Read That Old Black Magic Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
That Old Black Magic (22 page)
T
he undercover cop realized that he'd been made.
Piper Donovan knew that he was watching her. He was pretty sure that she'd spotted him as he stood looking up at her apartment balcony on Royal Street that afternoon. And now she had stared right at him as she drove away.
He cursed the fact that he'd intervened in the altercation between Piper and Falkner Duchamps on the boat that evening. But he had no choice. Duchamps was clearly intimidating Piper. Instinctively he'd felt he had to intervene.
It had all happened so quickly. He'd hoped that Piper had been too focused on Duchamps to pay close attention to the stranger who came to her aid. He'd tried to get away before she had a chance to thank him.
But now the worried expression on Piper's face, the directness of her gaze from the cab window confirmed that she was onto him. Perhaps she didn't realize that she was being tailed by the police. But she almost certainly understood that she was being watched by someone she didn't know. Against the backdrop of the eerie and gory multiple murders on Royal Street, that knowledge had to be deeply unnerving for Piper.
The thought crossed his mind that he should tell her who he was, so she'd realize that he wasn't a physical threat to her. He wasn't some crazy Hoodoo Killer out to make her his next victim. But telling her would defeat the whole point of the surveillance.
Now he pulled the collar of his blazer up against the cold breeze that came off the river. He didn't think that Piper Donovan was a ruthless murderer killing Royal Street merchants in her spare time. She certainly didn't fit any profile he could imagine. But the brass was putting on the heat and insisting that every possible lead be pursued. He had orders to follow. Until his shift was over, that's exactly what he was going to do.
T
he taxi dropped Piper in front of Boulangerie Bertrand. She went in, turned off the alarm, and quickly switched on all the lights. Even then it was creepy being in the bakery at night, walking through the hallway where Bertrand was killed. Piper had considered asking the driver to take her to the back entrance, but going through the small trash-strewn alleyway wasn't a more attractive alternative. She was scared that there would be rats skulking around in the dark.
She hurried past the dumbwaiter and went directly to the small office. As she booted up the computer, she noticed a light blinking on the desk phone. She punched in the code and listened to the message.
“Hello, this is Simon Seaford from Consolidated Cuisine. I'm trying to reach Mrs. Bertrand Olivier. We've been dealing with her husband, Bertrand, and under these tragic circumstances we need to speak with her. The home phone is unlisted, and, understandably, there's been no answer on Bertrand's mobile. Please let Mrs. Olivier know that we are trying to reach her. It's urgent.”
The caller left a phone number.
Piper debated with herself. It was after ten o'clock, and Marguerite could already be asleep. Yet the man had insisted it was an important matter. Picking up the phone again, she consulted the phone list on the wall and called Marguerite at home.
When Marguerite answered sleepily, Piper apologized profusely before passing on the message and the return number.
“How did it go on the
Natchez
tonight? Were Sabrina and Leo satisfied with your cake?” asked Marguerite.
“They seemed to be,” said Piper. “And I noticed that most of the guests cleaned their plates. That's always a positive sign. So many times you go to a wedding reception and people just take a bite or two of the cake and leave the rest.”
“Ah, good,” said Marguerite. “Bertrand would be so pleased. Thank you very much, Piper. I don't know what I'm going to do without you when you go back north.”
“I was happy to do it, Marguerite. Now there's just tomorrow's cake to finish. That's why I'm in the office now. Leo told me tonight he doesn't want cream-cheese icing on the bananas Foster cake. I'm gonna Google around on the Internet for buttercream recipes with a little something extra.”
“It's so late, Piper,” Marguerite said with alarm in her voice. “Don't do that now. You can do it in the morning. You worked hard today. Go upstairs and get some rest.”
I
t was a cold but crystal-clear night in Manhattan. Jack stood at the window of his apartment in Peter Cooper Village. When he positioned himself at precisely the right angle, he could see the top of the Empire State Building glowing white against the midnight blue sky.
