by Blair Merrin
When Bonnie arrives for the daily catch, her muddy boots leaving scuffs on the shop floor, I’m still otherwise alone in the store. I haven’t even unpacked the morning’s donations, so I let her dig through them herself, which just thrills her. Mom calls me to tell me that she’s checking in on Marla and that she’ll be at the shop soon. Eventually Dash shows up, looking how I feel; like he hadn’t slept a wink.
“Morning,” he mutters.
“I’m going to New Orleans,” I say in reply.
“What? Surely you can’t be serious.”
My first instinct is to say, I am serious, and don’t call me Shirley, but this is not the time. “I thought about it all night. It’s the only way to find out for sure.”
“Look, you heard it just as clear as I did. Marla said, ‘Savannah.’ And I don’t think she was faking it. If she really was channeling the spirit of Savannah, and this Jean Pierre has claimed more than one victim, then I think we’ve taken this about as far as we can without involving some authorities,” Dash raised his eyebrows pointedly.
“But she said ‘the victim is also the perpetrator,’ which I think means that Stephanie, or Savannah, did something without knowing what she was doing. And her ghost was eerily quiet last night—or whatever the opposite of ‘eerily’ is—so I assume that means we’re on the right track.”
“So how would you plan on finding this guy?”
“The arrest record website you mentioned has his last known address. I figure I’ll start there.”
Dash runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Okay, let me get this straight—you’re pretty sure this guy has claimed more than one victim, and you want to go find him? And do what, corner him?”
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
“Cassie, this is nuts.”
“I know. Come with me.”
“I…” He sighs. “Look, I can’t just drop everything and go to New Orleans. I have a business to run. In fact, so do you.”
“Just yesterday you were all gung-ho on this. Why the sudden change?”
“What happened last night? That was weird for me, okay? Bandit Hills or not, I’m just not as in-tune to all the occult stuff as you are. You want research and deductive reasoning, I’m your guy. But that…”
“What?” I ask. “Made it too real?”
“Kind of, yeah.” Dash looks away. “I think we should just gather everything we know, give it to Phil, and have him pass it along to the police down there—”
“There’s no way they’d take us seriously. I’m going. Mom can manage the store while I’m gone. New Orleans is only a six-hour drive from here. If I leave tonight—”
“Slow down. Why does this matter so much to you? You don’t need to solve the mystery. You don’t need to avenge the ghost. You could just throw the doll out and live your life. Why are you so insistent on this? Is this Curious Cassie needing to know?”
“No!” This time I turn away, staring at the ceiling while I try to get my jumbled thoughts together. “It’s more than that now.”
“What does that mean?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Bonnie is still there, both arms plunged into the box, trying hard not to look like she’s eavesdropping. It doesn’t matter to me. She’s beyond thinking this conversation is weird, I’m sure, because that’s Bandit Hills for ya.
“What I mean is, Stephanie was just a young single woman who met a guy and probably liked him, and then she ended up dead. This Savannah Sullivan might have gotten the same deal. I feel for them. It’s not fair that a murder, if that’s what this is, goes unsolved—not for them, and not for anyone else that this guy might have been involved with.”
“So your solution is to make it personal,” Dash says, “instead of going to the police—”
“And saying what exactly? Tell them about the voodoo doll and the cryptic messages from our psychic friend?” I roll my eyes. “I’m going.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m sorry, Cassie. I just can’t.”
“Then I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”
He shakes his head. “Fine. Be safe. Don’t do anything stupid.” He turns on a heel and leaves the store. Part of me wants to shout after him, but the only thing that comes to mind is, “You’re stupid!” and nothing about that sounds witty, so instead I just watch him go.
Bonnie clears her throat and holds up a porcelain angel from the morning’s donation box. “How much for this one?”
Chapter 15
I’ve never been to New Orleans before; in fact, the only time I can recall even seeing pictures of it was during Mardi Gras, so part of me imagined that it would be a sea of drunken debauchery, thick crowds, and lots of colorful beads. It turns out that was a very unfair assessment. I arrived in the city around eight in the morning, having stolen a few hours of sleep before hitting the road late at night (or early in the morning, depending on how you look at it). And it looked… well, like a normal city. There are a fair amount of people out and about, and a variety of accents that I’m not accustomed to hearing, and particularly gorgeous architecture, but all in all, it’s not that far removed from any other major city.
The French Quarter, a fairly small region of the city adjacent to the Mississippi River, actually reminds me a bit of Bandit Hills, in that, it appears that it hasn’t been updated or changed in quite some time, but rather maintained, preserved.
The night before, I found a decently priced hotel that wouldn’t break my bank, but check-in isn’t until three, and part of me is hoping I won’t need to stay. I headed straight for St. Ann Street, the last known address of Jean Pierre.
