Who Do, Voodoo?, page 4
“You’ll see.”
Nick drove to the 101 Freeway, toward Hollywood. I turned on the radio. Nick turned it off.
“You’re competent and beautiful,” he said.
My nose was cold, but I could feel my cheeks flare hot pink. I crossed my arms to ward off the morning chill. Or to deflect the compliment. “Thank you,” I said. We drove past the Capitol Tower into the heart of Hollywood. “How far are we going?”
“Osaze lives just off Santa Monica Boulevard. Liz, I was thinking about Robin during my run this morning. Combining Haitian Vodou symbols with the tarot strikes me as odd, even if the drawings on the deck are meant to portray voodoo. The two devices don’t mix. It made me wonder how serious Robin’s harasser was about mystic consequences or hoodoo.”
“Mystic consequences? They’re trying to scare her. Period,” I said.
He stopped at a light and looked at me. “Why do you so readily discard mysticism?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m a realist, not a magical thinker.”
“Well, I’ve seen things that would change your mind.”
“Oh, I dare you to show me, Nick. But all I care about today is finding those cards and tracking down the person who’s after Robin. Why do you say the alleged hex on the photo and tarot don’t mix?”
“Well, tarot is a European form of divination, and black magic is New Orleans hoodoo.”
“Hoodoo?” I said.
“You do.”
“Do what?”
“Remind me of a man.” Nick laughed.
“What? What are you talking about?”
He grinned and quoted dialogue as he drove on. “ ‘You remind me of a man. What man? Man with the power. What power? Power of hoodoo. Hoodoo? You do. Do what? Remind me of a man.’ Come on, Liz. The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer? Cary Grant? Old black-and-white film? 1947? RKO?”
“Sure,” I lied. “I remember. So, what’s the difference between hoodoo and voodoo?”
“Hoodoo is black magic. Vodou, v-o-d-o-u, is an Afro-Haitian religion. The commercial forms of voodoo, v-o-o-d-o-o, are associated with New Orleans. The uninitiated tend to mix them up.”
“Well, I’m confused.”
“Don’t be. Let’s start with the tarot deck and see where it leads us. Osaze is a mystic master at the heart of the occult collective in Los Angeles. If that particular tarot deck is anything special, he will recognize it.”
Nick drove deep into Hollywood and parked on a side street off Santa Monica Boulevard in front of a two-story wood-frame home with a well-kept yard and golden-yellow dahlias blossoming in front of the porch. A small taupe kitten chased two black kittens down the steps, disappearing into the flower bed and under the house. We rang the bell. The front door opened to reveal a magnificent black man in his midsixties standing tall, slender, and dignified in a long triangular robe of gold, rust, and black diamond print.
A huge smile spread across his face. “Nicholas.” They embraced and patted each other’s backs. “It is good to see you, old friend.”
“It’s been too long.” Nick gestured toward me. “Osaze, this is Elizabeth Cooper. Liz, this is my good friend Osaze Moon.”
I smiled and offered my hand. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”
Osaze’s grip was warm. He bowed slightly, then looked into my eyes. “It’s my delight, Elizabeth. I see the spirits have blessed you generously with beauty and love. Please.” He stepped aside to let us in. “Come with me to the sanctuary.”
We walked through the house, out to a small yard, and across to a guesthouse. Once inside, I stifled a gasp. The windows were painted over and blocked with cloth. Through the dim light, I saw every inch of wall space covered with skulls, animal skeletons, and statues of saints and gods. Rolled-up money protruded from every open orifice. Dollars poked out of the eyes, ears, and nostrils and from between every tooth of the skulls or jutted out of the genital cavities of the dried-out skeletons. Plates were filled with coins, and beads were draped over the shoulders of the statues. Mirrors and boxes were stacked on shelves and stands. A maroon velvet throne sat at the end of the room.
Osaze caught me staring. “They are offerings to the spirits from those seeking help and blessings. I take no money. This room and all of its contents belong to the gods and the spirits.”
