Lucy knew how Ava felt. She’d watched her mother go through the same problem with Lucy’s womanizer father. The only difference was, he seldom came home with a paycheck, and her mother’s life was a struggle every day. Which had made it easy for Wanda to walk out on him in Tupelo.

  Lucy was all too familiar with the rumors highlighting Gabby de Jean’s reputation. Though Lucy had never met her formally, Gabby had a standard hair appointment with Wanda every Friday afternoon. Sporting jet-black hair, Gabby was tall and thin, with a figure men fantasized about. Walking into the salon, oozing arrogance and demands, Gabby would adjust her attitude to giggles and flirtatious smiles when she was on the hunt for a man.

  From what Ava said, it looked like Gabby had found her latest victim.

  Lucy positioned Ava in a chair at Wanda’s workstation so she could perform her magic on the depressed middle-aged woman.

  The more she thought about Ava’s situation, the madder Lucy got. She’d thought she’d left her old lifestyle, the wild, gypsy-like part of herself, back in Tupelo.

  New Orleans was supposed to be a fresh start.

  But an ember, long smothered, flared back to life. The part of her nicknamed Voodoo Lucy whispered in her ear. You can fix this.

  “Ms. Ava, is it worth five grand?” Lucy asked without blinking. “You know—to have this woman out of your life?”

  Ava snapped out of her drunken stupor. “Make it happen,” she said.

  Chapter Four

  The apartment was quiet except for the sounds of a saxophone playing “Gentle on My Mind” coming from the street corner. Slim Jim, as people called him, set up shop at night and played soft tunes for tips till the early hours of the morning. It was when Slim Jim was taking a break that Lucy heard a crash come from Vivien’s room. Something had hit the floor, maybe a lamp. Then Vivien screamed.

  Lucy charged downstairs. Grabbing a knife from the kitchen, she rushed down the hall and pushed the bedroom door open, catching a glimpse of a man leaving through the bedroom’s side door that opened onto the alleyway. Vivien was sitting on the floor propped against the bed, holding the right side of her face.

  Lucy helped Vivien onto the bed and got her a cold compress. From the redness and swelling, it was apparent Vivien had taken a forceful blow.

  Lucy’s hand shook as she pressed an ice pack to the swelling. Vivien had become a dear friend. “Vivien, who did this?”

  “Picklehead.”

  “Who?”

  “He works for Felipe. Picklehead was my last caller for the night. He stiffed my girl. Then got into it with me. I sent her home and dealt with him myself.”

  “Not such a good idea,” Lucy said.

  Between sniffles and blowing her nose, Vivien explained that Felipe had demanded an increase to four hundred a week for protection, claiming Vivien’s business was exceptional and she should pay more. Vivien had let her guard down, allowing Picklehead in after hours. Once he got what he wanted from her working girl, he delivered Felipe’s message.

  “I should have never confronted him without my gun,” Vivien said. “I know better.”

  Lucy fetched a glass of water for her from the kitchen. “Who is this Picklehead?”

  “Local strong-arm for the gang. Real name is Pete Hayward. His head is kind of elongated, and he has severe scarring on his face from acne. That’s why folks call him Picklehead.”

  Lucy secured the door to the alleyway and tucked Vivien into bed, her determination to deal with Felipe growing. If she was going to make this place home, she wasn’t going to live in fear, and neither were her friends.

  The next morning, Lucy came down the steps to the smell of French Market coffee brewing. Vivien was in the kitchen making breakfast, like she did most mornings.

  “Good morning,” Vivien said in her usual upbeat voice.

  Lucy glanced at her swollen cheek and a black eye. “Vivien, I was thinking—”

  Vivien cut her off. “If it’s about last night—let it go. I’m fine. I’m going to pay him. It’s the price of doing business.” She dished up her breakfast and took a seat the kitchen table.

  Lucy poured Vivien a cup of coffee, then sat and held her hand from across the table. “We can stop this craziness. You can’t continue to let him run your life. You’re living in fear.”

  Vivien smiled. “Oh, honey, I’m fine. It’s a misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding!” Lucy blurted.

