Who Do, Voodoo?, page 17
He closed the laptop screen. “So—we know that the curse played out with the sisters. Now let’s see if we can find Buzzy Lacowsky’s initials in here.”
“And anyone else Sophie sold spells to.”
Nick turned the pages of the spell book while I read alongside him. He pointed out specific spells—“Break a Bad Marriage,” “Good Luck,” “Revenge.”
A shift in handwriting on a “Safety Spell” dated August twenty-seven, 2005, caught my eye. “Here’s something entered after Hurricane Katrina, before Sophie moved to Hollywood.”
Initials and amounts listed beneath the spell ranged from twenty to one hundred dollars. “Sophie and her grandmother were evacuated to Houston. Do you think they sold “Safety Spells” to other evacuees?”
“Let’s see if more recent entries are all in one hand, after the grandmother died. That would confirm this is Sophie’s writing.” Nick flipped pages while Howlin’ Wolf’s “Evil” played through the speakers on the mantle.
Five pages later, I stopped him. The heading read “How to Imprison the Mind and Spirit of an Enemy.” “That’s the spell that fell open in my bedroom last night.”
“I recognize it,” he said. “A voodoo king named Noble Roup claimed he created the spell. Noble would take his followers to Lake Ponchartrain to conjure voodoo. He closed his meetings with an all-night orgy. One night the state police busted them and found the governor’s wife naked and in a compromising, well, position with her butler and a bartender from Metairie.”
I grinned. “Are orgies part of your philosophy lectures?”
He wiped his forehead before he answered. “No, Liz. I don’t do orgy lectures. Well, maybe a mention.” Nick gave me a wicked smile, and I caught my breath. “Back in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the voodoo kings and queens needed an added attraction. The orgy business was a bonus for their customers and brought more money to the till. Orgies are not a requisite part of voodoo practice and not my style.”
My cheeks burning, I returned to the mind-control spell. It required voodoo dolls, black candles, blood, and oils, including patchouli. At the bottom of the page was an invocation. I read it in singsong. “‘Turn his mind weak and fitful, his soul possessed will be. Choke his spirit with his mind and bring it—’ ”
“Don’t.” Nick laid his hand over the invocation.
“What?”
He started to croon “That Old Black Magic,” and I stopped him.
“Good thing you have academics to fall back on in case that singing career doesn’t pan out. You’re trying to distract me. Suppose I’ll put the curse in motion?”
“You’d have to purchase a spell and sign the book to trigger the curse.” Nick closed the cover and peered over his glasses. “And as for the ‘How to Imprison the Mind and Spirit of an Enemy,’ not believing won’t protect you from invoking the spell. Repetition is an important tool in the occult. Don’t read out loud, unless you want to play with the spirits. But they might want to play back.”
I shrugged. “Okay. Sorry.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Thanks. You can be my bodyguard against the supernatural.”
We were halfway through the spell book and found no entries later than 2005. I began to worry that Sophie didn’t log in her new clients at all.
Nick turned to the next page: “To Find a Lover.” “Here’s an entry dated last month and initialed T. D.”
I leaned in, and a surge of adrenaline made my hands tingle. “T. D. could be Sophie’s friend Tawny Dalton. She told me tonight that she bought a spell.”
I tore a blank sheet from the back of Nick’s notepad and started a list, with “T. D.—Tawny” on top.
A few pages later, Nick said, “Look. ‘B. L.’ is the last entry under the ‘Attract Money Spell.’ It’s dated the week before last.”
“That’s definitely Buzzy. He told me he bought a ‘Money Spell’ from Sophie.” I gripped Nick’s shoulder. “Last night he bent to pick up his wallet and was hit by a truck. What a strange coincidence.”
Nick sat back and folded his arms, staring through the window in front of his desk. “You said coincidence earlier. I don’t believe the wallet or his death was a coincidence. Now we know this is Sophie’s writing.”
I wrote “B. L.—Buzzy” under “T. D.—Tawny” on my list.
