2 A Reason for Murder (9 page)

"I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat."

(Edgar Allan Poe)

Chapter Fourteen.

And that brings me back to the voodoo doll.

It wasn't a nice looking doll, and my spiritual alarms were pinging at maximum. It was sitting right on my doorstep. I knew better than to touch it.

The doll was dressed like me, and as if that wasn't enough, my name was pinned to the doll by a black pin. It looked like a piece of my favorite scarf, but it could have been a piece of any blue and white scarf. I couldn't tell if it was my own hair or simply hair my color. A white shroud was all around the doll, but the spiritual shroud of malevolence had even more impact on me.

The doll exuded a feeling of antiquity merged with an ancient power, a horrible power.

Voodoo dolls have quite the reputation, thanks to Hollywood. However, I knew from previous research that the term "voodoo doll" is used to describe any doll used for magic in many cultures, even ancient Greek or Hittite. As far as I knew, the term started with Hollywood, while actual practitioners preferred such terms as
doll baby
or
poppet
. Voodoo dolls generally were used for blessings, healing, love, protection, improving finances, and used far less commonly for harm against another person.

I knew far less about the pentagram at the bottom of the steps. I didn't have the foggiest notion why it would be used in conjunction with the voodoo doll.

That just didn't make sense. It did not belong to any tradition known to me, and I had researched a few of them for the magazine. As far as I knew, pentagrams were protective symbols. I did know sulfur and red peppers were used in Hot Foot powder in hoodoo, and I'm sure they had many other uses. I could only conclude that the pentagram setup was simply theatrical, intended to confuse and frighten me.

I couldn't leave the items outside for the neighbors to see in the morning but I had no intention of going near them. I did the only thing I could do. I shut the door, locked it, then poured another glass of wine and drank it rapidly.

My laptop, of course, was on and ready to go, but for once I bypassed the laptop and headed for a book, a real book as some would call them. Books were tax deductions and apart from that, I love them, whether "real books" or ebooks. I had the very book that would help, and it was right on my bookshelf in easy reach.

The Voodoo Doll Spellbook: A Compendium of Ancient and Contemporary Spells and Rituals
by anthropologist Denise Alvarado. The very first page told of a 2008 incident in which the husband of a Commissioner Zenaida Denizac found a black plastic dish containing a wax covered voodoo doll which had a photo of his wife pinned to it. It was burned and covered in black powder, and like my doll, had pins stuck all over it.

I googled "Commissioner Zenaida Denizac." She was alive and well, years after the incident, and this gave me hope. I poured another glass of wine, and went back to the book. It said the use of doll babies was an example of sympathetic magic, which reminded me that I had written an article on sympathetic magic two years ago. It would be in the pile of old magazines.

I stood up suddenly and felt horribly dizzy. I hoped this wasn't the doll spell working, although I'd had more than a glass of wine on an empty stomach, if you don't count the crackers.

The specific issue was easy to find. There are some advantages to being a neat freak. My article included a translation of a Hittite spell which used sympathetic magic. My article said that the Hittites were a major world power rivaling the Egyptians over three thousand years ago, and they lived in what is now Southern Turkey. The three and a half thousand year old spell was featured in a special box; the graphic artist had gone all out. At the top of the box I had written that the "Old Woman" is a technical term for a priestess/magic worker.

Someone had cursed two men so they had gone to the Old Woman for help. She made wax dolls to look like both men. After a lengthy spell, the curse was transferred to the dolls and they were burned.

That helped me understand a bit more about sympathetic magic, but I'd hoped the article would have some way to remove the curse. Back to
The Voodoo Doll Spellbook
. It offered a whole chapter on protection. My relief turned to dismay when I realized I didn't have all the ingredients needed for the spells.

I turned to my notes. Over the years I'd jotted down spells and other interesting information. I picked up one folder and the page opened to the heading, "blueberries." I hadn't noted the source of the information, very unlike me to do so.

My own handwriting was hard to read, but I deciphered the information to mean that eating blueberries increases someone's ability to resist psychic attack. That's good; I eat blueberries every day. I blend frozen blueberries with oat milk to a thick consistency, and then add lactose-free yogurt and grated dark chocolate. Yummy and healthy to boot. The notes continued to say that blueberries can be used as a powerful protection charm. I already had a blueberry bush in a pot as protection. I didn't know how well it worked, considering that Aunt Beth had a blueberry bush growing at her door, and she'd been murdered.

Ignoring my stomach rebelling from thoughts of solid food, I googled in earnest to find information on how to counteract the pentagram, but couldn't find any spiritual path to which it could belong.

Worst case scenario, I could pick up the voodoo doll with a pair of kitchen tongs and throw it in the trash away from my house, then wash the step where it had been with salt. I had a bottle of citronella essential oil and could pour that on the step, too. Citronella was good for cleansing.

