That Old Black Magic (3 page)

Chapter 6

I
n Hillwood, New Jersey, Vin Donovan finished clearing the snow off the sidewalk in front of The Icing on the Cupcake. He rested the shovel on the side of the building and scraped the bottoms of his boots back and forth across the cement before pulling open the front door. He inhaled the warm, sweet-smelling air that welcomed him inside the bakery.

“Thanks, honey,” called the blond, curly-haired, middle-aged woman from behind the counter as she slid a tray of sugar cookies onto a shelf. “How about a nice hot cup of coffee and a cheese Danish fresh out of the oven as your reward?”

“I'm going to spread some salt out there first,” said Vin. “We don't want anybody slipping and breaking their neck.”

As her husband cut through the kitchen on his way to the small storage shed in the back alley, Terri waited on a customer who asked to have a simple chocolate layer cake inscribed with birthday wishes. The customer pointed to the cake she wanted. Terri took it from the display case and carried it into the kitchen.

“I hate having to ask you to stop what you're doing, Cathy,” Terri said as she put the cake down on the worktable. “But can you please write ‘Happy Birthday, Frances,' with an
e,
on this?”

“No problem,” said Cathy, immediately putting down the wooden spoon and wiping her hands on her apron. “That's what I'm here for.”

Terri watched her assistant pick up a pastry bag full of pink icing and begin squeezing the message onto the top of the cake. Terri had to turn her head to the side and look from the corner of her eye in order to see the words take shape.

“Sometimes it's just so frustrating not being able to do what I used to do,” she whispered, not wanting her husband to overhear if he came back through the kitchen.

“I know,” commiserated Cathy. “But I'm just so grateful that the doctor says your macular degeneration isn't getting worse.”

Terri nodded. “That's the truth. My peripheral vision is fine, and my reading machine is a big help. All in all, I know how lucky I am, but, still . . .” Terri's voice trailed off as Vin came into the kitchen carrying the bag of salt.

“Still what?” he asked.

“Still nothing,” answered Terri. “Go ahead and spread the rock salt out front.”

“Really,” Vin insisted. “What were you saying?”

“Nothing worth repeating.”

Cathy picked up the cake from the counter. “I'll go box this, ring it up, and leave you lovebirds to it,” she said.

“You know, Vin, I don't have to tell you every single thing,” said Terri as soon as Cathy was out of the kitchen.

“True, you don't, but it's a helluva lot better if you do. For instance, it would have been nice if you'd talked it over with me before entering Piper's name in that New Orleans thing.”

“And have you come up with every single reason why it was a bad idea?” asked Terri. “I knew better than that.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing with worry. “I hope we were right, letting her go to New Orleans like this.”

“Vin, let's face it. We are way beyond the stage of
letting
Piper do anything. She's twenty-seven years old, an adult.”

“But she still listens to us, Terri.”

“Sometimes.”

“About important things she does. If you hadn't encouraged her, she wouldn't have gone.”

“I think it's good for her, Vin. I really do. Boulangerie Bertrand is a renowned bakery, and she's getting the opportunity to work with a baking master. New Orleans is a magical city, and I think the total change of scene will be good for her. She's been so down since we got back from Sarasota.”

“That can happen when somebody has tried to kill you,” said Vin.

Chapter 7

C
rouched behind a giant pink azalea in the Duchampses' rear garden, Nettie Rivers waited and watched. The warm, sticky air was thick with humidity, and her knees were paining her. Nettie ached to stand up straight. She glanced impatiently at the Timex wristwatch with the purple band that her grandchildren had given her for Christmas and wondered what was keeping her employer. Miss Ellinore was taking her own sweet time today.

Nettie had a mental list of things she wanted to accomplish once she got inside the old house. She tried to do the big, noticeable tasks like scrubbing out the refrigerator or cleaning the oven or dusting and vacuuming on the day she was scheduled to come. Doing the laundry and slipping it back neatly folded into the mahogany dressers was something that could be done discreetly on her secret days. Polishing what was left of the silver or cleaning out the closets was each also a chore that Nettie accomplished on the days Miss Ellinore didn't think anybody was in the house.

Nettie did her best to make sure Miss Ellinore didn't know that she still stayed in the house more often than not. She liked her own bed downstairs, where she had slept so many nights of her adult life. Though the good Lord knew how much Nettie loved her grandkids, living with them all the time was too much to take. The house was noisy and chaotic. And Rhonda's husband, Marvin, could get nasty when he had too much to drink. Nettie didn't like being around that. Mostly, though, Nettie didn't like Miss Ellinore staying all by herself every night.

