Private Investigations

Chapter Three

Christy had always believed she knew the city and its environs so well that she could qualify as a New Orleans cab driver. That was before Dallas McFarland took her into a neighborhood so alien to her she would have sworn they were no longer in New Orleans, maybe not even Louisiana.

The houses, packed shoulder to shoulder along the tangle of narrow streets, looked like something Charles Addams might have executed in one of his more sinister cartoons. And their occupants, eyeing the cream-colored convertible as it passed, wore expressions that were even less cheerful.

“You sure we’re not lost?” Christy demanded.

“Relax,” Dallas assured her, negotiating the maze with perfect confidence.

“Well, I think we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost.”

“Then why won’t you tell me where you’re taking me?”

“Don’t have to. We’re there.”

He pulled over to the curb, parking in front of a structure that seemed to be listing dangerously. Vines smothered its walls, climbing onto the mossy roof.

“It doesn’t look safe,” Christy decided. “Who lives here?”

“It isn’t a house, it’s a store,” he said, sliding out from behind the wheel. “And stop being so nervous. You’re a P.I., remember?”

“I’m not nervous. I’m just cautious, that’s all.” She exited the car from the passenger side and followed him up onto the porch. “What kind of store?”

“The kind that sells voodoo supplies.”

Which shouldn’t have surprised her. This was New Orleans, after all, and they were after answers. But Christy was still a bit uneasy as she followed him into the store. With good reason, too, she thought as she gazed around the dim interior.

The place was like a wizard’s cavern. Black candles burned on either end of a counter and shelves ranged along the walls were piled with dust-laden merchandise that didn’t bear thinking about. There was a strong aroma in the air that seemed to be a combination of incense, fried onions and an old graveyard. Definitely on the creepy side.

“Everything but a smoking cauldron,” Christy whispered.

Dallas chuckled. “She could probably produce one for you, providing the price was right.”

“Who?”

“The reigning queen of voodoo in New Orleans. This is her store.”

“Oh.” Christy looked around. They were alone in the shop. “Where is she?”

“Patience.”

“Maybe we should call out a hello, ding a bell or something to let her know she’s got customers.”

“She knows we’re here. Look,” he urged, “why don’t you have a look around while we’re waiting? You know you want to.”

Christy had to admit she was curious. She wandered along the shelves inspecting masks, the skull of a goat, ritual altars, dolls and various powders and charms. “This is fascinating.”

“All for the tourists,” he said, trailing after her. “I suspect the serious stuff is in a private room by invitation only.”

She leaned down, squinting at a label on a sealed jar. “What’s High John the Conqueror’s root?”

“How should I know?”

There were other jars, other labels. Stop Evil Floor Wash, Luck-in-a-Hurry Incense, Come To Me Oil, Mogo Love Drops, and something called Bendover that Christy preferred not to question. The instinct that promised to serve her well as a P.I. kicked in again without warning when she saw a jar marked Black Snake Root. The word black seemed to leap out at her.

“There’s something that’s just occurred to me,” she told Dallas. “What if Laura Hollister’s need for money had nothing to do with her expensive tastes? What if it was for something else?”

Dallas didn’t seem to find it at all odd that she should start discussing a subject that probably had little or no relation to the voodoo supplies she was examining. “You don’t mean voodoo, do you?”

“No, blackmail.” He was thoughtful for a second. “That’s a possibility. Definitely a possibility. We’ll need to look into that, too.”

There was approval in his voice. Christy would have been pleased by it, had she not become suddenly aware of the silence in the store. It was unnerving. “I don’t know about you, but I get the feeling there are eyes on me.”

“We are being watched,” he said calmly. “She just wants to be sure you’re okay.”

Christy refrained from shuddering as she peered at another label. “What on earth would you do with alligator teeth?”

“Bite your enemy?”

“Anyway,” she went on, “maybe Glenn will turn up a connection. I asked him to go through all of Laura’s personal effects as soon as possible and let us know what he finds.”

“Good thinking.”

This was twice within the same moment that he had complimented her. Did he mean it? Christy glanced at him, fearing he might be laughing at her again behind those compelling green eyes. No, she could see his praise was genuine, leaving her with a warm glow—a reaction that was definitely disturbing.

The situation threatened to turn awkward. Christy was saved from that by a sudden rattle of the beaded curtain hanging from the doorway behind the counter. She turned to see a stately African-American woman emerge from the back regions of the store, a smile of welcome on her handsome face.

The voodoo queen would have made Brenda Bornowski green with envy. She was a riot of color in a scarlet turban, a boldly printed caftan and heavy rings that covered the long fingers of both hands. Christy was impressed.

