Gypsy Magic

by Rebecca York; Ann Voss Peterson; Patricia Rosemoor

  “Elizabeth,” came her father’s stern voice from the other end. “I’ve heard a disturbing rumor.”

  “Daddy.” Her mouth went dry, but she forced out the words. “Rumor? Which would be?”

  “That you’re seeing that Andrei Sobatka again. I thought we settled that.”

  “There’s nothing romantic about my seeing him, Daddy,” she said, hedging.

  “Then what’s going on?”

  Elizabeth hated this. Her father was still in Baton Rouge and would be there until the following afternoon. She’d hoped to have some answers before she’d had to tell him anything.

  “It’s about Mama,” she said. “Rather, Mama’s killer.”

  “Mustov’s appeals are up, sweetheart. Nothing to worry about there. The execution will go on as scheduled next week.”

  “That’s the problem. I’m not sure he did it.”

  “Of course he did it!”

  Elizabeth didn’t answer immediately. She couldn’t not ask him…yet how could she?

  “Daddy,” she began breathlessly, trying to phrase her question carefully, “why didn’t you ever tell anyone that you knew that Mama was having an affair with Carlo Mustov?”

  “How can you ask me such a thing?”

  He sounded indignant, but she noted he didn’t deny it.

  “Because I saw a copy of a letter that Mama wrote to him. She said you knew about Carlo and that you were very angry about it. I remember the two of you fighting, Daddy. I tried shutting myself off from it, because you’d been fighting so much, but I know that you were angry with her.”

  “Not angry enough to kill her,” he said, a chill in his stiff tone.

  I hope not.

  She thought the words, but she didn’t voice them. She didn’t know what to say, in fact. Her father was being evasive about this even now.

  “That damn Sobatka’s got you all worked up for nothing, sweetheart,” he said, his voice suddenly so silky it shot a warning note up her spine. “Promise me you’ll let it alone, that you won’t see him again.”

  “I can’t do that, Daddy. I need to make sure you’re not implicated in Mama’s death.”

  That was true. She only prayed he believed her.

  ANDREI KNEW he’d been right to warn Lizzie—it assuaged his unease about involving her. Not that he had any reason to feel guilty. She had come to him, after all. Remembering how stubborn she could be, he knew she was determined to prove her father innocent, no matter the danger to herself.

  That was the way with gadje, he thought. They would never believe one of their own was guilty. Better to blame a Rom.

  As someone caught between both worlds, he could see both sides of the equation. And if the carnival wasn’t here in Les Baux, he would investigate both sides, as well, and keep Lizzie out of this. But the people here in this town knew only one side of him. To them, to Lizzie, he was Romany, Gypsy, no matter that his mother was gadji and had sent him to his Creole grandmother in New Orleans to be tamed and educated every winter after he’d reached puberty. None of that was known to the townspeople here. None of that mattered. Not to them.

  Not to Miss Elizabeth Granville, who still saw him as the Gypsy boy she’d once had under her spell.

  She might have him again, Andrei thought ruefully as a familiar itch grew. Thinking about Lizzie did that to him—tortured him, because there was nothing he could do to relieve himself.

  Damn Valonia! he thought, then instantly regretted cursing the dead woman. She’d had valid reason to want revenge for what had happened to her son.

  But he hadn’t been involved, so why had she cursed him? He couldn’t think of anything worse than wanting a woman only to fail at the crucial moment.

  Andrei set out to keep his end of the bargain, while wondering how well Lizzie would keep hers. It was to her advantage to conclude that Carlo was indeed the murderer, though to be fair, he didn’t think she would want an innocent man to die for her mother’s death. And surely she would want the guilty one punished.

  As long as it wasn’t her father of course.

  Twice now, he’d sensed some kind of guilt in her, but for once, he hadn’t been able to interpret the confusing emotion. No doubt it had to do with the senator and her defense of him—she didn’t know who else had a motive for the murder any more than he did.

