That Old Black Magic (18 page)
Read That Old Black Magic Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
J
ack finished his testimony in federal court, relieved to be through for the day. The defense attorney had hammered him, determined to find holes in Jack's account of the defendant's alleged criminal actions. Jack was glad he'd stayed cool on the stand. It hadn't been easy.
The facts were straightforward as far as Jack was concerned. Agents of the FBI's Joint Terrorism Task Force had conducted their investigation over months and months, trailing a foreign national with connections to al-Qaeda who had come to the United States for the purpose of conducting a terrorist attack on U.S. soil. Seeking out al-Qaeda contacts in the United States and attempting to recruit other individuals to form a terrorist cell, he screwed himself when one of his recruits turned out to be an FBI source.
Long story short: An FBI undercover agent supplied the terrorist with a thousand pounds of purported explosives. Agents kept him under surveillance as he stored the material, purchased components for the bomb's detonators, and assembled what he believed to be a massively destructive explosive device. The Federal Bureau of Investigation was ready and waiting when the guy tried to detonate his useless bomb in Rockefeller Center. The terrorist now faced charges of attempting to use a weapon of mass destruction and attempting to provide material support to al-Qaeda.
Slam dunk.
Or it should be.
Jack believed that everyone should get a fair trial and was innocent until proven guilty. That was the American way. But thousands and thousands of dollars and man-hours were being spent. The bill to the taxpayers was mounting. As far as Jack was concerned, the terrorist was getting far better treatment than he deserved from the country he had committed himself to destroying.
Loosening his tie the minute he exited the courtroom, Jack wished he could go straight to his apartment, kick off his shoes, and pour himself a beer. But he had to go back to the office. His colleagues would want an update.
As he walked through Cadman Plaza on his way to the subway that would take him from Brooklyn back to Manhattan, Jack had another task he wanted to accomplish. He was going to call the Bureau's field office in New Orleans. He needed to find out what was really going on down there.
The top investigative priority of the FBI was protecting the nation from terrorist attack. Jack was determined to play his part in keeping America safe. That was how he chose to spend his professional life. But his heart was in New Orleans right now.
He regretted that he had come down so hard on Piper during their phone conversation, but he wasn't about to apologize for his plea to her. He loved Piper, and he wanted her to be safe. Making a couple of wedding cakes wasn't worth risking her life.
Why couldn't she see that?
A
aron adjusted his headphones and pulled the microphone on his desk a little closer as he waited for the signal from the engineer to begin speaking.
“Good evening. I'm Aaron Kane, and tonight we have Cecil Gregson with us. Cecil is a jazz musician and a voodoo practitioner, and he has agreed to answer your questions about voodoo and the hoodoo murderer loose on Royal Street.”
“I've never fully understood what voodoo is, Cecil,” said Aaron. “What is it that you actually believe?”
Aaron looked at Cecil encouragingly and nodded to him.
Cecil cleared his throat. “Sure, I'll take a shot at explaining it to you,” he said in a soft, smooth voice. “Our beliefs are the same as the Ten Commandments. In the voodoo religion, there is only one God. We believe in Christ and the many loa who are also the descendants of the one God and can carry prayers to him. Each loa has its own work that it does for the people. The answer to every problem that exists is with the loa under God.”
“Thank you, Cecil,” said Aaron, smiling at him. “I understand that the loa are equated with Catholic saints. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. Voodoo is rooted in Africa, and it was brought to the New World by African men and women who were enslaved. The Catholic saints are used to represent the loa because slave masters forbade their slaves from pursuing voodoo as a religion. Any slave caught practicing any religion other than Catholicism was punished, big time. So the slaves would pretend to pray to the images of Catholic saints while in their hearts they were praying to their African spirits. We still do that today.”
“So yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. Is St. Patrick associated with a loa?” asked Aaron, knowing exactly where he wanted his question to lead.
“Yes, sir. Damballah, the sky spirit, is associated with St. Patrick, who drove the snakes out of Ireland. Damballah's symbol is the serpent.”
