Homemade Sin (27 page)

“I saw a movie about voodoo once,” said Roland.
The Serpent and the Rainbow
, I think. Are there truly such things as zombies?”

“Not like in the movies, but yes it is possible to make a zombie … but it's very dangerous.”

“You ever make a zombie?” Roland was thinking about the questions Deputy Jones had asked. He didn't want to think Hussey was involved in what happened to Rebel Buford, but who else around the hotel knew about voodoo? And Buford did stay there before the race.

“Our turn-off is coming up,” Hussey said. “Take the next exit.”

Roland eased his RAV 4 into the far right lane and cruised up the off-ramp.

“So you have made a zombie,” Roland said, scared of the answer.

“Turn left at the end of the exit ramp,” Hussey said.

“So you don't want to talk about it,” Roland said.

“Turn right at the first light.” With a crooked grin, she flashed her eyes at Roland to convey, ‘take the hint'.

As they turned on to the Cassandra town road Roland saw a dark ring of buzzards making lazy loops and dips overhead.

Hussey followed his gaze skyward and noticed the buzzards circling. “I guess the buzzards of destiny caught up with Mama Wati,” she said.

Roland remembered what Dee Dee had said as they were leaving Key West about the buzzards of destiny circling overhead, and wondered who the buzzards would catch up with next.

As Hussey and Roland pulled up in the driveway of Hussey's childhood home she warned Roland, “My father means well, but he is a little sanctimonious. He thinks anything that's not Christian is in league with the devil, so keep that in mind.”

Roland followed her as she led him through the front door. She found her father sitting at his desk, preparing a sermon for Sunday.

“Hussy!” her father called as she entered the house. “Come here girl and let me look at you, it's been weeks. Who is this young man you brought with you?” Reverend Paine looked Roland up and down. “He's a little old for you isn't he?”

“This is Roland, Dad,” Hussey said, ignoring his comment. “He was nice enough to come with me to Mama Wati's funeral.”

“So that's why you have deigned to grace us with a visit. Not to see us, but to attend the crazy old voodoo woman's funeral.”

“I'm here for both, Dad.” Hussey sighed. “First the funeral, then we can visit a while before we have to head back. Where's Mom?”

“She told me she was going to the grocery store, but I bet she's over in Cassandra again, giving money to those psychics, trying to divine the future. I' afraid you're going to have to go and round her up.” Reverend Pain shook his head. “Go and get her, would you honey? I worry about her over there with all those freaks.”

“They're not freaks Dad,” Hussey responded with exasperation in her voice. “They're very gifted people.”

“Yeah,” Reverend Paine said. “And your mother gifts them about fifty bucks of my money every time she goes over there. Something seems very wrong about her giving money to psychics that my parishioners give me for God's work.”

“Maybe, they are doing God's work.” Hussey grinned. “Did you ever consider that?” She grabbed Roland's arm and slipped out the door before her father blew up at the remark. “We're going to walk over to the funeral through Cassandra,” she called to her father over her shoulder. “I'll pick up Mom on the way.”

Hussey led Roland down the winding country road leading to the Cassandra town center. Along the way she pointed out landmarks of her past: Lake Helen, the old hotel, the houses of readers of cards, throwers of bones and casters of spells.

“There's Madam Zola's little house,” said Hussey, pointing to a small, pale blue bungalow. “That's where Mom goes to get her cards read.” Hussey remembered all the times she was sent by her father to go and retrieve her mother from the psychic's parlor.

Inside Madam Zola's bungalow, the psychic looked Hannah Paine level in the eye and said “I see Hussey coming home very soon, and I see her in a relationship with a tall, sandy haired stranger.” She swept her hand toward the window.

Hannah Paine sucked in her breath and dropped her jaw in amazement. “Really? When? You can see that in the cards?”

“I can see all through the cards,” Madam Zola said. “That will be fifty dollars.”

As Hannah opened her purse and handed Madam Zola a wad of money, Hussey knocked politely on Madam Zola's door and entered the little bungalow.

Madam Zola looked up past Hannah as Hussey and Roland entered. “Hussey girl!” squealed Madam Zola. “What a nice surprise! I haven't laid eyes on you in months.”

