That Old Black Magic (19 page)

Chapter 76

F
alkner had been barely able to look at his aunt at the funeral. Since she'd informed him about her plans at dinner Sunday night, he'd been sick. He'd gone through the motions of doing what he needed to do for the successful fund-raiser at the Gris-Gris Bar, and he paid his respects to Muffuletta Mike, all the while trying to wrap his mind around the implications.

He wouldn't inherit the grand mansion in the Garden District. Though he had never pictured himself living in the old mausoleum, he knew what the place should bring on the open market. With some good investment advice and a little luck, the proceeds would ensure that he could live comfortably for the rest of his life.

Falkner sat at his desk, trying to work on his dissertation. Today he was tackling “Mary, Mary Quite Contrary.”

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells and cockleshells

And pretty maids all in a row.

It turns out the sweet little rhyme may actually have been written about mass executions. The Mary was believed to refer to “Bloody Mary,” the Catholic queen who did a masterful job of filling graveyards with Protestants. The “garden” in the rhyme referred either to a cemetery or to the fact that Mary had failed to produce an heir: Her garden was bare.

There was more. The “silver bells and cockleshells” were instruments of torture! “Silver bell” was the nickname for a thumbscrew, and cockleshells were believed to be torture devices attached to the genitals. “Pretty maids all in a row” could refer to either stillborn children or a contraption called a maiden, used to behead people.

Nice.

Falkner reminded himself to tell Wuzzy not to read the rhyme to Connor.

Exhaling with disgust, he closed his laptop. He felt doomed. The academic life was the one he had chosen, though he had discovered he wasn't all that well suited for it. He wasn't enjoying the research and found the writing sheer agony. If and when he became a professor, he'd be expected to publish scholarly articles, meaning he'd be in for more of the same.

His plan had been to have a teaching job at one of the city's colleges, not getting paid on a grand scale but having freedom and time off to pursue his other interests, in whatever fashion he desired. The money from Ellinore's estate would have allowed him to do that. But that plan was crumbling now.

He supposed he wasn't too old to change career paths. People far more advanced in years did it all the time. But Falkner didn't want to work that hard.

Lighting a cigarette, he squinted as he blew out the first puff of smoke. The nicotine made his brain work faster, better. He was sure of it, especially as the new thought occurred to him.

Ellinore had said she
was
changing her will, not that she
had
actually changed it. Nothing was final yet. There was still time to get her to reconsider.

Chapter 77

P
iper inserted a cake tester into the middle of each layer. When it came out clean, she took the pans from the oven and put them on wire racks to cool. Then she grabbed her cell phone and called Marguerite.

“I don't want to bother you,” said Piper. “But I just wanted to see how you're doing and if there's anything I can help you with.”

“I'm all right, I guess,” Marguerite answered. “I just got off the phone with the undertaker.”

“Oh. Did you decide when the funeral will be?”

“Bertrand's body will be cremated,” Marguerite said. “His ashes will be sent back to France, where he was born. That's what Bertrand would want. We'll have some sort of memorial service for him here at a later date.”

Piper couldn't help but be a bit relieved. She didn't relish the thought of going to another cemetery anytime soon.

“I just took the red velvet cakes out of the oven for the
Natchez
wedding celebration tomorrow night,” she said, wanting to offer something positive.

“Oh, that's good, Piper. I really appreciate that you did that,” said Marguerite. “I wouldn't want Sabrina and Leo disappointed at what should be such a happy time for them. Life has to go on, doesn't it?” Before Piper could answer, Marguerite went on to ask another question. “How did the place look when you got there?”

“I came in through the back and haven't gone out to the hallway or the selling area,” Piper explained. “I didn't want to.”

“I can certainly understand that,” Marguerite said. “I'm dreading doing that myself. But you can if you want. The police are finished in there, too.”

“Well, I can see they've done a pretty thorough job in the kitchen. There was black powder all over the place where they dusted for fingerprints. I've cleaned up some of it and will get to the rest later when I get back. I'm going over to the police station now and see if they will take my statement. Can you tell me where to go?”

“It's just up the block,” said Marguerite. “It's at 334 Royal Street.”

T
he detective who listened to Piper gave no indication of what he thought. His face remained expressionless as he took notes while she described what she had seen in the bakery hallway.

Her parents had instilled in her the belief that it was always better to tell the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. Piper bit her lower lip as she summoned up the courage to tell the detective about the radio show.

“I'm afraid I've made a big mistake,” she said.

The detective looked directly into her eyes. “Really? How so?”