“I see,” said Aaron. “Cecil, you were with me at the Gris-Gris Bar on Royal Street last night when we heard the news of Bertrand Olivier's murder across the street, weren't you?”
“Yes, sir. I was.”
“And we heard an eyewitness to the crime scene describe what she had seen, didn't we?”
“Yes, sir. We did.”
“Why don't you tell us what she said, Cecil, and what you thought when you heard it? Will you?”
Cecil looked at the radio host uncertainly. “I'm not sure about that, Mr. Kane,” he said.
“She described that a mound of white flour with an egg on top was found by the body, along with a snake. Isn't that right?”
“I guess so, yeah,” said Cecil, twisting his hands in front of him on the desk.
“That's right, Cecil,” said Aaron. “Tell us what went through your mind when she mentioned those details.”
Cecil stayed quiet.
“It's all right, Cecil,” Aaron said reassuringly. “It's a free country. You can think and say whatever you want, can't you?”
Taking a deep breath, Cecil answered, “I thought of Damballah. White is his color, flour and an egg are his offerings, and his symbol is the snake.”
The lights started popping on the telephone lines in the radio studio, full of callers who wanted to chime in on the topic of the Royal Street murders. Aaron's producer screened each one before putting the caller on the air. While Cecil answered their questions as best he could, Aaron sat back for a while and reveled in the success of his plan. The Hoodoo Killer was saving his professional life.
As they neared the end of the show, Aaron took over again. “I want to thank Cecil Gregson for being with us tonight and enlightening us on such a fascinating yet disturbing subject. One last thing before we go, Cecil. Tomorrow is St. Joseph's Day. Can you tell us if there is a voodoo loa associated with St. Joseph?”
Cecil shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Loko, the guardian of the deepest secret, the secret of initiation. No secret is unknown to Loko.”
“And what is Loko's symbol?” asked Aaron.
Looking as if he couldn't wait to escape, Cecil answered, “Loko shows himself as the butterfly.”
P
iper was stretched out watching television when the phone rang. Her parents were calling. She braced herself for a lecture.
“Piper? It's Mom. Guess what Daddy and I just saw? Your dog-food commercial!”
Piper sat up. It had been two months since she shot the commercial in Los Angeles. Finally it was airing.
“Really?” she asked.
“Yes. We were watching
Law & Order,
and up you came.”
Piper thought quickly.
Law & Order
wasn't on NBC Tuesday night.
“What channel did you see it on?” she asked.
She heard her mother calling to her father. “What channel is this, Vin?”
Piper could hear him answer back. “Thirty-eight.”
That meant it was a rerun on cable, not network prime time, Piper thought with disappointment. Network prime time meant heftier residual checks. Oh, well, it could air again and again, hopefully on the traditional networks, too. The more the better. Her checking account was desperately in need of an infusion.
“Great, Mom. I'm glad you guys saw it,” said Piper. “But why are you up? You're usually in bed by nine.”
“Daddy told me about what happened to you down there, and I couldn't fall asleep. It's so terrifying. But I didn't call you before because I didn't want to add to the fear. That wouldn't help anybody. Daddy told me why you think you have to stay.”
Piper could picture it. Her mother lying in bed, eyes opened, worrying about her daughter. She'd gotten up and gone downstairs for reassurance and comfort, joining her night-owl husband, who was watching his favorite show. As a former cop, he loved to watch
Law & Order,
reruns or not, and point out any inaccuracies he found.
“I
do
have to stay, Mom,” said Piper. “But I've already booked a flight to come home Friday night. Don't worry about me,
please.
”
T
he local news came on at ten. The top story was about the murders on Royal Street. It recapped Muffuletta Mike's and Bertrand's murders and featured an interview with the New Orleans mayor.
“Our police department is using all its considerable resources to investigate. The French Quarter is a treasured part of our city, for our residents and for the millions of visitors who come here each year. Tourism pumps billions of dollars into our economy. We can't afford to have people being afraid to walk the streets of the Big Easy.”
