legba … he called her a witch, she called him a hypocrite. Of course, the folks around the Ninth Ward went to church on Sunday and showed up at Mama's any other day of the week. They wanted to cover all their bases.”

“Do you expect me to believe those snowflakes protected buildings from the hurricane?” said the sheriff.

“I don't expect you to believe anything,” Jones said. “All I know is that the tarpaper shacks Mama Legba drew those symbols on are still standing, and that big brick church ain't. You take it as you want to. I've seen Mama Legba do some amazing things over the years. One time there was woman who came to see Mama Legba; the woman was messing with another woman's man and the other woman threw a conjure on her and caused a frog to jump up into her leg. You could see the shape of a frog puffed up under her skin. Mama said a few voodoo words and passed a vulture feather over her leg and the frog-shaped puff went away.”

“Power of suggestion,” snorted the sheriff. “If that woman with the puff on her leg had gone to see a doctor, he would have told her it was simply a hysterical reaction to the power of suggestion.”

“Yeah,” said Jones, “there used to be a doctor down in the Ninth Ward too. He didn't believe in voodoo either, he called it mumbo jumbo too. He's not there anymore.”

“What happened to him?”

“Hurricane blew down his office.” Jones smiled.

The sheriff opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.

The sheriff's phone rang as Jones stood up to leave. The sheriff listened to the caller, his face showing shock as he motioned Jones to sit back down. At length, he said into the phone, “We'll get someone right on it.”

“Somebody reported a body on the beach just down from the Santeria Hotel,” said the sheriff as he returned the phone to its cradle. “Young female; nude; not sure if she died there or was washed up. It could be related to all this voodoo business, so I want you to go over and check it out. I'll have Dispatch radio Dickerson to meet you there. He's cruising around that area right now. He'll probably be there when you get there.”

The seagulls of serendipity circled the body of a young, black woman, lying prone on the beach as Dickerson and Jones approached. Her naked body was crusted with sand and baking in the morning sun. Dickerson had a handful of wooden stakes in one hand and a roll of ‘Crime Scene – Do Not Cross,' yellow tape in the other.

“The medical examiner is on the way,” Dickerson informed Jones, as they stood staring down at the face-down body, their shadows blocking out the fleeting silhouettes cast by the seagulls across the woman's back. That ass looks familiar, Jones thought.

“If you don't get away from me I ain't never going to attract any buzzards,” growled Bella from the side of her mouth without moving a muscle. “Now move on down the beach and leave me alone.”

“I know that voice,” Jones said. “Bella, is that you?”

Bella flipped over on her back and opened her eyes. She brought her hand up in a salute to shade her eyes and squinted up through the sun at Jones.

“Igggy!” Her eyes peered up at him, lit by the sun as if on fire.

“Bella Donna Baby?” Jones said. “It is you! What are you doing here! I thought I'd lost you for good in the storm, girl!”

Bella sprang from the beach and leapt into Jones's arms, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist. “I thought I'd lost you too.” Tears sprang from her eyes.

“I take it you know this woman?” Dickerson said.

Jones held Bella's chin with one hand and gazed lovingly into her eyes. “She's my long lost fiancée.” Bella began smothering his face with kisses.

“This is a very touching scene.” Dickerson averted his eyes from the naked girl who had climbed Jones like a tree. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking up and down the beach, “But a Deputy Sheriff, in full uniform, standing on the beach with a naked woman wrapped around his waist doesn't portray the image the sheriff's office is trying to uphold. Maybe you should move this little reunion indoors?”

Jones took Bella by the shoulders and pushed her back a few inches so he could look her in the face again; she kept her legs wrapped around his middle. “So what are you doing lying naked on the beach pretending to be dead anyway?”

“I was trying to attract buzzards and get them to puke at me. I have these mushroom seeds and … the damned seagulls kept the buzzards away and … the mushrooms probably wouldn't grow on this sand anyway. It's a long story, and we have lots of time to catch up.” She broke into tears again and buried her face in Jones's neck.

“Dickerson has a point,” Jones said to the side of Bella's head as she covered his neck with kisses. “This doesn't look good. We need to get you into some clothes.”

“I have a room at that motel,” Bella said, shooting her arm out and pointing at a low-slung, whitewashed string of cottages that stretched out above the beach. “My clothes are in there but I ain't letting you go.” Bella giggled as she wrapped her arms around Jones's neck and swung her body around so she was riding him piggyback. “Carry me up to my room. It's the one on the end.” She pointed over Jones's shoulder.

As Jones slogged through the sand, carrying Bella piggyback toward her room, a seedy-looking man wearing a Guayabera shirt, madras shorts, and a scowl like thunder clouds, came out of the motel office to meet them.

“It's about time the police showed up to arrest that woman!” the man shouted, with a distinct Middle Eastern accent, as he moved down the row of cottages on an intercept course. “I've lost half of my customers this morning because of her!”

The man reached Bella's room at the same time as Jones and stood in front of the door, his arms crossed, a sour expression on his face.

“Go on inside,” Jones told Bella as she slid down from his back. “Put some clothes on. I'll speak with this gentleman. Good morning Mr …?”

