Creepin’

by L. A. Banks

  “The price of my freedom is never too high.” She took her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed information for the airline’s number. She called and booked a flight to New Orleans that was taking off in five hours.

  Paloma turned off the boat’s motor, stepped out of the dinghy and tied it to an iron ring embedded in the rickety dock. As she walked down the dock, she could see through the planks to the murky water below. Somewhere in the distance an alligator roared. Overhead white egrets took flight, circling and then taking off for the Gulf.

  As Paloma stepped off the dock, her feet sank into the thick bayou mud and she remembered all the times in her youth when she’d promised herself she would never return should she ever escape from this place.

  She hesitated before walking up to the gray, weather-beaten shack. She’d come this far. Now was not the time to turn back. She scanned the area surrounding the shack, searching for her great-aunt Odile.

  Miss Odile was the local voodoo woman for all the inhabitants of Bayou La Lune. If anyone could help Paloma with her predicament, it would be Miss Odile.

  The ramshackle house was set back from the water, and surrounded by towering live oaks drooping with Spanish moss. The house looked as though it was going to fall down any second, but she couldn’t tell if that was the normal appearance or the after-effects of last season’s terrible hurricane.

  Paloma hitched her black tote over her shoulder and set off, her sneakers slapping against the dirt of the path. Was Miss Odile even home?

  She glanced around and saw a small garden to one side of the clearing. A dovecote sat under one of the trees and she could hear the cooing of the birds inside.

  Having left for good, Paloma only returned for the odd family reunion and never stayed more than a few days. Now that her life was in shambles, she was back where she started.

  A shaft of sunlight pierced the trees. A brown pelican landed on a log and stared at her. Nothing like having the wildlife eyeball her like they knew she’d been played by her husband.

  “What you want, chile?” Miss Odile said in a raspy voice.

  Paloma started. Where had Miss Odile come from? One second the porch had been empty and the next Miss Odile stood on the gray wood slats with a broom in her hand as though she’d been there all along.

  Miss Odile had been old when Paloma had been a child. Except for a more shrunken stature, she seemed pretty much the same. Beautiful coal-black hair was wrapped around her head contrasted with the wizened look of her walnut-colored face. Shrewd brown eyes studied Paloma with a sharpness that seemed to see right into her soul.

  Not sure how to get down to business with her aunt she went for good manners. “Good morning, Miss Odile,” Paloma held out the tote bag.

  Miss Odile took the bag and peered inside. “What you bring an old woman, chile?”

  “Chocolates.” Miss Odile’s sweet tooth was legendary. “Tea, toilet paper, flour and cornmeal.”

  “Chocolates! From Paris?” Miss Odile pulled the gold foil box out of the tote. “You so fancy now.”

  Paloma wondered if her statement was a thank you, but remembered her great-aunt did things in her own time. “Only the best for you.”

  Miss Odile peered at her. “I remember you running barefoot on my bayou. Your mama brought you and asked me to make you special.” The old woman’s gaze raked Paloma from head to toe, taking in the designer jeans, T-shirt, expensive Nikes and gold watch. “Your mama’s sacrifice was well made. You’re mighty fine, girl. But, I sense your heart is heavy.”

  Paloma said nothing for the moment.

  “You have troubles.” Miss Odile reached up to touch Paloma’s throat, running her gnarled fingers down the smoothness. “You’d best come in and set a spell. You can fix me a cup of this fine tea and we’ll have us a talk.”

  Paloma entered the shadowed interior. Inside a pungent spice smell slid into her senses. She didn’t recognize the smell, but caught the scent of sage mixed with rosemary and thyme.

  The room was small, but tidy. Despite herbs hanging from the ceiling and bottles crowded on the bookshelves along one wall, the room had an airy feel. Two overstuffed chairs sat in front of the fireplace next to a Tiffany style lamp on a rosewood claw-footed side table, a silver Reed and Barton tea service on a sideboard and any number of other treasures on tables and shelves throughout the room. Miss Odile didn’t appear to have lost anything in the hurricanes. Paloma wondered how she’d kept her house intact.

