That Old Black Magic (7 page)
Read That Old Black Magic Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
F
alkner groaned as he looked at the clock. He was groggy, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. Why did his dissertation adviser insist on meeting so early in the morning? Falkner dreaded their conversations, and getting together at such an ungodly hour only made it worse.
It wasn't that he didn't have a passion for the subject on which he'd chosen to write his doctoral thesis. “The Origin and Hidden Meanings of English Nursery Rhymes” still fascinated him. The first literature to which most people were exposed often focused on the most basic concerns of children and mirrored the culture's most elemental values.
The problem was his difficulty in coming up with original insights. His research wasn't leading to anything that hadn't already been published. Try as he might, Falkner was rehashing what others had already analyzed.
Forcing himself from bed, he stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the shower. As he waited for the water to heat up, he stared into the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin was pale. Spending his days giving tours and passing his nights drinking were taking a toll.
After his shower Falkner debated with himself: Should he shave or not? Would how he looked influence his adviser? Should he be clean-shaven and respectful or sport a stubbled look, the toiling academic totally absorbed in his work with no energy to pay attention to a razor? Falkner opted for the latter. He didn't feel like shaving anyway.
He couldn't ignore his shoes, though. “What a bloody mess,” he said out loud.
He wiped and polished the loafers until they were presentable again.
When he stopped at the bakery across the street to buy a bag of beignets to bring to his meeting, he regretted his decision not to shave. The pretty blonde he'd tried to engage in conversation from his balcony the day before was standing behind the counter. She certainly wasn't going to be impressed with his appearance, but he decided to try anyway.
“Piper, right?”
She looked up at him with a surprised expression on her face. Falkner could tell she didn't recognize him.
“We met yesterday. From our balconies?”
Piper smiled and nodded. “Oh, right. Faulkner. Like the writer.”
“Same pronunciation, different spelling. It's a family name, Old French. No
u.
”
“Well, what gets you up so early, Falkner-no-
u
? I got the feeling you weren't exactly an early-morning kind of guy.”
“Man, you're right about that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I have a meeting with my dissertation adviser.”
“I thought you said you were a tour guide,” said Piper, puzzled.
“I'm doing that to pay the bills while I work on the thesis,” said Falkner.
“Oh. So what's your thesis about?”
“Nursery rhymes, if you can believe that.”
“I can believe it, but I certainly wouldn't have guessed it,” said Piper. “You don't look like the nursery-rhyme type either.”
“And what does the nursery-rhyme type look like?”
Piper shrugged. “I don't know exactly, but not like you.”
“If you get to know me, Piper, you'll find out I'm full of surprises.”
N
ettie lay quietly on her cot in the cellar, listening to the footsteps coming from the kitchen above her. She could visualize what Miss Ellinore was doing up there. Taking the carton of eggs from the refrigerator, putting a pot of water to boil on the stove, measuring coffee into the percolator. Nettie wished she could just go upstairs and make breakfast for her employer herself. But that wouldn't do. She wasn't even supposed to be in the house on Fridays.
She was glad that she'd spent another night in her old basement room, a place that felt more like home than her daughter's house. She took satisfaction from being there for Miss Ellinore.
But after Miss Ellinore left for her shop this morning, Nettie was going back to her daughter's place. Though Nettie hadn't been there in a few days, Rhonda wouldn't be worried about her. Her daughter knew where Nettie was, even though she didn't approve.
From the time she'd been a little girl, Rhonda had resented that her mother cleaned house and cooked for another family. Nettie supposed, in a way, that had been a good thing. Rhonda had been determined not to follow in her mother's path. She'd been devoted to her studies, and now she had a good job with an accounting firm downtown. Unfortunately, though, Rhonda had made a big mistake in the husband she chose. Just as Miss Ellinore had.
Slowly lifting herself from the single bed, Nettie shook her head as she thought about the similarities between Rhonda and Miss Ellinore. Both were smart, proud, and unafraid of working hard. Neither could stand the thought that anyone might feel sorry for them, though both had had their share of disappointment and heartbreak. Nettie loved them both.
She couldn't say the same for their husbands, though. Christophe Duchamps had been a selfish man, determined to do what he wanted regardless of his wife's feelings or his family's economic peril. Marvin Updegrove was the same way. While Marvin went from one get-rich-quick scheme to another, it fell on Rhonda to keep a roof over their heads. And when Marvin wasn't out scamming, he was sitting at the bar drinking away Rhonda's hard-earned money.
That was another reason Nettie liked to hide out at Miss Ellinore's. She didn't want to be around Marvin. When he did come home, she hated listening to all the schemes, empty promises, and lies.
Still, to make Rhonda happy, Nettie was going there for a visit. She was also going to do some shopping. She needed more candles for Sunday morning, when she and Cecil would get together and praise
le Bon Dieu.
