“It beats the stuff coming out of our water taps. You look a little warm yourself—want a swallow?”
She eyed the can, thought about placing her lips where his had been, and her temperature rose another few degrees. “No, thank you.”
“What’s the matter? Afraid? I don’t have anything you have to worry about catching.”
She was afraid, period…of him, of herself, of what was happening every second their gazes held. “I simply don’t care for any, that’s all.”
Jay Barnes gave a brief shake of his head. “Where did they find you?”
Lost, she frowned. “Pardon?”
“Forget it. Let’s just say, I’m game if you are, Doctor.”
She didn’t understand a thing he was saying, but she understood an intimated insult when she heard one. “Mr. Barnes, I’m beginning to believe that if there’s a game being played, so far only you know the rules.”
“And that’s how I intend to keep it. All you need to understand is that if you want to save that gorgeous neck of yours, you’d better beat it while you still have a chance.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I work here!”
His gaze swept over her one more time and lingered on her mouth. “Fine,” he growled, finally pushing away from the door. “Have it your own way.”
CHAPTER SIX
He filled her dreams, so vivid a presence that when Rachel awoke from hearing the door closing, she again bolted upright in bed, expecting to see him standing before her. Once she realized it was daylight and the sound was Jay Barnes leaving for work, she fell back against her sweat-dampened pillows and stared up at the fine cobweb design of the ceiling’s cracking plaster.
Exhaustion left her feeling drained, numb. Maybe with him out of the house she could finally get a few hours of decent rest. But some rebellious part of her mind began to rapidly churn out thoughts and images; she remembered disturbing snatches of dreams, such as the way she’d called him “Joe”…how she’d let him undo the last button on her nightshirt…let him slip his hands inside…touch her…make love to her.
Her conscious, conservative side didn’t like that at all. He wasn’t Joe, she reminded herself with brutal censure. He couldn’t be. And as for Joe…Oh, God, what about him? What was he? Why was he?
With that mystery plaguing her again, she abandoned any hope of going back to sleep and dragged her sluggish body to the bathroom for a tepid shower. She reasoned it would at least cool her feverish body, if not her steamy thoughts.
Minutes later, refreshed, but nursing a headache, she returned to her room. Blow-drying her shoulder-length pageboy took another block of time, thanks to the humidity’s stubborn effect on her hair. Stretching exercises to ease knots of tension took a bit more.
Finally, she pulled on her usual uniform of jeans and a shirt—white cotton as usual, in hopes of making herself feel cooler—and made her way downstairs. But for all her efforts, she still felt as though she’d never been to bed.
Not much time had passed, either. The ornate grandfather clock in the foyer confirmed what her wristwatch indicated: it was barely past nine. Late enough for Adorabella to have roused herself, though, which was why she’d come down. Hopefully Jewel was serving coffee. But upon reaching the formal dining room, Rachel found it vacant. The elegant table, resplendent with an antique-lace tablecloth, bore the crystal bowl Adorabella liked to use as a vase. Today it was filled with red roses. The victims, plucked from the lush bushes out back, looked only slightly better than she felt.
She groaned inwardly, aware of what it all meant. If she wanted coffee, she would have to try the kitchen.
No one wandered into Jewel’s domain without an invitation; Adorabella had warned her of that during the grand tour. Rachel had taken the old woman at her word and had avoided the place ever since, although more out of respect for Jewel’s privacy than from any real concern for her own well-being. Everyone deserved privacy, she’d told herself, especially housekeepers with a penchant for black magic. Even rude neighbors, she added, her thoughts inevitably straying toward Jay Barnes.
With a sharp shake of her head, she decided she would be better off going to the café. It was too hot to think about food, but she had to get something into her system. Most appealing was that at the café the most stressful thing she would have to deal with was whether to have cereal or a bran muffin.
But before she could retreat, the door between the kitchen and dining room swung open, and a white-and-green-turbaned head appeared around the edge. Brown eyes, so dark they appeared black, drove into her like twin stakes. “You going to stand there the rest of the morning or you gonna come in?” Jewel demanded in a melodious alto.
