Read That Old Black Magic Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
J
ack pumped the sound back up on the television, but he couldn't focus on the game. After fifteen minutes of turning the conversation with Piper over in his mind, he reached for his phone. He called the FBI operator and asked to be connected to Nick Kilcannon at home.
“Hey, Jack,” said the bureau psychologist when the connection was made. “What's up?”
“Sorry to bother you at home on a Sunday, Nick. You're in the middle of watching the game, right?”
“As a matter of fact, I'm not. I guess I'm one of the few men in America who couldn't care less.”
“The only one I know.” Jack chuckled. “But that's good for me. I have a personal situation I was hoping I could run by you. It's my girlfriend. I'm worried about her.”
“Sure. Go ahead, shoot.”
Jack's tone turned serious as he explained the situation: Piper, the paralyzing puffer-fish poisoning in Sarasota the month before, administered by a killer she'd uncovered, how deathly ill Piper had been, and the flashback she'd experienced this morning. The psychologist listened in silence while Jack told the story.
“So I was thinking Piper might be dealing with PTSD,” Jack finished. “What do you think?”
“It sounds like she's had the first âreexperiencing' symptom,” said Nick. “Have there been any avoidance symptoms?”
“Avoidance symptoms?” asked Jack, grabbing a pencil and pad. “What do you mean?”
“Has she wanted to stay away from places or things that remind her of what happened to her?”
As he ran the fingers of his free hand through his dark hair, Jack thought about it. “Well, she's refused to eat seafood since it happened, but I can't think of anything else.”
“Depression, worry, guilt?” asked Nick. “Has she mentioned that she feels emotionally numb?”
“No on the numbnessâor at least she hasn't said anything about that to me. But I'd say she's definitely worried,” answered Jack. “And guilt? I don't think so. She hasn't seemed really depressed either. Tired sometimes, and a little listless, which would make sense after how sick she was, but not really depressed.”
“Okay. Has she lost interest in activities that she previously enjoyed?”
Jack considered before answering. “Not that I've noticed.”
“And you tell me she has no trouble remembering what happened to her when she was poisoned?”
“No,” said Jack. “I'd say she remembers it all too well.”
“How about hyperarousal? Have you noticed her being easily startled? Does she seem tense or on edge?”
“A little bit maybe.”
“What about sleep? Is she having problems sleeping?”
“Yeah,” said Jack “She's complained of not being able to fall asleep and waking up a lot during the night when she does.”
“Any angry outbursts?”
“None that I've seen.”
“Watch for those, Jack. Watch for all the things we've just talked about. But I think it may be a little early to be diagnosing PTSD. Piper would have to have at least three of the avoidance symptoms and two of the hyperarousal symptoms for at least a month. It doesn't sound like she's there yet. With luck, she may never be.”
“So that's all there is to do at this point?” asked Jack. “Keep an eye on her? That's hard, since she's in New Orleans. But I'll try my best to stay on top of how she's doing.”
“I have no doubt about that, Jack. And I'll give you the name of a psychologist for Piper to see if she wants to talk to somebody when she comes back north. In the meantime don't hesitate to give me a call if you need to.”
“Thanks, Nick, but I hope I've just overreacted.”
“Better safe than sorry, buddy. Besides, some people with PTSD don't show any symptoms for weeks or months. It could be a while before you know with a fair amount of certainty that Piper is out of the woods.”
C
losing her antique shop precisely at five o'clock, Ellinore stopped to buy pompano fillets, crabmeat, mushrooms, and green onions before going home. Falkner was coming for dinner. She wanted to feed him well before she broke the news to him.
She didn't have to tell him, of course. He would learn the upsetting truth when she died. But somehow it didn't seem right to let her nephew go on thinking that he was going to be the heir to whatever she had left when she departed this world.
The Duchamps fortune was long gone, and Ellinore had supported herself for years now. Falkner could do the same. Still, she did feel a tad guilty that she wasn't leaving him the house that had been built by the Duchamps family. But she'd been able to hold on to it only because she'd worked so hard. It was
hers
now, and she could do with it as she pleased. Ellinore wanted Sabrina to have it, almost as much as she would have wanted Ginnie to have the place if she'd lived.
Ellinore loved Sabrina like a daughter. She did not love Falkner. Nor had Falkner shown any real love for her. More important, he hadn't shown any concern or compassion for Ginnie.
As she chopped the mushrooms and green onions and browned them in butter, Ellinore wondered how Falkner would take it. She doubted he would react with good grace. She hoped he wouldn't lose his temper or get aggressive.
She mixed two tablespoons of flour into the vegetables, then added stock and seasoning and set it all to boil for a few minutes. Next came the white wine. Ellinore had to go downstairs to the basement to get a bottle.
The moment she opened the cellar door, Ellinore detected it. As she started down the basement steps, the unmistakable cigar smell grew stronger.
What was Nettie doing down here?
Ellinore started searching for clues. At first everything looked normal. Nettie's little room at the north end of the cellar was neat as usual. It gave no hint that Nettie had been staying there, though Ellinore well knew she had.
Slowly, Ellinore got down on her hands and knees, pushed back the coverlet, and looked under the bed. She reached in and felt something hard and smooth. She pulled out a black candle, then another and another. Two dozen in all.
She rose to her feet, left the sleeping area, and continued to search. It dawned on Ellinore what she was dealing with when she spotted the smudged white cross on the dark cement floor.
I
t was twilight as Piper walked into the Gris-Gris Bar. She went up to the counter and took a seat, grateful for the pulsating music blaring from the speakers in the corners of the room. She ordered a glass of white wine and tapped her foot as she waited for it. She was glad to be around people.
The bartender slid a stemmed glass in front of her. “There you go,” he said. “Let me know how you like it. I'm trying a new brand of pinot grigio.”