“That night I went to bed and tried to fall sleep, but I couldn't. I went across the street to the Gris-Gris Bar. I just didn't want to be alone.”

The detective nodded. “Yeah, I'd imagine you might have been pretty scared being up there in that apartment by yourself after witnessing something like that downstairs.”

Encouraged that he understood, Piper continued. “I was. And when I went to the bar, I had a couple drinks.”

The detective waited.

“And talked too much,” she blurted. “I told everyone who was standing around listening exactly what I'd seen. Then, last night, I was listening to
The Aaron Kane Show,
and I heard him talking about everything he'd heard me say. The whole radio audience heard it.”

There. She had said it.

Confession always felt good.

P
iper left the police station hoping that the detective had believed her when she told him that the last thing she would ever want to do was impede a police investigation. She made sure to mention that her father was a retired cop and her boyfriend was an FBI agent.

That never hurt.

She'd summoned up the courage to ask the detective a question before she left. “Do you have any leads in the murders?”

He'd answered the way she should have anticipated. “You know I can't tell you that, but I will tell you that we already knew you were the one that Aaron Kane was talking about on his show last night.”

Chapter 78

P
utting down the tiny paintbrush, Aaron sat back, clasped his hands over his round stomach, and beheld the result of all his hard work. The model of the
Natchez
had turned out wonderfully well. The pilothouse, the smokestacks, the huge American flag, the giant red paddlewheel at the rear, and dozens and dozens of tiny balusters circling the vessel's three floors. Each one of those annoying spindles had to be painted individually.

But now the splendor of the thing was worth all the effort. It was one of the prettiest models he'd ever built. Yet Aaron had decided against displaying it with all his other miniature vessels.

He was still shaken at the memory of the detectives waiting for him when he came out of the radio studio the night before. First they wanted to know who the woman was who had revealed the details of Bertrand Olivier's murder scene. Aaron had hesitated and gone through the motions of protesting that he wasn't going to give up a source. But when the detectives pressed, accusing him of obstructing a homicide investigation and berating him for stirring irrational fear in his listening audience, Aaron gave up Piper Donovan's name.

His respect for the New Orleans police had risen at the speed at which they responded to the information they'd picked up on his show. It demonstrated they could be efficient and sharp when they wanted to be. It also indicated that they were taking the murders on Royal Street very seriously.

The idea of touting the Hoodoo Killer had seemed like such a good idea. The increasing ratings showed that his plan was working. Aaron knew he could still get more mileage from the concept. But he also knew that the homicide detectives weren't fooling around. He had to be careful.

Aaron had planned to keep the model for himself, but now he had another thought. He would give the boat to Sabrina and Leo at their wedding celebration on the
Natchez
tomorrow night. Maybe the gesture of generosity would give him good juju with the spirits and keep his scheme working.

Chapter 79

A
pproaching the bakery, Piper spotted a man with his hands cupped against the front window. She assumed he was only curious, wanting to see what he could of a murder scene. She was surprised when he stated the reason he was there.

“I'm here for the St. Joseph's bread. I buy it every year.”

Piper had entirely forgotten the feast day.

“The bakery is closed for a while,” she said. If the guy hadn't heard about the murder on the news, she didn't feel as though she should be the one to tell him. She didn't want to answer the inevitable questions that would follow. She'd learned her lesson about talking too much.

K
neading a small amount of fondant until it was smooth and pliable, Piper used a light dusting of powdered sugar to keep it from sticking to the worktable. She tinted portions of the fondant in colors that would reflect the bride and groom—red for Sabrina's long hair, black for Leo's. She mixed the tiniest bit of orange to make a peach shade for their skin tones.

Piper took the flesh-colored fondant and divided it into portions for body parts. She made small balls for the heads and long, thicker logs for the torsos. Then she rolled the small arms and legs.

Assembling all the pieces to form the figures, Piper brushed a bit of water at each joint to make things hold together. She took care fashioning a simple A-line wedding dress and a veil along with a white chef's jacket.

Finally she tackled the facial features, using a very fine pastry brush to paint eyes, eyelashes, and mouths on the fondant faces. Satisfied with her whimsical wedding-couple creation, she took a picture with her iPhone and sent it to herself. Then she went into the office, turned on the computer there, entered her e-mail account, and printed out the picture. She was pleased enough with the image that she thought Marguerite might like it included in the bakery scrapbook.

Taking the book from the shelf, Piper flipped through the pages. She taped her picture onto a clean page near the back. Before she closed the scrapbook, she sat at the desk and browsed through it.