The whole drive down here from Bandit Hills, I couldn’t really think of much else besides how much I disliked Dash at the moment. I mean, how could he just give up after everything we’d discovered? Sure, if the mystery could be solved without leaving home, without getting his hands dirty, he’s all for it. How dare I ask him to step outside his comfort zone, right?
No matter. I found the address pretty easily. It’s the first-floor apartment of a red three-story building with a beautiful wraparound terrace. As I walked up to the front door, though, I suddenly realized how monumentally stupid this could turn out to be. I knocked anyway.
A bald man around my mom’s age answered the door. He smiled quizzically and asked in a French Creole accent, “Can I help you?”
“Uh, maybe. Sorry to disturb you, but my friend used to live here. Jean Pierre? I was hoping you might know where he lives now.”
The man frowns as he thinks. “I know the name; he lived here before me. But I cannot tell you where he is now.”
“Oh. Thanks anyway.” The disappointment in my voice must have been evident, because he called out to me before I could leave.
“Wait! One of the neighbors might know. I will come with you and ask them. They might not appreciate being woken this early on a Saturday.”
Yikes. I hadn’t even thought of that.
Thanks to this stranger’s kind gesture, one of the neighbors was able to tell me where Jean Pierre used to work. I traveled the eight blocks to question the owner of the herbal supplement store, who is able to tell me Jean Pierre’s more recent address. I traveled back across the French Quarter to Barracks Street, only to find the place vacant. But the nice woman down the hall remembered him.
This went on for most of the day. It seemed that everywhere I went, Jean Pierre was no longer living or working there, but everyone knows him or has heard of him. Exhausted, I stopped into a corner café for a coffee. It was approaching midday, so a lot of people were out and about, and the café was packed. As I waited in line, I thought about calling Dash. Part of me wanted to say sorry, that I shouldn’t have assumed he’d be in this thing for the long haul. I get where he’s coming from. The other, more stubborn part of me wanted him to call and apologize first. He’s the one that quit on me. Before I could make up my mind, I felt a sharp tug on the back of my head.
“Ouch!” I cried out, solici
ting strange looks from several nearby customers. I spun around in time to see a blonde head of wavy hair bouncing quickly away from me, out onto the street. I rubbed my scalp gingerly. What the heck was that about? That really hurt!
I put it out of my mind and followed my latest lead as I sipped my rich, creamy, coffee. Apparently the cousin of the woman who lives above the apothecary where Jean Pierre was recently a temp recalls the place he works now. I know, it made my head hurt too. Her lead brought me to a narrow alley connecting two cross-streets. It didn’t look like there was anything there, but I walked down anyway, and found a single, alley-facing, door that led down into a cellar-like area. How stupid can you be, Cassie? I thought to myself as I headed down the stairs.
They emptied into a short corridor that led into a wide room, which was, thankfully, well lit, and set up like some sort of archaic doctor’s office. Shelves against one wall were lined with jars filled with all sorts of herbs and spices. A padded table, like a massage bed or maybe an acupuncture table, sat off to one side, and the whole place smelled pleasant, like sandalwood.
As I looked around, a man came through a doorway from another room. He stopped suddenly, just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
“Well now,” Jean Pierre said, as a smile broke across his face. “Most folks don’ know how to find us without an appointment first.” His voice was deep, with a hint of a Cajun accent. Hearing it made my skin kind of tingly. He wore a white collared shirt with the top few buttons undone. All in all, he looked like he belonged on the cover of a romance novel. On a horse. With a breeze blowing his hair back.
Anyway…
“What you looking for, darling?” he asked.
And stupid me, I say, “You, actually.”
He smiled wider. “Yeah? An’ why’s that?”
“Stephanie Marshall,” I say.
He nodded and stared at the wall. “Stephanie. Yeah. Fascinating girl. Promised she’d come back an’ see me sometime.” He looked back at me. “You a friend of hers?”
“Sort of.” I cleared my throat and steeled my nerves. “She’s… dead.”
His mouth fell open a little as his entire face slackened. I don’t claim to be an expert on reading people, but either this guy was a brilliant actor, or he just shot my theory to shreds.
“What?” He ran his hands through his hair. “Oh, jeez, not again.”
Aha! He knows something. I reached into my purse for my trump card and pulled out the little yellow-haired voodoo doll.
“I was hoping you could tell me something about this,” I said.
At the sight of it, the color drained from his face. “Oh, no. No, no, no. How did you get that? And why would you bring that here?”
“I just want to know—”
“No!” he shouted. “You need to go. Right now.”
And Jean Pierre charged forward toward me.
Chapter 16
He grabbed me roughly by the arm and half-dragged me toward the entrance.
“Hey!” I shouted. “Let go!”