  Something must have showed on her face because Miss Odile cackled as she sat down. “Live in balance with nature, chile, and nature respects that.”

  A big raccoon walked in through the front door. Miss Odile smiled at the animal. She opened the box of chocolates and pulled one out. She handed it to the raccoon who grabbed the chocolate and ran out again clutching the treasure in its mouth.

  Miss Odile held out the open box of chocolates, but Paloma shook her head. “No thank you, I’m watching my figure.”

  Miss Odile chuckled. “Everyone watches your figure, you take the day off.”

  What the hell, Paloma thought and reached into the box, took a chocolate square and popped it in her mouth. The sweet, rich taste running down her throat made her feel decadent.

  “Now about that tea.” Miss Odile dug into the tote, handed Paloma the tin of imported tea and pointed to the kitchen.

  Obediently, Paloma walked into the kitchen. The water was already boiling and for a second, she wondered if her great-aunt had known she was going to have company. Paloma dropped loose tea leaves into the silver teapot, set two dainty Meissen cups and saucers on a tray, poured boiling water into the teapot and returned to the small living room.

  Miss Odile watched with such intensity, Paloma almost dropped the tray. She managed to set it on a low table, which she would bet her last hit record was a Chippendale in pristine condition. She poured tea into a cup and handed it to Miss Odile. She poured her own tea and sat down across from her great-aunt.

  “How’s your mama?” Miss Odile popped a chocolate into her mouth.

  “She’s fine. Still complaining about her lack of grandchildren from me.”

  Miss Odile tilted her head and studied Paloma with sharp eyes. “And you, child. What about you?”

  “Fine.” But she knew she didn’t sound convincing.

  Miss Odile gave a very unladylike snort. “How come you don’t have babies? You been married fifteen years to that man.”

  Having babies with Keith had never seemed like the right decision. And now that she was going to end her marriage, there would never be any babies. “My life is fine without babies.” Keith liked playing celebrity husband and hadn’t wanted anything to distract her from her career or his personal pursuit of happiness.

  “What that man do to you?” Miss Odile leaned forward, her piercing eyes never leaving Paloma’s face.

  She thought about how to answer, about where to start and realized that his dissatisfaction with her had been going on a long time. She might as well start at the beginning. “He told me a few months ago my music CD sales were down. He suggested that if I changed my image, dressed like a slut and strutted half naked on a stage like a bimbo, I’d start selling better.” Class to trash, all in one easy lesson.

  Miss Odile looked disapproving. “Your mama raised you to be a lady.”

  Once started Paloma couldn’t stop. All the other things he’d said to her suddenly made sense in a way. “Look at my face, do you think I need a lift?” She touched her eyebrows and her chin. “He says I look tired and haggard. I’m only thirty-six years old. What does he want? I spent half my life making more money for him and he still wasn’t happy. No, he still has to have other women fawning over him, making him feel good. Someone like Syrah who bangs him in my bed, in my house, in my…” She stopped and took a deep breath struggling for control. “And now he’s stolen all my money. All my hard work has been for nothing.”

  “What you want to do about it?”

  She str
uggled for an answer, knowing once she said the words, there would be no turning back. Searching deep inside her, searching for balance, she finally said, “I want everything back.” The more she thought about it, the greater her fury became. “That bastard doesn’t deserve anything I gave him.” Paloma wanted to hit something. She clenched her fist and tried not to pound the arm of the chair. “I want him to pay.”

  Miss Odile chose another chocolate and bit into it. Chocolate oozed over her fingers. “You had the look when you walked up the dock.”

  “What look?”

  “Revenge.”

  Paloma took a breath. “Yes, I want revenge.”

  “You want him to suffer.” Miss Odile’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Yes.” Did she ever want him to suffer.

  Miss Odile smiled. “All the angry wives come to me.” She stroked her long neck a few times. “What you willing to pay?”

  Anything. “I don’t have much now, but…”

  Miss Odile ate another chocolate. “I don’t need money.”

