Who Do, Voodoo?, page 12
“Do you know what a séance is?” Nola said to me. “Do you believe?”
“My mind is open,” I said.
“And what if Sophie’s spirit tells us Robin is guilty?” Nola said. “Can you handle that?”
“What if Sophie’s spirit tells you that someone else killed her?” I said.
Nola raised her eyebrows.
I touched Linda’s shoulder and said, “Thank you for inviting me. I’d love to come.”
Nola, Linda, and I gathered our things and went down the stairs toward the street. Linda’s lips were pinched together, her head bowed.
“Talking about Sophie must be difficult for you right now,” I said.
“Very. But I want to know what happened. I feel so guilty,” Linda said. “We should have walked her to her car. We let her go into that parking lot alone.”
Chapter Eighteen
I got home from Hissy Fit a little after eight, too early to call Robin’s lawyer. I put on a pot of coffee, then showered and dressed. My first client wasn’t until ten so I switched on my computer in the den, found Ralph Barnes’s number, and called to introduce myself.
He already knew who I was. “I’m glad you called. I’d like to get a statement from you.”
“Whatever I can do,” I said. “How’s Robin? When will she be released?”
“I’ll know more when the DNA results come in.” Barnes’s tone was flat, matter-of-fact. Not the eager, compassionate advocate I expected.
“When will that be?”
“The test is being rushed. We might hear as early as tomorrow morning. If it comes back positive, Robin could be arraigned on Monday.”
“Arraigned?” I sat up straight. “How can that be?”
“I said could. Depends on what other evidence the police put together. They’re still searching for the murder weapon. They have a warrant to go through her home.”
“Does she have to stay in jail while all that’s happening?”
“They can hold her for forty-eight hours. Then they have to either arrest or release her. The publicity on the murder is creating pressure for an arrest. The police have witnesses who heard Robin and the victim argue that night. If they come across someone who saw Robin near the victim’s car, or if the blood comes back a match, the DA will probably charge her.”
My body tensed. “Didn’t Robin explain to you what happened? Why they argued?”
“I’m sorry. Please understand that I can’t discuss conversations with my client. All I can tell you is that the police intend to keep Robin in custody as long as they can.”
“What can I do to help?”
“You were there that night. Tell me what you saw.”
I gave him my account, from the tarot cards on the door to finding Sophie’s body. “But I want to emphasize again—Robin was relaxed when she came back from walking Orchid to her car. There were no signs that she had just pummeled Sophie to near death.”
“What do you mean?”
“Robin and I have been friends since grade school. I know her better than anyone, and I’m a psychologist. I would have noticed an inconsistency in her behavior,” I said. “There has to be something we can do to get her released and clear her.”
He sighed. “Tell me who murdered Sophie Darcantel. I’ve been up all night, trying to get Robin released into my custody. I wish she had called me before they took her statement. Now we need the DNA to come back negative or find some evidence, hard evidence, that points toward someone else.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. Robin had promised she’d call Barnes on the way to the station. Leave it to her to decide her innocence would protect her.
“I think Madame Iyå knows something. And her son, Jimmy, used to date Sophie. You should talk to them,” I said.
“Did you see Madame Iyå or Jimmy in the parking lot?”
“No.”
“Was anyone else in the parking lot when you found the body?”
“No. Only Nick and me. What happens next?” I said.
“We let the police continue to investigate. And hope they uncover another suspect.”
“What makes you think they’re looking for someone else?” I said. “It seems like the entire investigation involves building a case against Robin. What about Sophie’s other friends? Her clients?”
“It’s too early to hire an investigator. I want to wait. If Robin is arrested and arraigned, we’ll begin our own inquiries,” he said.
I decided to wait before telling Barnes about Sophie’s spell book. He may be hesitant to search for the killer. I wasn’t. That book may give me some names. Why didn’t I go through the damn thing more thoroughly last night after the lights came back on?
I looked at my watch. It was nine forty. “When can I call Robin?”