“Here’s another one: ‘R. B.’ under the ‘Family Protection Spell,’ ” Nick said.
“R. B.?” I leaned in to look. When I saw the signature, my stomach did a flip. The R had a heart at the end of the loop—the same heart and loop Robin had been using since the eighth grade. The spell included an incantation and the instruction to create a talisman—a childlike stick figure with stars circling the head—for each member of the family to wear.
“That’s Robin’s handwriting. She gave Orchid a talisman like that on a chain for her birthday. She claimed it was a good-luck charm she found at a psychic fair.”
“She lied to you,” Nick said. “Robin knew Sophie was into voodoo.”
I stared at the page, stunned.
“Why would Robin have us chasing around town looking for tarot decks if she knew all along it might be Sophie?” Nick said.
“It was my idea to search for the tarot deck, not Robin’s. Why would Robin assume Sophie left the cards? Nola said Sophie wasn’t into tarot. Plus, Robin is extremely superstitious. If Sophie warned her about the curse, Robin wouldn’t talk to us about Sophie. She’d be too afraid.” I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable with my uncertainty. Was it that easy for Robin to lie to me?
“Afraid enough to kill Sophie?”
“For what? Leaving tarot cards? You sound like the police.”
“What if Sophie and Robin had a falling-out? What if Robin threatened to tell Sam that Sophie was peddling voodoo as a sideline? If Sophie thought it would ruin her relationship, she may have decided to spook Robin, distract her. Then Robin found out . . .”
“That doesn’t make sense, Nick. Sophie had the curse for insurance. How could Robin tell Sam about Sophie without talking about the spell book and exposing herself to the damn curse?”
Nick got up and threw a log on the fire. “What if the night of the party Robin let something slip about the spell she bought and believed she triggered the curse? If Robin was that superstitious, she would be afraid of the consequences. We didn’t hear the whole argument between Robin and Sophie. Sophie threw out another curse at Robin before she left the party. What if Robin decided the only way to protect her family was to kill Sophie?”
My mind was reeling. Everything Nick said was possible. “No. You’re way off track. Robin’s not a killer.”
“You’re so certain.”
“Yes, I am. I want to find the rest of the names.”
Nick sat back down at the desk. When we finished paging through the book, I had five sets of initials:
H. M.
L. M.
T. D.—Tawny Dalton
R. B.—Robin
B. L.—Buzzy
I took the Steve Weller after-party guest list from my purse and unfolded it on the desk to find names matching the initials I had. Out of four pages of guests, there were two matches: Linda Miller and Buzzy Lacowsky.
I noticed something else on the guest list. “Everyone invited had a plus-one.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that half the people we saw at the party were spouses or tagalongs. The Collins staff isn’t listed, either.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Follow the leads we have. If L. M. is Linda Miller, H. M might be a relative or . . .” I sat up straight. “Henry Marx.”
“The landlord? The old man wasn’t at the concert, and even if he was, he doesn’t look strong enough to carry out the attack on Sophie. If Linda is the killer, why would she tell you the answer to your question is in the spell book?” Nick leaned back and folded his arms.
“Linda was in a trance. It’s easy to find out if H. M. is Henry. I’m only guessing the other initials are Tawny and Linda. I have to talk to them.”
“Talk without exposing them to the curse,” Nick said.
“I’m not worried about the curse. I’m worried about Robin.”
“What are you going to do? Coax them out of their superstition?”
“Give me some credit for respecting their beliefs, Nick. I’ll find a way.” I started to pace. “I’ll see Robin in the morning. Then I’ll meet with Tawny and go from there.”
Nick closed the spell book. “Meanwhile, I want to show this to Osaze tomorrow. He might know how to reverse the curse.”
I walked over to him. “I’m going with you.”
“I don’t know when he’ll be home.”
“I’m going with you, Nick.”
He got up to face me, brushing a hair back from my forehead. “You’re impossible to say no to.”
“I’ll use that to my advantage. I have to go home.”