  Making the rounds of the carnival, he questioned a few of the old-timers—Gregor, who ran the Ferris wheel and acted as consulting mechanic on all the rides, and Dorina, in charge of food and whose recipe for funnel cake had been in use ever since he was a boy. Both had been good friends with Valonia and Carlo. Neither had anything to say about Carlo’s gadji, however, except that it was a shame one so young had to lose her life.

  Next, Andrei set out to find Tony, who’d been good friends with Carlo—the men had hung out together. But before he got far, Andrei heard the tinkling of bracelets and turned around to find Florica following him. When she realized he’d spotted her, she smiled and tossed her hair back from her shoulders.

  “How is the prettiest Rom at the carnival today?” Andrei asked.

  Florica giggled as she danced around him. “Do you like my hair? The old style made me look too young.”

  Andrei stared. Her hair was long and loose, the same as always. “So you’ve changed it,” he said, not letting doubt creep into his tone.

  “So much more grown-up than braids, don’t you think?”

  Braids? She hadn’t worn braids for years and years, not since she was a little girl. But all he said was “Lovely.”

  He knew Florica’s mind fluttered back and forth through time, which could be a fortunate thing for him, considering his mission had to do with the past.

  “Real men like messy hair,” Florica said, raising her eyebrows and twirling for him.

  That was what he’d told the customer to get her on the Tilt-a-Whirl earlier. Andrei didn’t remember seeing Florica around at the time, but Lizzie had distracted him. Besides, Florica often flitted here and there like a will-o’-the-wisp. She must have overheard him, and no doubt she would use that line for years to come. Though the woman was childlike, she had a better grasp of what was going on than most believed. And when she concentrated, her memory went deep.

  “Florica, I need to talk to you. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Papa did want me to come right back.” She seemed torn, her features drawing into a scowl. “He’ll be very angry with me again.” Then they softened. “But for you, Andrei…”

  “Let’s sit.”

  He led her toward a picnic table under the trees and away from the food trailers. Because it was early, the area was nearly empty but for a couple and a family of six. While Andrei sat on a bench, Florica stayed in motion. A fallen log lay to one side of the picnic area, and she seemed fascinated with circling it. She took precise little steps, all the while holding her long skirts up several inches from her sandaled feet.

  “Florica, you remember Carlo, don’t you?”

  “Carlo?” She continued circling. “I’m mad at him. He was supposed to take me to a movie last week, but he forgot.”

  “He didn’t forget,” Andrei said gently, realizing her last week had come and gone ten years before. “He’s in jail, remember? For killing Theresa Granville.”

  Florica stopped and frowned. “The gadji. Everyone said she was no good for him.”

  Picking up on that immediately, Andrei asked, “Who is everyone?”

  But the young woman had slipped into her own world. She was on the log now, doing a balancing act as she traversed its rough length.

  “Florica, did you ever hear anyone speak harshly about Theresa Granville?”

  “Papa didn’t like her. He said she would bring about ruin and destruction.” Her voice was small and childlike. “She was a wicked, wicked woman. Married with a daughter and whoring with Carlo. She did ruin Carlo just like Papa said. He’s in jail now,” she finished as if Andrei hadn’t just reminded her.

  “And if we do
n’t help him, Carlo will die.”

  “Carlo’s dead, Carlo’s dead,” she singsonged to herself. “He’s out of my heart and out of my head.”

  “He’s not dead yet!” Andrei declared. “We still have a chance to save him. If only we can find the real killer…”

  Florica stared at him through the curtain of hair that had fallen across her face. Her mouth was open, her lips moving, but no words were issued.

  “Can you help me, Florica?” Andrei said. “Carlo was your friend, wasn’t he? Just like I’m your friend?”

  She nodded and for a moment he caught a glimpse of lucidity crossing her narrow features. “Carlo’s being convicted of the gadji’s murder broke my heart.”

