That Old Black Magic (5 page)

Chapter 14

O
n the flagstones around Jackson Square, tarot-card readers, jazz musicians, and clowns entertained the visitors who strolled by. Artists, eager to sketch portraits or caricatures, waited along the handsome wrought-iron fence that lined the park. Tourists wandered in and out of shops selling candy, clothing, souvenirs, and ice cream. Charming Creole-style cottages with jalousie-shuttered windows stood flush against the sidewalks.

In the middle of the square, twenty tourists were gathered at the foot of the impressive statue of Andrew Jackson astride a rearing horse. Falkner chose Jackson Square as the meeting spot for his group because of its local color and liveliness. It set the mood for his walking tour of the French Quarter.

“This square started out as a muddy field in the early French colony,” explained Falkner. “Troops were drilled here, criminals were placed in the stocks, and executions of disobedient slaves were carried out here. Behind me there are three eighteenth-century historic buildings that were the city's heart in the colonial era. The center of the three is St. Louis Cathedral. The cathedral, with its tall Gothic spires, was designated a minor basilica by Pope Paul VI. To its left is the Cabildo, the old city hall, where the final version of the Louisiana Purchase was signed. It's now a museum. To the cathedral's right is the Presbytere, which originally housed the city's Roman Catholic priests and later became a courthouse. Now, if you'll follow me, we'll go see the inside of the cathedral.”

Falkner led the group across the square. Despite the cool linen shirt he wore, perspiration seeped from his body as he stood on the church steps and turned around to face his followers.

“The cathedral, properly known as the Cathedral-Basilica of St. Louis King of France, is the oldest Catholic cathedral in continual use in the United States. It's also one of our most visited landmarks and most photographed sites.”

A tourist spoke up. “I heard that the Bourbon Street sign was the most photographed.”

“I've heard that, too,” said Falkner. “But the cathedral is right up there in the icon department. It makes sense. In New Orleans we know how to party hard, but we also know how to repent for our debauchery later.”

The tourists chuckled as Falkner pulled the cathedral door open. “Now we'll go inside,” he said. “Since there is no Mass taking place now, you can take pictures. Wander around on your own for a while. I'll meet you out here on the steps in ten minutes.”

The group straggled into the coolness of the church. Some sat in pews to take in the beautiful architecture, the stained-glass windows, the painted ceilings, and the ornate religious decorations. Others strolled down the aisles, admiring the Stations of the Cross, stopping to light candles and say prayers. Falkner was waiting for them when they emerged into the heat again.

“Come on. I want to take you around to the back, to see St. Anthony's Garden,” he said.

Delicate bell clangs marked the half hour, and a mockingbird called through the still air as the group entered the garden. The green space was dominated by the tall white statue of a man with arms raised in welcome.

“St. Anthony is known as the protector of childless women and finder of lost things,” explained Falkner. “This area has had many functions over the years. It was a place for gatherings, markets, meals—even a dueling ground. Père Antoine, one of the cathedral's popular pastors, used the space as a kitchen garden to feed his monks. He also worked with voodoo priestess Marie Laveau to assist the large slave population, especially women and children.”

“A Roman Catholic priest collaborating with a voodoo priestess?” asked one of the tourists, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

Falkner nodded. “They had more in common than you may think. They both had a desire to heal, sooth, and do good works. They were both very spiritual people. Marie Laveau blended voodoo with Catholicism, especially regarding the saints. Now, if you'll follow me out through the iron gates, we'll travel down Royal Street.”

Falkner pointed out an antique shop that once had been Antoine Peychaud's pharmacy. “Peychaud mixed brandy and bitters and served the potion to his customers in an eggcup, or
coquetier.
It's thought by some that a mispronunciation of
coquetier
gave us the word ‘cocktail.' The very first cocktail, then, was born here. Thank you, Antoine!”

He pointed out beautiful buildings, carefully maintained, occupied now by elegant stores and restaurants. He called the tourists' attention to the fine oak-leaf ironwork embellishing buildings constructed in the 1800s for a sugar planter. He indicated a small gift shop where Mardi Gras paraphernalia was sold all year long.

“You can go in there later and get any masks, beads, Mardi Gras snakes, krewe costumes, and posters you want to bring back home,” he said. “But how about we wrap up our tour by going for a muffuletta, the sandwich that had its birthplace in New Orleans?”