Staring at the rounded, broad-planed face that looked more like forty than the sixty-something Adorabella claimed was Jewel’s true age, Rachel thought it might be fascinating to learn if Jewel really could see out the back of her head, as well as through walls. On the other hand, Rachel’s world was already overwhelmed with mystery and mayhem—did she need to be taking on any new challenges?
“Actually,” she began, taking a step backward, “I was about to—”
“I done poured your coffee. C’mon.”
As fast as it had appeared, the head withdrew, leaving the door to swing back and forth like a beckoning hand. Rachel wiped her palms on her jeans and advanced toward unknown territory.
From the moment Adorabella had introduced her to her tall, bone-thin housekeeper, Rachel had felt an undeniable awe. Because of the control in the older woman’s eyes, she’d told herself. She’d never known anyone with more confidence than Jewel Bonnard, reverentially called “Widow Jack” by almost everyone else in town. That nickname was a result of being the longtime widow of the unfortunate “Handsome Jack” Bonnard, as well as the parish’s most celebrated hoodoo woman.
Rachel had heard the first of many outlandish tales about Adorabella Levieux’s longtime companion and employee at the café. Because of Jack’s roving eye and philandering ways, Jewel had been influential in his early demise. The law never filed charges—fear of being hexed themselves, some insisted. That story proved to be the cornerstone of her theory that Nooton was hardly the innocuous hamlet it appeared to be.
Having no idea what she was walking into, she pushed open the kitchen door. On the other hand, she reasoned, could anyone truly prepare for a close encounter with a voodooeinne?
The kitchen was larger than some dance floors she’d seen, no doubt built to accommodate the lavish entertaining that was reputed to have gone on in the house decades ago. Jewel made it her own place by scent alone. Rachel tried not to react to the malodorous concoction simmering on the great stove on the opposite side of the room, certain she didn’t want to know whether it was a cure or a curse.
“Are you sure I’m not taking you away from anything?”
“Just washing the evilness out of these sheets.” Jewel stirred the contents of the black cauldron, her size-twelve feet planted solidly in a pair of men’s leather loafers. “Promised Miss Adorabella I’d make the she-cat see the error of her ways.”
“I…see.” Rachel guessed this had something to do with the divorcée on the second floor. Cecilie—no Celia something-or-other. Maybe the less she knew about that story the better. “I suppose Mrs. Levieux isn’t up yet?”
“Won’t be until noon. Sit.”
Rachel took a seat at the chrome-edged table where a cup of pitch-colored, steaming coffee indeed waited. “That’s late even for her. She didn’t overdo it with the pills?”
“Told you about them, did she?”
“The bottle fell from her pocket one day while we were chatting.” Rachel added a little sugar to her coffee before tasting it. She didn’t usually, but it was a potent-looking brew. Besides, she reasoned, extra energy wouldn’t hurt either. “You’re aware they’re sleeping pills, aren’t you, Jewel?”
“Who do you think went with her the first time the prescription needed filling?”
/> Rachel moistened her lips. “Aren’t you concerned about her mixing alcohol with drugs?”
“I’ve been taking care of her for years and years,” Jewel replied, without turning around. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen to her until the Lord calls her home.”
It took what little patience Rachel had left not to explode. But she’d seen too many deaths that were a result of exactly this to keep silent. “Faith is a wonderful thing. But, Jewel, we’re talking about a potentially lethal combination here.”
“Nothing lethal about baby aspirin. Not in the doses I give her.”
Rachel had been lifting the cup to her lips…and stopped it an inch away. “I beg your pardon?”
“She’s been taking baby aspirin for three years now and ain’t figured out the difference yet. Also been weakening her drink with peach juice. I know my business,” she added, shooting her a sidelong look. “Knew it long before you were sucking on your mama.”
It was on the tip of Rachel’s tongue to drolly inform the woman that her mother had never let anyone get that close to her, but she decided the technicality was insignificant to the lesson learned. Not knowing whether to be relieved or amused, she covered the awkward silence by finally tasting the coffee. It was as strong as she’d suspected, but welcome.