  “I have several fur coats. They’re yours.”

  Miss Odile shrugged. “Who I gonna impress in the swamps?”

  Paloma ran through the list of her possessions. What did she have to tempt the old voodoo woman with? Paloma’s throat started to burn and she gasped with pain.

  Miss Odile raised one of her thin gray eyebrows. “I don’t need things. I have all I want.” She touched her black hair. “But, I’ve always wanted a voice like an angel.”

  The burning in Paloma’s throat grew until she thought she would die. Her voice! Miss Odile wanted her voice. Her voice was the one thing that made her special.

  Miss Odile patted her hand. “You take your time and think about it. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

  With Miss Odile gone, Paloma finished her tea. In her unsteady hands, the cup rattled against the saucer. Could she give up her voice? She didn’t know. But she did know she had given her husband loyalty and he had betrayed her. She’d not only taken care of her family financially, but his as well. And he’d repaid her with infidelity and theft.

  She didn’t know how many minutes passed before she sensed Miss Odile standing in front of her. “I know how troubled you are, but you don’t need to make a decision right this second.” She held out her palm and nestled against her skin was a sea shell of some sort with a velvet cord threaded through it.

  Paloma started to take the shell, but jerked her hand back. The shell turned its pointy end toward her.

  Miss Odile draped the cord about Paloma’s neck. The shell nestled deep in her cleavage. She carefully touched it surprised the shell wasn’t smooth but ridged.

  “Once you call this in motion,” Miss Odile said, “you cannot call it back.”

  Could she really give up her voice? Never be special again? Her heart raced. Was the loss of her voice the price of her freedom? “How does the charm work?”

  Miss Odile jiggled her eyebrows. “Sex got you into this, sex will get you out.”

  What the hell did Miss Odile mean?

  “Whatever you decide, chile,” Miss Odile continued, “I’ll know.” She clutched Paloma’s chin. She stared deeply into her eyes. “You’re a good chile, and you’ll do.” She kissed Paloma on the forehead, the tip of her nose, and then her lips and then sat herself down heavily in the chair and waved at the door. Paloma had been dismissed.

  As she made her way back to the dinghy, the burning in her throat increased. She started the motor and headed back to New Orleans.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Paloma sat in the first class lounge waiting for her plane, relieved that her visit with Miss Odile had ended. The voodoo cursed shell hung heavy around her neck and she resisted the urge to touch it. Every time she did, the burning in her throat intensified. And she worried that she didn’t have the fortitude to set the hex in motion, despite her fury over Keith’s treachery. How could she have been so deceived? Again, the image of her husband spanking “Miss Thang” returned.

  The PA system called her plane and she opened the door to the lounge and started toward her gate. She bumped into a young man who smiled apologetically, then gave her a huge, megawatt smile. He was tall, taller than Paloma, and slender, with cafe-au-lait skin and pleasant brown eyes.

  “Excuse me,” he said enthusiastically, “you’re Paloma Alexander, aren’t you?”

  How the hell had he seen past her sunglasses and big, floppy brimmed hat? She tried to stay anonymous, but someone always seemed to recognize her. The last thing she needed was for someone to recognize her in New Orleans.

  Should she deny it or not? She took off her sunglasses and gave him a full view of her face. “Yes, I’m Paloma Alexander and you are—” She held our her hand inviting him to introduce himself.

  He enfolded her hand in his two big ones. His fingers were long and slender. He didn’t yank on her as if she were a water pump, but just held her. “Darius Montgomery, your biggest fan.”

  The name sounded familiar. “Thank you. I’m so—”

  “You…are gorgeous.” His dark brown eyes were wide with admiration and his full lips were curved upward with a smile that made Paloma feel warm and fuzzy inside. She hadn’t felt so esteemed in a long time. Maybe if Keith…she shied away from her thought.

  Darius Montgomery had probably had a face full of pimples the first time he heard her sing. He looked around twenty-nine, maybe thirty. But hell, his open appreciation made her day after the drumming her ego had taken. “Thank you so much.”