“You can’t. But you can visit her. I’ll tell her we spoke. If you remember anything else, please call me.”
I agreed and hung up. My neck was stiff with tension. After I downed two aspirin with a cup of coffee, I picked up the messages from my answering machine.
My mother had called at seven, Jarret at seven thirty.
“Lizzie Bear. I’m back in town. Call me on my cell. Let’s get together.” Jarret’s voice was casual and friendly.
No, thanks.
The other message was from Nick, apologizing for missing my call last night. He left Sophie’s address and said to meet him at one. I gathered my tote and the spell book, locked up the house, and left for the office.
Back-to-back clients kept me busy until noon. Each session was a struggle for my concentration; my mind kept wandering to Robin alone in jail. As I sat at my desk making notes, I decided to cancel my next-day appointments to be fair to my clients—none of whom were in crisis mode like I was—and to clear my calendar to help Robin. I left messages with apologies and then drove over the hill to meet Nick.
Sophie’s apartment was in an old stucco building on Orange Street, a few miles east of the Fairfax District and CBS Television City. As I walked up the steps to the two-story Spanish structure, I saw the curtain in the front apartment move aside. At the landing, I found “Darcantel/Miller” on the directory. Before I could ring the bell, an elderly man opened the front door.
He looked me over, and then scanned the street behind me. “You the press?”
“No.” I smiled. “I’m here to meet the police in apartment three.”
“You have ID?” He blocked the doorway.
I smiled and pulled a business card from my purse. “Detective Dave Gordon will vouch for me.”
After he read my card, he nodded and let me in. “Okay. The police are down the corridor in number three.”
The door to the apartment was ajar. I knocked lightly and took a step inside. Across the room, sheer white curtains covered the windows and pooled on the hardwood floor. A white deco couch sat against one of the white-stuccoed walls. Red-and-gold tapestry pillows were stacked in the corner. To the left of the front door, an open counter separated the living room from a small kitchen, where I saw Carla Pratt on the phone. Damn.
She hung up, her brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?”
I pulled my shoulders back and gave her a confident smile. “Hello, Carla. Are Dave and Nick Garfield here?”
“You can’t be in here.” Carla came around the counter and stopped me before I could walk in farther.
“Actually, I was invited.”
Carla didn’t blink. “No.”
I had nothing to gain by riling her, so I held my smile and said, “Professor Garfield asked me to do a consult.”
“He had no right to invite you without clearing it with me beforehand,” she said.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize. I would have called you myself, but I assumed you were in Santa Barbara interviewing Robin’s daughter.”
“Out in the hall.” She pointed to the door.
“Did Orchid tell you she was with Robin in the parking lot that night?” I said.
“I can’t talk about the case.”
I looked past her, down the hallway. If I kept talking, maybe Dave or Nick would hear me and come out. “I wonder—doesn’t statistical probability suggest Sophie’s killer was likely male and someone she knew?”
“Probabilities aren’t facts.” Carla edged me toward the door.
Dave’s voice came from down the hall. “Nick will be done in the bedroom in about fifteen minutes, Carla. What happened to the manager?”
“He went to answer his phone,” she said. “There’s someone here to see you.”
I waved at Dave. He responded with an angry stare. I knew that old expression. Same look he gave me when he caught me snooping in his room when we were kids.
“I’m here to meet with Nick. Did he tell you?” I said, knowing he didn’t.
“I’ll be right back,” Dave said to Carla while grabbing me by the arm. He pulled me outside into the corridor, toward the back door. “What the hell are you doing here, Liz?”
“I came to look at Sophie’s bedroom. Nick thought my input would be valuable.” I hiked my purse on my shoulder and brushed lint off my sleeve to avoid his glare.
“Your input? Since when are you Nick Garfield’s assistant?”
“I’m not anyone’s assistant. But while you and Carla are holding Robin in jail, unjustly I might add, Nick and I are going to find Sophie’s killer.”