“Thanks,” said Piper, taking a sip. “Mmm. I like that. Really light. Good choice.”
“Glad you like it,” said the bartender. “And I'm Wuzzy, by the way.”
“Hey, Wuzzy-by-the-way. I'm Piper.” She reached out, and they shook hands.
“And I'm Falkner-by-the-way.”
Piper looked in the direction of the voice. Falkner Duchamps had taken his place on the bar stool next to hers. What was that old-fashioned expression her mother always used? The one about turning up like a bad penny? Falkner seemed to be everywhere. Actually, she wasn't unhappy about seeing him right now. At least Falkner was somebody she knew, even if only a little. At this point Piper welcomed a semifamiliar face.
“You get around, don't you?” she asked.
Falkner smirked. “I could say the same about you.”
“If this clown bothers you, just let me know, Piper,” said Wuzzy, nodding at Falkner and smiling. “I know how annoying he can be.”
“Aw, Wuz, don't give Piper a bad impression of me,” said Falkner. “I can do that all on my own.”
When Wuzzy went to serve another customer, Falkner told Piper about the bartender's son and the fund-raiser that was being held the next night.
“I heard Bertrand and Marguerite talking about what they're donating,” said Piper. “Poor little Connor and poor Wuzzy. That's a lot to handle.”
“I know,” said Falkner. “It's heartbreaking. But money would make things a lot easier. I have the feeling that though this may be the first fund-raiser we hold, it won't be the last. There will be a lifetime of expenses. If I were Wuzzy, I think I'd have snapped by now.”
Piper thought she noticed a tear at the corner of Falkner's eye. She was touched by the empathy he was showing. Perhaps she had misjudged him. Maybe he was more than a wannabe player and ladies' man. Suddenly the idea that Falkner might have the sensitivity to explore the origins and meanings of nursery rhymes didn't seem so outlandish.
Wuzzy came back to them, holding a glass beer mug in his hand and drying it with a dish towel. “So what's new, Falkner?” he asked. “Hear anything interesting out on the street?”
“As a matter of fact, I did hear something,” said Falkner. “I heard the cops think they have a solid lead in Muffuletta Mike's murder. Apparently they found a single very clear fingerprint in the blood at the sandwich shop.”
The mug suddenly slipped from Wuzzy's big hand and crashed onto the floor. He stepped back quickly, trying to avoid the flying glass shards. Falkner put his hands out in front of Piper's face, shielding her from any wayward fragments.
“I don't know what's the matter with me,” said Wuzzy, his face reddening. “Nerves, I guess. That's the third glass I've broken today.”
T
hough the biggest parade had taken place on Saturday in the Garden District, the St. Patrick's Day festivities carried through to the actual feast day. Why celebrate on just one day when you could stretch the party out over a long weekend?
It should be easy to blend in with the drunken, green-garbed revelers in the French Quarter tonight.
The first blood-drenched murder scene had gotten some people talking about a hoodoo connection, and Friday night's radio show had helped spread the word. But New Orleans wasn't really buzzing yet about Muffuletta Mike's death and its link to hoodoo. After tonight that would change. There would be no ignoring the Hoodoo Killer on the loose.
To make the hoodoo connection, the clues to Damballah, one of the most important loa, had to be there for all to see. A mound of flour crowned with an egg would be a sign of the simple offering to the spirit. White was Damballah's color, and it would be well represented at the murder scene. But to make absolutely sure there would be no doubt, Damballah's symbol, the serpent, had to be present. A snake had to be left beside the dead body.
With no desire to care for the reptile or take the chance that anyone else would see it, the visitor to the pet shop had left the actual purchase of the snake until now. A salesclerk in the pet store pointed the way to the reptile section. Glass tanks were stacked on the back wall, showcasing a wide selection of snakes.
So many different varieties, their skins in striking colors and patterns, their bodies slithering and coiling! Pythons, boas, king snakes, corn snakes, milk snakes. Striped snakes, spotted snakes, black snakes, orange snakes, green snakes. It was mesmerizing to see their undulating bodies and flicking tongues.
A salesclerk strolled over. “They're amazing, aren't they?” he asked.
The customer nodded. “Very.”
“Snakes are such popular pets,” the clerk continued. “They're easy to care for, they have minimal odor, and they tend to be quite docile. They're fascinating to learn about, too. I can spend hours watching them.”
The customer pointed at one of the tanks. Inside, an icy gray snake with white stripes was twisted in the corner. Beady red eyes protruded from the sides of its head.
“Tell me about that one.”
“That's our albino California king snake,” said the salesclerk. “It's a solitary snake and shouldn't be housed with others. It usually sleeps during the day. You'll see it move most during the night or twilight hours.”
“What does it eat?”
“It's a carnivore. Strictly a meat eater. We recommend and sell frozen mice here.”
The customer browsed the adjoining tanks, looking at the other snakes before coming back to the gray one.
“We're running a sale this week,” said the salesclerk. “This snake is twenty dollars less than it usually is.”
“Okay,” answered the customer. “I'll take it.”
The clerk smiled. “Good. Is this your first snake? Or do you already have everything you need?”
“Tell me what you mean.”
“Well, you need a terrarium, of course. A water dish, lighting and heating elements, a thermometer. That snake likes to burrow, so I'd recommend some aspen bedding.”
The customer considered the information before agreeing to the extra purchases. It was better to seem like someone who was serious about maintaining the snake long-term. Not someone who was using it for one night only. If the details about tonight's murder were reported in the news and the clerk saw or heard about the snake at the crime scene, he might recall the customer who had bought only the snake but nothing with which to sustain it.
The salesclerk gathered the paraphernalia and the frozen mice, packed it all up, and slid a brochure about proper handling of snakes into one of the bags. The customer paid for everything with cash.