The voice that issued a delighted, “Sugar!” as she swept toward them was strong and deep. “What a wicked coquin you are to neglect us all these weeks! But I forgive you.”

She expressed that forgiveness by wrapping Dallas in a lusty embrace. Christy groaned. Not another one! Wasn’t there any female in this town immune to this brash devil?

Pecking Dallas on both cheeks, the voodoo queen released him with a quick apology. “I’m sorry you had to wait. I was in the back with a client.”

Casting a spell? Christy wondered as the woman turned to her, luminous dark eyes registering her curiosity.

“Who have you brought with you?”

“This is Christy Hawke,” Dallas explained. “We’re working together on a case. Christy, I have the honor, the very great honor, of introducing you to Camille Leveau, a direct descendant of the famous Marie Leveau.”

No one lived in New Orleans for any length of time without knowing that Marie Leveau had been a celebrated nineteenth century voodoo queen. Christy was no exception. She also knew that Camille Leveau wasn’t the first voodoo practitioner to claim descent from Marie. There were even those who had boasted they were the reincarnation of the voodoo queen. How authentic was Camille’s own assertion was anyone’s guess. And as the glint in Dallas’s eyes when they met Christy’s gaze told her, what did it really matter?

All dignity now, Camille extended her hand. Christy took it, murmuring her pleasure as the beaded curtain parted again and Dallas swiftly rounded the counter to pump the hand of the new arrival, an elderly man with skin like seamed mahogany, who moved with the aid of a cane.

“Chester! I haven’t seen you since that night at Preservation Hall,” he said, referring to the French Quarter’s famed jazz center, “when you had all of us cheering.”

“Oh, I can still blow a mean horn all right, when my daughter here lets me.”

Christy gazed at Dallas as he and Chester exchanged pleasant memories. She realized that these people were comfortable with him, obviously fond of him. It was understandable because this was an unexpected Dallas McFarland, one she hadn’t discovered until now. Gone were the arrogance and the cynicism. In their place were gentleness and kindness as he listened patiently to the old man. Christy found herself liking what she was seeing, and that worried her.

There must have been a softness in her expression that the voodoo queen observed and mistook for longing, because as the two men went on reminiscing, Camille drew her aside.

“You want him, huh?” she whispered. “And why not? He is one exciting man, that one. Those shoulders alone are—”

“Hey, hold on! You’ve got it all wrong!”

Ignoring Christy’s objection, the voodoo queen went on earnestly. “I can make it possible, chérie. I can give you a potion that will not only put him in your bed, it will have him performing with great power.”

“No, really I, uh—”

“And if the strength of the potion is right,” she promised, “he will be your love slave for as long as you desire.”

“No,” Christy choked. “See, this is strictly a business arrangement with McFarland and me, nothing else, and, um…well, anyway, thank you, but, no. Definitely no.”

Camille lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.

Dallas couldn’t possibly have overheard them, but Christy could swear he knew exactly what they’d been talking about. One of those expressive eyebrows lifted suggestively as he cast a look in her direction that, if not exactly lewd, was positively hot with meaning. She could feel her face flaming. The worst of it was, when their eyes met she experienced something that was more than just embarrassment. She didn’t care to define it.

Christy was relieved when Chester excused himself and they were able to address the matter that had brought them there.

“We need information, Camille,” Dallas appealed. “Whatever you can tell us.”

He went on to explain Laura Hollister’s death, how they had been hired to clear her husband of her murder and the possible voodoo connection with the case. Camille listened without comment, her face betraying no emotion. She was silent when Dallas finished.

“Anything?” he implored.

The voodoo queen slid her gaze in Christy’s direction, commanding softly, “This small bunch of dried plant material he says you saw in the attic out there at Resurrection where she died—describe it, please.”

Christy did to the best of her ability.

Camille nodded wisely. “A gris-gris.”

“What is a gris-gris?”

“A charm. Sometimes they are meant to keep away evil, sometimes they are meant to cause evil. Without seeing or touching this one, I can’t know which.”

“What else can you tell us?” Dallas urged.

“Nothing.”

“There must be something.”

“Only this. There is good voodoo and there is bad voodoo. Me, I practice the good. I am a conjure doctor. People come to me to have curses removed that were laid on them or to buy my cures for bad habits. I help people, I don’t hurt them. You understand this?” She seemed anxious for them to believe that she performed only beneficial services.

“We understand,” Dallas said smoothly. “Now tell us about the other voodoo, Camille. The kind that’s evil. It’s here in New Orleans, isn’t it?”

“I tell you, I know nothing about it.”

She’s lying, Christy thought. She does know something, but she’s afraid to talk about it. That was apparent in the way Camille held herself rigidly and in the way her mouth had tightened so stubbornly. Now why would a voodoo queen, with all her power, fear another form of voodoo?

