Who Do, Voodoo?, page 16
“I can’t imagine what it’s like to worry about having your children taken away,” I said, glancing at the black-and-white photo surrounded by white votives on Sophie’s altar.
The woman appeared to be in her thirties, dressed in nineteenth-century garb. She was looking to the side, away from the camera, with her chin slightly tilted down. The whites of her eyes made the irises appear to be black. Her rich, dark-toned complexion seemed flawless. A small mouth, delicate eyebrows, and high cheekbones framed a broad nose. Black hair was pulled off her face; wisps graced the sides of her slim neck.
I pointed to the photo. “Is that Callia?”
“Yes.” Nola sat on the corner of the bed, staring at the image of her ancestor. “Callia became more and more obsessive. To protect herself, she made every buyer sign and date the page of the spell they bought. She forced them into a covenant saying they couldn’t reveal the spell or where it came from, or they would trigger the curse. The legend goes that anyone who signed Callia’s spell book and then talked about the power of her voodoo died a violent death.”
I thought of Buzzy. “And did that really happen? Or was it only a myth?”
“It happened once, for sure. When I was a kid, I visited my grandma Florence in New Orleans. She sat Sophie and me down and showed us a newspaper clipping from the New Orleans Picayune dated in the eighteen-somethings,” Nola said. “The article was about two sisters from New Orleans who went to a voodoo queen to buy love spells. One sister—what the hell was her name? Alice maybe? I forget. Anyway, she bought a spell to keep her husband faithful, and the other sister bought a spell to destroy her lover’s marriage. The voodoo queen made the married sister a potion to spread across her conjugal bed. What a weird word—conjugal. Who talks like that? Anyway, she sold the other sister a talisman to wear only when she was with her married lover. The sisters ignored the warning about the curse and showed the potion and the talisman to each other. But what the married sister didn’t know was that both spells were intended to keep the same man. Her husband was cheating on her with her own sister.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“I’m not. It said so in the paper.” Nola picked up Callia’s photo. “The wife went through her husband’s coat one day and found her sister’s talisman in the pocket. She confronted him, told him about the voodoo queen in the Quarter and that she knew the talisman belonged to her sister. He blamed her sister for seducing him. The wife left the house, found her sister, and shot her. Then she shot herself.”
I blinked and took a swig of wine. “So both spells worked. The husband would never be unfaithful to that wife again, and the other sister caused the end of her lover’s marriage.”
Nola smiled. “Weird, huh?”
Not that weird. It wasn’t far off from family problems I encountered in my practice. Minus the voodoo, duplicity, and murder.
“The cheating sister was a reckless liar, a real bitch. The husband told the police everything, but Callia’s name never hit the papers. He didn’t know who she was.” Nola put the photo back onto the altar and studied it. “Grandma Florence showed us the sisters’ names in the spell book with the date that matched the clipping. Here’s the point: it didn’t matter if a spell was for love, money, or revenge. The curse on Callia’s spell book protected her from being exposed.”
I shuddered a little and pictured Nick poring through the spell book at his house. “Why was the spell book passed on to Sophie instead of you or your father?”
“Callia believed women were very, very powerful. The spell book went through the family from daughter to daughter,” Nola said. “My grandmother had two kids: Sophie’s mother and my father. When Sophie’s mother died, Grandma Florence raised Sophie in the same house in New Orleans that Callia had lived in. Sophie was the daughter of the daughter. I’m the daughter of the son. So, when Grandma Florence passed away, the spell book went to Sophie.”
“Did Sophie show you the spell book when she came to town?”
“Hell no.” Nola finished her second glass of wine, sat on the bed, and leaned against a pillow. “She was the one, Miss-Aren’t-I-Special. We just didn’t talk about it. I know voodoo, but Sophie was deep into it by the time she moved here. I knew she wasn’t supposed to cast spells from the spell book until she was initiated as a Vodou queen. Another big freakin’ deal that was all about Sophie. I didn’t know that Sophie was showing around the spell book until Jimmy mentioned it to me.”
