That Old Black Magic (15 page)
Read That Old Black Magic Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
T
he air filled with the sound of patrons laughing and yelling to be heard over the jazz band's loud music. Falkner surveyed the Gris-Gris Bar and smiled. They all looked like they were having a good time.
With admission being charged at the door and people crowded at tables and jammed three deep at the bar, the evening was already a monetary success. Judging by the fat piles of shamrock tickets inside the individual glass bowls stationed in front of the prizes, the tricky-tray auction was also going to raise quite a bit of money for Wuzzy and his son.
It seemed as good a time as any to pick the winners. Falkner went over to the band and asked them to stop playing. He held up his arms to quiet the crowd. It didn't work.
“Hey, everyone,” he called. “Is everybody having fun?”
The partygoers paid no attention, continuing to talk among themselves.
Falkner looked beseechingly at the band. “Can you do something to get their attention?” he asked.
Cecil turned to his bandmates. They'd had to do this at many parties in the Big Easy. “Let's give it to 'em, brothers,” he called.
All the horn players put their instruments to their lips and blew one long, loud, screeching note. The bar patrons winced at the resulting cacophony, many putting their hands over their ears. Everyone turned to look at the band, giving Falkner the chance to make his announcement.
“We're going to call the raffle winners now. It's time to get out your tickets.”
He went to the prize table and began picking shamrocks from the bowls and calling out the lucky names. Winners and their friends cheered as they won the prizes, among them a dinner for four at Bistro Sabrina, a trip to the radio station donated by Aaron Kane, a series of massages and beauty treatments at local spas and salons, a gift certificate for six psychic readings at a Royal Street fortune-teller, a tour of New Orleans donated by Falkner himself. But when he got to the brass candlesticks, Falkner slid his hand into his pocket and felt for the ticket he had taken from the top of the pile the moment Piper had walked away after depositing it in the bowl.
“Okay, folks,” he called. “Next prize is these glorious candlesticks donated by Duchamps Antiques and Illuminations. Let's see who the winner is.”
With Piper's ticket already clenched in his hand, Falkner stuck his fist in the bowl. He wanted Piper to have the brass candlesticks to remember him by.
He pulled the ticket from the bowl and glanced at it. Falkner opened his mouth to announce the winner just as the crowd heard the blaring sirens.
E
veryone in the bar hurried out onto Royal Street. Aaron Kane grabbed his microphone while his engineer scooped up the necessary equipment to broadcast from outside. A large crowd of St. Patrick's Day merrymakers had already gathered to gape at the activity. Police cars, emergency lights flashing, were parked in front of Boulangerie Bertrand.
Approaching people on the sidewalk and sticking his microphone in their faces, Aaron asked them what they had seen or heard.
“My friends and I were just hanging out here on the street, drinking and having a good time,” said a young man wearing green Bermuda shorts and a Tulane T-shirt. “We thought the bakery was closed for the night. Then we saw a couple of women let themselves inside and turn on the lights. I didn't pay any more attention until an ambulance came hauling up the street.”
Other pedestrians offered more.
“One of the paramedics came out a little while ago to get something from the back of his truck. I heard him say that they found a snake in there.”
“I saw a cop shaking his head, and he told another cop he couldn't believe that the baker inside was dead. Said he'd been in the bakery buying beignets only this morning.”
Aaron listened to additional accounts. He tried to keep his excitement from showing on his face. The misery inside Boulangerie Bertrand should translate to higher ratings for his radio show tonight.
When a television news van arrived, no doubt alerted by an assignment-desk police scanner, Aaron wasn't too upset. The words of the people on the street were vivid and very humanâbetter, in Aaron's opinion, than some packaged television news report written and constructed by a reporter who was more interested in seeing himself on the air than in staying with the reactions of the average citizen. It was only when the front door of the bakery opened and a stretcher was carried out that Aaron wished he had video images to broadcast. Seeing a body bag so obviously stuffed with a corpse was a powerful and unforgettable image.
As more of the familiar yellow police tape was pulled around the crime scene, Piper and Marguerite exited the bakery. They both looked extremely pale, their appearances made more ghostly by the fact that they were covered in white powder.
Aaron pushed forward, trying to get close enough to the victim's wife and Piper to ask them some questions. But the women went straight to the black wrought-iron gate next door, quickly unlocked it, and disappeared inside.
T
he minute they entered the apartment, Piper went to the bathroom and got two towels. She and Marguerite brushed the flour off their skin and clothes.
“Can I get you anything, Marguerite?” asked Piper. “Coffee, tea, or maybe some juice? I wish I had something stronger to offer you.”
“A cup of tea would be fine,” Marguerite answered in an unsteady voice. “I'll only stay for a little while, Piper, but I can't face going home yet.”