Christy tried herself to reach the woman. “Would you tell us this then?” she probed gently. “Did Laura Hollister ever come to you?”

“Why should she?”

“Maybe just to buy supplies. Or maybe she needed your help. Maybe she was involved in something she was desperate to get out of.”

Camille shook her head. “Your Laura Hollister was never a visitor to my store.”

“But you do know something, don’t you, Camille?” Dallas persisted. “There isn’t much that goes on in this city that you don’t know about. Come on, why won’t you tell us?”

Camille turned her head, staring at him for a long, indecisive moment. Then, her voice solemn and low, she reluctantly admitted, “I hear things, yes. Things about a dark voodoo that I despise. A destructive voodoo. But it is dangerous to talk about these people and their activities. This I won’t do. I know little enough anyway.”

“Isn’t there anything useful you can give us?”

She considered his request. “If you want to know more, you must go to the old St. Louis cemetery. Use your eyes and if you look hard enough, you may see for yourself.”

“But which St. Louis cemetery?” Christy pressed her. “There are three of them, aren’t there?”

“It doesn’t matter which. Just be careful. The old cemeteries are no longer safe.” She held up her hand as Dallas started to object. “No, sugar, I have nothing more to say, not even for you.”

The voodoo queen conducted them to the front door. When Dallas tried to pay her for her service, she refused. “I don’t want to be paid for something I want no part of. But, wait.”

Leaving Dallas at the door, she drew Christy back into the store. Reaching under the counter, she produced a small, simple red cloth doll and placed it in Christy’s hand. “A gift,” she murmured. “No charge.”

Christy glanced at the tiny figure in her hand, not sure that she cared to be the recipient of what was, plainly, a voodoo doll. Her apprehension must have been evident, because Camille laughed softly.

“There is nothing to fear in a red doll, chérie. Red is for love.” Her gaze slid briefly, but meaningfully, in Dallas’s direction. “Believe in it, and it may bring you all that you desire.”

Christy didn’t know how to refuse the voodoo queen without offending her. Murmuring a quick thanks, she stuffed the doll into her shoulder bag.

When they got outside, Dallas wanted to know, “What was that all about? What did she give you?”

“Oh, just a little charm meant to bring me luck.”

“Uh-huh.”

He didn’t believe her, of course. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. Damn the voodoo queen for thinking she had a thing for Dallas McFarland!

“YOU KNOW,” he said as he guided the convertible through the traffic, heading them back toward the center of the city, “I caught a glimpse of it before you tucked it out of sight in that duffel bag you call a purse. Innocent little charm, my fanny. It was a voodoo doll. A red one.”

Christy, taking refuge behind sunglasses and baseball cap, slouched down in the seat and didn’t answer him.

“Hell, everybody knows what red voodoo dolls are for. So, grits, who are you planning to use that thing on?”

“Prince Charles.”

His response took her completely by surprise. “Well, you know what I think? I think you’ve got the hots for ol’ Glenn. It’s my guess that after a decent interval you’ll be sticking pins into that poor little mite and chanting over it. Or whatever it takes to make syrup out of ol’ Glenn. Why do you want to go and waste your money on junk like that? The guy isn’t worth it.”

Christy should have been relieved that she was safe, thankful that Dallas hadn’t realized it had been the voodoo queen’s intention for her to lure him with the doll. But she was much too annoyed for that. “In the first place, I didn’t buy the doll. Camille insisted I take the silly thing as a gift. Anyway, it’s none of your business who I might care for or not care for. And why do you keep picking on Glenn when you’re supposed to be on his side? Furthermore, Camille meant the doll—” Christy caught herself just in time “—as, uh, just a kind of novelty.”

Too late. She couldn’t see Dallas’s eyes behind his dark glasses, but she didn’t have to. The smug little smile on his bold mouth when she stole a quick look at his profile, told her that he had tricked her into revealing what he’d suspected all along. She had practically confirmed for him the voodoo queen’s real purpose for the doll.

“Now see how you’re already benefitting from my experience?” The little smile widened into a maddening grin. “I’ve just demonstrated how a skilled P.I. goes about getting information out of an unwilling subject. Useful lesson, huh?”

Smoldering, Christy tugged at the brim of her Cubs cap. “Exactly what did my father tell you about me when the two of you put your heads together and came up with this little scheme of our working together?”

“That you’ve got a lot of promise. Just needs developing.”

She didn’t care for the way his deep voice stroked the words promise and developing, as though he were suggesting something other than a knowledge of private investigation. “I see. Well, suppose you enlighten me now about what I’m really eager to know.”

“And what instruction would that be?”

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