Read That Old Black Magic Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
That Old Black Magic (14 page)
N
ettie waited until she saw Miss Ellinore back her car down the driveway. Once the car was out of sight, she emerged from behind the massive azalea bush and let herself into the house. She was putting on her apron when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the pea-gravel path.
Nettie peeked out of the kitchen window. Miss Ellinore was back and walking up to the door!
Before Nettie could turn and run down the basement steps to hide, Ellinore entered the room.
“Oh, Miss Ellinore, you scared me,” said Nettie as she put her hand over her heart. She quickly thought of an explanation for her presence in the house. “I hope you don't mind if I work today instead of Wednesday. I got a doctor appointment Wednesday. I was gonna leave you a note.”
“No, I don't mind, Nettie,” Ellinore said coolly. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, ma'am. Everything fine. I just has a little checkup, that's all. Did you forget something, Miss Ellinore? Is that why you came back?”
“No, Nettie. I didn't forget anything.” Ellinore sighed heavily. “I guess I just wanted to catch you off your guard.”
Nettie looked uncertainly at her boss. “Why'd you want to do that, Miss Ellinore?”
“I know what you've been doing, Nettie.”
Casting her eyes to the floor, Nettie felt her heart beat faster. “What you mean, Miss Ellinore?”
“You know what I mean, Nettie,” said Ellinore. “I'll admit I've known that you've been staying in the house, helping me even though you weren't getting paid for most of your work. I've taken advantage of your loyalty and allowed it. I liked having this place kept up the way you do. So I've been wrong, too. Wrong and selfish. I'm sorry.”
Nettie looked up and met Ellinore's gaze. “That's all right, Miss Ellinore. I want to be here with you. I want to help you. I feel more at home here than I do at Rhonda's house. That husband of hers is no good, and he barely puts up with me. I'd rather be here with you.”
Ellinore shook her head ruefully. “You can't,” she said. “I can't have you here anymore. At all.”
Nettie recoiled as if struck. “I don't understand,” she stuttered.
“I can't have voodoo practiced in my house. I won't stand for it.”
“But, Miss Ellinoreâ”
“Don't insult me by denying it, Nettie,” Ellinore said firmly as she crossed her arms over her chest. “We both know very well what you've been doing in the cellar.”
Nettie's eyes filled with tears. “I promise, ma'am. I won't ever do it again. Never. I give my word.”
“No, Nettie. You have to leave.”
“But, Miss Ellinore, I spent my life helping you and your family.”
“I know you have, Nettie, but no more. Please, leave this house now and don't ever come back.”
W
e need more green beignets out front,” called Piper as she hurried into the kitchen. “They're selling like hotcakes.” She paused and smiled. “Literally.”
Bertrand pointed to a large tray of the square, holeless doughnuts on the worktable. “And I have more frying now, Piper. Don't worry. We're used to this.” He reached over and put his hand on her shoulder, holding on a little too long for it to be merely a reassuring gesture.
Through the morning and into the afternoon, the customers continued to come into the bakery, buying boxes and bags of green alligator bread, leprechaun-hat cookies, shamrock-shaped coffee cakes, Irish soda bread, and hot cross buns. Piper helped out in the front of the store, filling and ringing up orders. She found herself avoiding Bertrand as much as possible.
At four o'clock Marguerite asked Piper if she would mind carrying some boxes of baked goods for that evening's fund-raiser over to the Gris-Gris Bar.
“Of course not,” said Piper. “I'd be glad to.”
“Great,” said Marguerite. “I appreciate that, Piper. And after you drop those off, you're finished here for the day. Go upstairs, rest, and get ready for tonight. We'll see you at the fund-raiser later.”
Piper didn't protest. She welcomed the chance to knock off early. The bakery wasn't a comfortable place for her anymore.
A
s she crossed the street to the Gris-Gris Bar, Piper spotted a white van parked out front. The sign on the side announced that the van belonged to a local radio station.