“Sophie and Jimmy were good friends?”
“She dated him for a while when she moved into this building. I suppose that’s when Sophie got swept into Madame Iyå’s bullshit. But when Sophie met Sam, everything changed. She dumped Jimmy and became obsessed with Sam. She even practiced love spells on him.”
“Didn’t you warn her not to talk about Callia’s spells?”
“Sophie?” Nola stood up in a wobble, then sat back down. “Are you kidding? She survived Katrina. She thought she was invincible. And she was in love. She didn’t pay attention to anyone or anything. God only knows who else Sophie sold spells to or if she warned them about the curse.”
I emptied the bottle into her glass. “I wonder if she wrote the names of her customers in the spell book the way Callia did. I can’t say that Sophie was killed by a curse, but it is possible that someone who bought a spell from her was troubled enough to either want retaliation if the results were bad or was paranoid that Sophie knew too much about them. And since most murders are committed by people the victim knows, the spell book might provide us with a suspect list.”
“Yeah, good thinking,” Nola said. “But you notice that the spell book isn’t in this room. Until we find it, no one’s going to discover anything.”
“I’ll keep looking.” I picked up the violet sweater and held it up. “Tawny will want this. She worked with Sophie and might have other information we don’t know about. Do you have her number?”
“Linda does.”
“By the way, did Sophie have a tarot deck?”
“Tarot?” Nola scrunched her nose, shaking her head. “No. Tarot has nothing to do with Vodoun or New Orleans voodoo. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” Very curious.
We closed Sophie’s room and found Linda in the living room. Her suitcase was resting at the front door. I gathered my coat and purse, and then asked Linda for Tawny’s number.
“Are you going to be okay?” I said.
“It’ll be good to be away from here tonight,” Linda said. “Thanks for taking the sweater to Tawny. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
Nola walked me to the door and gave me her number, too. “If you stumble upon the spell book, call me.”
“I will.”
“And if Tawny tells you anything . . .” Nola said.
“I’ll call you.”
“Thanks for coming,” Linda said. “Tonight was more than I expected, but I felt Sophie was here in spirit. I hope she found peace.”
I touched her arm. “Try to stay centered. You had a rough week. Be safe. I’ll be in touch. Maybe I’ll see you at Hissy Fit again soon.”
“I’d like that.” Linda smiled.
Henry’s lights were out when I left the building and crossed the street to my car. I drove home and parked in front. I needed to dash inside for my cell phone. I walked up the steps, fishing for the key to the front door in the bottom of my purse. When I reached the landing, I still couldn’t find it. Damn. I tucked my wallet under my armpit, shoved my checkbook between my teeth. Things were getting looser in the bottom of my bag. I tipped it halfway to separate the soft from the heavy. When I finally got a finger around the heart-shaped key ring, I heard a soft thud at my feet.
I looked down. The pouch of Madame Iyås lust gris-gris was spilled over my welcome mat. Oh, great. I shook my head, remembering her ridiculous instructions for it. There wasn’t a chance I’d be leaving this across my threshold to entice Nick’s lust. I would sweep it up in the morning. I went inside and called Nick to tell him I was on my way. I stopped at the mirror for a lipstick check. And to fluff my hair.
Chapter Twenty-four
Trees framed the amber light that swept from Nick’s porch and across the lawn. When I pulled up, he was waiting at his front door and gestured for me to park in the driveway.
As I walked up the two steps onto the wooden porch, he leaned against the doorframe in jeans and a faded black T-shirt that hung from his wide shoulders. He smiled and touched the back of my neck. The dull ache that had built up in the past four hours relaxed. I looked at him, returning his smile.
“Well? Meet any ghosts tonight?” Nick said.
“One or two.” I grinned.
He led me into the living room. The blaze in the fireplace glowed golden against the mustard-colored walls. I took off my coat and held my hands in front of the fire to warm them. I noticed the ivory-toothed, turquoise mask on the mantle.