The pentagram still had me stumped. I was even at a loss as to what to google. I finally settled on "pentagram skull candles." That was not much help, turning up links to products or games. I was about to change my search terms when I stumbled across a 2006 article from the U.K. Daily Mail. Builders were demolishing a building that had been owned by Aleister Crowley, whom the article wrongly called a "Satanist." In the rubble they found a human skull and a flickering candle, and next to it, twigs arranged in the shape of a pentagram.

I was sidetracked for a moment by the article's errors. Aleister Crowley was an occultist, not a Satanist, but the article confused the two.

Back to google. "Skull inside pentagram" brought up only four entries, all about shirts. I found several entries for "skull with top removed." No luck there either. Google provided no clue as to what tradition it could be from. I figured my initial hunch had been right: it had been put there simply to scare me.

Rain started falling. I would have to do something before whatever nastiness was in the pentagram, if indeed there was any, leaked all over my lawn. The kitchen yielded a pair of tongs and a large plastic trash bag. I had no idea what to do, so would have to ad-lib. I put my car keys in my pocket, put on some rubber gloves and poured sea salt into the trash bag, and then sneaked outside, looking around for any sign of life. I reached for the doll, seized it with the tongs and then pushed it into the bag, sprinkled sea salt over the step and poured the citronella on too.

Careful not to step where the doll had been, I made my way down to the skull. The candles had all gone out; the rain had seen to that. I used the tongs to pick up the outside candles first, and threw them in the trash bag, then threw in the skull too as well as the tongs, and then the rubber gloves. I poured salt all over the area. The rain was already washing away the chalk.

I hurried to the car, careful to look in the back seat. No one was there. I knew there was a trash can outside the local coffee shop, so I drove there as fast as I could in the weather conditions. The rain was blinding now. I hopped out and threw the trash bag in the trash can, and then drove home. Luckily no one saw me; talk spreads quickly in a small town. I parked for a while and looked around for any sign of anyone else, then had to use a bit of self-talk to motivate myself to leave the safety of the car and get back in the house.

I managed to unlock the front door after fumbling with the keys, went inside and locked the door behind me in double quick time, and hurried to look in places that intruders could hide. I then stripped off and threw all my clothes in the washing machine, and added a handful of sea salt and lemongrass brew to the water.

Once the washing was underway, I headed for the bathroom and ran a bath with sea salt, Epsom Salts, rue, and my newly purchased hyssop. I am a bit of a clean freak but two baths in one night was a record even for me. Still, it's the best spiritual cleanser I know, and I felt I needed it after the voodoo doll.

The rain had left me cold so I hopped from foot to foot in an attempt to warm up while the bath was filling. When it was full, I climbed in the bath. I lay there and calmed my breathing. This was the first time I had relaxed in days.

I had a whole five minutes of relaxation before a knock came again. I was terrified. I climbed out of the bath, wrapped a towel around me, quickly dried my hands, and snatched up my iPhone ready to call the police.

What would be on the doorstep now, a live snake? A man with a gun? A zombi?

Now I was getting silly, but the possibilities were endless. Forget the golf driver; I picked up a can of Raid bug spray and edged towards the door.

The knock came again. I went cold all over. My breathing sounded loud. I remembered that my former karate instructor had said, "If they can hear you breathe, they'll kill you." That didn't help. I tried to quiet my breathing which made me even more tense and my breathing even louder.

The knock came again, louder. Terrified, I ran to the door, and wrenched it open, held the can of Raid at head height and sprayed.

"Dogs come when they're called; cats take a message and get back to you later."

(Mary Bly)

Chapter Fifteen
.

The man on the doorstep ducked away from the spray, and at that moment, lightning flashed.

"Misty!"

It was Jamie Smith. To say I was surprised was quite the understatement.

"Jamie? Jamie! What are you doing here? Did I get you with the Raid? Are you okay?" My words tumbled out one after the other.

I must have looked like a mad woman, standing there, in a towel, soaking wet, wielding a can of Raid.

"Misty, can I come in?"

I stood aside and let Jamie in, then locked the door behind him. I carefully placed the Raid on the floor, next to the door.

Jamie looked amused. "Do you always answer the door before you're dressed?"

"I wasn't answering the door; I was trying to spray you."

It was obvious to me that Jamie was doing his best not to laugh. "Do I look like a crawling insect?"

I just stared at him. Why hadn't he called to say he was coming? I would have gotten dressed if he had. I was acutely aware I was only wearing a towel.

Jamie kept talking. He eyed off the golf iron and the Raid sitting close together. "Who were you expecting? What's been happening?"

I didn't answer, as I was doing the math, a skill which I do not possess in spades. If Jamie had left England after I texted "Alfred," how did he get here so fast? When I had flown to England, it had been a twenty two hour flight. How many hours since I texted? Twelve. No wait, it was yesterday, or was it the day before? It was now around 2 a.m.