Carrying the bakery boxes inside and resting them on a table, she scanned the bar. There were only a few customers at the counter, but she noticed other people busily moving around in the rest of the space. A woman was stringing green crepe paper and tiny white lights from the ceiling. One man carried electrical equipment to a spot at the side of the room, while another unwound some cables. A third man, wearing headphones, sat at a table with a microphone and a laptop computer positioned in front of him. Piper thought he looked somewhat familiar, but she was distracted by something else. A blond-haired little boy with a cherubic face lay on his stomach in a playpen in the middle of the floor. He had propped himself on his elbows while holding a dish towel in his hand and rubbing the playpen floor with it.
“Hiya, handsome,” Piper cooed as she bent down to get closer. “Whatcha doing?”
“Wub-a-dub. Wub-a-dub.” The child smiled, his blue eyes twinkling from behind the glasses perched on his small nose.
“You're cleaning up, huh?” asked Piper. “You're good at that.”
She talked to the boy for a while longer. He talked back, but Piper could understand almost nothing of what he said. She noticed that his young body was really too large for the limited playpen space. His feet pushed against the mesh wall, while the top of his head pushed against the opposite one. But the boy seemed unconcerned and comfortable enough, while Piper supposed that his father's main concern was limiting the child from crawling away and getting hurt.
Piper knew that she wanted to have kids someday. Friends of hers had already started having babies. It awed her to see how much time infants demanded, how many details had to be attended to. And as they grew, so did the responsibilities. Once the baby started crawling, toddling, and walking, there was no end to the new things that could lead to trouble. Her friends with children hardly ever wanted to go out at night anymore. They were too tired after a day of child care and always cognizant of the fact that there would be more of the same the following day. They wanted to go to bed early because they would be getting up early and starting all over again.
Now, as she considered the child in the playpen, Piper was acutely aware that her exhausted friends were so fortunate. They had kids who were meeting all the developmental milestones. They were sitting up and walking and talking clearly. Piper didn't even want to imagine what it would be like to have a child who didn't, couldn't, progress as he should.
“I see you've met my son.”
Piper looked up to see Wuzzy towering above her. She stood to face him, noticing the lines on the bartender's forehead and around his eyes and mouth. Piper suspected that Wuzzy spent much of his time fretting about his son's problems, his face set in a worried frown.
“We've been having a nice conversation,” said Piper. “He seems like such a happy little guy.”
Wuzzy nodded. “Connor is a pretty cheerful kid, thank goodness. So far he doesn't show much frustration at his limitations.”
They both looked on as Connor continued to move the towel in a circular motion on the playpen floor.
“Wub-a-dub. Wub-a-dub.”
A
s Piper turned to leave the bar to go home to bathe and dress, she glanced over again at the table covered with microphones and audio equipment. A banner had been attached to the edge:
NOLA RADIO 666
.
Wuzzy followed her gaze. “I know,” he said. “Go figure.
The Aaron Kane Show
is broadcasting live from here tonight. I couldn't believe it when Aaron came in and told me he wanted to bring attention to Connor and help raise more money for his care.”
“That was very nice of him,” said Piper.
“You're not kidding.” Wuzzy leaned closer to Piper and lowered his voice. “I always thought Kane was sorta pompous and full of himself, if you know what I mean. But I guess he has a kind, altruistic side after all. Just goes to show you never know about people, do you?”
“No, I guess not,'' answered Piper. But as she regarded Aaron Kane one more time, she realized why he looked familiar to her. He was the man with the flowered kissing cane who had planted the sloppy smooch on her lips at the parade in the Garden District.
T
he front door was locked, and the Closed sign was hanging in the bakery window. Marguerite had gone home to shower and change before meeting up with Bertrand at the fund-raiser later. Bertrand was relieved to have some time all alone in the shop. There was a phone conversation he wanted to have while he had a little privacy.
He made the call but got voice mail.
“Hello. It is Bertrand. Give me a call. I am afraid we may have a small problem. It is not insurmountable, but I want to talk to you about one of the provisions in the contract. I will be here at the bakery for another hour or so.”
Bertrand cleaned his work area, wiping down the long, wooden table and placing bowls, measuring cups, spoons, and mixing paddles in the industrial dishwasher. He didn't want to turn the machine on until just before he left for the fund-raiser. The thing made such a racket.