I felt Nick’s hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his touch drew me out of my awe. He faced Osaze, taking a tarot card out of his pocket. “We came with a question. Do you know this card?”
Osaze took it and, to my surprise, snorted. “Of course I know it. Madame Iyå. How do you have this chicanery? You do not take it seriously, do you?”
“It was unusual enough to make me wonder where it came from,” Nick said. “It was left on someone’s door, obviously to frighten her, and we’re trying to track down the person responsible. Who is Madame Iyå?”
“Sheila Johnson.”
I looked at Nick and smiled. S. Johnson was the trademark on the cards.
Osaze sat on the throne and leaned forward. “As Madame Iyå, she runs a shop in Hollywood called Botanica Mystica. She reads palms and sells incense and baubles to tourists. She and her worthless son, Jimmy, tried to publish this deck a few months ago to sell to the legitimate shops and stores in town. None will buy, of course, because there’s no tradition or dignity behind it. She came to me for my blessing and I refused.” He threw the card down, agitated. “It’s not tarot, and it’s not wisdom divinity. Madame Iyå made the deck herself in the spirit of opportunism. It’s an insult to our authentic mystical systems. She’s not legitimate in my community. And now she brags of a book.”
Nick picked up the card and put it back in his pocket. “I think we found our answer. Osaze, we’re grateful for your help, and I apologize for coming here and upsetting you. Is there anything else you can tell me before we go?”
“Yes, my friend. Madame Iyå and her son are charlatans. Do not believe anything they tell you. Be careful.”
Chapter Six
“Now to find Botanica Mystica.” Nick slid into the driver’s seat beside me and started to dial his cell phone.
“I know where it is.” I dug into my tote for my list of shops. “It’s the sixty-seven-hundred block on Hollywood Boulevard. I thought you knew where all the occult specialty shops are.”
“My haunts don’t include tourist traps,” he said, starting the car. “What prompted you to add Botanica Mystica to your list?”
“The name jumped out at me.”
“Ah, so the spirit guided you.” Nick grinned.
“Not likely.”
He drove north and turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, cruising past the Wax Museum and the tourists strolling over the stars cemented on the Walk of Fame.
“Botanica Mystica should be somewhere across the street, on the north side,” I said as we neared McCadden Place.
I craned my neck around him, looking for the shop, when a yellow Mini Cooper convertible with temporary Beverly Hills dealer plates jerked out of a parking space in front of us, barely clearing the front of Nick’s car.
He hit the brakes hard. We lurched to a stop. “Damn,” he said. “Are you okay?”
I caught my breath. “Yes, thanks. That was close.”
The yellow sports car sped up the street, zigzagging through traffic. Nick pulled into the empty space in front of the Egyptian Theater.
I hesitated before opening the car door. “What’s our angle here? How do we get Madame Iyå to show us the deck and tell us how many she sold, and to whom?”
“I have an idea. Let me take the lead.”
We crossed Hollywood Boulevard and headed up the block. Just past Ritchie Valens’s gold star, an alley of shops named Artisans Patio was tucked between an African jewelry store and a souvenir shop.
“I think it’s down this way,” I said, taking Nick’s arm.
A double row of small storefronts lined a clean, bricked walkway. Toward the end of the alley, past a bead shop and an artist’s studio, the sign for Botanica Mystica hung in a window filled with multicolored glass jars, sparkling in the late morning sun. I stopped in front of the shop and pointed at the huge cardboard drawing of a hand hanging beneath the shop sign.
“The hand of fortune,” Nick said. “Like Osaze said—she’s a palm reader, too.”
As I peered into the window, a loud female voice came through Botanica Mystica’s closed shop door. “You better apologize to her tonight, Jimmy. And if you can’t be smart about it, then just be quiet.”
Bells jangled and the door opened.
“I know what I’m doing.” A young man stormed out of the shop and headed down the alley without looking back.
Nick caught the door before it shut, and we entered the small shop. The air inside was thick with the scent of sandalwood. Books, candles, jars, and figurines lined the shelves from floor to ceiling. In the center of the room, a long wooden table was stocked with colored candles in round and phallic shapes. In the far corner, near the back wall, a lamp with a finger bone base shed a circle of light on a glass counter. Next to the counter was a small, cloth-covered table with two iron chairs.
