Private Investigations. Jean Barrett
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cartoons. And their occupants, eyeing the cream-colored convertible as it passed, wore expressions that were even less cheerful.
“You sure we’re not lost?” Christy demanded.
“Relax,” Dallas assured her, negotiating the maze with perfect confidence.
“Well, I think we’re lost.”
“We’re not lost.”
“Then why won’t you tell me where you’re taking me?”
“Don’t have to. We’re there.”
He pulled over to the curb, parking in front of a structure that seemed to be listing dangerously. Vines smothered its walls, climbing onto the mossy roof.
“It doesn’t look safe,” Christy decided. “Who lives here?”
“It isn’t a house, it’s a store,” he said, sliding out from behind the wheel. “And stop being so nervous. You’re a P.I., remember?”
“I’m not nervous. I’m just cautious, that’s all.” She exited the car from the passenger side and followed him up onto the porch. “What kind of store?”
“The kind that sells voodoo supplies.”
Which shouldn’t have surprised her. This was New Orleans, after all, and they were after answers. But Christy was still a bit uneasy as she followed him into the store. With good reason, too, she thought as she gazed around the dim interior.
The place was like a wizard’s cavern. Black candles burned on either end of a counter and shelves ranged along the walls were piled with dust-laden merchandise that didn’t bear thinking about. There was a strong aroma in the air that seemed to be a combination of incense, fried onions and an old graveyard. Definitely on the creepy side.
“Everything but a smoking cauldron,” Christy whispered.
Dallas chuckled. “She could probably produce one for you, providing the price was right.”
“Who?”
“The reigning queen of voodoo in New Orleans. This is her store.”
“Oh.” Christy looked around. They were alone in the shop. “Where is she?”
“Patience.”
“Maybe we should call out a hello, ding a bell or something to let her know she’s got customers.”
“She knows we’re here. Look,” he urged, “why don’t you have a look around while we’re waiting? You know you want to.”
Christy had to admit she was curious. She wandered along the shelves inspecting masks, the skull of a goat, ritual altars, dolls and various powders and charms. “This is fascinating.”
“All for the tourists,” he said, trailing after her. “I suspect the serious stuff is in a private room by invitation only.”
She leaned down, squinting at a label on a sealed jar. “What’s High John the Conqueror’s root?”
“How should I know?”
There were other jars, other labels. Stop Evil Floor Wash, Luck-in-a-Hurry Incense, Come To Me Oil, Mogo Love Drops, and something called Bendover that Christy preferred not to question. The instinct that promised to serve her well as a P.I. kicked in again without warning when she saw a jar marked Black Snake Root. The word black seemed to leap out at her.
“There’s something that’s just occurred to me,” she told Dallas. “What if Laura Hollister’s need for money had nothing to do with her expensive tastes? What if it was for something else?”
Dallas didn’t seem to find it at all odd that she should start discussing a subject that probably had little or no relation to the voodoo supplies she was examining. “You don’t mean voodoo, do you?”
“No, blackmail.” He was thoughtful for a second. “That’s a possibility. Definitely a possibility. We’ll need to look into that, too.”
There was approval in his voice. Christy would have been pleased by it, had she not become suddenly aware of the silence in the store. It was unnerving. “I don’t know about you, but I get the feeling there are eyes on me.”
“We are being watched,” he said calmly. “She just wants to be sure you’re okay.”
Christy refrained from shuddering as she peered at another label. “What on earth would you do with alligator teeth?”
“Bite your enemy?”
“Anyway,” she went on, “maybe Glenn will turn up a connection. I asked him to go through all of Laura’s personal effects as soon as possible and let us know what he finds.”
“Good thinking.”
This was twice within the same moment that he had complimented her. Did he mean it? Christy glanced at him, fearing he might be laughing at her again behind those compelling green eyes. No, she could see his praise was genuine, leaving her with a warm glow—a reaction that was definitely disturbing.
The situation threatened to turn awkward. Christy was saved from that by a sudden rattle of the beaded curtain hanging from the doorway behind the counter. She turned to see a stately African-American woman emerge from the back regions of the store, a smile of welcome on her handsome face.
The voodoo queen would have made Brenda Bornowski green with envy. She was a riot of color in a scarlet turban, a boldly printed caftan and heavy rings that covered the long fingers of both hands. Christy was impressed.
The voice that issued a delighted, “Sugar!” as she swept toward them was strong and deep. “What a wicked coquin you are to neglect us all these weeks! But I forgive you.”
She expressed that forgiveness by wrapping Dallas in a lusty embrace. Christy groaned. Not another one! Wasn’t there any female in this town immune to this brash devil?
Pecking Dallas on both cheeks, the voodoo queen released him with a quick apology. “I’m sorry you had to wait. I was in the back with a client.”
Casting a spell? Christy wondered as the woman turned to her, luminous dark eyes registering her curiosity.
“Who have you brought with you?”
“This is Christy Hawke,” Dallas explained. “We’re working together on a case. Christy, I have the honor, the very great honor, of introducing you to Camille Leveau, a direct descendant of the famous Marie Leveau.”
No one lived in New Orleans for any length of time without knowing that Marie Leveau had been a celebrated nineteenth century voodoo queen. Christy was no exception. She also knew that Camille Leveau wasn’t the first voodoo practitioner to claim descent from Marie. There were even those who had boasted they were the reincarnation of the voodoo queen. How authentic was Camille’s own assertion was anyone’s guess. And as the glint in Dallas’s eyes when they met Christy’s gaze told her, what did it really matter?
All dignity now, Camille extended her hand. Christy took it, murmuring her pleasure as the beaded curtain parted again and Dallas swiftly rounded the counter to pump the hand of the new arrival, an elderly man with skin like seamed mahogany, who moved with the aid of a cane.
“Chester! I haven’t seen you since that night at Preservation Hall,” he said, referring to the French Quarter’s famed jazz center, “when you had all of us cheering.”
“Oh, I can still blow a mean horn all right, when my daughter here lets me.”
Christy gazed at Dallas as he and Chester exchanged pleasant memories. She realized that these people were comfortable with him, obviously fond of him. It was understandable because this was an unexpected Dallas McFarland, one she hadn’t discovered until now. Gone were the arrogance and the cynicism. In their place were gentleness and kindness as he listened patiently to the old man. Christy found herself liking what she was seeing, and that worried her.
There