Trifles and Folly

by Gail Z. Martin

  Coils of dark power undulated from the circle. Some of that power drove the curse into the wood of the humidor. Other darkness drifted and pooled around the black box, caressing it like a homicidal lover. I felt power go into that box, too, killing power. The vision went dark.

  I came back to myself sitting in Peyton Stedman’s chair, knowing I had blacked out. Teag was watching me with concern. I half expected Marjorie to have called the EMTs, but no ambulance sirens sounded.

  “He was cursed,” I said. Teag stepped away and brought me a glass of water. He pushed it into my hand, and I drank it, wishing it were something stronger. “Someone Crossed him, but good.”

  “Hoodoo?” Teag asked. I nodded.

  “It would have to be a root worker of real power,” I said. “And questionable integrity.” Crossing, jinxes, and curses are part of the Hoodoo tradition, a very old practice that came to Charleston from Africa with the thousands of slaves who passed through this port. Some folks call it Conjure. Don’t confuse it with Voodoo (or Voudon as practitioners prefer). Hoodoo and Voudon are very different—and both are real and powerful. Teag and I had seen the results up close.

  “You think someone Crossed Mrs. Peyton, too?”

  I shrugged. “Seems likely—especially since she died the next day.”

  Teag let out a low whistle. “So that means we’re looking for a murderer who can kill with a curse.”

  “Not only can kill, but has killed—at least twice,” I replied.

  Just then, I heard Marjorie’s footsteps in the corridor. “Is everything all right in there? I thought I heard something.” She stayed just outside the door, looking in.

  I stood and hoped that I didn’t look as pale as I felt. “The cigar cutter and the desk are fine pieces, and I think they’ll do well for you at auction. We won’t have any trouble setting a value. But there is a problem with the humidor,” I added.

  “Oh dear. I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  I frowned. “Have you opened the humidor?”

  Marjorie shook her head. “At first, I didn’t want to touch anything in case the doctor needed to look at it, and then it just didn’t come to mind, what with all that happened.”

  It frightens her, I thought. “I’m afraid that we can’t put the humidor up for sale—no reputable dealer can.”

  Marjorie looked genuinely confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “The wood is a protected species,” I replied. “And there are illegal Cuban cigars inside. Both are enough to create a lot of trouble.”

  Marjorie’s eyes widened with alarm. “Really? Now what?”

  Teag gave her a reassuring smile that’s so effective, it really should be patented. “Since both the gift giver and the recipient have passed on, it should be easy to resolve. We’ll have to go through the proper authorities, including your estate lawyer, but it should be possible to take care of it quietly.” After we lift the curse, to keep it from killing anyone else, I added silently.

  “Can you just get it out of here and take care of it for me?” Marjorie asked. “If I never see that damned thing again, it would be too soon.”

  She might be reacting to the negative energy unconsciously, but I was guessing there was more to it. “Bad memories?” I asked quietly.

  Marjorie nodded. “Mama gave that to Daddy for his birthday, and he was so happy. An hour later, he was dead. Then she was gone. I know it’s silly to blame the gift, but I can’t help feeling like bad things came with it.”

  She was more right than she would ever know. “Do you happen to know where your mother bought the box?” I asked.

  Marjorie shook her head. “Sorry, no. Mama was so excited about her big surprise!” She frowned. “Would whoever sold it to her be in trouble?”

  Teag shrugged. “Maybe. It would depend on the circumstances. The box is unusual enough, it does open up some questions.”

  And how. “I know you have a lot on your mind right now,” I said gently. “But if you come upon any receipts from purchases your mother made in her last few days, it might help us track this down. Identifying a seller could take the Customs authorities’ attention off your mother.”

  Marjorie gave a quick nod. “I’d like to keep this quiet. There’s been enough sensationalism about their deaths, like things weren’t bad enough already.”

  “We can’t take possession of the box because of the legalities,” I said, and I felt sorry for Marjorie, having to live in the house with that cursed object. “But we’ll try to work with the authorities on your behalf as quickly as possible.” The authorities I was thinking of belonged to the Alliance. Curses trumped contraband. I figured that once we had a game plan, Sorren could easily get into the house to have a look at the humidor if he wanted to. After all, five hundred years ago, he was the best jewel thief in Antwerp.