He wished Piper were with him.
Both of them were stubborn. Neither had called the other. Jack had vowed to himself that he wasn't going to be the one to give in.
He sighed heavily and walked over to the small bar in the corner of the living room. Pouring some scotch into a glass, he could feel his resolve weakening. He was tired of the game they were playing now, waiting to see who would break down and call. There was little doubt that eventually they would get over their disagreement. What did it matter who made the first move? Was he just being a macho jerk, trying to show her who was boss? Jack didn't like to think about himself that way.
He loved Piper. Pure and simple. He wanted to hear her voice.
Jack put down his glass and picked up the phone. But Piper didn't pick up as it rang and rang, finally going into voice mail. He didn't leave a message.
P
iper wanted to speak with Jack. She checked the office clock. It was getting late. If she was going to call, she shouldn't wait any longer. She wouldn't want to wake him.
She was about to pick up the receiver on the desk phone again when she realized she didn't even have Jack's number committed to memory. She was so dependent now on her iPhone that she made her calls from her contacts list rather than entering numbers. Besides, it was better to make a personal call on her own phone anyway. She rummaged through her bag looking for the phone.
Where was it? She couldn't find it.
Dumping the contents of the bag on the desk, she sorted through lipsticks, mascara, blush, tissues, a brush, notebooks, receipts, a wallet, keys, pens, and pencils. She felt increasingly distressed.
Where could it be?
She looked around the office and kitchen. Then she traced her steps back through the hallway to the salesroom, glancing in every direction as she searched. Opening the front door, Piper checked the sidewalk in front of the bakery and walked along the curb for several yards one way and then the other. Perhaps the phone had fallen in the street when she got out of the taxi and been kicked aside by a pedestrian or hit by the cab's rear tire as it drove away.
Nothing.
She told herself to calm down and try to remember when she'd last had it. She was sure she hadn't used it in the taxi. The last time she could recall having it was when she'd taken pictures on the paddleboat. She'd put the phone back into her purse when Falkner approached her.
Piper returned to the office and called directory assistance for the number of the
Natchez.
When she called it, she got a recorded message with an announcement of the operating hours. She'd have to call again in the morning.
There was no way she was going to be able to go upstairs and fall right asleep now. She was too wound up. Sighing with resignation, Piper decided she might as well go ahead and figure out that frosting recipe. Beginning with Leo's suggestion of making a buttercream frosting mixed with crumbled pralines, Piper typed the first few letters into the Google search engine.
“B-U-T-T-E-R.”
Instantly a list of the most recently searched terms, beginning with those letters, dropped down from the input box. Piper's eyes shifted upward and glanced at it. She immediately felt a tingle shoot through her system as she noticed the search at the top of the list.
“BUTTERFLY RELEASE.”
T
raffic was relatively light on the streets that led from the Garden District to the French Quarter. Marguerite drove along St. Charles Avenue, where the green streetcars had ceased running for the night. Even in the darkness, she could see the silhouettes of the Greek Revival, Italianate, and Queen Anneâstyle mansions along the road framed by massive, ancient live oaks.
She tried to remain calm. The call to the buyers that Bertrand had lined up could wait until tomorrow. The trip to the bakery could not.
The minute Piper had mentioned that she was going to use the office computer for a recipe search, Marguerite felt a rush of adrenaline. How stupid she felt! With all her extensive planning, she had forgotten one crucial thing: All the research she'd done to map out her murder spree was sitting, for any and all to see, right there on her computer.
The World Wide Web had provided her whatever information she needed on voodoo and hoodoo, the symbols of the loas and the offerings they preferred. Various Web sites had pointed the way to where she could buy snakes and order butterflies. And the computer she used could document every keystroke she'd made. Anyone seeing her search history could piece together every step she'd taken to implement her deadly scheme. Living in the computer age had made murder easy.
The computer couldn't take credit, though, for the plan itself. That was all Marguerite's idea and, now, she was marveling at the cleverness of it.