“It would seem I owe you an apology,” Rachel murmured at last.
“You’re just young, child. Ain’t nothing for me to take offense over.”
So much for backhanded compliments, Rachel mused, glancing out the window on her left and sighing at the fog. “Well, at least someone is getting some rest. I don’t know how she does it in this weather, though.”
“Easy enough. I fixed her an apple. Always fix her one when I got too much work and need her out from underfoot.” With her wooden spoon, Jewel spun the red fruit hanging above the steaming pot.
Rachel had noticed the piece of fruit before, but she’d thought it a useless attempt to offset the putrid smell rising from the pot. “I don’t understand.” Despite the offensive odor, she rose and, with cup and saucer in hand, approached the stove for a closer look.
The apple hung from somewhere inside the hood by a thin nylon line. It looked as though it had been cored and then put together again. “You’re saying that’s what’s making her sleep?”
“Never fails. You write a name on a piece of paper and put it inside the hole. Thing is, you’re supposed to hang it over rising smoke. Ain’t got no smoke this time of the year, so I got to improvise. Don’t matter, though, if you got the power. The steam gets thick, her eyes get heavy and…” Jewel tapped her wooden spoon against the side of the pot.
The tinny sound had Rachel blinking and backing away. “And that’s it?”
“Why complicate things?” There was no missing a certain glint in Jewel’s eye as the older woman glanced over a bony shoulder at her. “You ain’t sleeping worth three winks lately. Want me to fix you one?”
“Ah…no. But thank you.”
“You don’t believe.”
She considered making some vague statement about scientific studies on the power of suggestion, but decided against it. No matter what she believed, she didn’t want to offend Jewel, and so she opted for a more subjective response. “Looking tired is an occupational hazard. I’ll catch up on my sleep…”
“Once the fog lifts, eh?”
Her words caused goose bumps to rise on Rachel’s arms. “Something like that. I’ve had a great deal to cope with these past few days. And you’re right, the weather doesn’t help.”
Jewel pursed her lips, which elongated her cheekbones, giving her an even stronger Egyptian look than Rachel had noticed before. “Know what I think? I think he’s making you nervous, that one is.”
The cup and saucer rattled in her hands. “I’m afraid I don’t know…who?”
Once again the housekeeper used the spoon to point, this time at the ceiling.
The oddest conflicting wave of relief and anxiety swept over Rachel. She’d expected the strange woman to point out the window at the bridge. On the other hand, the direction she chose was equally unsettling. “Mr. Barnes,” she murmured, making some quick choices. “Jewel…what do you know about him?”
“He’s got the spirits all stirred.” She gestured behind Rachel. “Prayed to Black Hawk about him. Asked him to make Jay Barnes go. But that one’s power’s strong.”
Having no idea who Black Hawk was, Rachel turned and—gasped. She’d seen some shocking, even horrific, things in her career so far, but this was…As she fought back her revulsion, the cup and saucer wobbled in her hands. It sent hot liquid spilling over her fingers, burning her. Unable to hold on, she let the china crash to the floor.
Across the room on a shelf in the pantry, framed by parted drapes in the same material as Jewel’s turban, was a shrine of some sort. But to whom—no, to what—she had no idea. The hideous black figurine was surrounded by candles, feathers and assorted pots, and things she couldn’t begin to identify, nor did she want to.
Tearing her gaze away, she focused on the mess she’d made and quickly stooped to begin cleaning it up. “I’m so sorry. I’m not normally clumsy. Let me—ah!”
A sliver of porcelain cut the tip of her finger. As she watched, a streak of blood spread across a piece of white china. It seemed to fascinate Jewel, too. The woman descended with a speed that defied her age and snatched up the piece from the floor.
Staring at it, Jewel moaned softly. “Spilling of innocent blood. I knew it. It’s no good. No good.”
