At Risk (10 page)

Chapter Nine

Calista wanted to turn the “Open” sign at her front door to “Closed,” but she resisted the urge. Better not to do anything out of pattern. Or let the cops see how shaken she was by what had happened last night at the ceremony.

And she hated being a murder suspect.
Too bad she wasn’t white and powerful—with the clout to get that damn police detective off her back—or Rafe Gascon, for that matter. He was much too perceptive.

It flitted through her mind to make a couple of voodoo dolls with their names on them and poke pins in their vital organs.
It might work or it might not. But probably murdering the lead detective on the case and the man Eugenia had hired to protect her wasn’t the way to go. Could she find something on either one of them? Something she could use?

She went into the back room and sat down in the big overstuffed chair where she could relax when there were no customers out front. With her eyes closed, she thought about the two men. She’d bet Cumberland had something he wanted to keep hidden.
Most people did. But Gascon was another matter. He gave her the impression that he didn’t give a damn who knew what about him. She turned that last thought over in her mind for a few moments, then decided it didn’t quite fit. There
was
something about him that he’d prefer not to discuss in public. Could she find out what it was and twist it to her advantage?

When nothing came to her immediately, she turned her attention in another direction, thinking about how she’d gotten here from her own humble beginnings in the bayou country.
Out near Houma.

For starters, her name had been Sandra back then.
Her daddy had left her momma before his daughter had much memory of him. Sandra had been on track to spend her life working as a maid for rich white folks like her momma did when a lucky incident had changed her life. Denada, a voodoo priestess had gotten into some trouble in New Orleans and had come back to her old neighborhood to take herself out of the public eye for a while.

In fact, she’d taken off after the death of a white lover who’d spent the night with her and died of a heart attack.
She’d come back to her family home like New Orleans royalty, and Calista had met her at the country store where the kids bought soda pop and candy bars and hung out in the afternoons.

She’d been fascinated by Denada’s long colorful gowns, her cultured accent and the headdress that added six inches to her height.
And the teenaged Sandra tagged along when the priestess went out into the swamp to gather herbs and roots to use in potions and ceremonies.

Denada had rather liked having an apprentice hanging on her every word. She’d helped Calista pick a sexier name, and she’d started teaching her which herbs were used for what.
And she’d also taught her voodoo rituals. In her lessons, she’d made it clear that attitude was as important as substance. If you had a commanding presence, people listened to you.

When Denada had said she was going back to the Big Easy, Calista had begged to go along.
Her mother had warned against the dangers of the city, but Calista hadn’t wanted to listen. How could the city be worse than the poverty of her hardscrabble existence? She’d gone to New Orleans with her mentor and found out that a girl from the bayou country had a lot of catching up to do. But she’d listened and learned and never looked back. She hadn’t graduated from high school, but she’d picked up more from the priestess than she could in any school.

The year she’d turned sixteen, Denada had introduced her to a man who had more to teach her. About the sexual pleasure in giving and receiving pain.
And about how to use sex to wield power over others. That had gotten her into trouble a time or two. But it had also become very important to her.

She liked the life she’d created for herself.
And she might not admit it to Rafe Gascon or anyone else, but she did have ambitions of becoming the Marie Laveau of this generation. The woman had been a force in New Orleans at a time when women had been chattel. And with Denada married and living in the islands, she had a shot at it.

Marie Laveau had overthrown the other voodoo queens in the city and built a power base.
She’d made predictions about the future, performed exorcisms, and offered sacrifices to the voodoo gods in private rituals behind her cottage on St. Ann Street.

Of course, she’d also been a devout Catholic, which didn’t quite work for Calista.
She had long ago decided the teachings of the church were just a way of keeping the common folks in line.

She let her mind wander, thinking of those glory days of voodoo and of how New Orleans had changed since Laveau’s times.
With modern communications and transportation, the city was more tuned to the culture beyond its borders. It was also more sophisticated in many ways. But there were strong ties to the past, and a strong woman might grab the old-time power for herself. Power meant security.

Or was she just dreaming about how to get herself out of the mess that had swirled up around her in the middle of that ceremony last night?

Calista’s cell phone rang, and she looked at the caller ID, then pressed the answer button.

“You said you would meet me,” Jillian Hargrave said.

“I got hung up here. Eugenia and that Rafe Gascon guy came over with some gris-gris someone had left on her doorstep.”

The woman on the end of the phone line caught her breath. “Did you make it?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are we in danger” Jillian asked.

“No. But I don’t like the way Cumberland showed up right after Eugenia and Gascon. I think it’s better if we don’t meet. We don’t want anyone seeing us together and wondering why.”

“I’m frightened.”

“Hang tight.”

“I’m trying.”

oOo

When Eugenia turned toward the door, Rafe put a hand on her arm.

“Sorry. I’ve got to keep my mind where it belongs.”

“Which is where?” she asked in a barely audible voice.

“You hired Decorah Security to do a job—and they sent me to do it. And it’s turned into something neither one of us expected.”

He was talking about the case, but he could just as well have been talking about the two of them—about the feelings that had sprung back to life when they’d laid eyes on each other.

