That Old Black Magic (17 page)

Chapter 67

A
fter the funeral Cecil went straight to his place. He put his clarinet case down on the floor, peeled off his sweat-drenched shirt, and went to the kitchen and took a cold Fanta from the refrigerator. Hot and tired, he quickly gulped down the orange soda and then angrily crushed the can.

When he saw Ellinore Duchamps in front of the church, it was all he could do to keep himself from putting down his clarinet and spitting in her face. The way she had treated Nettie, after all those years of loyal service, was just not right! As Cecil thought about his sister's tearful account of Ellinore's callous dismissal, the resentment rose in his chest.

What had Nettie really done wrong? She hadn't hurt anyone or stolen anything. She had merely practiced her religion, just as Ellinore practiced hers. Even if Ellinore didn't believe in voodoo, she should have respected Nettie's right to her own beliefs.

Ellinore was wicked. But Cecil's experience told him that eventually people paid for their sins. He had to believe that. Otherwise he would drive himself crazy with thoughts about the unfairness and inequities in life.

He lay down on the old couch and closed his eyes. Cecil thought more about the funeral. He wondered if Muffuletta Mike was pleased, wherever he was. He could be in a heavenlike place or he could be doomed to live on earth as a bodiless spirit. To Cecil it wasn't clear what fate awaited Mike.

In his mind Cecil went over the experiences he'd had with Mike. Mike had made sandwiches for Cecil, but he made them grudgingly. Cecil knew that Mike couldn't wait to get him out of the shop whenever he came in.

Cecil didn't like the way Mike treated his son either. Many times Cecil had heard Mike berating Tommy, who clearly hated working in the shop and, according to his father, had no real aptitude for it. Cecil felt sorry for the kid. When Tommy had asked Cecil to put together the jazz funeral, Cecil had done it for the boy, not for his father.

But when word got to Cecil that Mike had complained to the cops about him, wanting him to move and play somewhere else, Cecil's opinion about Mike was sealed. How Mike wanted to act in his own place was one thing. Trying to restrain Cecil from playing on the corner across the street from the sandwich shop was quite another. Cecil had owned that spot for years. It belonged to him, tied not with a formal lease but with tradition. His father had staked out that corner. Cecil could still feel his father's spirit there. Cecil knew it was where he belonged.

Muffuletta Mike didn't think so.

In the end, Cecil knew, people got what they deserved.

And now Bertrand Olivier was dead, too.

Cecil got up from the couch. He wished he had never agreed to go on Aaron Kane's radio show tonight. He wasn't only concerned about what he was going to say and if he'd be able to do his religion justice with his words. He was also worried that now, with two murders on Royal Street, his talking about voodoo could implicate him with the police. They were surely looking for someone to pin the bloody crimes on, and he might seem like a good candidate.

Chapter 68

M
arguerite insisted on accompanying Piper upstairs.

“Are you sure you won't see a doctor, Piper?” she asked as they entered the apartment.

Piper shook her head. “No, really, I'm fine. I just want to lie down for a little while.”

Marguerite looked skeptical, but she acquiesced. “All right, but there's no way you're coming with me to talk to the police,” she declared. “I'll tell them what happened at the cemetery. They can interview you another time.”

Piper didn't protest. She felt washed out, and her eyes burned. Marguerite and she both had seen the same horrible things last night. She doubted she'd have anything to add to what Marguerite would describe. Though Piper was more than willing to talk to the police, it didn't have to be right now. Better later, when she was feeling stronger and more alert.

But she did want to talk to Marguerite about something else. Sabrina and Leo's wedding celebration on the
Natchez
was only two days away, with the reception at the restaurant on the following day. If Piper was to make the cakes, she had to be able to use the kitchen and ovens downstairs in the bakery. Would the police still have the area closed off as a crime scene?

“You know, you're right,” said Marguerite. “I hadn't even thought about the wedding. I'm determined that the business Bertrand and I built will go on, but I just assumed the bakery would be closed until after his funeral. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Marguerite,” said Piper, distressed. “I'm so sorry. Really I am. I hate bringing up such a trivial matter at a time like this.”