  “I’d recognize your gorgeous mouth anywhere.” His enthusiasm was refreshing and he didn’t seem to want anything from her. He took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “You have a face for movies.” The loudspeaker called another flight number. “I wish we had more time, but that’s my plane. Call me sometime. I think we could—” The rest of his sentence was cut off by another loudspeaker announcement.

  Darius Montgomery rushed off toward his gate and Paloma headed for hers. A second later, she turned around and saw him standing at the door to the jetway ready to board. As he waited, he stared at her. When he lifted his hand and waved, she smiled and waved back, before turning around to board her own plane.

  As she walked along the jetway, she read the business card. Darius Montgomery, producer, director, Camelot Productions, Los Angeles, California. Now she remembered. A small independent film maker, Darius Montgomery was the darling of the film critics. His latest film, debuting at Cannes, had been done on a shoe-string budget, opened to rave reviews and decent box office revenues. The little film was even being considered an Oscar contender.

  How interesting. Paloma shoved the card into her purse. She doubted she’d ever call. She was a singer, and doubted she could act her way out of a paper bag.

  Not wanting to go back to the house, Paloma went to the Penthouse suite that the Istanbul Hotel provided for her to live in. The Istanbul casino and hotel was modeled to look like the city from which it had taken its name. It had gold minarets and towering spires. A grand bazaar took up one whole floor and sold carpets, jewelry, leather goods and other exotic imports from Turkey. Intricate mosaics decorated the casino and as Paloma walked through to the elevators, she felt as though she’d entered a foreign world.

  Employees dressed in red fez hats and white tunics over floppy red pants rushed back and forth. Cocktail waitresses in brief harem costumes delivered drinks and took more orders as they moved along the rows of slot machines. The constant chimes of slots gave Paloma a headache.

  She reached the penthouse elevator and stood for a moment watching the people sitting at the slots wondering what their lives were like. Did they have spouses who cheated on them? Did they care? The elevator opened, she stepped inside and inserted her key card to identify that she belonged in the elevator. As the elevator lifted, she contemplated what Keith had done to her. He had done more than betray her; in his own way, he’d destroyed her and unknowingly destroye
d himself.

  The burning in her throat and the heaviness of the charmed shell on its velvet cord worried her. Was she doing the right thing? Was Miss Odile’s solution Paloma’s curse or miracle? And did she really want to analyze the answer too closely? All she knew was that she needed her pound of flesh no matter the cost.

  The elevator stopped, the doors opening to the penthouse. She stepped into the hall and inserted her key card into the door. Inside, she heard a sound and entered the elegant penthouse suite to find her mother standing in the center of the black and white living room talking on the phone. Marianne smiled, said a few more words and then closed the phone.

  “Mama,” Paloma said, “what are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you. I figured you’d come here.” Marianne’s gaze searched her as she sat in the overstuffed easy chair in the middle of the penthouse living room. “How is Miss Odile? She have everything she needs?”

  “Miss Odile is always fine. You know how it is, the bayou folk take care of her.” Paloma was too agitated to stay still. She paced back and forth, fingering the shell on its velvet cord. Was she angry enough to pay the price? She tried to think, but realized she was too tired.

  Marianne patted the spot next to her. “Sit down before you wear a path in the carpet.”

  Paloma sat. “Please,” she said, holding up her hand, “don’t lecture me.”

  Her mother’s eyes shifted as she seemed to gather her thoughts. Finally, she sighed. “I’m not going to lecture you. From the day he slipped the ring on your finger, I’ve been waiting. I knew he was a taker. I saw a lot of men like him growing up in the bayous. Men who let their women do all the work while they took the money. Men who…” Her voice trailed away and her eyes grew hard with old memories that probably had something to do with Paloma’s father. He’d been gone a lot of years and even though Paloma wondered about him, she’d never had the courage to ask.

  “Why didn’t you warn me,” Paloma said, though even as the words tumbled out, she already knew the answer.