by A. C. Mason
“Oh, he’s coming. He stopped at Mary’s to get coffee and donuts for everybody,” Joe Hernandez said. Despite his Hispanic surname, he spoke with a Cajun accent. His ancestors, like many other early Louisiana settlers from the Canary Islands, had lived among and intermarried with the French-speaking Acadians who immigrated to the state around the same time period. Hernandez glanced at Danny and the Beau Chene police chief with curiosity.
“I’ll explain when everybody arrives as to why these officers are here attending our staff meeting.” He took notice of the idle coffeemaker on the table in the corner. “Why is Wallace getting coffee from Mary’s shop? Is the coffeemaker broken?”
Toby Hahn, Jim’s latest recruit, gave a sheepish grin. “Wallace got tired of drinking my lousy coffee. He said it was a mess just like every new recruit made. Making coffee was something I hadn’t got the hang of yet.”
“His momma always made his coffee,” Hernandez said.
Everyone laughed.
“Yeah,” another officer piped up. “Before you hire any more new officers, you need to test their coffee making skills. Brewing coffee is the most important duty around here.”
“That’s about to change, gentlemen,” Jim said, his expression sobering. “From now on the most important duty will be to solve the two recent murders in Allemand Parish.
Ten
I gazed out the car window and watched the New Orleans skyline grow closer. Here I was back in my old stomping ground, but an uneasy feeling nagged at me. Considering how much I loved this place, the visit should be comforting. But the word loved was, after all, past tense.
At one time the Crescent City held so many wonderful memories for me, but after the events of that April years ago, the bad ones outnumbered the good.
Rachel’s voice stirred me from my difficult thoughts. “You’re awfully quiet. Are you feeling apprehensive about this meeting? Or simply nervous about returning to the city?”
“A little of both,” I admitted. “Speaking to the psychic is bound to trigger a few unpleasant recollections about what happened to me, my brother and his wife. I went to see Taylor Evans when I was attempting to prove Steven’s innocence.”
“But today, you’re not here on a personal mission. Think about it this way. Whatever information we’re able to obtain from her will help our husbands solve this case.” She frowned. “I should say these cases. I can’t believe a second murder happened.”
“Two murders so close together must be pretty shocking to the people in Allemand Parish, not to mention the gris-gris bag business.”
“I can vouch for that. It’s an anomaly for sure.”
“There’s one thing bothering me about the Edwards murder,” I said.
Rachel glanced at me. “Like what?”
“If the killer shared a connection with both victims, shouldn’t David Edwards have been more than reluctant to meet this person who required him to meet under similar conditions that led to his buddy, Teddy Berthelot’s murder?”
“Good question. My guess is there’s blackmail involved. Folks like the Berthelots, the Edwardses, and the others in their social status would do just about anything to keep their secrets from going public.”
I cringed. “I of all people should know about the skeletons in the closets of the rich and how closely they guard their dirty little secrets.”
Rachel squinted at the signs up ahead. “Are we getting close to the exit we need? I don’t want to end up on the West Bank.”
“No we’re okay. I’ll let you know when to turn off.” A short distance ahead, I spotted the Superdome. “Turn up there at the next exit.” I pointed to the sign indicating the Poydras Street exit.
Rachel followed the line of traffic down the ramp and onto the street running alongside the concrete support columns of the expressway. The low street was blocked on the opposite side by the Dome, causing the light in this area to seem dimmer than the remainder of the street.
The Superdome, now known as the Mercedes Benz Superdome, stood as a paradoxical symbol of New Orleans. A great architectural achievement when first built, it turned into an image of despair during Katrina. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the restored building had once again become a sign of renewal and pride for the city.
As we drove through the streets, I noted all the completed restoration. Tourism reigned in New Orleans and luckily the French Quarter suffered the least amount of damage during the storm. However, according to occasional progress reports by the local TV stations, many areas of New Orleans East and the Lower Ninth Ward had only partially recovered even after all these years.
Riding down Esplanade Avenue, I felt a lump growing in my throat. Maybe a visit here was a mistake. I brushed off my anxiety. Rachel was right. I’m not here on a personal mission. Repeating the phrase several times seemed to calm my nerves.
“Turn right on the next street,” I directed Rachel.
The cute little shotgun houses were just as I remembered—all looking freshly painted a gleaming white or a soft pastel. No more blue roof tarps so prevalent for years after Hurricane Katrina. As many in this quiet working class neighborhood were at their places of employment and children off to school, the area seemed like a peaceful oasis in the middle of a bustling dangerous metropolis.
I pointed out the psychic’s house. With most residents’ cars absent from their usual on-street parking places, there was an available spot right in front and Rachel pulled in with ease. Once inside we were greeted by Taylor Evans.
“I’m glad to see you again, Susan,” she said extending her hand.
“It’s good to see you too.” I smiled and accepted the woman’s hand. “And this time the reason for the visit isn’t as personal as the last time.”
The psychic returned my smile. “I’m glad.” She narrowed her eyes and studied my face. “But it does have something to do with a crime or crimes, doesn’t it?”