Nick came up beside me. “The mask is a replica of a Mixtec-Aztec relic from the sixteenth century. The original is in the British Museum. This was a gift from a friend I met in South America last summer.”
“It’s extraordinary.” I looked down at the black, rust, and beige Aztec rug covering the dark wood floor. “Did you get this rug in South America, too?”
“Different trip, but yes. I bought it from a rug dealer when I was researching Mesoamerican human sacrifice rituals of the Incan Empire.”
Oh, yeah, I shop that way, too.
Across from the mask on the mantel, the Bible, the Koran, and the Gnostic Gospels were stacked between brass bookends. I moved away from the fire and set my purse on a chair in front of the bookcase. Plato, Poe, Augustine, and Yeats were on one shelf; The Ultimate Football Almanac and the Sports Illustrated History of Baseball were tucked in among sports biographies and reference books on another.
Nick leaned against his desk in front of the window, watching me. Behind him, a black laptop was open to Google search. Next to the computer, a legal pad scribbled with notes sat beside the open spell book.
Music played in the background. My head fell into rhythm with the slow shuffling beat. “Muddy Waters?”
“Yep. Chicago blues remind me of home.” Nick reached for my hand and slowly twirled me around. “Want to dance?”
“Later. I have a lot to tell you.”
We settled onto the paprika twill sofa, his arm across the cushion behind me, his body warm next to mine. He smelled woodsy, like pine mixed with lavender, and I noticed his hair was damp. I tucked my legs beneath me and sunk into the soft cushion.
“I want to hear it all,” he said. “Was the séance what you expected?”
“I think it was more than Madame Iyå expected.” I gave him the details, ending with Linda’s trance and the slamming door.
Nick nodded. “The girl and the slamming door could have been part of the act.”
“I don’t think Linda was acting. And Madame Iyå looked as shocked as the rest of us when she ended the séance.”
“What makes you think Linda wasn’t part of the show?”
“When she turned to me, I felt like I was looking at a different person—the way she held her body, how her mouth was set. And her eyes appeared to be dark brown or black—Linda’s eyes are blue.”
“Contacts?”
“She didn’t have time to remove them.”
“Was she exhausted afterward? Did she remember anything?”
“No memory. She was disoriented and could barely stand. Her face was colorless.”
Nick nodded, a finger to his lips, his eyes narrowed. “I witnessed possession once, in Haiti. It was intensely draining on the subject, a soldier in the mountains. He collapsed and had no recollection of what happened to him. In general, a spirit is known to take over a practitioner or finds an unguarded participant in a ritualistic circle. Someone like Madame Iyå is too sidetracked by her own scam to be open to a possession. I don’t know about the others, but you’re a doubter. There’s not a respectable spirit around that would select you for possession at a séance.”
“Oh, thanks. An added bonus to my complete and utter sanity.”
“From your description, I would have guessed Tawny was most vulnerable to possession. But if the spirit chose Linda, then she was the most impressionable target in the room. Interesting. But possessed or not, someone wanted you to get the message about the spell book. What happened after the séance ended?”
I told him about my face-off with Madame Iyå.
“Why did you confront her?” Nick said.
“I lost my patience when she scared Tawny into making another donation.”
“That’s how Madame Iyå earns her living.” Nick got up to poke the fire. “Okay, so you accused her of being a fraud. What if she has more information about Sophie? Or you find evidence in the spell book that marks her as Sophie’s killer?”
“If I need to talk to her again, I’ll buy something. I already know that works.” The music stopped. My stomach growled, breaking the silence. I folded my arms and leaned back into the cushion.
“When was the last time you ate?”
I wrinkled my forehead and tried to remember. “I don’t know.”
“I can fix that. Come with me.” He took my hand and led me into the kitchen.
I sat on a red-leather padded chrome stool at the eating bar. “What did you learn from the spell book?”
“Let me heat this up, then I’ll show you.”