There would be a light repast after Muffuletta Mike's funeral tomorrow morning. Boulangerie Bertrand was supplying pastries, which were already made and packed in boxes tied with twine. Between making those along with the desserts for tonight's fund-raiser and the St. Patrick's Day goodies for the regular customers, Bertrand had kept the ovens and mixers running all day.
As he carried the pastries to the walk-in refrigerator, Bertrand thought he heard a noise. He stopped. Was someone in the corridor? Was someone in the display and sales area?
Standing still, he strained to hear. He could feel heat rise in his face, adrenaline in response to a perceived threat. But the only sound he heard was footsteps coming from the floor above.
He calculated where exactly the footsteps were falling in the upstairs apartment and decided that Piper was in the bathroom. His supposition was confirmed when he heard the sound of water beginning to flow through the old iron pipes. Piper was drawing a bath.
Did he dare?
Could he use the dumbwaiter and go up? Could he catch a glimpse of her as she bathed, unaware that he was peeking at her from around the corner? The thought of it left him terribly excited. But it was very dangerous. It was one thing to sneak up there and watch Piper in the middle of the night while she slept. It was quite another to venture into the apartment while she was wide awake.
He knew he was taking an incredible chance, yet that only made it more thrilling. Bertrand began to breathe faster and more heavily, knowing that if he was going to do it, he should get into the dumbwaiter and start up there now, while the water was still running.
He kicked off his shoes, ripped away his baker's jacket, and headed for the corridor. He silently opened the door to the dumbwaiter and began to climb inside. He faced into the dark compartment, his back to the hallway. He didn't sense the stealthy movement behind him or feel anything until the steel point of the flower nail jammed with deadly force into the side of his neck.
T
he tub was filling. Piper lifted her foot, stuck her toe over the edge, and tested the water. Not hot enough. She turned the handle and adjusted the temperature upward.
As she twisted her blond hair into a bun and fastened it to the back of her head, Piper thought she heard a heavy thud come from below. She imagined that a giant bag of flour or sugar could have fallen onto the floor in the bakery kitchen. She paid little attention.
Sinking gratefully into the soothing bath, she let out a long, deep sigh. She wished she could stay right here. A leisurely soak followed by ordering in some dinner and an evening watching TV would suit her just fine. But she had committed to attending the fund-raiser, and she wanted to support Wuzzy and Connor. She didn't have to stay late, but she did have to go.
She leaned her head against the back of the tub and closed her eyes.
P
iper realized she had dozed off. The water in the tub was decidedly cooler, and ridges had developed on the skin of her fingers and toes. She rose from the bath and dried herself off.
What to wear?
As she perused the garments hanging in the closet, she supposed she should choose something in honor of St. Patrick's Day. But between the parade attire she'd watched revelers wearing, the film shoots where she'd worn the emerald-colored sequined number, and all the tinted bakery goods she'd been making, wrapping, and selling over the past few days, Piper was over green. She picked out a fresh white T-shirt and her favorite jeans and called it a day, knowing that there was no dress code at the Gris-Gris Bar.
When she arrived, the place was packed. Piper was amazed at how many people were familiar to her now after just her few days in New Orleans. It pleased her to see Sabrina and Leo at the bar talking to Wuzzy. Aaron Kane was at his table speaking into a microphone for his radio show. He appeared to be interviewing another man, someone Piper didn't recognize. She walked closer, listened to the ongoing radio conversation, and learned that the man was another Royal Street merchant who was supporting a neighbor and fellow businessman and his son. Aaron spotted Piper watching and nodded at her.
A jazz band played in the corner of the bar. Piper recognized one of the musicians as the seemingly angry man she had seen at Muffuletta Mike's on her first day in New Orleans and then heard talking to a cop about a hoodoo connection to Mike's murder the next day. The musician was dressed in white pants and a white shirt. He wore a porkpie hat on the back of his head and a plush toy snake, striped with yellow, green, and purple, around his neck.