  I chatted with Marjorie about the jewelry as we walked downstairs, leaving out my knowledge about Peyton Stedman’s infidelities. “Once you have the appraisals, the way should be clear for you to sell it, if that’s what you want,” I added.

  “I’m keeping some of mama’s older pieces, ones I remember from when I was younger,” Marjorie said. “The later pieces don’t mean much to me.” Or maybe, if she had enough latent sensitivity to recoil from the cursed humidor, she also picked up some of the negative vibes from the newer gifts.

  Neither Teag nor I said anything until we were in the car on the way back to the shop. “I think I’ll stroll down to the Charleston City Market and clear my head,” I said.

  He gave me a sidelong look. “You mean, you’re going to see if Niella and Mrs. Teller are there, aren’t you?”

  I chuckled. “Busted. I figure if anyone knows anything about root work in this city, its Ernestine Teller.”

  Teag leaned back in his seat. “Good idea. I’ll work the internet. See what I can find out. I have a suspicion there’s more to this, and that’s dangerous until we know who sent that curse and why.”

  * * *

  OUR PART-TIME SHOP assistant, Maggie, was helping a customer when we got back to Trifles and Folly. Maggie is semi-retired, and she wears her gray hair short so it doesn’t interfere with her yoga. Her wardrobe is Woodstock-esque, but her brain is Harvard Business School. And when she laughs, everyone wants to be her friend.

  Maggie waved to us, her signal that we weren’t needed right away up front. Teag headed for the office to start digging on the computer. I returned a few phone calls and emails, and then headed off toward the market. There were some errands I needed to run, too. I had gathered everything into one small plastic bag in an effort to be efficient: a pair of my mother’s favorite citrine earrings to go to the jeweler for new posts and my dog’s old license tag to remind me to get a new one, plus a list of some spices to buy for dinner.

  It was a glorious summer day, and hot even though it was still before lunch. Charleston has beautiful gardens because we also have humidity most people only find in rainforests and hothouses. I had barely stepped outside the shop when I felt sweat bead up on my forehead. By the time I got to the marketplace, I knew my cheeks would be red and I’d need to stop in the shade. I promised myself a nice tall glass of sweet tea, served up over ice and made the Charleston way, with enough sugar to frost a cake.

  There’s a reason Charleston is a favorite with tourists. It’s a pretty place, with pastel-colored buildings, wrought-iron railings and gates, hidden little secret gardens, and cobblestones everywhere. Down on Market Street is the Charleston City Market, the heart of the historic district. Barring a hurricane, it’s open almost every day, and the sides of the big building open up to let in the sun and breeze. Vendors sell everything from jewelry to fresh vegetables to original photography and art. Bakers offer up their Charleston tea cookies and homemade peach jam. Jars of pickled okra and watermelon sit next to bags of fresh, hot boiled peanuts or cans of she-crab soup. It’s a shopper’s paradise, and there’s always something new. I picked up some sage and basil for the pasta I wanted to c
ook, and couldn’t resist a couple of small sample bags of flavored coffee.

  “Hello there, Cassidy!” Niella sang out a greeting as soon as she laid eyes on me. Her mother, Mrs. Teller, looked up and flashed a grin that lit up her wrinkled face.

  “Good morning!” I enjoyed chatting with Niella and her mother whenever I went to the market, even if I didn’t have a cursed object to tame. “You’ve got some new baskets out.”

  Niella nodded. “Sure do. Been working on a couple of new handles and shapes. You like?”

  “You know I do!” Niella and Mrs. Teller weave sweetgrass baskets. Mrs. Teller is very proud of her Gullah heritage, and in the Lowcountry, sweetgrass basket-making is a true art form. Baskets like hers sell for hundreds of dollars, with their complicated twists and fine workmanship. Ernestine Teller has been making baskets for most of her seventy-some years, and her hands keep moving even when she looks up. She makes it look easy, but it takes a lifetime for that kind of skill.

