A Bite of Murder

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  Following the ghost toward the edge of the road, she started to make sense of what she was seeing. The dead giveaway was the black side view mirror sticking out. “It’s a car?” she exclaimed. By the looks of it, the vehicle was partially submerged in the swampy water, covering the wheels at the very least.

  “That’s right, but that isn’t all,” he said, motioning to the murky water.

  Bending over, she saw the morning sunlight glint against something metal in the water. “A dagger,” she practically shouted, her voice echoing off the trees. The water around it had a mild red tinge, indicating that there may have been blood on the blade at one point.

  However, it didn’t look like just any dagger. It had some strange lines carved into the blade, crisscrossing over one another and forming into the shape of a pentagram near the hilt. The handle seemed to be carved into the shape of black skulls stacked one atop the other. Even through the slight grime of the water, Belle could see that each of them had a pair of fangs—not unlike a vampire.

  “A steel blade hewn with a technique where the smith folds the metal over itself again and again, creating a very thin, but very strong edge. The hilt is carved from black ivory.”

  Belle couldn’t help lifting one eyebrow in a show of interest. “You sure seem to know a whole lot about this thing. Don’t tell me you committed this murder,” she joked.

  Harlem chuckled. “Hardly. No, what I’m saying is that I’m familiar with this type of item.”

  Belle raised an eyebrow, not particularly liking the direction this train of thought was taking.

  “This is a ritual dagger used in some voodoo, hoodoo, and folk magic practices. It’s a very expensive piece.”

  “I bet.”

  “Not to mention, I think this one is fairly old.”

  Belle looked up at the black and white flickering face. “How can you tell that?”

  “More of a gut feeling than anything else.”

  Shoving her hand into her pajama bottom pocket, she brought out her smartphone she’d brought along.

  “Calling the police?” Harlem asked.

  “Not until I get a few pictures,” she admitted, opening her camera app. Narrowing the viewfinder on the blade, she snapped a few at different angles. Once she was satisfied with that, she looked at Harlem again, dreading to ask the question on her mind. “So, you said that this dagger is something used in rituals? Does that mean . . .” she let her voice trail off.

  Harlem hesitated, but then eventually nodded. “That’s right. I think we have some more black magic mixed in with this murder again.”

  * * *

  “Where the heck have you been?” Anna demanded, seeing her sister walk in the front door of the restaurant. “And you were with her?” she continued, seeing Harlem float in behind Belle.

  “Ugh, I already got scolded by Dan. I don’t need it from you, too,” she insisted, holding up a hand for Anna to be quiet.

  “Dan? Why did you talk to Dan? Were you all the way down at the station?”

  “No,” she groaned. Pulling out her phone, Belle opened her photo gallery and set her phone on the counter as she went behind the bar. Grabbing a glass tumbler, she filled it with seltzer water and sipped it. “Have a look for yourself.”

  Using her finger to scroll through the images, Anna’s eyes widened. “You found the murder weapon?”

  “Correction. I found the murder weapon,” Harlem chimed in.

  “He’s right, but I told Dan I found them since he doesn’t know Harlem exists.”

  “I’m sure he would believe you if you told him,” Harlem noted.

  “No,” the sisters said in unison.

  “And what’s this?” Anna asked, pointing at a mossy picture.

  “A car. According to Dan, it belonged to Jason Dobbs.” In a town as small as Sunken Grove, the police had little trouble identifying local cars or license plates from the small number of citizens.

  “So, let me get this straight? The murderer drove the victim’s car off the road, hid it under some moss and plants, and then dropped the murder weapon there?”

  Belle shrugged. “Maybe?”

  “There were tires marks on the pavement,” Harlem chimed in. He’d had a much longer time to examine the scene up close.

  Belle was sure that if she wasn’t feeling so under the weather, that she too would have noticed. Anna, having as keen an eye for detail as anyone, would have as well.

  “So, you think Jason crashed?” Anna asked.

  “I think he may have been forced off the road somehow. Then, when he got out, the killer came after him with the knife. Jason ran into the bayou and ended up behind the movie screen before the killer finally caught up with him,” Harlem deduced, a look of pride twinkling in his eye.

  “That makes more sense, I suppose. But why leave the murder weapon there with the car where it would surely be found?” Belle pointed out.

  Scrolling backward in the pictures, Anna looked at the images of the knife again. She frowned as she examined it.

  “Is something wrong?” Belle asked.

  Anna didn’t answer right away and instead took a moment to collect her thoughts before diving in with an answer. “I can’t know for sure, but I think I’ve seen this knife somewhere before.”

  “You have?” Harlem and Belle responded together.

  Anna nodded, setting the phone down. “I think it is from the little voodoo gift shop in town. The one owned by Payton Shaw.”

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  While Belle, feeling completely wiped out from the morning’s excitement, headed up to bed, Anna started making plans to visit Payton at his shop that day. Harlem, of course, insisted on tagging along. Anna was glad for the company. More so, she was glad to have his knowledge on board. Seeing as Harlem had owned a voodoo shop of his own in the French Quarter of New Orleans when he was alive, she figured he would know how to best read Payton and figure out more about this blade.