I picked up the book displayed on the counter, Hexes and Witchcraft for the Modern Woman. The title made me chuckle. If this is what modern women are reading, I’ll stick to the rational old days.
“You here for a palm reading, honey?” An older woman with orange-red hair settled onto a stool behind the counter. Her cheeks were rouged. Thick-mascaraed lashes weighted wrinkled lids, and bright coral lipstick lined her thin mouth. A purple shawl hung over large shoulders. Layers of gold necklaces circled her fleshy neck.
“Oh, no, I’m here with . . .” I turned. Where the hell was Nick?
He came up beside me and said to the woman, “Hello. Are you the owner?”
“I am Madame Iyå.” She tilted her head back and looked him over.
“I’m pleased to meet you.” He offered his hand. “I’m Dr. Nicholas Garfield. My girlfriend and I are over at the Renaissance Hotel this week for a conference. I’m meeting with colleagues from across the country on the latest philosophical theories in mysticism. Tomorrow I’m giving a talk on the tarot. Unfortunately, I forgot my sample decks for the presentation. I heard about your shop and thought you might be able to help me.”
I glanced at Nick. What part of his plan to woo Madame Iyå cast me as his girlfriend?
Madame Iyå aimed a ringed finger toward the bookcases on the wall. “The tarot decks are on the second and third shelves and on the table.”
Nick walked to the bookcase, reaching for the boxes of cards. “Yes, these are fine, but I also wanted some decks new to market. Do you have the Witches Tarot?”
“Over there.”
“And the Egyptian deck?”
“Next to it.”
He studied the front and back of each box with care. “I also heard about a new voodoo deck from New Orleans. My lecture is about mixed interpretations of the tarot, using voodoo woven into the readings. I’m looking for the unusual, something new I can talk about. Do you have anything like that? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Madame Iyå’s eyebrows shot up. A smile formed on her lips. She shifted her frame on the stool and leaned on the counter toward Nick. “You say you’re a doctor of mysticism?”
“Professor of religious and mystical philosophy.”
“I have a deck you’ve never seen. A deck I was inspired and guided to design by the spirits unleashed by Hurricane Katrina. It will be published soon. Right now it’s only for readings with my special clients.”
Nick returned the other decks to the shelf. “May I see it?”
Madame Iyå reached into the bottom of the glass case, brought out a wooden box, and fanned the deck inside across the counter. “If you want your talk to be about something unique, take a look at this.”
A full deck of skeleton cards, in black, tan, and bloody red, spread across the counter for us to see. All three of the cards left on Robin’s door were there.
Nick made a grand gesture of studying each card. “Very unusual. Very detailed. Yes, these are amazing, fascinating. You designed them?”
“Yes, of course. With the spirits guiding my hand and teaching me the language.”
Teaching her anagrams? Sure. I covered my mouth to conceal a smirk.
“Congratulations. Very well-done,” Nick said. “May I see the manual?”
“Of course.” Madame Iyå took a spiral notebook from under a stack of papers behind her. “It will be bound in leather when the deck goes on sale.”
I looked up at her. “These cards aren’t for sale?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s only this one copy, then?” Nick leaned in closer.
“I made two prototype decks,” Madame Iyå said. “This is the original.”
“I’ll buy the other deck,” Nick said.
“Sorry. It’s not available.”
“Then sell me this one.”
Madame Iyå shook her head. “I can’t let it leave the shop.” “That’s disappointing. Your illustrations and captions are ingenious. Your publisher must be very excited. It’s a shame I can’t preview your deck at my conference. It would draw a lot of attention.” Nick slid a card out of the spread on the counter. “AEKMORTW,” an anagram of teamwork, was written across the top, and three skeletons danced beneath three coins. “We’d make a good team.”
“The Three of Pentacles is an interesting selection, Dr. Garfield,” Madame Iyå said, smiling through yellowed teeth. “But I already have a partner.”