The tourists enthusiastically followed him into the shop. Falkner smiled at each one as they passed him on the way to eagerly place their orders at the counter. Too few pressed cash into his hand. He went to the restroom at the rear of the store and counted his tips.
Pathetic.

Falkner returned to the front, waited until the last of his group had purchased their sandwiches, salads, chips, and drinks. Then he signaled to the owner that he wanted to talk with him.

“I bring a lot of business to your store, Mike. I'm asking you one last time. Will you show me some monetary appreciation or not?”

“You aren't the only tour guide that brings in customers, Falkner. I'm happy to provide all of you guys with a free lunch, but I've explained it to you before: I'm not going to start paying you to steer business my way. I can't afford it.”

Falkner shook his head ruefully. “I'd say you can't afford
not
to, Mike.”

Chapter 15

I
t took them a good twenty minutes to drive from the French Quarter to the Garden District. After parking the car, Bertrand, Marguerite, and Piper walked through a gate, passing by rosebushes rimmed with little white lights. Piper held up the hem of her long, flowing cotton skirt as they climbed the steps to the porch of a lavender-painted, double-shotgun-style house. As they entered through the front door of Bistro Sabrina, Piper felt slightly uneasy that Bertrand held her arm instead of Marguerite's.

A willowy, red-haired woman dressed in a sleeveless black sheath looked up from the reception desk. She immediately smiled when she saw them.

“Marguerite, Bertrand, welcome,” she said, walking around from behind the desk. “It's so good to see you.” She kissed both of them on the cheek.

Piper noticed that Bertrand's eyes swept over Sabrina's figure the same way they had swept over Piper's earlier that day at the bakery.

“Sabrina Houghton, we'd like you to meet our guest baker, Piper Donovan,” said Marguerite. “Piper will be helping Bertrand for a while. Her family has a bakery in New Jersey, and she has made some fabulously creative wedding cakes.”

Piper shook the woman's hand. “So nice to meet you, Sabrina.”

“Wonderful, Piper. I can't wait to hear your ideas,” said Sabrina. “After dinner Leo and I should be able to sit and talk with you about them. We're so excited.”

“Actually, I want to hear about your preferences and your fiancé's and then envision your wedding,” said Piper. “Any thoughts I might have will reflect yours.”

Bertrand glanced around the reception area and over Sabrina's shoulder, getting a view of the packed bar. “Business is good,
n'est-ce pas
?”

Sabrina nodded, raising her voice to be heard above the din. “Thank goodness, yes. It's never been better. We're packed tonight, and we're booked solid for the rest of the week and through the weekend. That
Times-Picayune
article a couple months ago really put us on the map.”

Sabrina led them through the bar area, which had once been the parlor of the house, and into the dining room. Draping velvet curtains hung from the elongated windows, and fresh flowers in crystal vases decorated the mantelpiece of an exposed-brick fireplace. The walls were lavender, with the ceiling painted the much darker shade of aubergine. The room was cozy but not cramped, with snowy white cloths spread over the tables. Gleaming silver candle holders of different designs stood in the middle of each one.

As soon as the three were settled into their seats, a waiter came to the table and introduced himself.

“Good evening, my name is Patrick, and welcome to Bistro Sabrina. May I bring you a cocktail?”

“I read that New Orleans is the birthplace of the cocktail,” said Piper. “So I think I'll have one. Any recommendations?”

“Legend has it that the first true cocktail was the Sazerac,” said Patrick. “Would you like to try one?”

“What's in that?” asked Piper.

“Our bartender makes it with rye, bitters, sugar, and a splash of absinthe.”

“Whoa.” Piper glanced at Bertrand and Marguerite for their reactions.

“Oh, go ahead, Piper,” said Marguerite. “Try it.”

Bertrand nodded. “Yes, it's a fitting start to your visit to our city.”

Piper laughed. “Okay. Sold. I'll have a Sazerac, please.”

When their drinks arrived, Bertrand offered a toast to Piper's visit.

“You've been so welcoming to me,” said Piper. “I know I'm going to love it here. But already I have a favor to ask of you.”