“I know you're sorry, Piper.” Marguerite straightened her posture and wiped away the dampness at her eyes. “But of course. Bertrand would want us to fulfill his commitment to Sabrina and Leo. I'll talk to the police about it. I don't see why they can't make sure to go through at least the kitchen today for any evidence. They'd probably want to do that as soon as possible anyway. If they want us to keep the rest of the place closed for a while, I couldn't care less.”

W
hen Marguerite left for the police station, Piper went to the bedroom and lay down. She breathed deeply, in and out, trying to soothe herself, attempting to practice the meditation techniques she'd learned in her yoga classes. Breathe in through the nose. Exhale long and deeply through the mouth, releasing toxicity and tension. She imagined herself looking out at the calm, clear waters of the Gulf of Mexico, feeling a cool breeze blowing soothingly. Piper started to drift off to sleep.

Her nap was interrupted by her ringing cell phone. She answered immediately when she saw the name on the screen.

“Oh, Jack. I've been wanting to talk to you,” she said with relief. “I tried you last night. Where were you?”

“Out with some of the guys,” he said. “The bar was noisy, and I didn't hear my phone. I called you back on my way home in the cab, but you didn't answer. I had to testify in court this morning about one of my cases. This is the first minute I've had to call you again.”

She pictured him getting up early, showering, shaving, and dressing, all the while going over his testimony in his mind. He probably didn't have the television on. He wouldn't have heard the news.

“It doesn't matter,” answered Piper. “I'm just so glad to hear your voice.”

“What's wrong, Pipe?”

“Why do you always assume something is wrong?”

“Don't answer my question with another question, okay? Something's wrong, Pipe. What is it?”

She told him. About finding Bertrand murdered, about the flour and the snake in the dumbwaiter, the flower nail and the CPR, about the jazz funeral and the fainting episode in the cemetery.

“I'm hanging up now and making you a plane reservation to come home on the next available flight,” Jack said when she was finished. “I'll call you right back.”

“No, Jack. I can't come home yet. I can't abandon Marguerite or leave the couple getting married in the lurch. It's Tuesday. I'll come home Friday night as soon as I finish the cake for their wedding reception. I promise.”

“I don't think you get it, Piper. That first murder was committed down the street. The victim was somebody you didn't know. Voodoo, hoodoo, whatever is going on down there, Bertrand's murder puts you right in the middle of it now. That's a good enough reason to get yourself out of there and fast. And while we're at it, have you ever fainted before in your entire life?”

“No,” Piper said softly. “But even my father understands why I can't come home yet. Why can't you?”

“I get why you think you should stay, Piper, but I think you should see a doctor, a shrink or something. You've been through a lot—that nightmare last month in Florida—it's taking its toll, physically and mentally. The world will go on if you don't make a wedding cake. I'd come down there right now and bring you back myself if I didn't have to be in court to testify again this afternoon.”

“Don't talk to me like I'm a child, Jack.”

“Well, then don't act like one, Piper. I just don't think you understand how serious this is.”

Chapter 69

T
he Gris-Gris Bar was nearly empty. For once Wuzzy was glad that business was slow. Between Bertrand's murder the night before and Muffuletta Mike's funeral that morning, he wished he could have taken the rest of the day off to spend with Connor. All that death had left him drained and reminded him of how short life could be. But somebody had to tend bar for the rest of the afternoon. Plus, the place was trashed from the fund-raiser.

As he swept the scuffed wooden floor, Wuzzy glanced up at the ceiling and the old leather pouches that hung from it. When he'd bought the place, the last owner had explained that the gris-gris bags were recipes for magic, good and bad. For white magic the gris-gris bags and their ingredients should be hung above a door or on a wall or from a ceiling. For black magic the bags could be left on a doorstep as a warning.