Nick picked up my coat and held it for me. “I like having you here.” He turned me around and tilted my chin up. “And Liz? When you’re ready to dance, let me know.”
“I will.”
He handed me the list of names. “Don’t forget this.” “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow. What time?”
“Right after my last class ends, about one. I want to give Osaze enough time to go through the spell book before I drop it off at the police station.”
I snapped my head around. “What?”
“We have to turn the spell book over to Dave and Carla.”
I took the book off the desk and held it to my chest. “You can’t do that. We’ll show the spell book to Osaze, but after I’m done with it, it goes back to Nola. It belongs to her family.”
“The spell book could be evidence, Liz.” He pried it out of my hands and laid it back on the desk. “You think it holds answers to Sophie’s murder—so will Carla and Dave. And I won’t risk hindering the investigation by keeping it from them.”
“Please don’t do this, Nick.”
“The initialed entries could provide motive. The police will want to talk to these people, too.” Nick’s voice was even; his eyes held mine. “It’s the ethical thing to do.”
“Carla will see Robin’s initials and stop there. Damn it. Won’t you please give me time to find the people on the list? There might be something inside the spell book we missed. I thought you couldn’t say no to me.”
We stood in the center of the living room. The only sound was the crackle of burning wood.
Nick walked to the front door. “I’ll give you until the end of the day. Then Dave or Carla gets the spell book.”
“That’s not enough time.” I didn’t move.
“I’ll meet you at your house at one.”
“Fine.” I picked up my purse.
“Fine.” Nick opened the front door and followed me to my car. He leaned inside the driver’s side. “Be careful on the way home.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I closed the door. As I backed out, I waved at him and smiled so he wouldn’t change his mind and bolt over to the police station in the morning with the spell book and his Boy Scout conscience. He went inside and closed the door. I slammed my fist on the steering wheel and drove away. Damn him.
Ten minutes later, I pulled into my garage. Once out of the car, I heard the phone ringing in the house. It had to be Nick, calling to apologize. Of course he wouldn’t turn the book in as evidence tomorrow, he’d say. We’d take as much time as needed to clear Robin.
I locked the kitchen door behind me and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Are you naked?”
I stopped. The line that used to make me giggle sent a ripple of repulsion through me. “What do you want, Jarret?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to get home, Lizzie Bear.” He slurred his words. “I’m back in town and I was missing you. I’m out front. Let me in. Let’s have a drink and talk.”
“Go home, Jarret.” I hung up.
The phone rang again. I stared at the receiver until it stopped. Great. My ex was drunk-dialing me, and Nick was on track to keep Robin locked in jail.
I secured the bolt on the front door, then went upstairs. A car engine started on the street outside. I peered between the shutter slats of my bedroom window and watched taillights disappear down the block.
After I brushed my teeth, I burrowed under the covers, took a deep breath, and tried to fall asleep. My mind, however, was cranking out a to-do list: Ask Robin why the hell she lied to me. Get the spell book away from Nick. Figure out how to vet possible murderers while dodging a curse. Remain rational about curses. Wash and condition my hair.
Chapter Twenty-five
Incessant cawing outside my bedroom window woke me. The morning sun through the open shutters glared like a high-powered flashlight beam in my eyes. I covered my head with my pillow until I could get my wits about me. A murder of crows. Murder . . . Robin . . . Voodoo . . . Nick. I threw the pillow on the floor, got up, and went to shower. The hot water did nothing to erase the dull thud of last night’s four-glasses-of-wine hangover so I rinsed myself with a blast of cold water. Shocking, but effective to jolt me into action.
After I dressed and started a pot of coffee, I went to the den and did a computer search for the Van Nuys jail. Visiting hours began at ten. If I moved fast, I could be the first in line. A cup of Kona blend and a toasted English muffin later, I grabbed my purse and coat and picked up Sophie’s sweater.
