Private Investigations. Jean Barrett
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He is one exciting man, that one. Those shoulders alone are—”
“Hey, hold on! You’ve got it all wrong!”
Ignoring Christy’s objection, the voodoo queen went on earnestly. “I can make it possible, chérie. I can give you a potion that will not only put him in your bed, it will have him performing with great power.”
“No, really I, uh—”
“And if the strength of the potion is right,” she promised, “he will be your love slave for as long as you desire.”
“No,” Christy choked. “See, this is strictly a business arrangement with McFarland and me, nothing else, and, um…well, anyway, thank you, but, no. Definitely no.”
Camille lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.
Dallas couldn’t possibly have overheard them, but Christy could swear he knew exactly what they’d been talking about. One of those expressive eyebrows lifted suggestively as he cast a look in her direction that, if not exactly lewd, was positively hot with meaning. She could feel her face flaming. The worst of it was, when their eyes met she experienced something that was more than just embarrassment. She didn’t care to define it.
Christy was relieved when Chester excused himself and they were able to address the matter that had brought them there.
“We need information, Camille,” Dallas appealed. “Whatever you can tell us.”
He went on to explain Laura Hollister’s death, how they had been hired to clear her husband of her murder and the possible voodoo connection with the case. Camille listened without comment, her face betraying no emotion. She was silent when Dallas finished.
“Anything?” he implored.
The voodoo queen slid her gaze in Christy’s direction, commanding softly, “This small bunch of dried plant material he says you saw in the attic out there at Resurrection where she died—describe it, please.”
Christy did to the best of her ability.
Camille nodded wisely. “A gris-gris.”
“What is a gris-gris?”
“A charm. Sometimes they are meant to keep away evil, sometimes they are meant to cause evil. Without seeing or touching this one, I can’t know which.”
“What else can you tell us?” Dallas urged.
“Nothing.”
“There must be something.”
“Only this. There is good voodoo and there is bad voodoo. Me, I practice the good. I am a conjure doctor. People come to me to have curses removed that were laid on them or to buy my cures for bad habits. I help people, I don’t hurt them. You understand this?” She seemed anxious for them to believe that she performed only beneficial services.
“We understand,” Dallas said smoothly. “Now tell us about the other voodoo, Camille. The kind that’s evil. It’s here in New Orleans, isn’t it?”
“I tell you, I know nothing about it.”
She’s lying, Christy thought. She does know something, but she’s afraid to talk about it. That was apparent in the way Camille held herself rigidly and in the way her mouth had tightened so stubbornly. Now why would a voodoo queen, with all her power, fear another form of voodoo?
Christy tried herself to reach the woman. “Would you tell us this then?” she probed gently. “Did Laura Hollister ever come to you?”
“Why should she?”
“Maybe just to buy supplies. Or maybe she needed your help. Maybe she was involved in something she was desperate to get out of.”
Camille shook her head. “Your Laura Hollister was never a visitor to my store.”
“But you do know something, don’t you, Camille?” Dallas persisted. “There isn’t much that goes on in this city that you don’t know about. Come on, why won’t you tell us?”
Camille turned her head, staring at him for a long, indecisive moment. Then, her voice solemn and low, she reluctantly admitted, “I hear things, yes. Things about a dark voodoo that I despise. A destructive voodoo. But it is dangerous to talk about these people and their activities. This I won’t do. I know little enough anyway.”
“Isn’t there anything useful you can give us?”
She considered his request. “If you want to know more, you must go to the old St. Louis cemetery. Use your eyes and if you look hard enough, you may see for yourself.”
“But which St. Louis cemetery?” Christy pressed her. “There are three of them, aren’t there?”
“It doesn’t matter which. Just be careful. The old cemeteries are no longer safe.” She held up her hand as Dallas started to object. “No, sugar, I have nothing more to say, not even for you.”
The voodoo queen conducted them to the front door. When Dallas tried to pay her for her service, she refused. “I don’t want to be paid for something I want no part of. But, wait.”
Leaving Dallas at the door, she drew Christy back into the store. Reaching under the counter, she produced a small, simple red cloth doll and placed it in Christy’s hand. “A gift,” she murmured. “No charge.”
Christy glanced at the tiny figure in her hand, not sure that she cared to be the recipient of what was, plainly, a voodoo doll. Her apprehension must have been evident, because Camille laughed softly.
“There is nothing to fear in a red doll, chérie. Red is for love.” Her gaze slid briefly, but meaningfully, in Dallas’s direction. “Believe in it, and it may bring you all that you desire.”
Christy didn’t know how to refuse the voodoo queen without offending her. Murmuring a quick thanks, she stuffed the doll into her shoulder bag.
When they got outside, Dallas wanted to know, “What was that all about? What did she give you?”
“Oh, just a little charm meant to bring me luck.”
“Uh-huh.”
He didn’t believe her, of course. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. Damn the voodoo queen for thinking she had a thing for Dallas McFarland!
“YOU KNOW,” he said as he guided the convertible through the traffic, heading them back toward the center of the city, “I caught a glimpse of it before you tucked it out of sight in that duffel bag you call a purse. Innocent little charm, my fanny. It was a voodoo doll. A red one.”
Christy, taking refuge behind sunglasses and baseball cap, slouched down in the seat and didn’t answer him.
“Hell, everybody knows what red voodoo dolls are for. So, grits, who are you planning to use that thing on?”
“Prince Charles.”
His response took her completely by surprise. “Well, you know what I think? I think you’ve got the hots for ol’ Glenn. It’s my guess that after a decent interval you’ll be sticking pins into that poor little mite and chanting over it. Or whatever it takes to make syrup out of ol’ Glenn. Why do you want to go and waste your money on junk like that? The guy isn’t worth it.”
Christy should have been relieved that she was safe, thankful that Dallas hadn’t realized it had been the voodoo queen’s intention for her to lure him with the doll. But she was much too annoyed for that. “In the first place, I didn’t buy the doll. Camille insisted I take the silly thing as a gift. Anyway, it’s none of your business who I might care for or not care for. And why do you keep picking on Glenn when you’re supposed to be on his side? Furthermore, Camille meant the doll—” Christy caught herself just in time “—as, uh, just a kind of novelty.”
Too late. She couldn’t see Dallas’s eyes behind his dark glasses, but she didn’t have to. The smug little smile on his bold