He may have felt Piper watching him, because when there was a break in the music, he beckoned to her to come over.
“Anything you want to hear, miss?” he asked. The man didn't appear to recognize Piper.
She considered for a moment. “It's not very original, but how about âWhen Irish Eyes Are Smiling'?”
On cue a trumpet, a saxophone, a trombone, and a bass joined the clarinet in the familiar tune, though Piper had never heard a jazz rendition of it. She and the others gathered in the bar applauded heartily when the song ended.
“That was great!” yelled Piper over the din.
The musician tipped his hat toward her. “Glad you liked it, miss.”
Piper wanted to talk with the musician, but she didn't want to open with the fact that she'd seen his annoyed departure from Muffuletta Mike's or had overheard his conversation with the police officer about the murder. Those weren't exactly conversation starters. Instead she asked the next question that popped into her mind.
“Is that snake around your neck supposed to signify St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland?” she asked.
“If that's what you want to believe, miss. But in my religion the spirit Damballah is St. Patrick's counterpart,” the musician said proudly. “And Damballah is represented by the serpent. That's why I wear the snake, and that's why I wear white tonight. The spirit Damballah's color is white.”
Before Piper could respond, someone else yelled, “Cecil! Hey, man, are we playing or not?” The trumpet player was looking at Cecil with an exasperated expression on his face.
“All right, all right,” said Cecil, raising his clarinet. He looked at Piper. “I'm sorry, miss, but I have to get back to work.”
T
ables had been set up to display the donated prizes for the tricky tray. Fund-raiser participants purchased tickets for cash and then deposited the tickets in bowls placed in front of the prize or prizes they wanted to win.
Piper spent fifty dollars on ten raffle tickets, green and shaped like shamrocks. She scribbled her name on the back of each one. She put five of them in the bowl to win the brass candlesticks from Duchamps Antiques and Illuminations. As she deposited her remaining shamrocks for a chance to win another session with the Royal Street fortune-teller, Piper felt a hand on her arm. It belonged to Falkner Duchamps. His face dimpled as he smiled at her.
“So you want to know what the future holds, huh, Piper?”
“Doesn't everyone?”
“Well, you're talking to the guy who'll be pulling out the winners tonight,” said Falkner. “I'll see what I can do.”
“Now, I wouldn't want any preferential treatment,” said Piper.
“Aw, what fun is that?”
Piper laughed. She glanced around the room and said, “I haven't seen Bertrand and Marguerite yet tonight. Have you?”
Falkner pointed. “I saw Marguerite over there,” he said. “But don't run off, Piper. Keep me company. I can make sure it's worth your while.”
Piper waved as she walked away. “See you later, buddy.”
M
arguerite was at the buffet sampling the food from Bistro Sabrina.
“These crab cakes are delicious, and the Gulf oysters are sublime. Try some, Piper.”
Piper made a little face. “No thanks, I haven't had much of an appetite for seafood in a while. I think I'll indulge my sweet tooth instead.”
She selected a cookie from Boulangerie Bertrand. It was shaped like a bathtub with three men's heads peeking from the top. They'd made the nursery-rhyme cookies as a tip of the hat to Connor.
“Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub,” said Piper. “Bertrand and you do such a great job with these things. I gotta tell you, I'm definitely going to steal this idea and take it back north with me.”
“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?” asked Marguerite. “Bertrand and I will be flattered to think our cookies are being copied.”
“Where
is
Bertrand?” asked Piper, looking around again. “I haven't seen him yet.”
“I was just wondering the same thing,” said Marguerite, pulling her cell phone from her purse. “I went home to shower and dress. We were supposed to meet up here.”
When the phone call to her husband went directly to voice mail, Marguerite looked at Piper and made a suggestion. “Let's go over to the bakery and see what's keeping him.”
T
he night air was balmy as they crossed Royal Street. Piper and Marguerite jostled their way through the St. Patrick's Day celebrants. Shamrocks, green T-shirts, and leprechaun hats were the dominant apparel. Many pedestrians carried cans of beer and cocktails in plastic cups as they sang and danced, turning the road into a street party.