“The name's Nikja,” the man said, fuming, “I manage this motel and I want that woman arrested.”

“And why exactly do you want her arrested?” Jones said. Dickerson was standing with his hands in his pockets staring at the beach, trying to avoid being involved in the conversation.

“She checked in late last night with a big filthy looking guy,” Nikja started, “and when I came in this morning, I found that.” The man swept his hand toward a rooster tethered to a post a few feet away from Bella's door. Slightly out of the rooster's reach was a plate of corn meal on one side and a dish of water on the other. Jones hadn't noticed the rooster when he had carried Bella to her door.

“What the hell?” Dickerson stared at the rooster.

“Burdian's Ass,” Jones told Dickerson, nodding toward the rooster.

“No ass,” the manager manager, “just a rooster.”

“It's an old voodoo concept,” Jones said to Dickerson. ”It's always something. I'm from New Orleans, voodoo capital of America, and I know a little about voodoo.”

“It's black magic,” the manager manager. “I am not having no black magic at my motel. Half my customers left when they saw the rooster, and the other half left when they went out to enjoy a day at the beach and saw that woman, lying naked on the sand, looking dead.”

The motel room door opened a crack and Bella slipped out wearing a pair of cut-off jeans and an oversized man's shirt, the tail tied in a knot well above her belly button. She closed the door behind her.

“What's with the rooster?” Jones said to Bella.

“Homage to Mama Wati. Another long story.”

“I want to inspect the room,” the manager said. “And I want you two officers here when I do it. God knows what she's got in there … pigs, goats? She's probably been performing animal sacrifices in the bath tub.”

“Ain't nothing in there but a bed full of sand fleas and a broken television.” Bella turned to Jones “Let's go get some lunch and catch up.”

“Go ahead and open the door Bella. The man has a right to look inside.”

“Give me a minute,” Bella said as she slipped back inside the room. The men heard the door chain slide into place. This was followed by a loud thump from inside the room. A moment later they heard the chain slide away from the lock and the door swung halfway open, giving Dickerson and Jones a narrow view of the interior of the room. The two deputies stepped into the semi-dark room. The manager peered, somewhat apprehensively, around the door jamb.

The room was lit by a dozen black candles flickering from every flat surface. There was a line of small glass vials full of different colored powders and liquids set up on the dresser and, on one bed, a large leather-bound book was standing open. Jones looked at the open page of the book. The page bore the title ‘Mambo Zombie Powder' in a flowing script. Jones scanned the recipe and understood why Bella was trying to entice vultures to vomit on her and what she meant about mushrooms not growing on the beach.

“Looks like someone had a voodoo ceremony here.” Jones said, raising his eyebrows questioningly at Bella, who was standing beside the bed tugging at the collar of her shirt.

The manager stepped through the doorway and stared at the candles and the vials of powder lined up on the dresser. “I knew it!” he shouted. “Drugs! I want to press charges!”

“Those aren't drugs,” Bella protested. “Those are holistic remedies, eye of newt, toe of frog, ground bat's wings, stuff like that.”

“Worse than drugs!” roared the manager. “Black Magic! Satanic rituals! There has to be a law against that!”

“It's just a little voodoo,” Bella said. “My religion. Ain't no law against practicing my religion, is there?”

“Maybe we can work something out,” Jones said to the manager while Dickerson wandered around the room peering into dark corners, giving the room a going over.

Jones took a step back and leaned against a candle wax-spattered dresser across from the bed. He noticed the cloth voodoo doll, sitting on the dresser amid the potions, with a large knitting needle stuck through its stomach. As Dickerson searched the room, Jones picked up the voodoo doll and began to examine it, moving its arms around, thumbing the needle stuck in its stomach.

As Dickerson crossed the room toward the bathroom, he saw a bare foot protruding from under the bed. He bent down and tapped on the foot with his nightstick. “Come on out from under there. We see you,” he said. The foot remained motionless. Dickerson grabbed the foot with both hands and pulled a large, filthy man out from under the bed. He placed his hand on the man's throat and felt for a pulse.

Turning to Jones, Dickerson said, “I think this man is dead.”

Dickerson's pronouncement of the man's condition startled Jones and he inadvertently pulled the long needle from the doll's stomach. He placed the doll and the needle back on the dresser.

“He ain't dead,” Bella said, “just dead drunk.” She strode over to the man, kicked him in the ribs and shouted “Get up from there!”

The man groaned.

“What happened to this man?” Dickerson said to Bella.

“He's tired from winning a fight last night.”

“Would this be Gino the Germ?” Dickerson said.

“The very same,” Bella said proudly. “I'm his new manager.”

“Hey, Jones, come over and examine this guy,” Dickerson said.

Jones slid down on one knee and examined the man; he pried his eyes open and looked at the pupils “Looks like he's just drunk all right.”

“I want that woman arrested!” shouted the manager from the doorway

Dickerson turned to Bella. “I'm afraid you're going to have to come to the station with us.”

Bella exchanged glances with Jones. Her eyes were soft, melting, pleading for his help.