B
ertrand stood behind the worktable decorating a small cake layer. He held an icing bag in one hand and a flower nail in the other. There were three more cakes waiting to be frosted on the counter.
“Want some help with those?” asked Piper. “I love making roses, and I've still got some time before I have to leave for the audition.”
“Be my guest,” said Bertrand, putting down the flower nail and the bag. “It would be wonderful if you make the roses for me. They are so time-consuming. I like to put at least eight on each cake.”
After washing her hands and donning an apron, Piper picked up the pointed stainless-steel rod with a small, round platform about the size of a half-dollar affixed to the end. With a dab of icing, she secured a square of parchment to the platform. Holding the flower nail in her left hand, she applied firm and steady pressure to the plump bag she held with her right. Piper focused on the stream of stiff, pink buttercream icing that oozed from the opening of the piping tip. After fashioning a cone on top of the parchment, she picked up another bag with a different tip. She piped a wide strip as she turned the flower nail, covering the top of the cone. Slowly spinning the nail, she made longer, overlapping petals, over and over. When she reached the bottom, Piper had created a luscious pink rose.
“You are very good,” said Bertrand, admiring her work and coming up behind her to put his hands on her shoulders. “And very quick.”
“Thanks,” said Piper, feeling uncomfortable at his touch but trying not to squirm. “My mother taught me how when I was little. I can practically do them with my eyes closed now. At our bakery in New Jersey, we sometimes decorate things in the front window. You wouldn't believe how many people stop to watch when we make the roses. It's great, because it usually entices them to come into the shop and buy something, too.”
“Très bien,”
said Bertrand, brightening. “We don't have room in our window, but would you like to make roses at that little table in the corner out front? Our customers would probably enjoy the demonstration.”
“Why not?” said Piper, feeling relieved at the opportunity to get away. “It could be fun.”
She gathered her materials, and within a few minutes, she was set up in the bakery showroom. She repeated the rose-making process again and again, gently sliding the parchment squares with the finished flowers onto a large baking sheet. A small crowd quickly gathered to watch.
“What's the name of that thing you're making the roses with?” asked a woman. “It looks like a giant thumbtack.”
Piper smiled, continuing to concentrate on making the icing petals. “It's called a flower nail.”
“You could probably kill somebody with that thing.”
She looked up to see where the comment had come from. Falkner Duchamps was grinning at her.
Was he really back again? He was starting to creep her out.
Her facial expression must have displayed her discomfort.
“Don't worry,” said Falkner. “I'm not stalking you. My dissertation meeting was horrendous. I needed to cheer myself up.”
S
abrina Houghton unlocked and pulled back the security gate. She entered the Duchamps Antiques and Illuminations shop and flipped the switch on the wall. Instantly the large space was bathed in glowing light coming from dozens of wrought-iron and crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. Below, gleaming mahogany tables and sideboards held a wide assortment of sparkling candelabra and polished candlesticks. Glass display cases contained smaller silver candle holders, providing purchasing opportunities at lower price points. In the three years Sabrina had been working during the day at Ellinore's shop, she never failed to take pleasure in the sight of the glittering world Ellinore Duchamps had created.
As she pushed her long red hair behind her ears, Sabrina marveled at Ellinore's unerring taste and ability to find beautiful things. She knew she had learned much from her boss. Ellinore took Sabrina to auctions and estate sales as they sought new items to continually freshen the shop's stock. Sabrina hoped to use the knowledge she had gleaned to acquire beautiful objects of her own for the home she and Leo would share after their marriage.
As she continued into the store, Sabrina looked up at a particular chandelier dripping with crystal prisms. The hand-cut glass was faceted with patterns that increased refraction, creating a magical, twinkling effect. Sabrina had fallen in love with the chandelier the moment she saw it at an auction of the contents of an old Garden District mansion. Ellinore had paid handsomely for it even then. Now it hung in the shop for ten times that price. Depending on how generous the wedding gift checks were, Sabrina hoped that she could buy it.
She went to the back room and laid down her purse. When she came out front again, the bell over the front door tinkled.
A man and his teenage son, both dressed in Bermuda shorts and tennis shoes, entered the shop and began to browse around. The boy pointed upward.
“Look at that one, Dad. Mom would love that.”
The father looked at the chandelier. “You're right, Russ, she would.” He turned to Sabrina. “How much is that?” he asked.
“Fifteen thousand,” she said softly.
The man nodded. “It's worth it.”
Father and son continued to study the chandelier as Sabrina guiltily uttered a silent prayer that they would decide against buying it. She wanted Ellinore to succeed with her shop, but that chandelier was meant for her.
O
n the cab ride from the bakery to the casting director's office, Piper noticed two police cars pulling up in front of Muffuletta Mike's sandwich shop on Royal Street. The flashing lights signaled that something was wrong.