“Not in there, you’re not,” Dave said, pointing to Sophie’s apartment, “and not on the city’s dime. I called in Nick for his opinion, not yours. And, by the way, I don’t want you dating him.”
“Excuse me?” I hissed at Dave. “That’s it. Enough with the looks and treating me like a delinquent. What is this, high school? Where do you get off telling me who to date?”
“Listen. It’s bad enough you showed up here, trying to insert yourself into an investigation. Now you and Nick are suddenly a team? Watch yourself. You could get hurt, Liz. Did he happen to mention the woman in Costa Rica he almost married last summer? Don’t make me choose between you two because my choice will always be you. Don’t put me in the middle. I don’t want to lose my best friend.”
Almost married? I drew back, blindsided, and flashed on Sophie’s spell book: “To Break a New Lover’s Old Relationship.” No. I couldn’t let Dave sidetrack me.
“Lose your best friend? Quit overreacting. My best friend, Robin, is in jail, Dave. I’m trying to help her,” I said.
“You can’t go in there. It’s against procedure for anyone not on official business to be in there without the occupant’s permission. Nick’s a consultant. You’re not,” Dave said. “Wait for him outside.”
Dave went into the apartment. Instead of going outside, I decided to sit on the back stairs and wait. I needed to hear Nick’s opinion about Sophie’s room before I came back for the séance tonight. I didn’t relish attending without a clearer sense of who Sophie was or what I was getting into.
After a few minutes, Dave and Carla came out of the apartment. When their voices faded, I peeked down the corridor. They were at the front door. I waited until they went outside, then slipped into Sophie’s apartment and found Nick taking photos inside a bedroom.
“Hi,” I said, catching my breath.
He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “About time. Give me a minute. I want to finish photographing this altar.”
While he clicked off pictures, I looked around. Unlike the airiness of the rest of the apartment, Sophie’s room was darker, more seductive. Above the bed, a black, three-foot heart was outlined with lavish flair on the deep-sunflower-gold wall. The center of the heart was checkered, a round dot in the center of each small square. Bold black fleur-de-lis lines flowed from the top, bottom, and sides. Black-metal wall sconces with burnt candles hung on each side.
Next to the door, a mirrored dresser held a wooden statue of the Virgin Mary surrounded by votives. A red-lace scarf draped the shade of a small brass lamp in the corner. Makeup, jewelry, small books, and jars littered the top of the dresser. A violet sweater hung on a drawer pull. The scent of roses permeated the air. I pictured Sophie getting ready for the concert in a rush, leaving a mess behind to clean up later.
Nick set down his camera.
“Find anything interesting?” I said.
He turned, still smiling. “Everything in here is interesting.”
“Tell me.”
“Sophie was an initiate of Haitian Vodou. The room is a homage to Erzulie, the Vodou spirit of love and beauty. The powders, icons, tools, and photo placement say she was performing rituals in here. Sophie knew what she was doing.”
I nodded as he gestured around the room. The flag on the wall behind him caught my attention: the palm frond symbol was the same one I saw inside Sophie’s spell book. The symbol was embroidered on satin in bright-green sequins and surrounded by a black-sequined fleur-de-lis pattern. “Ayizan” was sewn in sequins across the top.
“What is that?” I said, pointing.
Nick looked up. “A drapo—a ceremonial flag of Haitian Vodou. They’re rare, never sold, passed from generation to generation. Priceless, in fact.”
“What does Ayizan mean?”
“Ayizan is the mother of all Vodou initiates. The young apprentice priestess employs her drapo to talk to spirits and start rituals. It’s appropriate that it’s over her altar. See that yam?” He pointed to the top of the chest. “It’s an offering to the spirit Ayizan. She has to be invoked before Erzulie can be invoked.”
“What about the heart over the bed?” I said.
“It’s the symbol, or the veve, of the love goddess Erzulie. One of Sophie’s tasks as an initiate would be to draw it perfectly and I’d say she did an excellent job. The rest of the room is also decorated in Erzulie’s honor. Gold was one of Erzulie’s favorite colors, and the statue of the Virgin suits the motif.”