“And just think!” Marguerite yelled over the noise to Piper. “In another two days we'll be celebrating St. Joseph's Day!”
Approaching the bakery, they saw that the Closed sign was in the window. A single night-light dimly illuminated the display room. But, beyond that, a bright beam streamed from the kitchen out into the corridor. Neither woman could detect any movement inside.
Marguerite took out her keys and unlocked the front door, immediately disarming the alarm as they entered. She called out. “Bertrand?”
Flipping the switch for the chandeliers, Marguerite called out again as the room was immediately filled with light. “Bertrand?”
Piper followed as Marguerite led the way toward the kitchen. When she heard Marguerite's gasp, Piper was seized with fright as she forced herself to look.
Bertrand lay in the middle of the corridor floor, a puddle of blood next to his head. Piper looked on in horror as she realized that a flower needle was sticking from his neck.
“Oh, my God, Piper! Call 911!” screamed Marguerite as she collapsed onto her knees beside her husband. She reached over and touched his face, then shook him by the shoulders.
“Bertrand, Bertrand!” she yelled. “Wake up!”
Piper made the emergency call, quickly giving the information the dispatcher required. “They're on their way, Marguerite,” she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice.
Marguerite put her ear to her husband's chest and then next to his mouth. “I can't hear a heartbeat!” she cried. “He's not breathing!”
“I know CPR,” said Piper. “Let me try.”
Even as she started chest compressions, Piper was fairly sure it was too late. The effort to make the heart pump again and get blood and oxygen to keep the brain functioning could be a precious lifesaving tool. Though CPR usually worked on TV shows, it was nowhere near as successful in real life. It was only likely to be effective if started within six minutes after the blood stopped flowing. Looking at Bertrand's open mouth and ashen face was discouraging. Piper also could see that blood wasn't seeping from his neck wound and most likely hadn't been even as Marguerite had tried calling him from the Gris-Gris Bar. Those critical six minutes had come and were probably long gone.
But she continued with the compressions until the EMTs got there.
T
he police arrived as the paramedic stated the obvious: Bertrand Olivier was dead.
Piper watched as the body was examined. She hadn't noticed until now the mound of white powder that had been formed near Bertrand's feet or the egg that had been placed on top of it. In fact, there was a white dusting over almost the entire hallway. Piper looked down at her arms and legs, noting that after kneeling on the floor beside Bertrand she was covered in the white powder as well.
“Flour,” remarked one of the officers.
Piper held Marguerite as she wept while the police took pictures of the body and the rest of the crime scene from every imaginable angle. When a detective asked for details of what had happened in the time leading up to the discovery of the body, Marguerite looked helplessly at Piper.
“I just can't talkânot now,” she whispered.
Piper answered. “We were supposed to meet up with Bertrand at the Gris-Gris Bar across the street for the fund-raiser there tonight,” she explained. “When he didn't show up, we came here to look for him. We found him on the floor.”
“Was the door unlocked?” asked the detective.
“No, it was locked,” answered Piper. “And the security alarm was on.”
“No sign of forced entry,” muttered the detective. He turned to Marguerite. “Was your husband expecting anyone, somebody he would have let in?”
Marguerite sniffed and shook her head. “Not that I know of,” she said softly.
As Piper viewed the anguish on Marguerite's face, for some reason the memory of the men who had come into Boulangerie Bertrand her first morning in the bakery, taking measurements and pictures, flashed through her mind. Could they possibly have something to do with this?
T
he understanding detective agreed that Marguerite and Piper could come to the police station the following day and make their formal statements.
“Is it all right if I come in around noon?” asked Marguerite. “I have a funeral to attend in the morning.”
The detective looked at her skeptically.
“Bertrand and I had been planning to go to Muffuletta Mike's funeral in the morning. I know Bertrand would still want me to go and pay our respects.”
“Are you sure, Marguerite?” Piper asked incredulously.
Before Marguerite could respond, they heard shouting in the corridor. One of the police officers stood at the opened door to the dumbwaiter. He yelled in fright at the sleek, coiled body and the two beady red eyes that peered out.
