That Old Black Magic (12 page)

Chapter 45

A
aron was bent over at his kitchen table, concentrating intensely on gluing the small pieces of the banister lining the deck of the model paddleboat. There were over a hundred tiny posts waiting to be attached, and it was a challenge getting intricate work done with his chubby fingers. But Aaron didn't mind. He relished concentrating on the task. It took his mind off his worries. Working on his models on Sundays soothed him more than going to church.

After the tension of the last few days and girding himself for the week to come, Aaron needed something to keep himself calm.

His hobby had started at the same time he began in radio. He'd gotten a job at a station on Cape Cod, not knowing a soul when he arrived. One weekend, without anything else to do, he took a whale-watching cruise. After the boat ride, he stopped at the small gift shop by the pier and purchased a kit for making a replica of an old multimasted whaling schooner. By the time he left for his next job, he still hadn't made many friends, but he had four more ship models packed carefully into cartons to move with him.

New London was twenty-five markets higher than Cape Cod on the Arbitron radio rankings and meant significant career advancement. It was also home to the United States Coast Guard Academy. Aaron became fascinated with the USCGC
Eagle,
the only active-duty tall ship, used as a training vessel for the cadets. Soon a miniature of the majestic craft stood in the middle of the fireplace mantel in the small saltbox-style house Aaron had rented. The navy's primary submarine base was also in New London and nearby Groton. So Aaron got to work on building submarine replicas as well.

It had continued like that. In Poughkeepsie, Aaron learned about the development of steam navigation on the Hudson River, the cradle of American steamboating. He'd had time to construct miniatures of the
Clermont,
the
Mary Powell,
and the
Car of Neptune
before moving on to the next-larger market. Those two years in Pensacola added battleships, aircraft carriers, and destroyers.

And on it went. By the time he arrived in New Orleans, Aaron's boats made up the bulk of his possessions. He had shelves built along the walls of his French Quarter apartment to display his treasured babies, the prized outlet for his time and loving attention.

As he put down the tube of glue, Aaron sat back and looked at the collection on the wall. There was barely a place for him to put the model of the
Natchez
when he finished with it. Maybe it was time to find another interest.

Hoodoo might be it. The more he learned about the practice, the more fascinated he became.

At the very least, Aaron didn't plan on moving to another market to find a new type of seagoing vessel to build. New Orleans was number 47 in the ratings, by far the largest market he had ever been in. He'd worked his tail off to get there. He felt satisfied in this city he loved and the place he occupied in it. He didn't want to move upward anymore, and Aaron was determined not to move down.

Chapter 46

E
very Sunday, Ellinore Duchamps attended Mass at the cathedral before going to her antique shop for the afternoon. Cecil waited in the pink azalea bushes until he saw her drive out of sight. He stood, brushed at his white chinos, and picked up his bag of tricks before climbing the steps to the back door.

Nettie was waiting for him, opening the door quickly and whisking him inside. She was dressed in a long, flowing white skirt and blouse. A white turban was wrapped around her head. Her feet were bare.

“Brother,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

Nettie led the way down the old wooden steps to the basement. Together they lit the two dozen candles she had arranged around a clearing at the back of the room. Then Nettie took her place in the middle of the space while Cecil took a seat on a small bench to the side. When his sister gave the signal, Cecil began patting his bongo drum.

The rhythm was slow at first. Nettie knelt down and reached into a bowl on the floor, taking pinches of flour from it. She drizzled the white powder on the dark cement, forming a cross. As she drew the lines, she chanted.

Cecil increased the tempo and began rocking to the rhythm. He joined Nettie's chanting. Their voices grew louder as they called on the spirits who linked the mortal and the immortal worlds.

Nettie rose from her knees and started to shake her
shekere,
the handmade rattle Cecil had fashioned from a hollow gourd he covered with a net of seeds, beads, and shells. Cecil banged the bongo harder and faster as Nettie began to move her body, undulating her shoulders and hips. Soon she was dancing and whirling, her long skirt billowing out around her.

Cecil got off his bench and joined his sister, dancing and praying to reaffirm the same moral principles. Reaching into his bag of tricks, Cecil felt for the leather cat-o'-nine-tails. Pulling it out, he snapped the floor with it. An angry popping sound reverberated in the dark cellar air as he tried to summon the spirits.