“I didn't think you could surprise a psychic.” Hussey laughed. “I thought you could see into the future you old fakir.”

“A figure of speech,” Madam Zola replied. “Of course I sensed you were coming. I saw it days ago.”

“You knew I wouldn't miss Mama Wati's funeral.” Hussey smiled at Madam Zola.

“Hussey!” Hannah said. “What a surprise! Madam Zola saw you were coming in the cards.”

“You knew I was coming Mom.” Hussey sighed. “You called and told me about Mama Wati's funeral.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hannah said. “But Madam Zola saw you coming very soon, and she said you would be in a relationship with a tall, sandy-haired stranger.”

“Madam Zola saw us through the window,” Hussey said. “She waved at me when I was half a block away.”

“But how did she know you would be in a relationship?” Hannah said. “You are in are in a relationship with this man, right?

“Yes, we are in a relationship, of sorts. And Madam Zola saw us holding hands as we walked through town. It doesn't take a psychic to jump to the conclusion that people holding hands are in a relationship.”

“Of sorts?” Roland queried.

“Give Mom back her money, you old con artist,” Hussey said to Madam Zola, ignoring Roland's question.

“Isn't it a shame about Mama Wati,” said Madam Zola, dodging the refund request and shaking her head. “Poor woman.”

“How did Mama Wati die?” Hussey said.

“You didn't hear?” Madam Zola said. “We all think somebody killed her.”

“Who would want to kill Mama Wati?”

“Nobody knows for sure but we all have our suspicions. Old Obadiah found her dead in her bed. They think she was poisoned.”

Bella, Hussey's gut told her. “What did Bella say?” she said.

“Bella took off,” Madam Zola said. “When Obadiah found Mama in her bed, dead, Bella was nowhere to be found; some of Mama's potions were missing too. I never trusted that girl from the minute I met her, I could foresee that she was up to no good. We have all done our own divinations and we all agree; we know who the killer is, but the police say there is no proof, at least until the results of the test for poison are complete, so they told us not to discuss it until then.

Madam Zola looked over and focused on Roland. “Stinky!” She pointed a chubby finger at Roland.

“Well, it was hot on the road.” Roland flushed. “I had the windows open, and I haven't had time to shower.”

“No, no!” Madam Zola said. “I feel the essence of a very old and very dangerous spirit all around you. The entity appears in the form of a fallen cat-god named Stinky. That disgraced deity is woven into your life, I can sense it. Have you crossed paths with a black tomcat lately?”

“He lives in the dumpster out behind the Fugu Lounge,” Roland was amazed. “That's my restau—”

“The Fugu Lounge is Roland's favorite hangout,” Hussey said.

“I think that pussy cat is some kind of cat cult leader,” Roland said, looking at Hussey. “He's the most evil creature ever to be spit out from the bowels of Hell.”

Hussey stared at Roland. “The talking pussy muse?” she said.

“I sense he's something more than just little devilish,” Madam Zola said.

“Devilish?” Roland said. “The Devil calls him Mister Stinky!”

“We can talk about Stinky later,” Hussey said. “We need to be getting to the funeral. Are you attending, Mom?”

“Wouldn't miss it,” Hannah said.

“Let me get my hat,” Madam Zola said. “I'll tag along with you folks.” Madam Zola stood, straightened out her black dress and retrieved a large, purple, picture hat from a hat rack behind the door. As they were filing out of the door, Madam Zola grabbed Roland's arm. “I know other things about you,” she whispered. “You and Miss Hussey are going to have a life together, and that demon cat is going to make your dreams come true.”

Roland was incredulous.

“Oh, you don't have to believe me,” Madam Zola said. “But it doesn't make it any less true. And something else: I can see the Buzzards of Destiny circling over your head. Your future worries you, this you cannot change, but you don't have to let those buzzards build a nest in your hair.”

Madam Zola ushered Roland out of the door and closed it behind her.

“Aren't you going to lock the door?” Roland said.

“We don't lock doors here in Cassandra.” Madam Zola sniffed. “For one thing if anybody was going to steal anything most of us would know about it before it happened. Second, if somebody did come in without being asked, I'd know who it was and be at their house waiting for them before they got home.”