I had texted "Alfred" sometime around midday yesterday. Twenty four hours would bring me to midday today. Twelve more hours would bring me to midnight, plus two. My mind was too foggy; I'd had a rough time. I tried to picture twenty four and fourteen in the air in front of me, so I could add them. Thirty eight. He did have enough time to fly out. Oh no, it was midday today, not yesterday. That was fourteen hours. Not even enough time to fly to Australia from Japan.

I was unspeakably shocked to see Jamie, and while I was standing there with my jaw dropped open and clutching my towel to me, the traitorous Diva hurried over to Jamie and purred against his legs. She even allowed him to stroke her.

"Why didn’t you call?"

Jamie's flushed with what I assume was embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Misty. I'll come back in the morning."

With that, he turned and left, leaving me concerned that I’d chased him away. But why had he come? Why was his organization so interested in what I did? I knew they were, as they had given me "Alfred" to text if I ever was in trouble.

I just wished someone would tell me what was going on. My own Society had not contacted me apart from the letter telling me to solve a centuries old murder, and I didn’t know the first thing about them, except that I was now the new Keeper, whatever that was. I figured Jamie's organization must have to have links to the Society, for them to keep such close tabs on me.

I didn’t like people keeping from secrets me at the best of times, and this was quite a stretch. Sleep did not come easily that night.

I woke up after sleeping in, yawned and stretched. I'd only had time for a quick shower by the time Jamie knocked on the door.

"Misty, we have to talk."

I looked shamefaced. "Sorry, come in." I stood aside to let him past me. "I'm sorry I was so shocked to see you last night. I didn’t mean you should've left straight away."

Jamie frowned. "I thought it better to come back in the morning. You looked you needed a good sleep. Here, drink this."

I took the coffee and thanked him profusely. "Please have a seat. Aren't you tired?"

Jamie shook his head. "No, I slept on the plane."

"How did you get here so fast?"

Jamie tipped his head to one side. "Fast?"

I interrupted. "I thought you'd left England after I'd been poisoned."

Jamie sipped his coffee before answering. "No, I was on a case that came to an abrupt end and I hopped on the first plane."

I nodded. My psychic lie detectors were going off. I wondered if the government had a really fast plane that Jamie had caught. Still they wouldn't waste it on giving it to one of their agents to help the Keeper of a society that they worked with - or would they? Given the length of time it would take to drive from the International Terminal at Mascot in Sydney, it would have taken him only around ten hours to fly from London which is less than half what it would normally take, and that's not even taking into consideration the length of time it would have taken him to get from wherever he was to Heathrow.

Then it hit me - he most likely had not have been flying from London. I had no idea where his case had been; it could have been anywhere in the world.

"How much has Alfred told you?"

"Alfred?" Jamie appeared thrown by my comment. "Oh, Alfred. I know that you had two close calls with a car and a heavy vehicle, and then the poisoning. You seemed to have recovered fully from that. Now tell me what happened, right from the beginning."

I held up my hand. "First, would you please explain why you're here? Why is your organization so interested in me? I know you said my Aunt had close associations with your organization from time to time, and I know I replaced her as Keeper of her society after she was murdered, but why the interest in me?"

Jamie shifted position and looked awkward. "I'm sorry, Misty; I can’t tell you, to be quite blunt."

I was growing frustrated. "Why not?"

Jamie shook his head. "Sorry, I just can't. But know that it's in our interests to protect you. Now, please tell me what happened to you."

I frowned and wondered if I should push the matter, but at the same time, I knew I wouldn't get anywhere if I did. I let out a long sigh of resignation, and filled in Jamie on the events of the past week. He sat there, murmuring surprise at intervals. "Was it you who sent me those texts from a Blocked Sender?" I concluded.

Now that got his interest. "No, what did they say? You had more than one?"

"Yes, I think I had three all up. They all just said one word. Hang on; they're still on my phone."

I retrieved my iPhone and turned it back on. I usually turn it off at nights in case my mother calls in the middle of the night. I showed Jamie the screen.

"
Govi
."

I nodded. "Yes, I figured it was a wrong number, but I didn't know that Blocked Senders would send texts." I paused, but Jamie did not respond. I pressed on. "It wasn't you or, err, your people?"

Jamie shrugged. "If it was, they said nothing to me. What about your Society? Have they been in touch, apart from the letter?"

I jumped to my feet. "How did you know about the letter?" I blurted, somewhat unwisely.

Jamie did not respond; again, he just looked at me. I wavered under his gaze and decided I’d have to let the matter drop. He clearly wasn't going to tell me. "No, not a peep out of them, like I said. Does it mean anything to you?"

Jamie finished the last of his coffee. "Yes, but it's a strange word to text someone."