  Where had it come from? Did it have some sort of significance? Was this crime related to some sort of dark folk magic, or was the weapon of choice purely random?

  Somehow, Anna felt like the latter wasn’t true.

  With the history of strange murders and occurrences in town, she couldn’t help but believe that this was another paranormal event in the mix.

  On the way into town, Harlem explained his knowledge about the blade to Anna. “You don’t think that Dan will be upset that you’re going off and doing a little digging on your own?” he asked.

  “Why would he be? I mean, I’m not tampering with evidence or obstructing any of his procedures, am I?” Anna said. She realized she was justifying her current actions, much in the way her own younger sister usually did.

  In past murder cases, Anna had been the one to be hesitant to do any sort of digging. She often tried to talk her sister out of sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. However, over the months, Anna realized that she had just as much curiosity, if not more, than her sister.

  The more important element here was the supernatural occurrences around these cases. While Dan and Valerie both practiced voodoo and folk magic as their religion of choice, proper police procedure simply didn’t allow room for that kind of explanation in a report.

  Therefore, Anna felt it was her place to do a little digging. “Dan doesn’t have a ghost detective for a sidekick,” she managed an answer.

  “A ghost detective? Is that what I am now?”

  Anna smirked. “Well, you kind of are.”

  “It does have a nice ring to it,” he agreed.

  Driving down Main Street, Anna pulled off to the side of the road and parked in front of Shaw’s House of Voodoo which was located on the lower floor of a three-story building. The top floors were rooms for rent with a wrap around balcony looking out. The shop itself had a purposefully tattered look. The blood red painted walls and forest green shudders were peeling and cracked. Moss grew down from the awning and a circular neon sign hung out at an
angle.

  Getting out of the car, she walked in the open front door. The scent of musty air and aging wood immediately greeted her, accompanied by the thick stench of incense. The shop had shelf after shelf of trinkets, skulls, and jars along the wall. The ceiling as well was completely covered with products hanging from the rafters.

  Accompanying the regularly creepy voodoo items were postcards, Louisiana branded souvenirs, and a whole section of t-shirts all stacked up one upon the other.

  Harlem whistled. “Wow, and I thought my shop was cluttered.”

  “Welcome, welcome,” Payton announced, stepping out of the back room wearing a long draping green shawl, a sparkly turban, and enough jewelry to sink a pirate ship. While he looked a little kooky on the outset, Anna knew he was just a sweet and gentlehearted as they come.

  Ever since her first few encounters with the supernatural, she had come into the shop looking for protective charms. She had, of course, not told a single soul that she had done so—or that she wore a protective pentagram necklace under her clothes. Not even Harlem knew.

  “Ah, Anna. How lovely to see you, my darling.”

  “Hi, Payton. How is business?”

  He flipped his hands up. “The same as ever. Can’t complain.” Waltzing over behind the jewelry counter he passed his hand over the glass case. “Looking for anything in particular? See anything you fancy?”

  Harlem looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “He sure seems to know you. How many times have you been in here?”

  Anna ignored him and smiled at the shop owner. “Actually, Payton, I’m not here to shop today.”

  “Oh, there is always time to shop,” he said, always playing the salesman. “How about this black skull bead rosary? Beautiful craftsmanship along with the strength of a blessing upon it,” he offered, showing a necklace that was made up completely of tiny hand-carved beads.

  She had to admit, it was enticing. However, she put up her hands to ward off the sale. “No, no. I’m here for another reason.” She took out her phone to which she’d transferred all of the pictures Belle had taken and showed an image of the dagger to him. “Do you have one of these in stock?” she asked, not wanting to tip him off to the fact that it was connected to a murder.

  Payton, leaned in so close that Anna thought his nose would touch the screen. His eyebrows went up and he smiled. “A dagger, Anna? What in the world would you need that for?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t, but do you have one?”

  “I did have one that looked exactly like this, as a matter of fact.”

  “You did?” she pressed, eager to hear more.

  “But I’m afraid I just sold it recently.”

  Anna’s jaw dropped. “To whom?”

  “Now, let me think,” he said, humming quietly and tapping one gold ringed finger against his chin. “Ah, yes. I remember, now. It was to that trucker fellow. William Percy.”

  Anna scrunched up her eyebrows. She’d only met William Percy in passing. He had a hefty beer gut, a scraggly white beard, and tattoos all up and down his arms. He hardly seemed like someone who would want a ritual dagger. On the other hand, if he simply thought it looked cool, he might have picked it up.

  The only other thing she knew about William was that he had an alcohol problem. Dan complained about having to pick him up on multiple occasions for disturbing the peace while intoxicated.

  Certainly, he couldn’t be the killer, could he? She supposed if he was driving drunk and accidentally forced Jason Dobbs off the road, maybe he wasn’t thinking straight and went after the victim with the knife to keep him from reporting him to the police. After all, a DUI was no little thing. William could have his license taken away and incur other penalties as well depending on his history.

  “William Percy bought it?” she asked for confirmation

  “With cash,” Payton added.