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I know this is no way to treat a lady, but that thing cannot be anywhere near here, or me.” He practically pushed me out into the daylight and up the steps.
“Let go!” I finally wrenched my arm free of his grip. “Look, I came a long way. I think I deserve some answers!”
Jean Pierre looked around nervously, even though we were the only ones in the alley. “You don’t understand. She’s better than me. If she’s close enough, she can use that thing to find you. And if I’m here too…” He trailed off and just shook his head, like he was trying to dislodge a bad thought.
“Who? Who are you talking about?” I demanded.
Fearful, he quietly replied, “Savannah.”
“Savannah? I thought she was dead.”
“Dead?” He laughed bitterly. “Only in my sweetest dreams, honey.” He shook his head. “I might be cunning, but she’s… something else entirely.”
“Cunning… as in, the cunning folk?”
“If you were smart, you’d drive a nail through that doll’s heart right this second.”
I examined the doll in my hand. “So this is…?”
He nodded gravely.
If I believed in this sort of thing—which I’m still not sure I do, even given everything else I know as real—I could push a pin into this little doll and somewhere, someone else would feel it. Despite everything that growing up in Bandit Hills has taught me, that’s still too weird to wrap my head around.
“So you didn’t poison Stephanie?” I asked stupidly. Like he’d admit if he did, right?
“Of course not!”
I held out the doll. “I don’t want it.”
Jean Pierre leapt back as if I had pointed a gun at him. “Whoa, hey! Careful with that thing. I’m not touching it again. It’s cursed.”
“Then what do I do with it? I can’t—” I didn’t get to finish my sentence. A sudden, shooting pain pierced my leg. It was so fierce and quick that I couldn’t even cry out; I drew a sharp breath in as my leg gave out and I fell to my knees.
“It’s already too late,” I heard Jean Pierre say as he backed away from me.
Another voice, a familiar one, shouted, “Hey! Get away from her!”
Out of my periphery, which was then flooded with tears, I see Jean Pierre scurry back down the stairs to his cellar sanctuary and slam the door. Then there were arms around me, helping me up, and I caught a heavenly whiff of Dash’s subtle cologne.
“You okay?” he asked.
The pain subsided; my leg throbbed a little, but the sharp, stabbing pain was gone. I mean, I’ve never been stabbed before, but I’ve had a bad charley horse. So multiply that by, say, a thousand, and that’s what felt like shot through my leg.
“I think so,” I said, testing some weight on it. I could walk, which was a good sign. “I totally had this under control, by the way.”
“Obviously.” He grinned. “Just figured I’d drop by for moral support.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Tracked your phone.”
“You can do that?”
“Sure, if your password for everything is your cat’s name. Later we’ll have a chat about internet security. For now, though, let’s make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, really. And I think I know what that was all about, too. Come on, I’ll explain.”
Chapter 17
Dash and I take a seat at a small table in the corner of the little café where Savannah pulled out some of my hair. He listens intently as I tell him what I’ve discovered. When I finish, he rubs his chin for a full minute before speaking.
“So Savannah Sullivan, the jealous ex-girlfriend, is alive.”
“Yup,” I confirm.
“And Jean Pierre did not kill Stephanie.”
“Nope.”
“And he’s one of these… cunning folk?”
“That’s what I gather. His ‘herbal remedies’ are likely folk magic.” At Dash’s expression, I add, “If you believe in that sort of thing.”
“And if I did,” he says, “then that would make Savannah… a…”
“Witch,” says Savannah Sullivan. “Yes.”
She lowers herself into a seat at our table. Much like Jean Pierre, she won the genetic lottery—wavy blonde hair, deep green eyes, pronounced cheekbones and a creamy complexion. She regards me and Dash in turn with little expression.
“Nice to see you both again,” she says, and I immediately recognize the voice as the one that came from Marla’s mouth two nights earlier. “Though you don’t seem surprised to see me.”
Truth is, I’m not. When Jean Pierre told me that she could use it to find me, I suddenly realized who it was that tugged my hair in the café, and I figured that the easiest way to find her would be to stay put somewhere long enough for her to come to us. But instead of telling her all this, I stare coolly across the table, hoping that I look like I deal with this sort of thing all
the time.
“I’ll take the doll now,” she says flatly. It’s not a demand, or a request, or a threat; she says it like a simple fact.
“In a minute,” I tell her, mustering courage from somewhere deep down. “First we want the truth.”
“The truth?” She smiles lightly. “Why? Would it make a difference? Would you believe it?”
Dash and I exchange a look. There’s just not enough time or aspirin to delve into our history and the nature of our hometown, so we both say, “Yes,” in unison.
“Fine,” Savannah waves a hand as impatiently. “It’s simple. Jean belongs to me. I saw him with the girl—”