Piper was immediately curious but tried to focus on the job at hand. She had to go over the sides of dialogue Gabe had sent her to prepare. There were only a few lines, and she already had them memorized. Though the role was small, the scene would set up the entire movie. It definitely had the potential to be quite memorable.
The part called for a female in her late twenties, naturally beautiful with a good figure. The character, Amy, would be costumed somewhat provocatively. She would encounter the male lead as she was preparing to climb aboard one of the St. Patrick's parade floats. At the end of a short conversation, Amy reveals her name. Later her character would be found dead.
There were a half dozen empty chairs in the waiting area when Piper arrived. She wrote her information on the sign-in sheet and noted that several actresses had already been in. Piper figured she was probably the first one being seen after lunch.
The door at the side of the room opened. A middle-aged woman with a pencil stuck behind her ear walked toward the table to look at the sign-in sheet and glanced up at her. “Piper? Come on in. We're all ready for you.”
The audition room wasn't much larger than the waiting area. A young male sat behind a table with a script open in front of him. Piper walked over to the X on the floor, stood on it, and smoothed her short skirt while the casting director took her place behind a video camera set up on a tripod.
“Piper, this is Sam Micks. He's going to be reading with you. Do you have any questions before we start?” asked the casting director.
“No. I think I'm all set,” answered Piper.
“Okay, state your name and height, and whenever you're ready.”
Piper took a deep breath and exhaled as the video camera began to roll. “Piper Donovan. Five foot eight.”
After a few moments, she locked eyes with Sam. She'd never even seen him before, but right now she'd make him the most fascinating man she'd ever beheld. She had to convince the people who watched this tape that she was looking at Channing Tatum.
Piper had the first line. “Oh, excuse me.”
“No, excuse
me,
” said Sam.
“It's so mobbed, and I'm afraid the float will leave without me.”
“I doubt they'd be dumb enough to do that.”
“Well, you'd be surprised,” she said.
“You should try making them wait,” said Sam.
“That wouldn't be fair,” Piper said, trying to look a bit confused.
“Well, maybe not to them, but it isn't fair to me if you leave me already.”
“I really have to go.” Piper turned toward the door in the small casting office as she imagined herself stepping up to one of the colorful parade floats.
“At least tell me your name.”
Piper tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder as she glanced back at Sam with a glint in her eye. “I'm Amy.”
“You look more like a Leigh Ann to me.”
Piper gave him a slightly bemused look as she continued toward the door.
“That was great,” said the casting director as she clicked off the camera. “I'll get the tape to the director right away. And would you be available tomorrow and Sunday?”
“Sunday, too?”
“Yes,” said the casting director. “We're shooting the tomb scene on Sunday.”
“Tomb scene?”
“Yeah, there's a scene where Amy is buried alive. You're not claustrophobic, are you?”
P
iper didn't consider herself superstitious, but she was unnerved by the idea of shooting a scene while trapped in a tomb. Imagining herself being laid in a coffin made her chest tighten. She did recognize, though, why the director wanted to take advantage of New Orleans's legendary burial places for the movie. They were fascinating and dramatic.
She looked out the taxi window at the picturesque Creole cottages and brick Spanish Colonial houses on the way back to the bakery. Piper could understand why New Orleans was an attractive location for filming. The culturally rich neighborhoods and diverse locations, from bayou to big city, provided vivid backdrops. There were willing extras of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities available, as well as state-of-the-art sound stages and plenty of skilled crew members. Piper also knew that Louisiana offered attractive tax incentives to the film industry to bring its business to New Orleans. The city was working hard to earn the moniker “Hollywood of the South.”
She should be excited about the opportunity to book some work here. Though she didn't have the part yet, Piper knew that the audition had gone very well. She also knew that that didn't mean a thing. Her look, voice, and presence had to be what the director and producers had in mind, what they envisioned as the perfect Amy for their movie. She hoped the tight shooting schedule would work in her favor. The parade was tomorrow. A decision had to be made quickly. There was no time to drag out auditions over a few days.
Usually she'd be hoping fervently that she would receive an offer, but this time Piper didn't find herself praying for the role. She felt anxious, though she couldn't pinpoint why. Was it too soon for her to be acting again? She didn't like to admit it, even to herself, but Piper knew she wasn't operating at her usual energy level. The doctor had said it was going to take a while before her assaulted system would be back to normal. He'd suggested she might want to get some counseling as well for the trauma she'd gone through. Piper wondered if she'd made a mistake in dismissing that advice.
Her thoughts were diverted as the taxi turned onto Royal Street and came to a stop. The street was jammed with traffic.
“What's going on?” she asked, stretching to see.
“Don't know,” said the driver. “The police have cordoned off the area.”
A few minutes passed, and still the taxi didn't move. Piper felt herself tensing. She was anxious to get to Boulangerie Bertrand. She'd been gone too long.
She took her wallet from her bag and pulled out some bills.
“I'm going to walk the rest of the way.”