  Anna thought for a second, gathering her thoughts. If he paid with cash, it meant there was no digital paper trail connecting a credit or debit card to the purchase. “Do you have a record of the sale?” she asked, wanting to be dead certain that William was the one who’d purchased the weapon.

  “Does it look like I keep track of things like that?” Payton asked, motioning to the cluttered and dusty shop around them.

  “You don’t keep a ledger of your inventory and sales?” she pressed, thinking that it was a normal and responsible thing for a business owner to do. Even Belle, who hadn’t always been the most organized in the past, kept detailed records of the drive-in’s purchases and sales.

  “Look, Anna, I’ve been running this business for fifteen years. I just buy up merchandise when I stumble across it—almost at random. I see something interesting or odd that will look good here in the shop, I buy it and then put it on the shelf with a marked-up price. I never write any of it down and I don’t keep track of who buys it.”

  “You don’t even have a receipt or something?”

  “All sales are final.” He indicated the worn sign behind the counter. He raised an eyebrow. “Why is it so important anyway?”

  “No reason,” she spat out quickly. “Well, good luck with everything.” She figured she wasn’t going to get any more helpful information from him and it was time to leave. She had the buyer’s name and that would have to do for now.

  Turning around to leave, she noticed that Harlem was nowhere in sight like he’d wandered off during the conversation. Where could he have gone?

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  Harlem had grown disinterested in the conversation between Anna and the shopkeeper. Tracking down the purchaser of a knife didn’t seem to prove anything. While it did narrow down some of the possibilities in this situation, it seemed to him that the sale of the weapon in question didn’t prove anything one way or another—especially if the shopkeeper couldn’t provide evidence or proof that anyone had purchased it.

  Perhaps Payton was telling the truth, and this trucker, William Percy, had purchased the item. Maybe, even, William was the killer.

  But what was the motive or reasoning for the killing? Without some more solid evidence, it was an empty theory at best.

  However, what if William had lost the knife or it had gotten stolen? What if it had been stolen from the shop proper and Payton didn’t want to admit that he was a victim of theft out of some weird sense of pride? Harlem, having been a member of the voodoo goods business in his life, had met weirder shop owners than that.

  The last and final thought that Harlem had was maybe the knife had never been sold at all and Payton was lying about it.

  If there was one thing Harlem had learned in the time since his death, investigating his own murder as well as others, was that you considered all the options before formulating a hypothesis.

  Since this particular murder seemed to be so open-ended, with no true and hardened suspects yet, he decided he needed to do a little more digging—digging that only he as a ghost could do.

  These were all the thoughts running through Harlem’s head as he floated out of the main room of the shop and into the storage area in the back.

  Moving into the room, he couldn’t help but stop dead cold with his eyes wide. If the shop itself looked cluttered, the storage space was like a disaster zone. Boxes upon boxes sat on atop the other in haphazard towers that threatened to collapse at any moment. Many of them looked squished or even soggy in spots, a couple bits of mold showing through. It was proof that this place never got cleaned. Added on top and in between all the boxes were random pieces of merchandise including candles, crystals, poppet dolls, and more. Layering over all of it was a thick layer of cobwebs.

  Just by looking at it, you’d assume that no one had been back here in the past thirty years. Payton wasn’t kidding when he’d indicated he wasn’t one for organization. It was little surprise he didn’t keep a record of inventory or sales.

  How the man managed his taxes at the end of each year, Harlem had no idea.

  Running a small sh
op like this was no easy task and required dedication and organization. Had Payton opened this business in the French Quarter, he would have gone under within a year, most likely.

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Harlem squeezed through the area and toward the wooden door marked “office” at the back of the room. He knew he didn’t need to squeeze or dodge away from the hanging cobwebs, seeing as he’d just float through them, but it was a basic reflex left over from when he was alive.

  Passing through the doorway, he entered the office space. This time, upon seeing the stacks of papers, overfilled filing cabinets, long spent wax candles, and cobwebs, he was far less surprised. This Payton Shaw character was an interesting fellow. In Harlem’s experience, people with cluttered living and work spaces like this had cluttered lives.

  They were often the kind to harbor deep secrets. Sometimes those secrets were little more than low self-esteem or familial issues. On the other hand, the clutter and cobwebs could be a cover-up for something more sinister.

  He’d seen it among his own community of shopkeepers in New Orleans. He was sure small-town Louisiana was no different in that regard.

  Floating around the desk, he noticed a half-eaten beignet sitting on a wrinkled napkin and a sludgy cold residue inside a skull shaped mug that had once been coffee, no doubt. Harlem hoped that those were from that morning, but somehow, he doubted it.

  The next thing that caught his eye was the stack of mail, unopened bills and such, piled on one side. He wondered if it would be worth the spiritual energy to move the items and got through it all. However, reading the top envelope, he realized he wouldn’t have to.

  The envelope was stamped in big red letters. Eviction Notice.

  The kicker was the return address. It named the office of Jason Dobbs as the sender.

  * * *

  “He lied about sales being good,” Harlem said, materializing in the driver seat of the car.