Spellbound

by Rebecca York

Behind her, she heard loud shouts of protest. When she looked back, the man in overalls was running after her, for all the good that was going to do him. Quickly she accelerated to thirty, then slammed on the brakes. They responded well enough, so she made a U-turn and came back to the house.

  The men, especially Mansard, were shooting daggers at her as she climbed out, and she almost felt sorry for them. If they were in a hurry to get back, she wasn’t helping. But she was enjoying a bit of payback. Not her usual behavior, but today she thought she was justified.

  She wrote a check to the gas station, handed it over and added a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Thank you for delivering the car,” she said sweetly.

  “Thank you,” he responded. Then he added, “We’d best be going.”

  When they had left, she turned to Andre. “Are they afraid that it’s going to rain and there will be another flash flood?”

  “Maybe. But I think they’re more worried about the cat. The dark sky might make them think it’s late enough for the local monster to jump out of the bushes.”

  “Is it?”

  “No,” he said sharply, then, “I’ll check your car to make sure the work is satisfactory.”

  “Thank you. Why was Mansard along? As a bodyguard?”

  “He likes excuses to come out here and stare at me…when he thinks the odds are favorable.”

  “Nice.”

  Andre gave a shrug, looking uncomfortable.

  Now that they were alone, she felt uncomfortable, too, as she remembered what they had been doing in the library when Janet had interrupted them. What was his reaction now? Was he sorry that he’d started something? Or was he thinking about how quickly she’d responded? She should remind him that they were going to keep their relationship on a professional level. But she could hardly blame the whole incident on him. He’d found her looking at dirty pictures, after all. Then he’d come up behind her—close behind—and she’d welcomed his touch.

  She was angry with herself for reacting to him. Angry at him for putting her in that position. And angry that the easy relationship they’d established while she was still in Baltimore had suddenly changed when she’d gotten down here.

  She had planned to bombard him with questions, but now she needed to put some distance between them. So she went up to her room until dinner—where she gave herself a silent lecture on client-investigator relations.

  By the time she came down, she’d determined to get things back on the right track. To her disappointment, only two places were set at the table. Since Morgan wasn’t in the mood to spend the meal trying to make conversation with Janet, she said she was worn-out and took a tray up to her room.

  After checking in with Light Street, she turned in early and slept through the night again.

  THE NEXT DAY she woke up feeling refreshed—and eager to confront Andre with some of the questions he should already have answered—like was he keeping pet alligators out by the fallen log.

  Her plans were put on hold again when he failed to appear once more. Now she knew he was avoiding her. Because he was embarrassed about yesterday? Or because he didn’t want to discuss the case he’d hired her to investigate?

  “He’s gone off to cut up some trees that were uprooted in the storm,” Janet explained.

  “Oh, right,” Morgan answered, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Did he fix the oven first?”

  “Yes.” The housekeeper held out a basket of cinnamon buns. “I was able to make these for you.”

  Morgan instantly regretted taking out her bad mood on Janet. She had to keep remembering that the housekeeper wasn’t controlling the situation. Andre was the one making the decisions.

  She took one of the buns, and the first bite told her that the lack of an oven had truly deprived her of a rare experience. “These are wonderful,” she said.

  Janet beamed. “I wanted to make them for you.”

  The buns put Morgan in a better mood.

  After licking icing off her fingers, she got up and opened the back door, listening to the sound of a chain saw somewhere in the distance. So Janet hadn’t been lying. Andre had gone out into the bayou to saw up logs.

  She thought about marching out into the wilderness area, following the sound. Then she decided that wouldn’t do her much good. He had an excellent way to keep from engaging in conversation. All he had to do was continue sawing.

  Morgan went back upstairs and got a carry bag. Then she retrieved the maps she’d hidden in the special compartment of her suitcase. As far as she could tell, nobody had found it. But there was no way to be sure.

  With the maps in her bag, she went down to her car and started toward St. Germaine, driving slowly, testing the brakes every half mile, making sure they were working. When they proved reliable, she sped up a bit, then slowed when she came to the place where the water had washed across the road and almost swept her away. The site of the flood was very clear, and she pulled to a stop. As she looked at the uprooted trees, logjams of man-made and natural debris and mud sweeping across the road, a clogged feeling rose in her throat.

  She tried to move her foot, tried to press down on the gas pedal. But her muscles wouldn’t obey. It was like an invisible force held her in place, making it impossible for her to keep driving.

  In her mind she heard the deadly roar of onrushing water. It was coming for her again.

  No. The sun was shining. She was in no danger. Not today.

  Still, some part of her waited for the water to come and sweep her away. And this time Andre couldn’t save her.

  No, that was wrong. He could save her. He had saved her. He had appeared out of nowhere and dragged her to shore.

  Her hands tightened on the wheel as she fought the sensation of being pulled under and carried away. That hadn’t happened. Andre had plunged into the current and hauled her to safety.

  Chapter Nine

  Morgan clung to the steering wheel, fighting terror that threatened to swallow her whole. She wanted to jump out of the car and run screaming into the bayou. Until she remembered the snakes and the alligators and maybe the jaguar.