She flopped back into her seat. “Was it a coincidence that they sent you?”

He thought about the answer. “I’ve come to believe that nothing Frank Decorah does is a coincidence.”

“You mentioned him to Cumberland.”

“Yeah. There’s something about Frank that sets him apart.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s hard to explain, but once you start working for him, you know you don’t want to be the agent who screws up an assignment.”
He kept his gaze on her. “But it’s not just about Frank. You won’t be safe until we figure out what’s going on. Not just the muggings. We need to understand what happened to Villars—and why that voodoo charm showed up on your doorstep.”

She dragged in a breath and let it out.
“You’re right.”

Some of the tension eased out of him. “I don’t like leaving you, but it should be okay during the day.”

“Where are you going?”

“To do some more poking around.”

“And you’re not going to share your plans with me?”

“Routine stuff that has to be taken care of.”
He gave her his cell number. “If anything unusual happens, call me immediately.”

She promised to do that, and they separated.

oOo

Although Rafe could have worked on his computer at Eugenia’s house, he figured it was better to put some distance between them.

He’d said he was going to work, but he decided that a couple hours sleep wouldn’t be a bad idea.

The sleep helped clear his brain, and when he touched the back of his head, the lump he’d gotten the night before was almost gone.

Feeling better, he put on his dark robe and practiced some martial arts moves in the hotel room to get his circulation going. Then he straightened the covers, plumped up the pillows, and grabbed his laptop. First he wrote out a report for Frank Decorah of what had happened so far. Then he switched to research. But Eugenia kept invading his thoughts.

Ordering himself to stick to business, he plowed through a bunch of background investigations, including on the man Pete had told him about, Sam Gunderson, the rival who’d fought Villars to buy a boutique hotel.
There was an online article showing pictures of the hotel and talking about its excellent reputation. Apparently Villars’ slander hadn’t done the place any harm.

Rafe went back to trying to draw connections between the people who had been at the voodoo ceremony.

He started by focusing on Wilma Saxon, the woman who had come to some of the ceremonies and then died.

She’d been ninety-two and had apparently died of a stroke.
Too bad they still didn’t have the cause of death for Villars.

Wilma had been married to a man who had left her well off when he’d died twenty-five years earlier, and she’d belonged to the same social circle as Gertie DeLong and Martha Wilson.
They’d played bridge together on a regular basis.

And she’d dabbled in an investment club that was run by—wait for it—Martin Villars.

An interesting piece of information, Rafe decided as he dug up background on the club. There were a number of investors, including Gertie and Martha.

What had Villars done with the money they’d given him to invest?
Rafe followed that trail and discovered that he’d lost at least forty thousand dollars for each of them.

Was that a motive for murder?
Maybe not with women who still had sizable fortunes, but he kept the information on his radar.

He’d been trying to stay away from Eugenia, but he decided he had a legitimate reason to phone her.

“Hi,” she said in a tentative voice that told him she’d looked at her caller ID.

“Hi.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m going to interview Gertie or Martha. Which would you start with?”

“What’s your interest in them?”

“Apparently they were in an investment club with Villars, along with Wilma Saxon.”

“I had no idea.”

“Well, he lost a lot of money for all of them.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes. Which sister seems to be the driving force in the relationship?”

“I guess Gertie.”

“So I can start with her.”

“We.”

He could have protested. Instead he said, “If you’re not busy, we can do it now.”

“Okay.”

After pulling into the alley, he called her on his cell again, annoyed with himself that he was nervous about seeing her—as opposed to fantasizing about her.

When she came down, it was obvious that she was on edge with him, too, and he wanted to ask why she’d insisted on getting back together.

Instead of focusing on the two of them, he went right to the case. “If Villars was murdered, it could be by anyone in the restaurant. Even one of the tourists.”

“Why would a tourist murder him?”

“Why would anyone? I mean, all kinds of weird stuff happens. Like that woman who pushed a man she didn’t know under a subway train.”

“I guess that’s right.”

“Or one of the tourists could have been a hit man.”

She snorted.
“Like that ditz-brain woman who wanted to know if zombies were part of the service?”

“Well, maybe not her, although someone posing as a tourist could have had a beef with him. But back to the locals, what do you know about Gertie and Martha?”

“Not a lot. They’re both nice old ladies.”

“From good families.
They’re both widows. Gertie’s husband died thirty years ago. Martha was widowed only about five years ago.”

“I didn’t know any of that.”

He switched back to the dead man. “From your point of view, what kind of guy was Villars?”

“He could be very charming.
Or he could be annoying and impatient. It depended on which week,” she answered.

“Why do you think that was true?”

“He could have been bipolar. Or he could have been the kind of person who takes out his moods on other people.”

“Did he like spending money, or was he conservative?”

“Conservative. He liked ordering the daily special.”

“How was his relationship with his wife?”

“They seemed okay. But they could have been the kind of couple who put on a good face in public.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Feel free to share if you think of anything else pertinent about him.”
He pulled out his cell phone again and found the address he’d copied down the night before. “Have you ever been to Gertie’s house?”

“No.”