I backed the car out of the garage, opened the driver’s window, and drove down the hill. The sky was clear; the air was crisp. Sunlight sparkled on the traces of autumn color in the neighborhood foliage. “Halloween Sale” signs beckoned from retail shops on Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Girls in shorts and wool scarves jogged along Burbank Boulevard.
The streets around the Van Nuys Government Center teemed with cars and pedestrians. I cruised around the long blocks, found a parking space, and fed twelve quarters into the meter. The jail was somewhere inside the maze of federal, state, county, and city buildings; police and fire departments; superior courthouses; and a public library. If I got lost, at least my car wouldn’t be ticketed or towed.
A suited man with a briefcase directed me to the Van Nuys Community Police Station, on the east side of the complex. Bondsmen in black “Kennymo Bail Bonds” T-shirts touted their services at the stairway beneath the entrance. I bypassed the hawkers and climbed the steps to the double glass doors. Inside, three policemen signed in visitors at the counter. I gave my name and sat on a bench near the window.
Thirty minutes later, I was led into a tiny visiting room that smelled like an odd mixture of cleaning fluid and dust. Robin sat behind a Plexiglas barrier. She wore a blue jumpsuit, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She picked up the phone receiver on her side, put her hand against the window, and smiled weakly.
My heart tugged when I saw how pale and drawn she was. I sat down, put my hand on the glass to hers, and picked up the receiver. “How are you?”
Her face crumpled, and words came out in sobs. “I’m being arraigned on Monday. The DNA test came back a match to Sophie’s blood.”
“Oh my God, Robin,” I said, her words prickling through me like an electric shock.
“The police want me to confess. Said it would be easier on me. They told me they have a witness.”
“A witness?” I leaned in toward the divider. “Witness to what?”
She wiped her eyes. “Someone claimed they saw me leave the lot where Sophie’s car was parked. That’s a flat-out lie, Liz. Why won’t the detectives believe me? Orchid’s car was in a different lot. I was nowhere near Sophie’s car.”
I wanted to take Robin’s hand, reassure her with a hug. All I could do was shake my head in disgust. “The witness must be mistaken. Eyewitnesses aren’t always reliable, if there really is a witness to begin with. Police don’t always tell the truth when they’re looking for a confession.”
“The detectives keep asking me the same questions, over and over: Why did I kill Sophie? How did I do it? What did I do with the weapon? Your brother and that Detective Pratt made me retrace my steps a million times.”
“Did they tell you the witness’s name?”
Robin rubbed her forehead. “No. Barnes told me they didn’t have to—yet. What am I going to do? I don’t know where the blood came from. I can’t erase my argument with Sophie. Everyone at the party heard us. How will I prove I’m innocent?”
“Tell me about your purse. You had it with you when you walked Orchid to her car. Then what?”
“I stopped in the ladies’ room, then came back into the artist lounge. I put my purse behind the bar until everyone left.”
I pictured the small bar. There was only room for the bartender to stand. “The bartender would have noticed someone going behind the bar. Have Barnes check him out. Who was in the ladies’ room?”
“I can’t remember. Women came in and out. The bathroom was jammed. After the scene Sophie made, I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.”
“Did you ever lose sight of your purse?”
She paused. “Only when I reached for the towel to dry my hands. My purse was on the counter, next to the basin. Do you think one of the women could have swiped the blood then?”
“Maybe. Keep trying to recall who was in there. Same thing with the parking lot. Something may come to you,” I said.
“I told Barnes to talk to Buzzy. Buzzy walked Sophie to the lot. Maybe he remembers seeing me out there. You could talk to him. Would you? Ask him?”
I squirmed, searching for words to soften the news. “Buzzy was in an accident Wednesday night. He’s dead, Robin.”
Her jaw dropped. “How?”
“He was hit crossing PCH on foot. I’m so sorry. I talked to him that afternoon. The night of the party he left Sophie at the curb with her friends and went back inside. He didn’t walk her all the way to her car.” I hesitated. “He also told me about Sophie’s spell book and the voodoo spell she sold him.”