  “Stop it!” she ordered herself. “Stop it. You’re safe and dry in the car. You’re not in danger here.”

  Yet she knew some force outside herself was affecting her perception of the world.

  “You’re safe and dry,” she repeated over and over, even as she fought the sensation of water clawing at her, dragging her under. She wasn’t even sure what she was doing, but somehow she got control of herself.

  The terror ebbed, the way the water had ebbed in the real flood, leaving her limp and shaken. She sat behind the wheel, dragging in air and forcing herself to breathe out slowly.

  When she felt in control, she glanced around at the wilderness landscape. Something lying on the shoulder caught her eye, something dark and evil looking.

  Gris-gris.

  She wanted to stay inside the car where the evil couldn’t touch her. Then she reminded herself she wasn’t going to pieces over a voodoo charm.

  Grimly she firmed her jaw and climbed out, feeling muggy heat envelope her as she stood on shaky legs, one hand on the door. When she felt she could stay erect on her own, she tottered across the road, her eyes fixed on the black charm—which turned out to be a small lump of tar, studded with foreign objects, like the one she and Andre had found outside the library window.

  Straw and moss and a strip of paper were stuck to it. But what caught her eye was a scrap of limp and soggy leather. And she gasped as she recognized what it was—part of a sandal she had lost in the flood.

  Without thinking about what she was doing, she kicked out her foot, connected with the thing and booted it into the water, where it floated on the surface for several seconds, then sank with a gurgling sound.

  The moment it disappeared from view, she knew she had let emotion sweep away reason. The gris-gris was evidence—and she had just chucked it into the water.

  She was a disciplined, train
ed operative, yet she’d acted in panic. A film of sweat dampened her body as she stared for a long moment at the place where the evil charm had disappeared below the surface of the water. No way could she retrieve it now.

  Her knit top was clinging wetly to her upper body as she scrambled back into the vehicle and slammed the door. Jamming her foot on the gas pedal, she made the car lurch as she started toward town again.

  Her heart had just settled down to a calmer rhythm when she spotted the voodoo priestess’s house. Most likely the woman had left the charm on the road. What if Morgan stopped and demanded to know why?

  And what if someone else had done it to incriminate the priestess?

  She wanted to slow down and look at the house. She wanted to speed up and flee from danger.

  Somehow she kept the car moving at a steady pace as she passed the dwelling. By the time she reached Main Street, she had convinced herself she was feeling almost normal.

  There were few people in town, and when she cut her engine in front of a convenience store that offered fax service, hers was the only car.

  As she walked toward the door, she was thinking she would have preferred to fax the material in private. But her laptop couldn’t handle hard copy. And if she used the machine in Andre’s office, he’d have a record of the transaction.

  In the parking lot, she used her cell phone to call the shop in the lobby at 43 Light Street.

  Her friend Sabrina Cassidy answered.

  “Hi. It’s Morgan,” she said, feeling a wave of homesickness sweep over her. After Trevor had died, she’d wondered how she was going to survive. The support of her Light Street friends had probably saved her life. Now she was far away from their help.

  “Morgan! You’re on assignment in Louisiana, right?”

  “I guess the news made it to the jungle telegraph,” she joked.

  “So, did you just want to talk to a friendly voice, or are you making a clandestine phone call?” Sabrina asked.

  “Actually, it’s about a clandestine fax. Can I send a couple of sheets to you so the office number doesn’t appear on the transmission?”

  “Of course.”

  “They’ll be arriving soon. If you could take them upstairs and give them to Sam Lassiter, or whoever is on duty, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  “And if anybody asks you, say they’re inquiries about some books my employer might want to sell.”

  “Will do.”

  After thanking her friend, Morgan went into the store. As she approached the counter, the clerk did a double take.

  “Something wrong?” she asked, trying not to sound confrontational.

  “You’re the librarian, right?” he asked.

  She sighed. Apparently everybody in town knew who she was. “Yes. Can I use your fax machine?”

  “How many pages?”

  “Two.”

  “The machine will tell you the charges.”

  “Thanks.”

  He looked speculatively at her book bag. “Need some help?”

  “I think I can manage,” she answered, hoping the response didn’t come out sounding too sharp. “Where’s the fax?”

  He pointed to a service area near the rest rooms. Before he could insist on helping, she was rescued as a woman came in and asked for a cup of coffee.

  While the clerk was busy, Morgan scanned the instructions.

  The second map was halfway through the machine when the door opened and another customer walked in. This time she recognized the ruddy complexion and blond hair of Dwight Rivers, the president of the chamber of commerce. When he spotted her, he strode in her direction. Morgan gave the map a tug, hoping she hadn’t screwed up the transmission, then stuffed the paper into the carry bag.

  Rivers eyed her. “You could have come to me if you needed to send a fax.”

  “Oh, thank you. I didn’t know that.”

  “I guess you weren’t just vacationing in town,” he observed with an edge in his voice.