Piper left Marguerite in the living area while she went to the kitchen, filled the kettle with water, and set it to boil on the stove. Then she returned to sit with Marguerite.
“Would you like to stay here with me tonight?” Piper offered.
Looking around the room, Marguerite's eyes came to rest on the French doors that led to the balcony.
“I appreciate the offer, Piper, but I think it would be even harder to stay here than it will be to stay at home. Bertrand and I were so happy when we lived in this tiny little space. We'd work hard all day downstairs, loving being together, building our dream. Then we'd come up here, relax, and enjoy each other. I can't tell you how many bottles of wine were consumed out on that balcony.”
Piper smiled sadly. She didn't really know how to respond. She'd known Marguerite for only a few days, and talking on an intimate level didn't come easily. When the kettle whistled, Piper sprang from her chair, glad to have something to do.
After they finished their tea, Marguerite rose slowly to leave. “I must go home now,” she said wearily. “I have to call Bertrand's family in France and let them know what's happened.”
Piper nodded solemnly. “I want to help in any way I can. And I'll go with you to Muffuletta Mike's funeral tomorrow morning if you'd like.”
“You don't mind?” asked Marguerite.
“Of course not,” said Piper. “What time?”
“Ten o'clock at Our Lady of Guadalupe. We could meet there.”
“Sure. Whatever works for you.” Piper nodded, admiring Marguerite's courage and hoping that that strength would stand her in good stead in the painful days to come.
P
iper locked the door behind Marguerite, then immediately went to the closet, pushed back her clothes on the rack, and made sure the door to the dumbwaiter was closed tight. Though the police had called animal control to remove the snake, just the thought of the slithering reptile made Piper's skin crawl.
Next she called Jack. She was bummed when she got his voice mail. He was probably in some Manhattan bar with his FBI buddies throwing a few back for St. Paddy's Day.
She left a message.
“Jack. It's me. Just wanted to hear your voice and fill you in on the latest. Call me.”
She looked at her watch. It was after eleven. Piper thought of calling her parents but decided against it. They would be beside themselves with worry if she told them what had happened. They would have to find out eventually, but what was the point of telling them now and having them spend a sleepless night? There was nothing they could do from New Jersey anyway.
Piper knew that she wasn't going to be able to fall asleep. She walked out onto the balcony and looked down. The police cars were gone, but there were still plenty of pedestrians on the street. The Gris-Gris Bar remained open.
She didn't want to be alone.
T
here were fewer people in the bar than there had been earlier in the night. Most had gone home after the events across the street had taken much of the excitement and celebration from the evening. But when Piper entered, she was greatly relieved to be with the living, breathing human beings who remained.
Falkner was the first to notice, beckoning her to come over and join him at the bar. She gladly sat next to him. Wuzzy immediately came over and took Piper's drink order.
“I'll have a Sazerac,” she said without hesitation, remembering the strength of the drink. No genteel white wine for her tonight. With a little luck, a potent cocktail would help her sleep later.
“The good news is you won those candlesticks you wanted,” said Falkner.
Piper managed a weak smile.
Falkner waited until she took her first swallow of the Sazerac before beginning to ask her questions. “So? What happened over there?”
Piper shook her head and sighed. “You don't want to know. I hope I never see anything like that again.”
She described going into the bakery and finding Bertrand on the floor, trying to revive him, knowing it was too late, his neck impaled by the flower nail, told them about the flour and the egg, the live snake with the beady red eyes. When Piper finished, she realized that a small audience had gathered around her, hanging on her every word.
“That's Damballah.”
Piper looked up. The clarinet player was standing behind Falkner now.
“Damballah,” Cecil repeated. “Those are all signs of Damballah, one of the most important of all the voodoo spirits.”
Everyone turned and stared at the musician. Piper noticed that the radio-show host Aaron Kane was also in the gathering. She thought she detected a strange gleam in his eyes.
P
erfect.
Aaron listened to the musician make the voodoo connection to Bertrand Olivier's murder and only wished his radio broadcast hadn't concluded for the night. How great it would've been to have this guy on the air, connecting the dots between the details found at the crime scene and the voodoo spirit!
Aaron knew immediately what he was going to do. He waited until Cecil drifted away from the bar and went to pack up his clarinet. Aaron followed him.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I'm Aaron Kane, and I do a radio show every weeknight. I was wondering if you would be a guest on my show tomorrow evening. I think my audience would be very interested in your views.”
Cecil pushed his porkpie hat farther back on his head and studied Aaron's florid face. “I don't know,” he said uncertainly.