Her distress made Rachel want to assure her. “It’s really all right. Look, there’s barely a scratch. I’ll just run upstairs and rinse it off.”
“Stay away from him.”
Halfway to the door, and eager to escape, Rachel was compelled to turn around. “What did you say?”
“He’s spilled blood before. He’ll do it again. Yours, if you’re not careful. Stay away.”
“How do you…No, that’s preposterous.”
But Jewel wasn’t listening. “I’ll give you strong magic,” she said urgently. “Powerful. Maybe it’s not too late.” She hurried to the shrine and brought out what appeared to be a ball of black wax. “Here. Take this and work it flat. Then write his name on a piece of paper. Write it four times front ways and five times back. Listen to me.”
The force of her grip had Rachel gasping. “Jewel!”
“You remember what I’m telling you. Put the paper in the middle of the wax and roll it up into a ball again. Then you go to the bridge and you throw it. Downstream, hear? Away from town. Far as you can.”
Rachel shook her head and attempted to pull away from the strong hands that were trying to press the slick object into hers. “No. Please.”
“Take it.”
Successful on her next attempt to free herself, Rachel backed away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and bolted from the room.
“Fool!” Jewel’s shout followed her. “You’ll be sorry!”
Will be? Rachel thought, fighting back an incredulous laugh as she raced up the stairs. She already was—for not following her first impulse and going to the café. She didn’t need this added lunacy.
By the time she reached the bathroom, the tiny cut had stopped bleeding. In fact, it looked ludicrously insignificant to have raised so much of a fuss. After rinsing the scratch clean, Rachel didn’t even bother using a bandage to protect it. She wasn’t, however, as fortunate at stemming the flow of her thoughts.
Jewel was crazy, she assured herself. A demented old woman who’d gotten away with too much for too long.
But she seemed to have pegged Jay Barnes correctly, didn’t she?
Rachel covered her ears and shut her eyes tight. She needed to talk to somebody. Someone solid, sensible…sane.
At this point she could think of only one person around here who qualified.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Man, I love this weather.”
Sucking in a deep breath that expanded his torso to barrel pr
oportions, Dwight Beauchamp stood beneath the first of two overhead doors at Beauchamp’s Gas and Body Works, smacking his wide, thick lips. It was that mouth, along with his somewhat flat head and wide-spaced eyes, that had earned him the dubious nickname “Mudcat” from his teammates in high school football. In the twenty-five years since, he’d explained to Jay Barnes during one of his frequent excursions into nostalgia, almost every one of his teammates had ended up needing his car repaired here. If fate was willing to dole out that kind of retribution, he told him, who was he to complain about a little teasing?
Remembering the story, Jay had an idea he knew just how much Mudcat appreciated the weather, so he kept his ascerbic opinion about the dismal climatic conditions to himself. Instead he continued checking his paint gun and hose connections.
“Yessiree,” Mudcat continued, “it feels like another fender-bender day. Nothing better than working steeped in the sweet aroma of money in the making, ain’t that right, J.B.? Look at that thick gumbo out there. Ain’t it beautiful? Man, it’s beautiful.”
Jay hated Mudcat using his initials, and he was getting fed up with his nonstop babbling, as well. In an effort to escape both, he dropped the paint hood—which also protected him from fumes—over his face, and began spraying the base coat on the section of the semi’s cab they were repairing. He was repairing. Now that Mudcat had himself an official “Body Works Department”—more like a token slave, considering the salary Jay had let himself be hired for—he was playing the role of boss for all it was worth. All he lacked was the stereotypical fat cigar.
Mudcat, Jay fumed to himself. What kind of man let himself be called anything so asinine?
But even as he griped, he knew it had nothing to do with what was really eating at him. Sure, the guy was ninety percent hot air, but working here provided Jay with a job within walking distance to the boardinghouse—an important technicality, since he’d hitched his way out here in order to leave his car in Houston. No, it wasn’t Mudcat’s fault he was so hot under the collar. It was the woman who was pushing his wrong buttons…and if she kept it up, she was going to learn how few he had left.
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