"What does it mean? What's a
govi
?"

"A
govi
is like a
pots-de-tete
."

"Oh, great, of course, why didn't I think of that?"

Jamie raised his eyebrows. "Sarcasm, Misty, sarcasm. If you go to Haiti you'll see
govi
and
pots-de-tetes
at any Botanica. Oh, you probably already know, but a Botanica is a store that sells folk medicine, religious items, candles, magical supplies and the like, herbs too."

I nodded, and he continued. "A
govi
is basically a jar with a lid. They're used heavily in Voudou. In temples you'll see them bound with white or black fabric and a lot of cord. I'm guessing here, but I think that the main use of
govi
is housing spirits."

Now I was even more puzzled. "Why would anyone text me that word?"

Jamie shrugged.

"Hang on, did you say Haitian voudou?"

Jamie just nodded. Perhaps he was tired after all.

"I have the phone number of a
houngan
, a voudou priest, who lives in New York State. I interviewed him a while back and he was very helpful. I'll just check and see what time it is there in the USA."

I opened my Favorites to World Clocks and found it was afternoon, quite a respectable time. I called Chris, but he didn't answer so I left a message.

Just then I heard a ghastly noise. I turned around, only to see Jamie had fallen asleep and was snoring. Diva was purring around his legs, but then she jumped onto his lap and kneaded his stomach. He did not wake up. Laughing softly, I searched "
govi voudou
." The very first entry said, "
Govi
is the name given to jars which contain the spirit essence of deceased members of the family.
Govi
are kept on an altar."

The second entry likewise was helpful. It said, "
Govi
are used to create
pwen
, to house Lwa, to feed Lwa, to do
wanga
, and various other sorts of things." I knew that
wanga
referred to a magical work, but I had to look up the meaning of
pwen
. It was troublesome to pinpoint. It appeared to be a power object or a point of magical focus.

I still wasn't too sure what
pwen
meant when I stumbled across a reference to trapping spirits in bottles of holy water. That in turn led me to a news article with the intriguing title, "Captured and Bottled 'Ghosts' Being Sold Online." The top of the webpage offered that the story was posted by YBMW Staff on March 4th, 2010.

A pair of "ghosts" which were exorcised from a New Zealand house and captured in bottles have gone on the auction floor. According to the seller, his house had been haunted for several years until an exorcist from a spiritual church visited and performed an exorcism.

The ghosts were exorcised and placed in blue "holy water" putting them to sleep and trapping them inside the glass vials. "They are bottled with holy water as apparently the water dulls the spirits energy, sort of puts them to sleep. To revive the spirit, I have been told that you pour into a little dish and let it evaporate into your house."

Since the exorcism, the seller claims to not have been having any paranormal activities. "We have had no activity since they were bottled on July 15th 2009. So I believe they are in the bottles."

"I just want to get rid of them as they scare me. But someone might like these to play with." It is claimed one of the spirits is a man named Les Graham who died in the house in the 1920s while the other is that of a little girl."

Sure that was more than a little weird, but now I was getting somewhere. Was the mysterious Blocked Sender trying to tell me that someone's spirit was trapped inside a bottle or jar? Jamie snored more loudly which made me jump, and I suppressed a giggle. Just then my
houngan
contact called me back.

I explained about the Blocked Sender's text and asked if someone's spirit could be trapped inside a jar.

Chris didn't think the question was strange. "Yes, someone's spirit can be trapped for a while but not for all eternity. That's because it only works while the operator is alive and able to work the pot which has the spirit chained inside it. Usually the operator does this to control the entity to let it out to do their bidding, and this is usually for evil works. I can only speak from my own tradition, but in my tradition the spirit has to agree to this. I take it you are asking about a spirit being locked up against its will?"

"I'm not too sure actually, but one of the ghost tour guides in the village said he speaks to a spirit who was falsely accused. I've spoken to the descendant of the man who falsely accused the spirit, and he collects Yoruba art. I know it's not much to go on, but I feel that this spirit has to be tied in somehow to these mysterious texts that say
'govi
.'"

There was silence for a while, and then Chris spoke again. "Hmm, I don't know if I can be much help. If someone imprisons a spirit to work evil, he will be in trouble with his ancestors. In Palo and in the root Kongo traditions, people can make a pot for negative works, but it's not safe for them, and they will be punished by their Kanda."

"What's a Kanda?"

"Ancestral community. The Kalunga wouldn't be happy about it either." Before I could ask, he added, "In simple terms, the Kalunga is the vast sea of the dead. If people make a bad pot, the spirit will want the opportunity to do bad things. The ancestors won't be happy about this."

I tried to think it all through. "If someone falsely accused a man, would that have anything to do with a
govi
?"

"I can't see how; you'd need more information. Is there anyone you could go and see?"