Magic and Macaroons (13 page)

He was over six feet tall and African-American, and after the surprise passed, he continued toward us, moving slowly and deliberately, as if with age. His face said he wasn’t yet fifty, despite his halting step. His thin frame accented his height, and even in August he wore a Windbreaker over a white button-down shirt and blue jeans. He slipped the small paper bag he carried into the pocket.

He stopped, looking between us.

I smiled. “We’re looking for Marie LaFevre. Is this the place?”

“Ah. Marie.”

I nodded once. “Yes. We were hoping to talk to her.”

He eyed me with suspicion. “First time here?”

“Yes,” Cookie said. “We have not met the mambo.”

He snorted. “Best not let her hear you call her that. That mambo talk don’t sit well with her. Don’t know why, though. She sure knows her stuff.” He fingered the packet in his pocket, and I wondered what it contained. A gris gris, perhaps?

This really might be the woman who can tell us what Dawn Taite was talking about.
The thought gave me a little shiver, and hope flickered again as I thought of Franklin’s niece lying in her hospital bed in the ICU.

He turned toward an older Chevy parked nearby. “Good luck, ladies.”

Cookie and I exchanged glances as he slowly moved away, muttering, “’Cuz you’re gonna need it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, but her lips pressed together as she stalked toward the barred door. Despite her hurry, I had the feeling it was more about getting the encounter over with than making the acquaintance of Marie LaFevre.

A sisal mat sat in front of the door. Cookie thoroughly wiped her feet on it, though there couldn’t have been
more than dust on her shoes. Her hand faltered as she reached for the handle. I stepped up, yanked it open, and stepped inside.

Brightly lit display cases marched down each side of a narrow aisle, and though the recessed lighting overhead was directed on the shelves that lined the walls, the space didn’t feel dark or cramped, like I’d expected. I heard Cookie behind me, and the door swooshed shut on its pneumatic hinge. Slowly, I walked down the aisle, drinking in the items on offer.

Candles of every imaginable color, as well as multihued combinations. Many were simple pillars; others were in the shape of people or animals or things I didn’t recognize. Crystals reflected prisms against white cloth; tiny cloth bags awaited magical contents. Books lined a few shelves, and I wondered if any would be good selections for the spellbook club. Sewn dolls filled a basket. Their eyes didn’t match, and they looked hastily stitched.

“Do you really stick pins in those things?” I whispered. We’d used a felted wool poppet in a spell to great effect once. These didn’t look nearly as sweet as that one had.

“Shh,” Cookie hissed.

There were tarot decks and teas, herbs and roots and oils, packets of glitter and mysterious powders. Spell kits, bath salts and soaps, jewelry, incense, and framed art were also available for purchase. Feathers and sticks; smudge bundles and smudge pots. A display of obviously rubber chickens and snakes made me suppress a smile. One case stopped me cold, the various bones it contained shining white and gray against deep blue velvet. On the lower shelf, small jars of what appeared to be soil or ash stood in tidy rows. I leaned down to examine them and saw the labels:
BONAVENTURE, COLONIAL PARK, LINCOLN, LAUREL GROVE, BELMONT,
and
DRAYTON HILLS
. All
cemeteries, and the last one I knew had been closed to the public for years.

Graveyard dirt.

I looked up to find a woman at the rear of the store, watching me with narrowed eyes. A blue dress draped across her shoulders, brushing the floor and the red-painted toes of her bare feet. A bright blue-and-green head wrap wound above her arched eyebrows and dark, glittering eyes. Her high cheekbones and long neck added to her regal bearing.

Queenlike bearing, if you would.

Multiple bangles clustered along both arms, and rings shone from her strangely long fingers.

“Marie LaFevre?” I asked.

She considered us long and hard. “Perhaps. Who are you?”

“Petitioners,” Cookie said.

The woman stepped back, languidly waving at us to join her at the back of the shop. There we found a sofa and three chairs. “Sit.”

We sat. I looked to my right and saw the human skull sitting on an end table, leering at me with a stained grin. I quickly redirected my attention back to Marie LaFevre.

She lowered herself onto a chair across from us, her movements smooth and unhurried. “You heard of me from another? From a satisfied customer?”

“We’re here at the suggestion of Poppa Jack,” Cookie said. “He said you are the most powerful priestess in the city. That your amulets and gris gris can achieve anything.”