Turning off the television, Piper went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she thought about her parents and how lucky she was to have them. They drove her crazy sometimes, but she never doubted for a minute that they had anything but her best interests at heart.
She looked forward to getting back to New Jersey, to them . . . and to Jack. He hadn't called since their tiff on the phone, but she hadn't called him either. They were just going to have to agree to disagree.
Taking two Tylenol PM tablets, Piper turned off the light. Sleep did not come quickly. She tossed and turned, growing increasingly frustrated. She
had
to get a good night's rest. She had lots to do downstairs in the bakery in the morning. Marguerite had called to say that the police had cleared the kitchen for her use.
Thinking that some music might help her drift off, Piper turned on the radio that sat on the bedside table. She twisted the dial, trying to find a station to her liking. When she heard the words “hoodoo murderer on Royal Street,” she stopped.
At first she found the discussion on Aaron Kane's show interesting, learning things she didn't know about voodoo, its history and belief system. But when Aaron began describing the eyewitness at the Gris-Gris Bar who had been at the murder scene, Piper felt her face grow hot.
He was talking about
her
!
How stupid she'd been! What could she have been thinking? Maybe the details she had blabbed for anyone standing around the bar to hear were bits of information the cops didn't want the public to know. She knew that the police often withheld the details of a case.
The last thing she wanted was to do damage to the police investigation!
T
he butterflies arrived today, just as the company had promised they would. Five dozen painted ladies, a bit smaller than the monarchs but less expensive and just as showy. According to the company Web site, painted ladies would linger around the release area for hours.
Not that they were going to be released outside. All the lights would have to be turned on in the shop. The fluttering creatures didn't fly in the dark.
The directions were easy to follow. Cut open the cardboard delivery box and remove the Styrofoam lid. Take out the ice pack in the shipping container and replace it with a Ziploc bag full of ice cubes. Then put the Styrofoam lid back on the cooler, leaving a small ventilation gap to provide the butterflies with fresh air until the time of release. Keeping them cool would ensure that they slept.
Who knew butterflies were cold-blooded insects and at cool temperatures entered a natural state of hibernation?
That was all there was to it. Until tomorrow.
P
iper walked around the corner to the alley behind Boulangerie Bertrand. She entered through the rear door, unsure if the police had finished their search for clues in the rest of the bakery.
At first she was puzzled by the dark smudges all over the bakery kitchen. On the white walls, on the gleaming stainless-steel ovens, on the light wood of the worktable. Then she realized what they were. The patches of fine, black powder were the residue left by the police when they dusted for fingerprints.
She wondered what they had found. Surely the place was covered with Bertrand's and Marguerite's prints. She hoped the investigators would find others. Then it occurred to Piper that her own fingerprints must be all over the place, too.
They couldn't possibly look at her as a suspect, could they?
Between that thought and the knowledge that she had indiscreetly chatted about aspects of the case that had now been broadcast on the radio all over New Orleans, Piper's heart raced. Of course she was going to be a person of interest to the police. Once they went to Aaron and questioned him about the woman he'd described on his show as revealing details of the crime scene, he was sure to identify her.
Piper tried to stay focused on the task at hand. She turned her attention to scrubbing the worktable clean.
After turning on the oven and setting it at 350 degrees, Piper assembled the ingredients for the red velvet cake. Cocoa powder, cake flour, sugar, salt, canola oil, eggs, red gel-paste food coloring, vanilla extract, buttermilk, baking soda, and white vinegar.
As she whisked together the flour, salt, and cocoa powder, Piper was amazed that she was actually making a cake as if nothing had happened, when less than forty-eight hours ago a human being had been killed here. It was frightening and eerie. She tried to keep her mind on the task before her.
In a larger bowl, she mixed the sugar and oil on medium speed with the industrial-size electric mixer. She added eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Food coloring and vanilla followed.
She measured out the flour and poured it into the bowl in three batches, alternating with buttermilk. The last step was combining the baking soda and vinegar and adding it to the batter.
By the time she was finished, Piper had decided. She was going to the police before they came to her.