“My goodness. You are incredible. Oh, I’m sorry.” I moved my hand in Rachel’s direction. “This is my neighbor and friend, Rachel Marchand.”
“Nice to meet you,” Rachel said. “It is amazing that you knew our visit involved crimes.” She appeared skeptical of the psychic’s abilities.
Understandable, I was before I came the first time.
“It’s my gift,” Taylor said. “Sometimes it’s a blessing and other times it can be painful.”
With the niceties completed, Taylor led us back to her office. “Please have a seat.” She indicated the two chairs facing her desk. “Now, what can I help you with?”
I produced the photographs of the gris-gris bag’s contents. “We need some information about the items pictured here.” I handed the photos to Taylor, who placed it on the desk in front of her.
Taylor studied the photos carefully before she placed her fingers on each item in one photograph. “These items are from a gris-gris bag and I sense they were placed on the body of a murder victim.”
“Are you familiar with this case?” Rachel asked. “Maybe you read about in the newspaper or saw a piece on a television news show.”
Taylor smiled. “I don’t watch any news shows on television because I often work with police all over the country. If I did watch or read crime news, the information might influence my take on the situation.”
Rachel appeared satisfied with the explanation. “And put you in a position to be accused of fraud.”
“Exactly,” she said. “However, due to the number of people in the world who falsely claim to have psychic abilities, I’ve been accused of being a fraud quite a few times.”
“The main question we have is the meaning of the cards in the swords suit,” I said, anxious to move on to the business at hand. “We believe the items in the bag were left as a message from the killer, but no one’s been able to decode the meaning.”
“Especially the tarot cards,” Rachel added.
“Usually the ten of swords or the others in the suit aren’t taken literally,” Taylor explained. “This
case is no exception. The message I’m getting from the energy transferred from the photo tells me the victim was stabbed only once, not ten times.”
I leaned forward in the chair. “So the message is figurative. What do you believe the killer is saying?”
“This murder is personal. Otherwise he wouldn’t have left these.” Taylor pointed a finger at the items in the photo. “And he wants everyone to know this.”
I contemplated the psychic’s interpretation. “In other words, this could be construed as a crime of passion.”
“In many ways…yes, I believe so.”
“Yet the killer showed great restraint in not stabbing the victim many times,” Rachel mused. “Usually in a crime of passion where the murder weapon is a knife, the victim is stabbed numerous times.”
“With the ten of swords, he’s telling you he would like to have done so.”
“You keep referring to the killer as he,” I said. “Couldn’t the killer be a woman?”
“While the energy is weak from a photograph, the signals I’m getting suggest a man committed this murder, but I feel there’s also a woman involved. A relative perhaps.”
“What about these cards?” Rachel asked, indicating the two and three of swords.
“Two negative connotations of the two of swords are treachery and lies. The killer could be referring to the victim as having those traits.”
“I can see that,” I said, nodding. “What could the three of swords denote?”
“This particular interpretation with the three swords stabbed into a heart indicates heartbreak and overwhelming grief. In the killer’s mind, perhaps the victim caused him pain and sorrow.”
“What did you mean by ‘this particular interpretation’?”
“All tarot card decks do not have the same artwork on them. It depends on how the artist portrayed the symbolic meaning of each card.” She stared at the cards in the photo for a long moment. “This is fascinating. These cards were hand painted.”
“Original artwork?” I tapped Rachel on her arm. “You were right.”
“The cards were designed and most likely a whole deck created by the killer or an associate who is an artist,” Taylor said. “An amateur, perhaps. I’ve never seen tarot cards that weren’t commercially produced.”
“This clue could be a breakthrough in the case,” Rachel said.
A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Taylor, is the first card in each suit an ace?”
“Yes, in that respect, the tarot is like a regular deck of cards.”
The other women stared at me. Rachel had a curious expression; Taylor’s intense gaze suggested she might be reading my mind.
“Do you believe the ace may be a clue even though that particular card wasn’t present in either bag?” she asked.
The idea intrigued me. “Possibly. I’ll have to think about the idea more.”
“Taylor, give us your thoughts on the other two items,” Rachel said. “I have an idea about the message, but I’m curious to see if we might be on the same page.”
The psychic placed her fingers on the drawing, closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.
Watching her do the reading brought back a few unwanted flashbacks to my original visit. Back then, Taylor used a group photograph^m of my brother and three female members of our old social circle. A sense of melancholy came over me for a moment. Taylor’s voice snapped me back to the present.
“The drawing represents Thanatos, the Greek god of Death. Whoever he struck with his sword went directly to Hades.” She opened her eyes briefly. “Apparently the killer believed his victim was a bad person and deserved to die and go to Hell.”
“And the bloodstone?” Rachel asked.
Taylor touched the picture once again on the image of the bloodstone. She frowned. “His message here is a little confusing. The usual purpose behind the stone is to protect oneself from enemies. Ancient soldiers carried the bloodstone into battle believing it would protect them by halting the bleeding from their wounds.” She took a deep breath and continued, “I believe his meaning seems figurative here also. He’s saying he has halted the flow of blood in the victim’s body.”