  She gave him an apologetic smile. “You probably heard about my run-in at the gas station. I didn’t want to get into another discussion about Andre Gascon.”

  “Right. I understand. But I’m not like those guys.”

  She answered with a small nod, turning her shoulder away from him.

  Ignoring her body language, he asked, “Doesn’t he have a fax machine?”

  “It’s broken.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Aside from that, how are things going out at the estate?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good you got your car back.”

  “Yes.” She kept her eyes on his and asked, “So what brings you out in the heat of the day?”

  He waited a beat before answering, “We’re out of tea bags at the office.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She knew how small towns worked. Probably somebody had called him and said that the librarian was in town and that she’d gone to the convenience store.

  He took a step closer. “You know, I always thought Gascon got a raw deal from the town. I mean their blaming him for stuff going on in the bayou just because it’s near his house.”

  “Why do you think it happened?”

  “Partly because he keeps to himself so much. People get suspicious of a guy who isn’t friendly, who doesn’t fit in.”

  Morgan nodded, thinking that Rivers was twisting the facts. Andre had come into St. Germaine a lot more often before other people had started looking at him with suspicion. But she didn’t bother to argue the point.

  “You take care,” Rivers said as he turned and walked down one of the aisles.

  With the fax sent, Morgan drove to the gun store. After a few moments’ hesitation, she took the carry bag with her and walked toward the front door of the shop. The sign in the window said Jacques Malvaux, Proprietor. The man himself—at least she assumed it was him—was leaning against the counter cleaning a twenty-two revolver.

  “I’m guessing that’s unloaded,” she said.

  “What do you think I am, soft in the head?” he asked.

  “Of course not. I just like to make sure.”

  “I didn’t know librarians had a lot of call for guns,” he drawled, looking her up and down.

  “My father was a gun collector,” she answered. “He wanted me to know how to handle a weapon, how to defend myself.”

  “Always a useful skill. So what can I do for you?” Malvaux asked, leaning back comfortably. When his gaze flicked to the window, she turned, but she saw nothing beyond the shop but the street.

  “I’m out in the country where anything could happen. I’d like a Glock model twenty-three, if you have one,” she answered.

  “So you’re a little lady who wants the stopping power of a forty-caliber weapon, with reduced size for easy concealment.”

  “Yes,” she answered, thinking that the gun part was right. The “little lady” part made her stomach curdle.

  “Lucky for you there are no concealed-weapons laws in this state.”

  “Right. Lucky for me.”

  “If you’re recoil-sensitive, you might want to try one of the Glock C models.”

  “I think I can handle the twenty-three,” she informed him primly.

  “Okeydoke.” He unlocked the case in front of him, reached inside and brought out an automatic that was much like the one she’d lost. When he set it on the counter, she picked it up and checked out the mechanism, then turned and sighted down the barrel.

  “This will do.”

  “You make up your mind fast.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “I have to enter your application into the national database and make sure you don’t have a criminal record.”

  “All right.”

  He made a photocopy of her driver’s license, then handed it back before beginning to type slowly into a computer.

  Finally he turned back to her. “All set.”

  She gestured toward the gun. “Three refillable magazines come with it, rig
ht?”

  “Correct. Holding ten rounds each.”

  She nodded. “And I’d like a box of bullets.”

  Malvaux chuckled. “You sure you don’t want silver bullets?”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “For that supernatural jaguar out in the bayou near Belle Vista.”

  The way he said it sent a shiver slithering down her spine.

  She kept her voice even as she said, “You’re saying the jaguar is supernatural?”

  “I guess you’ll find out.”

  “Why don’t you tell me more about the town legends?”

  “Legends…well, I don’t know about that.” His face had a closed expression as he put her purchases into a plastic bag, and she suspected he’d decided he was sorry he’d brought up the subject.

  As she exited the store, she felt his eyes boring into her back.

  When she reached her car, she stopped short and muttered a very unlibrarianlike curse.

  While she’d been inside, someone had slashed her left rear tire with a knife—and she’d be willing to bet, from the way that Jacques Malvaux had glanced at the window, that he’d seen the perp.

  She’d turned in response, but whoever was out there had already ducked down so that the car hid him. Then he could have crawled away like a yellow-bellied gator.

  She grimaced. Was the tire slashing malicious fallout from the campaign against Andre? Or was someone interested in seeing how the little lady librarian handled a flat tire?

  Opening the trunk, she checked the tool kit and was relieved to find a jack, which she dragged out and set under the bumper.

  It took her under half an hour to get the ruined tire off and the new one onto the wheel. After that, she wanted to drive straight back to Belle Vista, but because that would leave her without a spare, she drove to the gas station, sure that everyone in town was peering out from behind their curtains, watching her. Bob Mansard gave her a satisfied look as she stopped in the service area, making her wonder if he was the one who had slashed the tire.

  “Problems?” Bubba asked helpfully, like he already knew what had happened.

  “A flat. I’m pretty sure it’s beyond repair, so I’m hoping you have a replacement.” She gave him the number, then waited while he checked his stock.