  “Then help me—”

  “And my heart will be broken again,” she said, her gaze boring into him.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Bad things happen here in Les Baux,” she whispered. “Bad things could happen to you, too.”

  A chill shot down Andrei’s spine. He pushed himself up from the bench. Did she know something or not?

  Gently taking her hand, he asked, “What bad things?”

  But Florica was already gone, withdrawn into her secret world, a world that even he with his magic could not enter. Rom magic had never worked on Florica, undoubtedly because mentally she was…different. Andrei shook off his disappointment. He would get no more from her today.

  “Florica, I think you’d better go home, or Milo will worry.”

  “Papa?” she said, her focus turning outward again, but away from Andrei. She pulled her hand free and stepped down off the log. “I’m coming, Papa,” she singsonged, then hurried toward the trailers as if she’d actually heard him calling.

  Leaving Andrei staring after her, knowing no more than he had earlier, and wondering why he’d ever thought he could succeed where his cousins had failed.

  THE END OF THE DAY brought no cheer to Elizabeth, who’d been in more Les Baux front parlors than she’d visited in years. She was hot and sweaty and more than anything wanted to jump in the bayou for a swim on the way to her late-night meeting with Andrei at the carnival.

  The swim being a fantasy of course. The bayou was for alligators; the shower or tub for Granvilles.

  So it had always been, so it would always be, she thought, undoing the top few buttons of her blouse and unsticking it from where it clung to her skin. Better. Next she removed her jacket and stifled the rash impulse to take off her shoes and panty hose, as well. She really should shower and change, she thought, but the notion still clung that her conservative clothing could serve as armor to protect her from Andrei Sobatka.

  Despite her knowing that no matter what she wore, what she said, he could read her like a book. Always had. He was a man who knew women. At least he knew her.

  Too bad she hadn’t known him as well as she’d thought.

  She’d barely entered the carnival grounds when she heard a voice come out of the night. “Looking for someone, Lizzie?”

  Elizabeth whipped around to face her nemesis, who was leaning against a tree to one side of the office trailer. Though the moon was nearly full, a cloud hid most of it, so she could barely see him there. But she had the impression of lean strength and something powerful, dark, coiled and ready to explode.

  “Andrei, you startled me,” she gasped.

  “Feeling guilty about something?”

  “What? No.”

  “Then why are you so nervous?” He pushed away from the shadows.

  As if he didn’t know.

  Andrei drew closer, crowding her, but Elizabeth refused to give ground. Her mistake. Heat rekindled and sparked and oozed through her pores. Her breasts ached and her center burned for his touch.

  Dear Lord, she wanted him. Right here. Right now.

  Of course she couldn’t act on this desire. She wouldn’t act on it!

  She wished for a moment that she wasn’t such a “lady.” But that was just a fancy that rankled deep within her.

  “So what new information do you have about my mother’s death?” she snapped.

  “Unfortunately, nothing.”

  “Just as I expected.” She sensed him bristle at what surely sounded like a criticism.

  “What? You think I didn’t try?” He crowded her back against the tree. “I spent every minute of my free time talking to people who were with the carnival the summer your mother was murdered.”

  “I didn’t mean that you didn’t try—I know how desperately you want information that would free Carlo. It just seems that the information is nonexistent.”

  But explanations didn’t take the edge off the tension wiring between them, attracting and repelling simultaneously. If only he wasn’t standing so close. If only he wasn’t so interested in her blouse where she’d unbuttoned it. Andrei’s gaze seemed to be riveted by what he saw there. Elizabeth wanted to do the buttons back up, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d unnerved her. Instead, she tried to remain casual, to pretend that he had no effect on her whatsoever.

  “I didn’t learn anything new, either,” she said in a miraculously even voice.

  “No juicy tidbits from Miss Ina?”

  He leaned in and reached out, not to touch her, but to place a hand on the tree trunk mere inches from her head.