Nettie's daughter and son-in-law thought she was crazy for working and not getting paid. They didn't understand. She'd been with Miss Ellinore for over thirty years. Nettie loved Miss Ellinore, and she was too old to start taking care of somebody else's house now.

Nettie had watched Miss Ellinore raise her little daughter while that good-looking but lazy husband was hanging out at his club, betting on the horses, playing cards, or drinking with his uptown friends. Nettie had overheard countless arguments about money, arguments that usually ended with Mr. Christophe storming out of the house and Miss Ellinore silently retreating up to the bedroom. After a while Miss Ellinore would come downstairs again with her face all washed and shiny, acting like nothing bad had ever happened. It was clear to Nettie that her boss had been crying, but Nettie never let on she knew. Miss Ellinore had her pride, and Nettie wasn't going to step on it.

Years ago, after yet another of those arguments, Nettie noticed that Miss Ellinore began going from room to room, critically inspecting the contents and complaining that there were just too many things in the house. The house looked like the Collyer brothers' mansion, declared Miss Ellinore. She said that sometimes she felt like she couldn't breathe, that all the clutter was suffocating her. Miss Ellinore was also sure that little Miss Ginnie's asthma was made worse by all the dust the old furniture and knickknacks collected.

In the beginning Nettie had felt that Miss Ellinore was being critical of her housekeeping skills. So she had redoubled her efforts to keep the furniture polished, the silver gleaming, the crystal sparkling. She didn't pay much mind when the moving men arrived to take out a marble statue, an antique harp, and a carved Victorian sideboard from the dining room. The room did look better, less overcrowded with generations of accumulation.

But after a while, as more furniture was hauled away, chandeliers taken down, and oil paintings removed, Nettie caught on to what was really happening. When movers carried out the piano that Miss Ellinore had learned to play on as a child, Nettie saw the tear roll down her employer's cheek. It finally dawned on Nettie. The things weren't being sold to lighten up the gracious old rooms. The things were being sold because the family needed the money.

Nettie watched now as the back door finally opened and a figure dressed in turquoise stepped into the daylight. She was carrying a pair of ornate silver candlesticks. Nettie knew from the experience of lifting and polishing them how heavy they were.

Her instinct was to spring up and rush to help Miss Ellinore, but Nettie held back. She observed the woman carefully make her way down the porch steps and across the pea-gravel path leading to the old stable that now served as a garage. It touched Nettie to see Miss Ellinore pause at the stunning magnolia tree, so much bigger and fuller now than it had been when Nettie helped her plant it just after Miss Ginnie died.

Chapter 8

T
he darkness of the interior of the Gris-Gris Bar took some getting used to after the bright daylight out on the street. Falkner paused in the doorway to give his eyes time to adjust before sauntering over to the counter. He took the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tossed them onto the bar, and seated himself on a stool. As he watched the bartender lumber toward him, Falkner recited the children's verse:

“Fuzzy-Wuzzy was a bear.

Fuzzy-Wuzzy had no hair.

Fuzzy-Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy,

Was he?”

A satisfied grin spread across Falkner's face as the bald-headed bartender rolled his eyes.

“You never get tired of that, do you?”

“Nope. Never do.”

“It's not like you came up with the nickname, Falkner.”

“Doesn't matter. I like to remind you whence it came, big guy. Now that I've done my duty, I think I'll reward myself with a New Orleans mint julep, Wuzzy, before I head out and give my second tour of the day.”

“Sounds good to me,” said the bartender, opening the refrigerator and extracting a chilled highball glass. “How goes it?”

“Agony, buddy.” Falkner ran his fingers through his hair as if pulling it out. “It's just agony trying to get this doctoral thesis done. I was up most of the night working on it, then up early to give a cemetery tour. Three hours of sleep just isn't enough, man.”

The bartender dropped a layer of mint leaves into the glass and tossed some shaved ice on top. “Make any progress on the dissertation?”

“Barely. You have no idea how hard it is.” Falkner put his elbows on the bar, leaned forward, and held up his head with his hands. He watched as Wuzzy added a spoon of powdered sugar to the glass and then repeated the layers of mint, ice, and sugar before pouring in a generous jigger of bourbon.