Not exactly.
But perhaps flattery would get us what we needed.

However, the voodoo queen’s expression hardened, and her nostrils flared. “I doubt he said that. Yet here
you are. Poppa Jack is free with information about me, whatever he told you. Too free.”

“Ms. LaFevre,” I broke in.

“What do you want?” Her tone was harsh, with an underlying current like electricity. With a start, I realized she was using her Voice on me! Or at least trying to.

Well, I could play that game, too. “Information,” I said, putting some oomph into the word. “You see, there’s a woman in a coma, and a dead detective and a missing gris gris, and we were hoping you might be able—”

Marie LaFevre stood in one fluid motion. “Leave.”

Cookie scrambled to her feet.

I gaped up at Marie. “What?”

She pointed at the door. “Leave. I will have nothing to do with whatever evil you have brought upon yourselves.”

“The police found a man dead yesterday, and I only want to know if he came to see you when he was alive.”

“No!” she shouted. Fear flashed from her eyes. “I don’t know anything about a dead cop.”

I held up my palms in supplication. “Please. No one thinks you did anything wrong.”

At least not yet.

She shook her head vehemently and raised her hands as if to ward us off.

“Just tell me if you knew a man named Franklin Taite or a woman named Dawn Taite.” I pushed harder with my own Voice, well aware that skill had seriously backfired on me more than once.

“Do not try your magic on me, girl!” Her glare held real fury. I felt myself blanch. She took a breath, obviously struggling for calm. “I do not know this man,” she said, and I felt the truth in her words. “Now you will go, or I will
make
you go.”

Cookie grabbed my arm and started backing toward the door. “Come
on
, Katie.”

I let her pull me out to the parking lot. The priestess paced after us, her long blue dress swirling around each step like a tide. Once we were outside, she slammed the door shut behind us. The sound of the lock turning was loud in the sunny afternoon air.

“Whew!” I saw Cookie was visibly trembling. “Oh, honey, it’s okay.” I put my arm around her shoulders and started walking her toward the car. “She wasn’t going to—”

“You don’t know that, Katie! Marie LaFevre would be a formidable foe. I only hope you didn’t anger her too much,” Cookie said, pulling away. “You felt her ability?”

My steps faltered as I remembered the little sewn dolls. “Of course I did.” My voice was quiet, and I felt a little shaky myself—not to mention disappointed. “Come on. Let’s get back to the bakery. I’ll buy you a zucchini basil muffin.”

She patted her tiny waist. “Perhaps that would be a good idea. A little food might settle my stomach.”

I gave her a smile, not mentioning the protective properties of basil. It might be a good time to recharge the other protective measures Lucy and I had taken at the Honeybee, too—as well as at my carriage house.

*   *   *

As much as I wanted to check out the third name on Poppa Jack’s list, it was getting close to five o’clock and Cookie was obviously still upset about Marie LaFevre, even after downing a muffin and a glass of mango sweet tea. I offered to take her home, as we’d originally planned, but she insisted on calling Oscar to come get her at the Honeybee. In the meantime, she offered to help out with the final prep for the next morning’s baking.

We hardly needed the help, but I took her up on the offer, anyway, to keep her from stewing about our
encounters with the two voodoo queens. Lucy set Iris to cleaning up around the espresso counter while she began running the register tape, and Ben stopped by to chat with Martin. Usually the author was long gone by now, but he looked relaxed and satisfied, and as he put his laptop into its case, he invited Ben to sit down.

Oscar came in, dark eyes lighting with affection as soon as he saw his bride. She beamed a joyful smile that made me happy just to see. No wonder she’d wanted him to pick her up.

She waved to him. “Be right there.”

“No hurry, love.” He settled in at an empty table. Then she leaned close and murmured in my ear. “Please don’t mention what we did today. Oscar thinks we were shopping.”

I sighed. “I hate that you feel you have to keep this from him.”

“It’s better like this.”

“But you’re lying to your husband.”

She gave me a look. “I’m keeping the peace.”

“Okay, fine. It’s your marriage.”

“Thank you.”

“Where are your bags?” I asked.

She looked confused for a moment, but then her face cleared. “Ah. My purchases. We only window-shopped. Better for a newlywed’s budget, you know.”

I laughed.