As Hussey, Hannah, Roland and Madam Zola filed west toward the cemetery they were joined along the way by mourners. People seemed to be waiting on their porches for a parade to start. As Hussey walked by each house the occupants descended from the porches and fell in behind her. There were palmists, healers, spiritualists, channelers, mediums, tarot readers, spell-casting wiccans, astrologists, crystalomancers and management consultants. All that was missing was the resident voodun.

One man stepped down off his porch playing a trumpet. Another man left a drum circle of tourists and fell in line playing a funeral drum. A woman wearing strings of Mardi Gras beads around her neck and a long pleated skirt was sitting on her porch playing a saxophone sadly as the group, picking up paraders, marched by. She rocked the sax up and down as she boogied off her porch and joined the parade.

By the time they got to the gates of the cemetery the growing crowd of mourners were marching to a full-fledged Dixieland band. As the parade neared the cemetery a tune seemed to infect the musicians simultaneously and they fell into a mournful version of ‘When the Saints come Marching In.' Mourners were wailing, music was wafting through the cemetery and a wake of buzzards circled overhead in slow reverence.

The troop of the bereaved finally arrived at a small white granite mausoleum, the front of which had been opened. A crude, wooden coffin was suspended halfway in and halfway out of the crypt on a cement shelf.

“What's with the rooster?” Roland turned to Hussey and pointed to a large black rooster, with angry red eyes and a hateful expression on its beak. The rooster had one claw tied to a wooden stake hammered into the soft ground a foot or so from the tomb. The rooster was eyeing the approaching crowd with obvious suspicion.

“Later,” Hussey said.

Obadiah stepped up in front of the crypt. The rooster pecked at his shoe and he kicked at it. The rooster retaliated with a threatening cluck and sidestepped the kick, glaring at Obadiah.

“We commit Mama Wati's body to its final resting place,” Obadiah said. “But she is not within her mortal vessel. I saw the buzzard sitting in the cottonwood tree the day before she died and I knew he had come to collect her spirit so it might cross over into the next life. We, her friends who loved her in this life, offer her things that may be useful to her in the next life.”

Obadiah reached into a grocery bag and placed a cast-iron frying pan on her grave. The black rooster regarded the frying pan charily.

The trumpet player placed a plastic salt shaker on her grave. The saxophone lady pulled a small tin of lard from the pocket of her long pleated skirt and placed it with great solemnity on the ground by the rooster. The drummer placed a small jar of curry powder on the top of the frying pan.

Madam Zola placed a pile of cooked corn, just out of reach of the Rooster. On the other side, Obadiah placed a bowl of water, also out of reach of the rooster.

Hussey approached the crypt and placed a small figurine of a monkey and a rooster on the graveside.

“I feel awful,” said Roland. “I didn't bring anything. I didn't know I was expected to help stock a mausoleum larder.”

“Got some dimes or quarters?”

Roland fished in his pocket and came up with two quarters, and a dime. “I got sixty cents,” Roland smiled.

“Throw that on the grave,” instructed Hussey. “Silver is appropriate.”

The trumpet player and the drummer stepped forward and helped Obadiah slide the coffin the rest of the way into the crypt.

The mourners watched as a burly man pushed a wheelbarrow with bricks and mortar up to the crypt and began to seal the coffin inside. When he had walled up the hole he spread a layer of mortar evenly across the bricks creating a smooth surface.

Obadiah stepped up holding a sharpened chicken bone and etched a farewell into the wet cement. It was a quote from the tombstone of Marie Laveau.

On the eve of St. John

I must wander alone,

In thy bower, I may not be!

Obadiah tossed the chicken bone at the rooster and announced there would be food and libation back at his house, a little reception in remembrance of Mama Wati. “I can vouch for the liquor and I want to thank everybody who brought covered dishes over to my house this morning. I can't cook any better than Bella could.” Obadiah stepped around the crowd and led the group out of the cemetery, his head bowed low toward the ground. As the previously somber parade marched out of the graveyard they struck up; ‘When the Saints Go Marching In' again, but this time with a more uplifting beat and the mood lightened immediately. Heads lifted, steps quickened and smiles began to muscle out frowns.