“Are you sure you won’t let me buy or even borrow the other copy?” Nick said. “I’d pay you well to be able to take the deck to my meeting tomorrow.”
She hesitated. “It’s not here. My partner has it.”
Nick leaned in, flashing a smile. “Can we call your partner? As I said, I’ll pay for the use of the copy. I’ll even go over and pick it up.”
“She’s not home. I just talked to her. She’s out for the day.”
“If you give me her name and number, I’ll call her later. Surely she’d understand how much the conference publicity would mean to future sales.”
Madame Iyå wavered, clearly torn. “I can’t give you her name. It’s confidential.”
“Your partner sounds very mysterious,” I said.
“She’s marvelous.” Madame Iyå turned back to Nick. “I’ve been practicing voodoo for forty years. I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but my partner is a voodoo princess. We’re publishing a book together on voodoo soon. She’s contributing spells her grandmother taught her in New Orleans.”
“I’d like to meet her,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Madame Iyå said. “She insisted on privacy. I have to honor that.”
Nick was getting nowhere. I decided to test her. “I think we should try some other shops, darling,” I said, hooking my arm into his. “We’ll find another interesting tarot deck to buy. The reporter interviewing you from the Times won’t know the difference.”
“You’re right.” He looked back at Madame Iyå as we turned to leave. “It’s too bad. But thanks for your time. Good luck to you and your partner with your tarot deck and book.”
Madame Iyå came around the counter. “Wait. When is your lecture?”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Nick said.
“I’m seeing my partner tonight. I’ll ask to borrow her copy for your lecture. But I need a security deposit and a fee from you to show good faith. The deck isn’t copyrighted yet.”
“Are you sure she’ll comply? Otherwise, we’ll look elsewhere,” Nick said.
“If she doesn’t, I’ll rent you my original. But it will cost you,” Madame Iyå said.
“I’m happy to leave whatever you ask on delivery,” Nick said. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning with cash.”
“I open at ten.” She touched my arm and whispered in my ear. “You come back, too. I’ll make you gris-gris to release your erotic powers on your professor.”
I gave her a skeptical smile and then followed Nick out to the alley. As we crossed Hollywood Boulevard, I said, “Mystic academics, seriously?”
“Seriously. Great group. You’d love them.”
I brushed away the thought of me at a paranormal convention. “Now what? We still don’t have the name of this princess.”
“First, you talk to Robin. We know for certain that it’s a woman, we know it’s someone who practices voodoo, and we know the shop the cards came from. If Robin still can’t guess who it could be, I’ll come back in the morning and try to warm up Madame Iyå a little more.”
“And pay for the second deck? How does that give us a name?”
“I won’t have to pay. We already know the second tarot deck is short three cards, rendering it useless for a conference. And if I’m alone with Madame Iyå long enough, I know I can coax the voodoo princess’s name out of her.”
“Does Madame Iyå interest you?” I said.
“The way a carnival act does.”
We got into the car, and Nick turned the key in the ignition. “Osaze is right. Madame Iyå and her shop are as bogus as a movie set. I was waiting for Sidney Redlitch to appear from the back room with Pyewacket.”
I wrinkled my forehead. “More witchcraft friends of yours?”
“Bell, Book and Candle, 1958. Ernie Kovacs played Redlitch, a fake witch expert who was writing a book. Pyewacket was the cat in the movie.” He pulled into the street.
“Oh, of course.” I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. I dug into my purse, pulled out my cell phone, and dialed.
“Collins Talent, this is Robin.”
“Robin, it’s Liz. Do you have time to talk?”
“Not this sec. Sam’s leaving for sound check in an hour, and the phones won’t stop. But I’m dying to hear if you and Nick found the tarot deck.”
“Yes, we did,” I said. “What if I come by the office and tell you what we learned? I just have to pick up my car.”
“Perfect. We can go out for coffee after Sam is gone.” Robin stopped. “Hey, I just had a thought. Do you like Steve Weller?”
“That’s a joke, right? You know I do.”