Rachel agreed. “That’s what I guessed. Although it seemed a bit strange. We know the victim’s blood no longer flows.”
“Indeed. The image and energy I experienced when touching the item in the photo was one of indecision, like he couldn’t decide whether to place the stone in the bag. He may have simply thrown the bloodstone in to make a statement with the name blood stone.” She appeared thoughtful for a moment. “But by doing so, he didn’t make an authentic bag.”
“You mean the odd number requirement,” Rachel said. “Sounds like he might not be so knowledgeable in the tradition of making gris-gris bags.”
“Yes, it appears so. The three other items, the combined meaning of the drawing and the tarot cards are to me the most important message,” Taylor said.
“To sum it up?” I prompted.
“The tarot cards gave you a feel for the killer’s emotions. These victims wronged him or a loved one personally and he got even by killing them. The drawing indicated this victim deserved to die because of his crimes and he’s headed for his just punishments.”
“Did you get any other impressions about the killer or the victim?” I asked.
“The victims and their families are wealthy and the killer leads a Spartan existence. I’m getting the impression that the killer has been away from the area for a considerable length of time.”
“You said victims—plural…was that just a slip of the tongue?
Taylor tilted her head slightly to one side. “There were two victims, correct? These photos are from the first murder victim.”
“Yes, two different crime scenes.”
Placing her fingers on the photo, Taylor closed her eyes. “Both victims and several others share a secret that has something to do with the deaths.”
“You got all that just from touching this photo?” Rachel asked.
“I could have been able to gain more information about the killer if these were the actual items,” Taylor replied, pointing to the picture. “Or if I held an article belonging to one or both victims.”
Rachel didn’t comment. I assumed she still had reservations about the authenticity of Taylor Evans’ comments and her profile of the killer and the victim.
The psychic smiled and addressed Rachel. “Your education involved much of what I talked about here. I believe you were a teacher at one time…somewhere in the southwestern United States. The time right before you returned to Louisiana was unpleasant.”
A shocked look crossed Rachel’s face. “Yes, after I received my degrees I taught several classes at the University of New Mexico. The topics in those classes dealt with religion and rituals.”
I had to admit I was taken aback but also a little miffed. Was the shock value necessary to convince Rachel of Taylor’s psychic gift? Rachel didn’t acknowledge the unpleasant time Taylor mentioned. Obviously whatever the problem my neighbor incurred back then caused a great deal of pain to her presently. A divorce? That could be very nasty. I’d seen photographs in the Marchands’ home of a girl Rachel identified as her daughter from a previous marriage and I actually met her a few years ago.
The bit of information about her teaching in New Mexico came as a surprise, although it shouldn’t have. The daughter I met lived in New Mexico. I knew about my neighbor’s college teaching, but figured she taught in Louisiana—maybe at LSU or one of the colleges in New Orleans.
“Your explanation of the drawing and the bloodstone corresponded with mine,” Rachel said, her voice strained. “But I wasn’t familiar with the tarot card meanings.”
I rose from my seat. “You’ve been a big help.”
“Yes, thank you,” Rachel said.
“I’m glad to be of help. I know both of you have connections to law enforcement, so if they would like further assistance with the case, I would be happy to help.”
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br /> As this assertion by Taylor was much more benign than the earlier one, I almost smiled at the stunned look on Rachel’s face, but controlled my amusement to respond to Taylor’s offer of help. “We’ll pass your invitation on to them.”
After paying Taylor for the visit, I left the office with Rachel to walk back to the car. Rachel didn’t make any comments until we were back on the expressway.
“When she mentioned we both had a connection to law enforcement, she surprised me. After I thought about it, her statement wasn’t really so remarkable. She must have known your husband was a police officer and so logically mine would be also, right?”
She seemed to be attempting to debunk Taylor’s psychic ability, perhaps to rationalize the other information she knew about the events in her past.
“When I consulted her the first time seven years ago, I didn’t tell her Jim was an NOPD detective. She knew before I told her I was seeking information about a crime and I wasn’t a police officer, but she felt I had a strong connection to one.”
“I was afraid this visit would bring back unpleasant memories for you,” Rachel said, staring straight ahead. “I never expected to have a few of my own.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Eleven
Carl Hymel’s face clouded when he saw Danny standing outside his front door. He quickly smiled, but the expression appeared forced. “Sheriff, what can I do for you this morning?”
Danny shot him an equally forced smile, but he figured they didn’t have the same reason for doing so. “I’d like to speak to you about what you might have observed at the Helios parade and at the Beau Chene parade. Can I come in?” He put his right foot on the threshold.
Hymel hesitated, adjusting his wire-rimmed eyeglasses. After a moment, he stepped aside to allow him entry. “Come on in. Have a seat.” He indicated with a wave of his hand toward a blue sofa.
The rest of the living room was decorated in several different shades of the same color, right down to the thick carpet and the tasseled drapes.
Carl’s wife appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Oh, I didn’t know we had company,” Nora Hymel said. “Sheriff, it’s so nice to see you.”