“I think you have something very important to say,” Aaron insisted. “Let's face it, voodoo and hoodoo don't get much respect. The general population has many misconceptions. You say voodoo and all they think about is sticking pins in dolls, crazy curses and spells, and people chanting, running around in circles, and whipping themselves into frenzies. You and I know there is so much more to voodoo and hoodoo than that.”
Cecil listened.
“You could educate people,” continued Aaron. “You'd be doing a good thing.”
The uncertain expression on Cecil's face signaled he remained unconvinced.
“Listen,” said Aaron. “You don't have to prepare a thing. All you have to do is show up. I'll ask you some questions, and you'll answer them any way you want. There will be some callers with questions, too, of course, but if you don't want to respond, you can just let me know and I'll carry the ball. Really. There's nothing to it. You'll be doing a public service and a service to your beliefs as well.”
Aaron waited while Cecil considered his words. When the musician finally agreed, Aaron could hardly contain himself. He knew that a second murder committed by the Hoodoo Killer along with Cecil's commentary would make the ratings for tomorrow night's show spike through the roof.
Everything was playing right into his hands.
I
t was past
midnight.
After she had downed her second Sazerac, Piper knew
she should stop. She got off the bar stool and stumbled, Falkner catching her
before she fell. When he insisted on escorting her across the street back to the
apartment, she accepted the offer.
She fumbled with the key, unable to slide it easily
in the gate's lock. Falkner did it for her.
“Want me to come up and help you get settled?” he
asked.
Piper looked at him quizzically.
“I promise, Piper. I'm a gentleman.”
“Thanks,” she said, “but I'll be all right.”
She took the brass candlesticks he was carrying for
her and climbed the stairs, getting the key into the apartment lock this time.
She headed straight to the bedroom, kicking off her shoes and pulling off her
jeans as she went. Collapsing onto the bed, she immediately fell asleep.
When her cell phone rang, Piper didn't hear it.
P
iper was sipping a cocktail, but she couldn't taste it. Her
sights were set on the tattered cloth doll. It was dancing frantically,
tangled in yellow police tape. The more the doll jerked, the more snarled up
it became, until, finally, the strangled doll collapsed motionless on the
floor.
She watched the pool of blood
seeping out slowly from beneath the doll, the wet redness growing, coloring
everything in its path except for the knotted police tape. Eventually the
tape began to unravel itself, and its snakelike yellow tendrils started
slithering toward Piper.
She wanted to get away. Her
mind willed her body to move. Nothing happened. She was paralyzed. There was
no escaping.
Her fear soaring, Piper tried
to call out, but no words came from her mouth. Only a desperate, whimpering
sound emanated from deep inside her throat. The yellow snakes slid closer,
finally merging into one that changed colors, with big red eyes springing
from its head.
P
iper
opened her eyes. Breathing in short, shallow gasps, she stared into the darkness
and struggled to get her bearings. Slowly it came to her. She was in a bed in
New Orleans. She'd been having a nightmare.
But the terrifying feeling of not being able to
move was all too familiar. It was how she'd felt last month as she lay paralyzed
on the hotel floor in Florida after ingesting the poisonous fish. Poison that
had been purposefully fed to her. It was how she'd felt just a few days ago at
the movie shoot. Though the crypt had been fake, the trapped feeling when she'd
been lying enclosed inside had been all too real.
She lay there in bed now, thinking about the rest
of the dream and trying to decipher its meaning. The cocktail could be the
Sazeracs she'd drunk just a few hours before at the Gris-Gris Bar. The images of
the yellow police tape came from both the murder scenes on Royal Street. And the
red blood . . . Piper winced. She didn't even want to think about
finding Bertrand that way.
But what about the cloth doll? Was her brain making
the connection to words the street musician had uttered? Voodoo. Hoodoo. The
only thing Piper associated with those practices were voodoo dolls, those
figures that people stuck with pins when they wanted to harm someone the doll
represented.
Or did the doll represent herselfâtangled,
terrified, and powerless as she tried to break free from a force that wanted to
destroy her? Was the doll's struggle just her unconscious trying to work out the
life-threatening trauma she'd endured?
She'd read somewhere that the word “nightmare” was
derived from the idea of a female spirit who beset people at night while they
slept. Piper also knew that spirits played a central role in voodoo and hoodoo.
And, according to Cecil, the whipping that Muffuletta Mike had endured and the
serpent found near Bertrand's corpse were expressions of the spirits.
As she tried to fall back asleep, Piper couldn't
allow herself to think that those kinds of spirits really existed. But she did
believe there was evil in the world. She had witnessed it firsthand. Evil
committed by human beings. Though they might claim that spirits made them do
unspeakable things, people committed the atrocities themselves.
Piper wasn't afraid of Cecil's spirits. She was
terrified, though, of the person who could have perpetrated two such horrific,
cold-blooded murders.