But he was disappointed. Cecil didn't feel the spirit mount him. Why wasn't the loa visiting him?

After they were through, Nettie collapsed while Cecil took a cigar from his bag and lit up.

“I wish you wouldn't, Cecil,” she whispered, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. “It's so hard to get rid of the smell. We'll give ourselves away to Miss Ellinore.”

“Maybe we should invite her to join us some Sunday,” Cecil said with a laugh as he blew a smoke ring into the air. “She might like it. The old girl could afford to miss a Mass.”

He and Nettie had been raised Catholics, but now that they both practiced voodoo, he saw how many similarities there were between the two religions. Both believed in a supreme being. Both believed in an afterlife. Both believed that invisible demons existed. Voodoo loa were like the Christian saints who had lived exceptional lives and possessed special attributes. Followers of voodoo believed that each person had a master of the head, which corresponded to a Christian's patron saint.

“That's not funny, Cecil. You know that Miss Ellinore wouldn't approve. With all the talk about the Hoodoo Killer on Royal Street, Miss Ellinore would likely lose her mind if she knew what we do down here.”

“Makes no difference to me if she approves or not,” said Cecil, putting out the cigar. “But I don't want to get you in no trouble, Nettie.”

Chapter 47

O
n the taxi ride back to the French Quarter, Piper's cell phone rang. It was Marguerite.

“I was wondering if you might like to have something to eat with me at Napoleon House.”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” said Piper, not wanting to be alone. After shooting the tomb scene, she needed to be in the land of the living again.

Piper had read about Napoleon House online. The place was listed as the former residence of a mayor of New Orleans who had offered his home to Napoleon Bonaparte as a refuge during his island exile. Napoleon died before sympathetic New Orleanians could rescue him, but now the three-story example of Creole architecture was registered as a National Historic Landmark and housed a bar and restaurant. It was on Chartres, just a block over from Royal.

When she arrived, Piper spotted Marguerite waiting for her out front. The line moved quickly, and the two of them entered the building and proceeded into a dimly lit, weathered-looking bar area. Old prints, proclamations, and newspaper articles were framed and hung on the mottled walls. Smiling, chattering patrons ate and drank at the banged-up tables. Classical music played on the sound system.

They followed the hostess through the bar area into an adjoining room that, like the rest of the place, also had an overall cocoonlike feeling of benign neglect. An old black fan whirred from the chipped, brown-painted ceiling. A portrait of Napoleon and other varied faded pictures decorated the walls. The terrazzo floor was scuffed. Piper and Marguerite were escorted to a small round table placed beside French doors that opened directly out to the sidewalk.

They both ordered red beans and rice with sausage and a side salad.

“And to drink?” asked the old waiter.

“Um, I'm not sure,” said Piper, glancing at Marguerite. She was in New Orleans. Ordering a club soda seemed boring and unadventurous. “What do you suggest?”

The waiter shrugged. “The house specialty is the Pimm's Cup.”

“Which is what, exactly?” asked Piper.

“A gin-based British liqueur, lemonade, and a splash of lemon-lime soda,” answered the waiter. “It's very refreshing.”

“Okay. I'll have that.”

“Make that two,” said Marguerite.

While they sipped their drinks, Piper told Marguerite about the morning filming, confiding how terrified she'd been when trapped inside the fake crypt.

“I had an experience recently that I'd really rather not talk about,” said Piper. “But being unable to move just brought back the terror of the whole thing.” She shook her head to clear it. “This is such a fantastic, magical place, though. I don't want to focus on the negative while I'm here. I really want to enjoy New Orleans.”

“I'm so sorry for your struggle, Piper, but I'm glad you're enjoying our city,” said Marguerite, smiling. “I love it, too.”

“Were you born here?” asked Piper.

“Yes. I grew up in a little shotgun house, eating creole food and listening to jazz. When I was young, I took it all for granted. It's only now that I truly appreciate how special this town is. I'd never want to live anyplace else.”

“I can sure see why,” said Piper, taking a sip of her Pimm's Cup.