Wuzzy had stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the time. He wanted the sale to go through and didn't want to offend the owner, who clearly thought there was something to the gris-gris idea. Wuzzy wondered if the poor guy should have taken some of his gris-gris bags with him when he left and hung them in his own house. The former bar owner had died in a car accident shortly after Wuzzy took possession of the bar.

With the floor clear, Wuzzy went back behind the counter to take stock of the liquor bottles that were near empty. As he entered into his computer a list of the brands he needed to replace, Falkner came sauntering in. He was smiling broadly.

“I counted it all up, Wuz,” he said excitedly as he took a seat on a high stool. “We raised enough to buy that electric wheelchair. Between the booze and that raffle, we really cleaned up, man.”

“That's great, Falkner. Just great.” Wuzzy shook his head in wonder. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate all you did, what everybody did, for Connor and for me.”

Wuzzy's words were sincere. He was truly grateful. Having the payment for Connor's motorized chair was a big relief and a great gift. But at the same time, Wuzzy was already worried about where the money was going to come from for all the future expenses that would inevitably mount over the lifetime of his handicapped child.

If only he could expand the bar.

Chapter 70

P
iper hated that her conversation with Jack had ended so poorly. She knew in her heart that he reacted so strongly just because he cared about her and was concerned about her safety. She wished she hadn't gotten angry with him.

But it bothered her that Jack didn't trust her to be able to handle the situation she was in. She was a grown woman and could take care of herself. While she appreciated Jack's concern, he had to respect that she was going to do what she thought was right.

He had made one salient point, though. She was definitely going to make a doctor's appointment when she got home. Deep down Piper knew that she probably hadn't fainted from the heat in the cemetery. It had been warm there, and the sun had been beating down strongly, but she'd been in much hotter weather than that many times before. Rather it had been thinking about Muffuletta Mike being shoved into the darkness of his crypt and then remembering the panicked, claustrophobic feeling in the fake tomb for the movie, which harked back to the paralysis in the hotel room in Florida, that had sent her mind reeling. It was as though her system couldn't take the overload of fear that coursed through it at the memories.

She still recollected it so clearly. The day for her cousin's wedding had been glorious. Piper had been so happy. At least her cousin's wedding day was perfect. The days leading up to it had been marred by tragedy—and the murder of a bridesmaid.

The bride and groom had spoken their vows beneath the shining sun on a soft white beach. The ceremony was followed by a wedding brunch.

Piper had been famished and quickly ate the bowl of gazpacho that had been set out as a first course. She'd thought the cold soup tasted odd. She'd never had gazpacho with fish in it before.

Soon after, her head started to ache, but she thought the sun's blinding glare was to blame. When she went to her hotel room to get sunglasses, she'd lain down to rest. She'd used the time to post a picture of the newlyweds on Facebook and then scrolled through her page. A response to a picture she'd posted a few days earlier had helped her put the pieces together. She knew who the killer was.

But as she'd tried to rise from the bed and go for help, Piper felt the room spin around her and she crumpled to the floor. Her body was paralyzed!

Even more terrifying, she couldn't catch her breath. She managed only short, shallow gulps, never feeling that the oxygen was actually getting to her lungs. She was suffocating! Piper had been sure she was going to die.

She hadn't died, though. Jack had saved her, giving her mouth-to-mouth and confirming for doctors that she'd remarked that the gazpacho had tasted fishy. It turned out that the killer had laced her soup with toxic puffer fish.

The life-support measures that kept her alive in the hospital had been followed by days of recuperation. She still wasn't quite a hundred percent physically.

But her body wasn't the problem now. Piper realized that her mental and emotional well-being was far more battered.

When she returned north, she would find someone to talk to about all of it. But first she had to get through the next few days. Tomorrow she had to bake the layers for the wedding cake for Sabrina and Leo's
Natchez
wedding cruise. Thursday she would decorate it and make the smaller cake for Friday's nuptial dinner. Friday morning she would decorate that smaller cake, and then she could fly home.

It was important that she rest and get a good night's sleep so she could hit the ground running in the morning. Piper decided to order in some dinner, watch television, and then turn in.