“You talk about Erzulie like she’s real.”
“I think Sophie believed she was.” Nick started snapping pictures again.
Interesting, but could any of this lead us to her killer? I scanned the room. “Is there a computer in here?”
“No. Maybe the police took it.”
On the altar beneath the drapo, I saw Sam Collins’s picture behind a red candle. A black candle, burnt halfway, was in front of a blurred photo of Robin. The photo was different from the one left on Robin’s front door.
“I’m curious,” I said. “If the police took Sophie’s computer, why didn’t they take anything else, like those photos of Sam and Robin?”
“This isn’t a crime scene. Anything the police consider related to her murder would have been removed yesterday. They left the altar set up for me to see.”
In the center of the altar, a framed picture of a woman in late nineteenth-century dress was encircled by white votives and a dish of water. Labeled glass jars were lined behind the photos: “Lavender,” “Allspice,” “Sage,” “Black Art,” “Catnip,” “Brazil Wood,” “Betony Root,” “Coriander,” “Myrrh.” Holy cards with pictures of saints, incense sticks, and trinkets littered the bureau top.
“All this clutter is oppressive,” I said. “The longer I stand here, the more suffocating it feels.”
Nick nodded. “The spirit of Erzulie has a dark and covetous side. Sophie’s dedication to her may have provoked the jealousy toward Robin. The burned candle in front of Robin’s picture could easily be a black-magic spell, like the symbols on the photo left on Robin’s door. The red candle in front of Sam Collins’s picture is for love or lust spells. The photo of the old woman and the setup around it is another homage. Interesting. She’s not a familiar face in Vodou lore. At least not to me.”
“Do you think Sophie was in a voodoo cult?”
He shook his head. “Cult? No. Nothing in here deviates from standard Haitian Vodou practice. It’s dark but nothing twisted.”
Candles, photos, powders—something was missing. I looked around one more time, then stopped at Robin’s photo. “The tarot deck. Did you find it?”
Nick slid his camera into his pocket. “No. No tarot deck.”
“Carla knew about the tarot cards yesterday. Maybe the police took it?”
“Dave and Carla wanted me to analyze Sophie’s occult paraphernalia. One of them would have told me about a tarot deck. Maybe Sophie kept it in her car.”
“I’ll ask him anyway,” I said. “I brought something much more interesting to show you.”
His eyes shone with interest. “What?”
“I think one of your hoodoo spirits tried to spook me last night,” I said.
“You? A spirit? I’m surprised, Liz. And I’m sorry I missed your call,” he said. “Hoodoo spirits are one of my specialties.”
“Exactly the reason I phoned you. I got a cryptic message from a spell book.”
Nick paused. “What spell book?”
“You said Vodou was an oral tradition, correct? Nothing written down?”
“Correct,” Nick said.
“And you believe Sophie was a Haitian Vodou initiate?”
“Obviously,” he said spreading his arms around the room. “Why?”
I smiled. “Because I think I have Sophie’s Vodou initiate textbook.”
“There is no such thing.”
“I think you should see it before you make that judgment. Sophie left an envelope on Robin’s desk the afternoon of the concert. I opened it last night and found a notebook inside, filled with handwritten rituals and spells, dating back to the nineteenth century. A sketch of that drapo,” I said, pointing to the hanging above the dresser, “is on the title page. The whole book is right up your ancient-manuscript-loving alley.”
“And the cryptic message?”
“After the power failed, the book slipped off my bed. By itself. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, and maybe I was still a little drunk, but the spell it fell open to read like a warning. It was an incantation to imprison the mind of an enemy.”
“You weren’t even tipsy when I brought you home. Where is it? Dave should see it, too.” Nick’s gaze drifted behind me.
I followed his eyes. Crap. Dave and Carla stood in the doorway.
Chapter Nineteen