Bertrand really had been an artist, Piper thought sadly as she looked at the glorious images. The cakes he had created for special occasions were fabulous. Delicate christening cakes, festive Christmas cakes, sumptuous anniversary cakes, and extravagant wedding cakes, all expertly decorated with a sure hand and an unfailing eye for detail. Piper cringed when she came to the picture of a rainbow-colored, three-dimensional marzipan snake cake that Bertrand had done for a child's birthday party.

Though Marguerite said she wanted to go on with the business, Piper wondered how she would manage without Bertrand. She supposed the designs could be copied by other skilled bakers, but the creativity and flair Bertrand possessed would not be easily duplicated. From what Piper had witnessed so far, Marguerite seemed confident and determined she could carry on. More power to her.

Leaving the cake section of the album, Piper started looking at the theme cookies. She grabbed a pencil and started to take some notes. She really wanted her mother to try these at The Icing on the Cupcake when Piper got home.

The jazz-instrument cookies were great, but she suspected they were far more popular in New Orleans than they would be in New Jersey. The same went for the voodoo dolls. The nursery-rhyme cookies were another story. Piper knew they would be a big hit in the child-driven, suburban world where she lived. She grabbed a pen from the cup on the desk and began sketching some of Bertrand's designs, knowing that she would add her own touches when she made them and, perhaps, create some others.

Jack and Jill, Little Miss Muffet sitting on her tuffet, Humpty Dumpty, the three little kittens who lost their mittens, Old King Cole, the mouse and the clock from “Hickory Dickory Dock,” the three men in the tub.

Piper found herself reciting the rhyme in her mind.

Rub-a-dub-dub,

Three men in a tub,

And who do you think they be?

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,

All put out to sea.

Rub-a-dub-dub. Wub-a-dub. Wub-a-dub. Piper thought of Connor, the bar owner's little boy, happily babbling in his playpen.

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.

As she looked at the little mustachioed man with the baker's cap in the cookie boat, Piper was reminded of Bertrand. When he had created these charming cookie treasures, he could never have imagined what was coming his way.

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.

Piper sat up straighter as she thought of it. Muffuletta Mike would be considered a butcher; working with meat was his profession. Bertrand was certainly a baker. Both of them had been murdered.

But what about the candlestick maker? Could that possibly be a future murder victim?

She tried to dismiss the notion as ridiculous. After all, the murder scenes had dripped with voodoo or hoodoo elements. But what if there was something else afoot? Something more. What if the nursery rhyme was the reason the victims had been chosen? If that was the case, someone else could be in danger.

Piper thought about the brass candlesticks she had won in the tricky-tray raffle. They sat alongside the silver ones that had already been in the apartment when she arrived. Both sets had come from the shop where Sabrina worked. Duchamps Antiques and Illuminations on Royal Street.

Maybe she was all wrong. But maybe she wasn't.

P
iper debated with herself. Should she call Jack and tell him about her theory? She decided against it, knowing that he would only berate her for playing detective and sticking her nose where it didn't belong. She doubted, too, that the police would welcome her involvement.

Still, she didn't feel right about doing nothing.

It wouldn't hurt to warn the candlestick maker herself, would it?

A
fter loosely covering the red velvet cake's layers with clean linen cloths, Piper washed her hands and grabbed her bag. Rather than exit through the back and have to walk all the way around the block to get to Royal Street, she summoned up the courage to walk through the hallway to the front of the bakery. She shivered as she passed the dumbwaiter.

Both the hall and the display area were covered with the black fingerprint-powder smudges.

Marguerite probably should hire a professional to really get the place sparkling again,
thought Piper as she set the alarm and let herself out of the shop.

It was a gorgeous afternoon. The sun shone brightly, and it was a bit cooler than it had been. Piper detected a faint breeze as she watched happy tourists sauntering down the sidewalks.

Crossing the street, Piper approached Duchamps Antiques and Illuminations. The bell above the door tinkled as she entered. She expected the proprietor to greet her. But no one was in the front of the shop.

Walking in farther, Piper stopped at the sound of raised voices coming from the back room. The heated conversation apparently had been loud enough that the speakers hadn't heard the bell.

“It's too late, Falkner!” a woman yelled. “I signed the new will this morning.”

“Well, change it back, Aunt Ellinore. What you're doing isn't fair. The Duchamps money should stay in the family.”

Feeling embarrassed to be eavesdropping on a very personal conversation, Piper turned and left the shop. She could come back later.