He took a covered glass bowl from the refrigerator and scooped pasta with red sauce into a pan on the stove. He slid garlic bread into the toaster oven and poured out two glasses of red wine while I told him Nola’s story about Callia. The spicy scent of tomato, garlic, anchovies, and olives filled the room. He spooned the hot pasta onto a plate, grated fresh Parmesan cheese on top, and set the plate in front of me.
I bit into a forkful of rigatoni and closed my eyes. “This is delicious. Who taught you to cook?”
“My dad’s buddy had an Italian restaurant in Chicago. They’d leave me with the guy’s old grandmother in the kitchen. She taught me.” He sat on the stool next to mine. “You eat—my turn to fill you in.”
“Please.” I took a sip of wine and picked up my fork again.
“Callia’s spell book contains a collection of Haitian Vodou rituals and their effects—some of the rituals I haven’t seen for years, some I’ve never seen—along with the prices she charged. And I found the curse.”
“How did you know to look for one?”
“I always look for curses before they pop up on their own. I hate otherworldly surprises, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” I popped the last bite of garlic bread into my mouth and finished my wine.
Nick left the kitchen and put the music back on, returning with the spell book. He traced his finger around the leather cover’s gold-leaf border. “There are three lines here. The script is so small that it’s only legible under a magnifying glass. The centerline is an incantation in French to protect the contents. A curse of death for revealing the contents repeats around the cover from front to back.”
“Is Buzzy Lacowsky’s name inside? Yesterday he told me about a spell he bought from Sophie. Last night he died in an accident.”
Nick rubbed his chin and set the spell book on the counter. “The curse in action.”
“Or coincidence. But if I were to believe that Callia’s curse brought death to anyone who betrayed the promise of silence, I wonder, does it have a lesser punishment for a nosy, just-looking violation? Do you think the curse made the lights go out last night when I tried to read the spell book?”
He smiled. “I doubt if offended spirits would shut down the power in Studio City to annoy you. What do you think?”
“I’ll hold on to common sense for the time being and agree it didn’t.” I glanced at the spell book. “I’m sorry, I interrupted—did you see Buzzy’s name?”
“I can’t remember all the names I saw. Entries in this century only had initials.” He opened the book. “The earliest date was 1866. I recognized some of the names on the older entries. American voodoo was thriving in New Orleans. Marie Laveau and the voodoo king Don Pedro were well-known practitioners, notorious for their promises of love, fame, and wealth. Their signatures are inside, along with those of a few Louisiana politicians. I imagine they were all happy to agree to anonymity for themselves and Callia. Spells were sold until 1930, dates and prices entered by the same hand—Callia’s, I presume—then stopped. In October of 2005 entries began again, this time in two different hands.”
I looked at him. “One may be Sophie’s?”
“Could be.” Nick flipped to a “Fidelity Spell” and pointed. “Here is an entry in Callia’s hand, dated 1885.”
The spell was written in cursive letters, elegant and fluid, but careful and clear. Spell dates and prices were in the same hand but appeared more rushed, less reverent. The first name on the list was Alice Gillette. She purchased the “Fidelity Spell” for ten dollars.
I pointed to the entry. “Nola claimed one of the doomed sisters was called Alice.”
“Nola told you there was a newspaper clipping. Let’s see if I can find the archived article.”
I stopped him, then slid off my stool and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks for dinner, Nick. It was yummy.”
He blushed.
I followed him to his computer in the living room, pulled a chair close to his, and sat down. With my elbow propped on the desk and my chin resting in my hand, I watched Nick search for the article. He looked like a college student in his thick brown eyeglass frames and faded T-shirt. I was close enough to see the freckles on his aquiline nose. A shadow of a beard was beginning to show. Why didn’t I notice how sexy he was twenty years ago?
He must have felt my stare because he glanced at me as he typed. I grinned. He kept typing. Four screens later, he pointed to a Picayune article on the Gillette sisters from July 1885.
I skimmed the article over his shoulder. “That’s it.”