“You're right. I don't know, and I don't want to know,” said Wuzzy as he reached for a sprig of mint to garnish the drink. “I barely made it through high school. The only book I've cracked since then is the bartender's manual.”

Wuzzy stuck a straw in the glass, put the drink in front of his customer, and wiped his hands on his gold Saints T-shirt. “Let the good times roll, my friend.”

Falkner drew hard on the straw and swallowed. “Ah, the breakfast of champions,” he said, closing his eyes. “That's one lesson you learned very well, Wuzzy. You make the best julep in town.”

“Thanks, man. You would know.”

“Do you know where the word ‘julep' comes from, Wuzzy?”

“Haven't a clue.”

“In the Middle Ages, a julep was something to cool the heat of passion.”

“You don't say.”

“And, man, did I see something a little while ago to get passionate about.”

“Yeah?”

“There was an extraordinary blonde on the balcony across from mine.”

“You talk to her?”

“I tried, asked her if she wanted to get coffee.”

“And?”

“She blew me off. Some crap about needing to take a nap.”

“Maybe she
was
tired. If at first you don't succeed . . .” The bartender's voice trailed off as he picked up a towel and began wiping the counter.

“Oh, don't worry, Wuzzy. I don't intend to give up on her that easily.”

Another customer came in and sat at the bar. While Wuzzy took his order, Falkner looked up. Small leather pouches hung from the ceiling. Some of them had little cloth dolls attached. The pouches were called gris-gris, voodoo amulets believed to protect the wearer from evil or to bring love, health, and good luck. Each pouch contained a number of small objects, each with its own meaning. Falkner wasn't much for the idea of a magic talisman, but he knew that others thought gris-gris could bring black magic and ill fortune to their victims.

After Wuzzy had finished pouring the other guy a beer, Falkner signaled him to come over.

“Do you ever worry?” asked Falkner, pointing at the ceiling.

“About what?” Wuzzy looked up. “The gris-gris?”

Falkner nodded.

“It's good for business, Falkner. You know that. The tourists eat this voodoo crap up.” A shadow seemed to fall across Wuzzy's face. “No, Falkner, I've got bigger things to worry about than gris-gris and voodoo.”

“More problems with your son?” asked Falkner.

The bartender bit at his lip to stop it from quivering. “Got the results of Connor's MRI from the doctor this morning,” he said. “There's a shadow on his basal ganglia, whatever the hell that is. Bottom line: Connor is never going to walk.”

Falkner put down his glass and stared at the bartender. “Never?”

“Nope. Never. His trunk can't support him.” Wuzzy shrugged his broad shoulders, but his face betrayed his sadness. “It's not like I should be surprised, I guess. It's been obvious from the beginning that something was wrong. Connor's been so slow to reach all those milestone things, so delayed with his motor skills. He sat up late, didn't crawl until he was two. He's three now, and he has yet to say a word that anybody can understand or feed himself. But it was tough, man, to hear the actual diagnosis.”

Falkner waited for Wuzzy to share the information.

“Connor has cerebral palsy.”

“Oh, Wuz. I'm so sorry, buddy.”

“Me, too.” Wuzzy sighed heavily. “Sometimes I just get so damned mad at Carla for dying. I've been busting my hump, trying to keep this place going while making sure things are covered at home. You can't imagine how tough it is to find good child care and have it running pretty much round the clock. I never know when I'm going to be able to get out of here at night, and somebody's got to be there. Between paying for baby-sitters, therapists, and uncovered medical bills, I'm tapped out, man. I'm drowning in debt I'm never going to be able to repay.”

“Don't say that, bro,” said Falkner, shaking his head. “That's why everybody is getting together for the fund-raiser on St. Patrick's Day, guy. The whole neighborhood wants to help you, Wuzzy, and that was even before we knew about the CP diagnosis. I'm sure we're going raise a nice piece of change. You'll be able to whittle down some of those bills.”

“Great. Then we can hold another fund-raiser after that for the twenty-thousand-dollar power wheelchair the doctor says Connor should have. And another fund-raiser after that for God knows what Connor will need next. It's never going to end.” Wuzzy closed his eyes and rubbed them.

“I don't know how you do it, Wuz.”

“When it's your kid, you do what you have to do,” said Wuzzy wearily. “But if anybody had ever told me that this would be my life, I wouldn't have believed it.”