  Vivien’s sunny demeanor changed like someone had flipped a switch. “Let it go! Am I clear?” Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

  “Very clear.” Lucy slammed the coffee cup down. It was best to take her morning walk down Royal Street rather than stay and get into a no-win argument with Vivien.

  As she walked the French Quarter, Lucy couldn’t stop picturing the damage to Vivien’s face, couldn’t stop reliving those heart-stopping moments when she’d been clutching a knife and running to Vivien’s aid. What if she’d arrived moments earlier? What if she’d fought Picklehead?

  And now Vivien was trying to shrug the whole thing off and pretend it was nothing. Vivien was no different from an abused wife. Blaming herself and believing it was her fault. No different from Lucy’s own mother, sporting a shiner after Lucy’s father had come home drunk.

  Lucy took a deep breath, shoving her emotions into a dark place inside her. The place she kept all her secrets.

  She’d figure out a way to get rid of Felipe and his thugs, whether Vivien liked it or not.

  Walking briskly through the streets, Lucy smiled at store owners as they opened their doors for the start of a new day.

  One of her favorite places to stop was Royal Antiques. They sold fine china, crystal lamps, furniture, and many quality items from estate sales. She admired an armoire on display that reminded her of the fine furniture Mr. Vic made in his wood shop.

  On her days off, she often roamed the ground floor of the salon building where the building’s owner, Mr. Vic, worked. He rented out most of the building to the salon and some apartments, keeping a small portion for his furniture business. Fascinated with his skill as a craftsman, Lucy often watched him make solid cedar furniture with not much more than a saw, a chisel, and sandpaper. She’d sucked up every detail when he’d showed her how he made a tongue and groove corner of a drawer. Mr. Vic referred to his techniques as a lost art, and his workmanship was unlike any she’d ever seen.

  The shop consisted of three small rooms. Her favorite was the glue room, where furniture was put together. Mr. Vic would heat up a small pot of glue on a gas burner. Once it was liquefied, he’d brush it on the joints and clamp them into a vise. There was a downside to working with hot glue though. You’d better have the two pieces of wood lined up correctly because the glue dried fast, and there was no opportunity for adjustments.

  After her walk, Lucy returned to her room while the ladies downstairs prepared for early hair appointments. Lucy took a shoe box from under her bed and removed the cover. Inside was a stick doll Lucy had created based on one she’d seen in the window of a novelty shop. At first, she’d made it for fun, but she now realized why her subconscious mind had drawn her to make such a thing.

  One night in Mr. Vic’s workshop, she’d taken a small stick of cedar from the trash, heated up the glue, and attached a head made of white cloth stuffed with cedar chips. She painted an angry face on it and created a body of cotton glued to the stick with a piece of burlap layered on top. The doll was complete, but unlike those found in voodoo shops, Lucy now decided hers needed hair—human hair.

  Putting pieces of her hair-clipping collection against the head of the doll, she settled on the right color.

  “Yes, this will work,” she said as she arranged the black hair from Gabby’s last haircut on the doll’s head. Lucy didn’t believe in voodoo dolls, but if it helped pull the scam off successfully for five grand, she’d give it a try.

  The day continued without anyone mentioning Vivien’s swollen, black and blue face. The word was she’d tripped and smacked her face into a doorframe on the way down to the floor.

  Lucy was taking a break and sitting in the kitchen, waiting for the afternoon coffee to stop brewing, something she did every afternoon.

  Then it happened. The front door opened, and Gabby’s voice echoed as she walked in. “I’ll have a Johnnie Walker on the rocks. Light ice,” she said, as if giving an order to a bartender.

  That was Lucy’s cue to fetch Ms. Homewrecker a drink. Using a lookalike crystal cocktail glass, she presented Gabby her cocktail on a tray. Clutching the tumbler without a thank you, Gabby knocked back the scotch and placed the empty back on the tray.

  “I’ll have another.”

  The shampoo lady washed Gabby’s jet-black hair and touched up some reddish-brown roots that were showing. Vivien was at the bank, much like every morning, which allowed Lucy to execute her plan. She had a five-minute window before Gabby’s hair would have to be rinsed.