  “Shadows touched you.” Mrs. Teller’s voice was quiet, but she gave me an appraising glance. She had the Sight, and I didn’t doubt that she could pick up on the evil from the box we had seen today.

  “I need your help,” I said.

  Mrs. Teller nodded. “I know. You’ve got a heap of trouble. Someone near you been Crossed real good.”

  Niella glanced around us to make sure no one else heard. She’s very protective of her mother. At the same time, Mrs. Teller has skills of her own that I was pretty sure could help her take care of herself when it came to magic.

  “I don’t know how to ask this without giving offense—” I started.

  Mrs. Teller’s fingers never stopped their weaving. “You want to know if I know anyone who would put a jinx on someone. Throw a Hoodoo so strong, might even kill somebody.”

  I nodded. “I’m certainly not saying that you do—”

  “’Course I do,” Mrs. Teller said, looking back down at her basket. “Can’t do what I do for as long as I been doing it in this city without knowing who else has power, good and bad.” She paused, and the thin strips of sweetgrass ran through her fingers. I knew how easy it was for a novice to get cut on those sharp strips, but Mrs. Teller never slipped.

  “Not many Hoodoo folks could do something like that, thank the Lord,” she said. “Most who can know better. You reap what you sow. Bad comes from bad.” She shook her head. “Uh huh. But there are some, for sure.”

  “One person—maybe two—have already died,” I said quietly with a quick glance over my shoulder. “I need to know how to lift the curse.”

  Mrs. Teller shrugged. “If the Crossing is set right, it can’t be lifted until it’s done, except by the one who put it on the person.” She looked up at me again, peering at me with a gaze that seemed to see right through into my soul. “The kind of conjure doctors who would do such a Crossing are dangerous to know.”

  Despite the heat, I shivered. “That’s why I’ve got to find out who did this. Other people could be in danger.”

  She had already looked back to her weaving. “High John.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Doctor High John. Be my bet. He’d do Crossings, jinxes, most anything if you paid enough,” she replied, never taking her gaze from her basket as she worked. “Don’t go alone. You won’t need to tell him I sent you. He’ll know I know. That won’t keep you safe, but it might make him think twice.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  She named a part of the city that doesn’t make it onto the garden tours. It was an older area with modest homes that had been new after World War II, and lately the area had fallen into disrepair. “Blue shotgun house, with dark blue trim,” Mrs. Teller said. “You’ll know it by the garden in front, full of plants for spell work. He might have a sign out, might not.”

  She leaned forward. “This is important, child. Don’t leave anything of yours behind. Brush out your hair good so you don’t leave strands. Don’t take anything of his to eat or drink. Try not to touch anything, and sure as the Lord is true, don’t step anywhere you’ll leave a footprint. You don’t want to give High John any way to have power over you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, although I was full of misgivings.

  Mrs. Teller made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “You might think otherwise, after you go there. Be careful, you hear?” She paused, then reached down and took a small sweetgrass basket with a lid.

  “Take this with you,” she said, thrusting it into my hands. “’Til you find out what’s what, you keep it with you all the time.”

  I knew how much her baskets cost, because I had bought one for my mother’s birthday. “I couldn’t—”

  “Oh yes you could,” she said, and her dark eyes met mine with a no-nonsense look. “It pleases me for you to have it,” she said, lifting her chin. “So. Take it.”

  Niella rolled her eyes, used to her mother’s whims. I thanked Mrs. Teller profusely, and then headed back to the shop with the basket on my arm. It was about the size of a small purse, and I decided that was how I would use it, if I had to keep it with me. When I touched the basket, I felt the lingering aura of Mrs. Teller’s presence, calm and steady. I put my purchases into the basket along with the small bag of items from my pocket and headed back, figuring I would run errands another day.

  The store was busy when I got back, so I put the basket near me behind the counter and joined Teag and Maggie taking care of customers. Summer tourists love the unusual items Trifles and Folly has to offer, and since we keep any of the spooky stuff in the back until we can deal with it, no one’s the wiser to what we really do. There must have been bus tours or a convention in town, because we were slammed. It was closing time before I ever got a chance to even talk to Teag.