The waiter brought the plates to the table. As Piper picked up her fork, her mouth turned down at the corners.

“Is something wrong?” asked Marguerite with concern etched on her face. “Isn't the food what you expected?”

“Oh, no. It's not that,” said Piper. “I was just thinking about those men in the store yesterday morning. They gave me the feeling you might be changing locations, leaving New Orleans.”

Marguerite cocked her head. “What men?”

“The three guys who came in and talked with Bertrand. They walked around the shop measuring and taking pictures. One of them was asking the customers questions.”

“What kinds of questions?” asked Marguerite.

“Like, if they would come to the bakery if it were someplace else.”

“But where would it be?” asked Marguerite.

Piper shrugged. “I have no idea. The man didn't name a place. It was just a general question. Anyway, sorry, it's really none of my business.”

“I appreciate your concern, Piper,” said Marguerite as she slid some rice onto her fork. “That's really very sweet of you. But you have nothing to worry about. We often have people coming in to take a peek at how we do things. Maybe they have a business of their own and were looking for ideas. I don't know what those men were doing in the bakery, but Boulangerie Bertrand is staying in New Orleans, right where it belongs.”

Chapter 48

A
fter lunch with Marguerite, Piper considered going to the bakery, but all she really wanted was to go upstairs to her little apartment and relax. Bertrand had said that he didn't expect her to work on Sundays, but Piper had had every intention of spending whatever was left of her day helping him out. That was before. Now she decided to take Bertrand up on his offer.

She let herself through the black iron gate, locked it, and slowly climbed the stairs. Once in the apartment—and carefully locking that door, too—Piper kicked off her shoes, went to the kitchen, and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She gulped it down and poured herself another, which she took with her to the bedroom. Sitting on the bed, she called Jack. Piper could hear the television set blaring in the background when he answered.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Watching the basketball game.”

“I forgot,” said Piper. “March Madness. Let me tell you, the craziness is alive and well here in New Orleans.”

“I don't know why, Pipe. LSU doesn't look good for the Final Four.”

“That's not the madness I meant. It's me, Jack. I feel like I'm losing it.”

Piper heard the background noise cease as Jack immediately turned down the sound on his television.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

She told him about shooting the scene in the tomb. “It was horrible, Jack,” she said as she wrapped up her story. “It brought back all those awful feelings. I felt totally paralyzed and scared out of my mind.”

“And what did the director say?” asked Jack.

Piper managed a little laugh. “Oh, he was thrilled. He thought it was perfect, that I was flawless. I wonder what he'd say if he knew I wasn't acting. He'd probably be even more thrilled. Nothing beats authenticity. I was basically reliving something that had pretty much already happened to me. Method acting at its finest.”

“A flashback,” said Jack. “I'm no doctor, Pipe. But I do know that flashbacks are symptoms of PTSD.”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder? Me? Please, Jack. No way.”

“Why should
you
be immune? You went through a dangerous, life-threatening event, Piper.”

“It's not like I got bombed in Afghanistan or something.”

“You don't have to be a soldier to suffer from PTSD,” he answered. “When we're in danger, it's only natural to feel afraid. That fear triggers many split-second responses in the body to defend itself. The ‘fight-or-flight' response.” Jack slowed his speech a little. “But in PTSD the reaction is changed. With PTSD you can feel stressed or frightened even when you aren't in actual danger anymore.”

Piper took a sip of juice and considered his words. Though she didn't like to hear it, Jack was making sense.

“Okay. Let's just say you're right,” she said. “What do I do about it?”

“I don't really know enough about it, Pipe, but for starters I'd imagine that professional help would be a good idea,” Jack said quietly.

“I want to go home, Jack.”

“Come home, then,” he urged. “Come home, Piper.”

“I can't, Jack. I can't run out on Bertrand and Marguerite. I'm committed, and I want to see it through.”

“All right.” He sighed. “I suppose waiting another week or two to see a doctor won't be the end of the world. But you have to promise me that you'll call if something like this happens again, Pipe. Call me if anything at all bothers you.”

“Don't worry. I will,” answered Piper. “I feel like I need to get this under control or else I won't even be able to act anymore. It really scared me, Jack.”