  “Come, follow me,” Lucy said, handing Gabby another drink. Lucy directed her to a chair at Vivien’s table behind the bead drape. “I’ll give you a free reading.” Gabby smiled and followed.

  Lucy took Gabby’s hands from across the table. “I feel you’re in a deep place,” Lucy said.

  Gabby rolled her eyes with a slight snicker, then said, “Go on.”

  “Your husband. He’s cheating,” Lucy said, looking down at the table.

  Gabby raised her eyebrows and crossed her legs. “A husband? What a surprise.”

  Lucy quickly retracted. “I’m sorry, not your husband, your man friend.” She’d watched Vivien many times misdirect people; it made the entire reading more believable. Her heart pounding, Lucy hit Gabby with, “The one you meet on… Saturday nights. No, Fridays.”

  Gabby pulled her hands away. Blinking her eyes rapidly and biting her bottom lip, she raised her glass and knocked back the rest of her Johnnie Walker. “I’m going to need another cocktail.” Lucy was prepared and already had the bottle and a bucket of ice ready. Pushing another glass of scotch to her, Lucy pulled Gabby’s free hand across the table.

  “Your Friday night friend has another girl. In fact, two. One has given him a gift,” Lucy said, pulling out the stick doll she’d planted under the table earlier. “A gift that sent him to a clinic. He refuses to follow doctor’s orders.”

  Gabby’s eyes widened; she was now all ears. Gulping down another drink, she studied Lucy’s deliberately unexpressive face. “What do you mean ‘follow doctor’s orders’?”

  Picking up Vivien’s deck of tarot cards, Lucy shuffled them, then ask Gabby to pick a card. It didn’t matter which one Gabby picked; she couldn’t read tarot cards, and neither could Lucy.

  “Interesting,” Lucy said upon seeing the card. “Pick two more.”

  Gabby did and looked at the first one, then slowly turned the card toward Lucy. “What does this mean?”

  Reading Gabby was like playing poker, and Lucy’d had a few encounters with that game, too. It didn’t matter what your cards were; you just needed to keep your expression from showing your hand. Gabby’s hand was written all over her face.

  “This is over. I’m not going to read the last card,” Lucy said.

  “What?” Gabby’s face whitened, and she clutched the edge of the table.

  Handing Gabby the stick doll, Lucy said, “Keep this in your possession at all times. At home, work, shopping. At the end of ten days, burn the doll, and the voodoo curse will expel from your body. Then, and only then, will the sexual medical curse bestowed upon you by the carelessness of a man begin healing.” Gabby without question took the stick doll and placed it in her purse.

  A buzzer went off. It was time for Gabby to rinse her hair. Wanda took her by the hand and started the process. While Wanda styled Gabby’s hair, Gabby shifted around in her seat. Then rubbed her inner thigh. Once, then again. That’s when Lucy knew she’d won the battle. Gabby was feeling the symptoms of the make-believe disease.

  When Wanda was done with Gabby’s hair, Lucy stood in front of Gabby with both hands on the chair and looked her in the eyes. “That burning feeling between your thighs, that’s the stick doll working its magic.”

  “Oh, God, thank you,” Gabby said.

  Lucy smiled and strolled out the door. Given how things had ended in Tupelo, Lucy had thought she’d run her last con. But New Orleans, with its long history of voodoo practitioners and believers, was ripe for the picking.

  Chapter Five

  There were advantages to working in a beauty salon. In addition to hearing the latest gossip, if you could read people like Lucy could, you could learn their deepest, darkest secrets. All it took was asking questions and letting them do the talking.

  One day, a woman popped into the salon and wanted her blonde hair changed to red. A dramatic move, the beautician told her, but if she had the time, they would stay late and satisfy her request. Lucy had a chance to pick the woman’s brain during the long drawn-out process and learned her name was Darlene Davis and that she worked at a free health clinic in the Ninth Ward. Not the type of woman you’d expect to be running a free clinic. Given Darlene’s shapely body and long blonde hair, Lucy would have bet she was a high-priced call girl or a nightclub dancer on Bourbon Street.