  After we had flipped the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and said goodnight to Maggie, I caught Teag up on what I learned from Mrs. Teller. He glanced at the basket on my lap.

  “She’s been helping me with my Weaving magic,” he said. “You know there’s a bit of her magic in everything she makes. That’s one reason her baskets attract so many buyers—and such high prices.”

  I could believe it. I realized that I was unconsciously stroking the smooth twists, taking in the faint, pleasant smell of the sweetgrass. “So what did you find out?” I asked.

  “Peyton Stedman had expensive tastes,” Teag said. “He liked the good life. The only problem was, he was running out of money.”

  I looked at Teag as if he might have hit his head. “Hello? Did you see that house?”

  He nodded. “Uh huh. I didn’t say they were going broke. Yet. But the way he liked to spend cash, between gambling and companions, it went out faster than it came in. Plus, Stedman kept collecting pretty young honeys and buying them pricy presents.”

  “This doesn’t sound good.”

  “It isn’t. Caroline might have given him a luxury humidor for his birthday, but if Peyton hadn’t fallen over dead, she was going to serve him with divorce papers a few days later,” Teag said. “I hacked their bank records, and followed the money. Large payment to one of the nastier high-end divorce lawyers in town.”

  I frowned as I thought it through. “Do you think Caroline was behind the curse?”

  Teag shrugged. “Why bother? She was probably going to take him to the cleaners. Some of the other tidbits I found were emails from a private investigator. She had Peyton dead to rights.”

  “Why pay a conjure doctor and a lawyer too?”

  “Beats me,” he replied. “And maybe it wasn’t Caroline. A guy like Peyton Stedman is bound to have made plenty of enemies. Bad debts, angry mistresses, business deals that went sour. His wife might have had to stand in line to get a swing at him.”

  I was going to have to think about what Teag had discovered. In the meantime, we had a Hoodoo man to see. “Let’s go. I don’t think I want to face Doctor High John after dark.”

  We drove Teag’s old Volvo instead of my Mini Cooper, since his is more forgettable. Just in c
ase, he splashed enough mud on the license plate to make it impossible to read. Teag and I had changed into jeans and t-shirts to fit in better, but I didn’t think we were going to fool anyone. High John lived in a rough neighborhood, as Charleston goes. Someday, developers would probably gentrify the area, if there was anything left. The houses managed to be the wrong kind of ‘old’ in a city that loves old houses. Some of the homes were boarded up. Others had been vandalized, with broken windows and graffiti. People loitered in odd places on a few of the side streets, and I figured they were lookouts. I really didn’t want to linger.

  We drove past High John’s place, and I got a good look. The house was just as Mrs. Teller had described it, only shabbier. It was a one-story ‘shotgun’ house with a tin roof that was in need of repair. The lawn was overgrown, and some of the grass was as tall as the hand-lettered wooden sign out front. “Conjure Doctor. Consultations. Remedies. Reasonable Rates.”

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” I observed. “No lights on.”

  “I saw an alley around back,” Teag said. “I’d rather not have the whole neighborhood wondering what we’re up to. Let’s park there.”

  A lot of High John’s neighbors were sitting out on porches and stoops trying to catch a cool breeze. They spoke to the few passers-by, and eyed the cars that drove past warily. I didn’t think anyone would necessarily call the cops on us, since I had the distinct impression that might be bad for some neighborhood businesses, but I also didn’t want to meet the welcoming committee.

  I was wearing my agate necklace, for protection, and I had Mrs. Teller’s basket on my left arm. Even so, I felt skittish. Teag had learned to store magic in knotted rope, and I saw that he had a couple of charms that looked like macramé knots hanging from his belt, where he could get to them easily. We weren’t exactly going in unprotected. Teag’s a black belt in a couple of martial arts styles, and I’ve taken enough classes to put up a good fight. Still, I’d rather not need to use what I’d learned, and I sincerely hoped we were going to have an uneventful evening.