She explained that she had an opportunity to meet and audition for a casting director. “I know it's not great timing, being that tomorrow is my first day of work and everything,” said Piper. “But I'll come right back afterward and work extra hours at the end of the day.”

If Marguerite and Bertrand were annoyed, their facial expressions didn't reveal it. They plied Piper with questions about her acting career. She gave them a brief history so far, including the stint on the daytime drama
A Little Rain Must Fall.

“Oh,” said Marguerite, making the connection. “So
that's
how you came to make the wedding cake for the soap star Glenna Brooks?”

Piper nodded. “Yes, Glenna and I became good friends, and when she remarried, she wanted my mother to make her wedding cake. But my mother has macular degeneration and isn't able to manage the intricate decorating anymore. She suggested that I try. She likes that it gives me another focus between acting jobs.”

“Smart lady,” said Marguerite. “And from what we saw on your Web site, you certainly have a talent for it.”

“I appreciate that.” Piper smiled. “I do enjoy it,” she said. “I guess I hadn't realized how much I'd picked up from watching my mom and helping her at the bakery over the years.”

As she sipped her cocktail, Piper had time to study the couple. They seemed very comfortable with each other. She also noted that Marguerite was quite attractive. Now, with makeup applied for the evening out, she looked far different from the plain-looking woman Piper had met at the bakery earlier in the day.

“The food here is as good as at the big-name restaurants in New Orleans,” commented Marguerite as they perused the menu offerings. “And many of the desserts come straight from our bakery.”

Piper chose a pan-roasted and porcini-dusted chicken over a mushroom, artichoke, and Parmesan risotto, while Bertrand and Marguerite both ordered the sauté of Gulf shrimp in a pancetta, sun-dried tomato, and basil beurre blanc with goat-cheese grits. Piper turned her head away but managed not to wince when her hosts' seafood was placed on the table.

All three of them cleaned their plates. “Absolutely delicious,” said Piper as she put down her fork.

When the waiter brought the dessert menu, she held up her hand and shook her head. “The flight down, the alcohol, the rich food. I'm done. I'm going to take a Tylenol PM tonight and sleep like the dead.”

While the dining companions sipped espresso, a tall, attractive man with curly black hair and dark eyes came out from the kitchen. He rolled down the sleeves of his double-breasted white jacket and sat down with them.

“
Magnifique,
chef,” said Bertrand, bringing his fingers to his lips and kissing them. “Wonderful meal as always, Leo.”

“Thank you,” said the chef. He turned to Piper. “And I understand you are going to be making our wedding cakes.”

“Cakes. Plural?” asked Piper.

“
Oui,
Piper,” Bertrand said. “Sabrina and Leo are doing things a little differently. Their big party will be the night
before
the wedding on the
Natchez.
”

“The
Natchez
?” asked Piper. “Isn't that the paddleboat that takes tourists out on the Mississippi?”

Leo nodded. “Everyone we know will be invited to that. But we want our wedding to be more intimate. The next day just close friends and family will attend the ceremony and a wedding dinner here at the restaurant.”

“So you want two cakes,” said Piper. “A big one for the boat party and a smaller one for your wedding dinner.”

“Sabrina tells me you have some questions for us,” said Leo. He turned and stretched to see his fiancée, waving her over when he got her attention.

“And how many guests will you have?” asked Piper as she pulled a small spiral notebook from her purse.

“About a hundred on the
Natchez,
” answered Sabrina. “And no more than thirty at the wedding.”

They discussed cake flavors and icing preferences, shapes and tiers and color schemes.

“How did you two meet?” Piper asked as she continued jotting down notes.

“I was working as a waitress on the
Natchez
dinner cruise, and Leo was one of the cooks,” answered Sabrina.

Suddenly Bertrand reached into his pocket and pulled out his vibrating cell phone. He checked the number on the screen.

“Pardonnez-moi,”
he mumbled as he rose from his chair. “I have to take this.”

The others at the table watched as Bertrand walked toward the front of the restaurant. Marguerite shook her head.

“That's been happening a lot lately. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear Bertrand has a lover.”

The others were silent, awkwardly averting their eyes from Marguerite's face.

“Oh, don't be so glum,” said Marguerite. “I'm not worried about Bertrand and women. Our bakery is his real mistress. He saves his passion for Boulangerie Bertrand.”