  “I…I didn’t see her, after all.” She could hardly concentrate. Could hardly get a cohesive sentence together. “Miss Ina’s daughter brought her to New Orleans for a few days’ visit. She should be back tomorrow. But if you want to know the truth,” she said breathlessly, “I think we’re on a wild-goose chase.”

  “You mean, you still think Carlo did it and you’re resenting the hell out of me for putting you through some minor discomfort.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. I hate that.”

  “You have enough experience. As I remember, you were always mouthing your daddy’s opinions.”

  “That was ten years ago!”

  “What’s changed?” Andrei asked. “You still work for him and live with him and defend him.”

  “He doesn’t have anyone else.”

  Nor did she. And no one else had ever suggested that she couldn’t be her own person just because she remained close with her surviving parent.

  Looking for a way to throw him off, Elizabeth asked, “And what does your coming back to the carnival say about you? You don’t belong here anymore. You should have a real life with a home and a woman who’s crazy about you—”

  “Not in this lifetime,” he growled.

  “Why?” she asked, wondering what had happened to sour him on relationships. “Because you can’t commit yourself to anyone?”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  She laughed and said, “I know enough,” and tried to push by him.

  But he wouldn’t budge, and when she tried to duck around him, he shot his free arm out to the tree, so that one hand lay against the bark on either side of her face. She was surrounded by him.

  “Andrei, let me go.”

  Her eyes had adjusted to the dark now, and she easily saw the smile tugging at his mouth.

  “So you can go back to that big house with no one waiting for you?”

  “Daddy—”

  “—is in Baton Rouge.”

  A breeze picked up and fanned her overheated body. “What do you care?” she asked softly. “What is it you want from me, Andrei?”

  “This.”

  His head swooped down as fast as that of a bird of prey, and he had her, then, mouth to mouth, chest to breast, hips to hips, her back pressed into the tree trunk. Reminded of her first sexual encounter—a moment in time spent with him—her body came alive.

  His assault was aggressive and tender and coaxing. His tongue gentle and bold and clever. His teeth sharp and quick and teasing.

  No one on earth could kiss like Andrei Sobatka, Elizabeth thought, surrendering to the magic, fearing that if he moved back now, she would puddle at his feet.r />
  This wasn’t a learned skill, but one he’d been born with. She’d known that from the first time he’d kissed her—and he’d barely been legal then. Over the years, she’d tried to find someone who could outdo him in the kissing department. Maybe then she could have forgotten him.

  But she’d never found his match in any man when it came to kissing—or anything else.

  By the time Andrei came up for air, Elizabeth was panting, ready and willing to take the next step.

  But his step was back and away from her, his arms falling to his sides. She leaned back into the tree to keep from falling at his feet.

  “Run, Lizzie,” he said softly. “Run away home before we both have reason to regret your hesitating.”

  Something about the way he said that disturbed her. He sounded torn…no, tortured.

  “What is it?” She wanted to move to him, so that she could read him better, but she didn’t dare leave the support of the tree trunk. “What’s troubling you?”

  “You are. We don’t belong together, Lizzie, so there’s no fooling ourselves, now is there.”

  Her fingers bit into the bark. He thought she was fooling herself?

  Desire evaporated like sweat in a desert. One second it was there, the next it was gone.

  Angry and frustrated, thinking he still didn’t know his own mind regarding her after all these years, Elizabeth took his advice for perhaps the first time and headed right past him and straight for home.

  THE GRANVILLE WOMAN fled the scene, and her would-be lover followed part of the way before veering off in the direction of the trailers.

  Two more problems to take care of—was there no end to them?

  The wind picked up and whistled eerily through the trees. You would think a wind like that would blow off some of the humidity, but not deep in bayou country. Rather, it stirred the swamp stink and cast it over the nearby land, turning the air fetid, like the smell of death.

  On just such a night ten years before, Theresa Granville had drawn her last breath.

  She haunted this place, haunted those involved.