“I’ll be by tomorrow morning, however, so we can go visit the spiritualist.” Her eyes darted to the left, and I saw Oscar approaching. Iris watched him with wide, appreciative eyes.

“At ten?” she whispered quickly.

I nodded.

“Are you thinking of coming back to work here?” Oscar teased.

Cookie giggled. “No, silly man.” She turned to me. “However, I’ll take two scones for our breakfast.”

“Be my guest,” I said. “And here—take a loaf of bread, too.”

“And some cookies,” Lucy said, bustling toward the office safe with a bank bag in her hand. Martin had left, and Ben was tidying the coffee counter.

Loaded up with tasty baked goods, Cookie and Oscar left. Ben locked the door behind them and returned to his task.

I sidled up beside Iris, who was still staring after Cookie’s handsome husband with wide, dreamy eyes. “He’s gone. You can blink now.”

Startled, she flushed a deep magenta. “Was I obvious?”

“Nah,” I lied. “But he’s some pretty sweet eye candy, I must agree.”

“Mmm,” she sighed.

Laughing, I went back to the office to retrieve Mungo and head for home—and Declan.

On the way, I couldn’t help driving by the address Poppa Jack had given me for Eulora Scanlon.
Just so Cookie and I can find it easily tomorrow morning,
I told myself as I slowed to a crawl, drinking in the small home and wondering about its inhabitant.

I looked down at Mungo, firmly belted into the passenger seat inside my tote bag. “Maybe I should stop—”

He interrupted me with a noise in the back of his throat.

“No?”

A car honked behind me, making me jump. I tromped on the accelerator, and we shot forward. “Yeah, I should wait for Cookie. Besides, it doesn’t look like anyone is home right now.”

Yip!

*   *   *

*When I was halfway home, the old-fashioned jangle of my cell’s ringtone sounded from the outside pocket of my bag. Mungo made a disgruntled sound and shifted in the seat.

“Sorry, buddy,” I said, retrieving the vibrating phone. I generally ignored calls when I was driving, but when I saw who it was my curiosity won out.

“Hello?”

“Katie!” Steve said. “I’m glad I caught you. Not interrupting anything, am I?”

Translation:
Are you with Declan?

“I’m just driving home from the Honeybee.”

“Long day?”

“They all are. You know I’m there by five most mornings.”

“Right.” His cheerfulness sounded a tiny bit forced.

I waited.

Not for long. “So, this whole thing about Detective Taite and his niece? It’s crazy that he showed up dead, and the whole voodoo thing is, well, worrisome, to say the least. Just because Sam is in my life doesn’t mean . . . well. I want you to know you can count on me to help any way I can.”

Relief flickered through me. Steve had been on my side since I’d moved to Savannah. I’d wondered if his having a new girlfriend meant that would have to change.

“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t suppose you know anyone in the voodoo community.”

“Not really. Sorry.”

I thought about asking if his father might know someone who could help find the missing gris gris, but discarded the idea. Best to avoid owing a debt to Heinrich Dawes if at all possible.

Steve spoke again. “Okay, listen. I also called because
I was worried about you meeting Sam in the Honeybee like that.”

Then why did you set it up like that?

“Worried? Why?”

He exhaled. “Oh, good. I thought maybe it was awkward.”

Um, yeah. A little.

“You like her, then?” His tone was casual, but I had the feeling he really wanted my approval.

“Gosh,” I said carefully. “I only talked to her for a second, but she seems nice enough.”
If you’re into chicks who read books about how to get what they want and refer to muffins as yummies.
“But the important thing is that
you
like her. Which you obviously do.”

Mungo’s dark eyes studied me as he listened.

“Oh, I do.” Relief threaded his voice. “I really do, Katie. She’s wonderful. Smart, and you saw how pretty she is. Funny, too. She’s even charmed Father.”

I felt my eyebrows climb my forehead. “Heinrich? Wow. Impressive.” Steve’s dad and I had eventually reached a state of mutual respect, but I would never say I’d charmed him. I was pretty sure he didn’t even like me all that much.

“I know, right? I met her at the club a few weeks ago—she moved here from Hilton Head, the only child of a dot-com success story—and she’s right at home with Father’s muckety-muck friends, whether they’re discussing stocks or golf or literature. Samantha can talk to anyone about anything!”