After years of excruciating hurt and humiliation at the knowledge of Bertrand's disgusting womanizing, Marguerite had had enough. The pain she'd suffered, pretending she didn't notice each time he devoured attractive women with his eyes or touched them in whatever way he could. Bertrand thought she was oblivious to his using the upstairs apartment for his trysts. But his travels in the dumbwaiter, sneaking in and watching unsuspecting female guests, bothered Marguerite the most.
She still cringed when she thought of the most mortifying event of all. Last year her very own sister had come to visit and awoke in the middle of the night to find Bertrand standing by her bed leering down at her. Candice had been scared to death at first and thoroughly disgusted later. Bertrand had given some lame excuse about wanting to check if a recently installed air-conditioning system was working well up there. Marguerite's sister left the next morning, but not before she pulled Marguerite aside and urged her to divorce her lecherous husband.
But for Marguerite divorce was not an option. She wasn't going to settle for half of what they'd built. She deserved it all. The Consolidated Cuisine acquisition was about to go through with the plan of opening Boulangerie Bertrand franchises around the country. She'd be truly rich.
“Pig!” Marguerite spat as the car reached Canal Street.
That's what Bertrand was. He was cocky, too. When he got out of bed that night after the dinner at Bistro Sabrina, Marguerite suspected he might be going back to the French Quarter to sneak in and watch the latest pretty female he'd lured to New Orleans. There had been many qualified applicants for the guest-baker position, but Marguerite was sure Bertrand chose Piper Donovan after he saw her picture online.
That night there was no point in confronting Bertrand. She was way past that. Marguerite had already decided what she was going to do about him weeks ago. The first phase of her plan was scheduled to begin just a few hours later.
She wanted Bertrand dead, yet she didn't want to be a suspect. Marguerite knew that the police always looked at family members first in their homicide investigations. But if she killed Bertrand in the middle of a murder
spree,
the cops wouldn't look her way.
The idea for the other victims came to her one day as she worked beside Bertrand in the bakery.
He was decorating nursery-rhyme cookies. As she watched him piping a tiny mustache on the middle figure of the three characters in a little cookie boat, she decided who else would die. The rhyme itself suggested them.
The baker would be in the middle: Bertrand. So there'd have to be a butcher and a candlestick maker to complete the rhyme: Muffuletta Mike and Ellinore Duchamps. Though neither of them had wronged her, Marguerite didn't care. It worked out well for her plan that they all made their living on Royal Street.
To keep the police even farther away, Marguerite had decided to make all three murders look as though they were parts of voodoo rituals. The usual motives for murder wouldn't even be considered. Investigators would be distracted by voodoo clues.
But if they decided to check her computer, the police would be able to trace her electronic steps and figure out what she had done.
She had to get the computer.
O
n Royal Street the lights were on inside Boulangerie Bertrand. Piper hadn't closed the shop and gone upstairs after all. Why hadn't she done as she was told?
Marguerite was seized with panic.
Fear quickly changed to resolve. If a fourth murder were necessary, so be it. While she had no desire to kill Piper, she would if she had to. Marguerite would be able to tell right away by the expression on Piper's face, by the look of terror in her eyes, whether the young woman had uncovered the secrets in the computer. Piper couldn't possibly be a good enough actress to conceal the horror of that discovery.
Marguerite drove down to the corner and turned, steering the car into the narrow passage behind the bakery. Alleys were scarce in the French Quarter, with shops, cafés, and hotels built on top of one another, side by side and back to back. Tonight Marguerite was especially grateful that Boulangerie Bertrand had that rarest of amenities in the center of New Orleans: a back alley.
That advantage had tipped the scales when she and Bertrand chose the building for their business. Deliveries could be made to the rear door rather than having big sacks of flour, sugar, and other supplies hauled through the front. At the time Marguerite had never dreamed that the passageway would facilitate anything more than that.
Tonight the alley was going to help her get away with murder.