  As it turned out, Darlene had won an audition as a nightclub singer, and the owner had given her a six-week commitment under the condition that she change her hair color to red. A little freakish, Lucy thought, but it wasn’t her place to say. The club owner told Darlene there were too many blondes performing in the area. He wanted someone to light up the stage, and red was his choice.

  Lucy set the hair dryer for thirty minutes and sat in front of Darlene, giving her a complimentary manicure, hopeful she’d tip generously for Lucy’s efforts. With all her commitments, it sounded like Darlene had a hectic work schedule, and Lucy had to ask, “How can you keep up the pace working at the clinic and three days a week singing at a club?”

  Darlene whispered, “I can get just about any kind of pills I want from the clinic. I’ve got pills that can keep me up for days.” She leaned forward. “Now, don’t tell anyone.”

  “Of course not,” Lucy said, giving her a girlfriend smile. “Some days I could use a pill around here. Just to feel better.”

  Darlene pulled a business card from her purse and slipped it to Lucy. “Call me. I can get those types of pills too.”

  Drugs weren’t Lucy’s thing; she had enough hang-ups in life and was afraid drugs would only exacerbate her paranoid side. She declined Darlene’s offer for pills but planned to keep her close. She just might have use for her in the future.

  The timer went off, and the newborn redhead came alive. The club owner was right. Darlene as a blonde was beautiful, but as a redhead, she was gorgeous. The owner might have had an eye for beauty, but Lucy still felt his request was a little creepy.

  The next morning, Lucy took a shot and called Darlene for help. Evidently, Lucy’s request wasn’t going to be a problem, and Darlene agreed to meet Lucy that afternoon at Café Beignet.

  When Lucy arrived, a parade of students, all looking too young to be ordering coffee at the counter, filled most of the café’s entryway. A school down the street often had field trips, and of all days, they had to pick today to jack up the students with some caffeine. Lucy managed to find a seat at a table in the back. Even through the maze of students milling around the entrance, she was able to spot Darlene’s newly red mane. Darlene made her way through the tightly packed tables, excusing herself as she bumped into people.

  Lucy greeted Darlene with a kiss on the cheek. “You’re looking beautiful.”

  “Oh, please. I just left the clinic. I’m a walking germ fest,” Darlene said. Then she slipped Lucy an envelope. “I believe this covers everything you asked for. It looks very official.”

  Lucy dropped two hundred dollars into Darlene’s purse. “I appreciate your help.”

  Darlene gave her a smile and said, “Anytime.” Then she walked out as fast as she’d arrived.

  Lucy sipped on her latte, and waited for her friend Barry. She wondered if she would even recognize him, never having seen him in anything other than a pair of blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a white apron with the Café Beignet logo on the front.

  A whistle came from the front counter. “You sure clean up good, Barry,” a coworker shouted. Barry blushed.

  “Well—what do you think?” Barry asked Lucy, standing in front of her like a department store model. He wore a tailored suit, a white shirt, and a fancy tie. His shoes had even been shined.

  With flirting eyes, taking him all in from head to toe, she said, “If I knew you cleaned up that good, I would have had you park your shoes under my bed months ago.” She said it only for shock value; she had no interest in men.

  “Take a seat. Let’s go over this again,” Lucy said, patting the chair next to her.

  “Lucy, its simple dialogue. How hard can it be?”

  She looked Barry in the eyes. “You have one chance to sell this story. This isn’t one of your low-budget films—there are no retakes.”

  “Don’t worry. This will be an Academy Award-winning performance,” Barry said. “I’ve got to go. I promised to get the suit back to wardrobe before they closed.”

  Lucy slipped him an envelope and some cash.

  He looked inside. “Two hundred? Must be really important.”

  “Just follow the script,” Lucy said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Wish me luck.”

  “The luck is in that envelope.”

  Barry tucked the envelope away and walked out to the curb. He flagged down a taxi at the corner for the short ride to Magazine Street.

  When Barry arrived, a doorman held open the massive glass door to the entrance of an office building. Barry went into acting mode. He walked and talked with confidence. Making small talk with the doorman, wishing people a good afternoon when passing. Taking the elevator to the fourteenth floor, he exited facing signage on a glass wall. Weber & Associates, Attorneys at Law.

 

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