by Blair Merrin
“Stephanie,” I say with a hard edge to my voice. “Her name is Stephanie.”
Savannah gazes at me for a long moment, and I feel a chill go through me. “Sure,” she says. “Anyway. I took her hair. I made a doll.”
“Where is it? The Stephanie doll?” I ask her.
“Not here.”
“And Jean Pierre, he had already made a doll of you. Because he was afraid.”
“Yes. He has a very funny way of expressing his love. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, so he gave the doll to her.”
I reach into my purse and I bring out the Savannah doll, gripping it tightly in my fist in case she made a move for it. Upon seeing it, her eyes light up, like a wolf in the moonlight.
“You used the doll of Stephanie to inflict pain on her,” I say.
“It was just supposed to be a warning. I assumed that Jean Pierre at least told her what the doll was, or that she had some rudimentary talent. Turns out she was a nobody.”
“She thought something was really wrong with her,” I say angrily. “She went to doctors, but they couldn’t find anything.”
Savannah rolled her eyes. “She figured it out at some point, though. She started to retaliate.”
I think back to the book I found in Stephanie’s bedroom. She was educating herself on voodoo practices. She just didn’t realize that what she was researching and the reality of it weren’t the same thing.
“Whether she knew what she was doing or not, she was toying with me,” Savannah says. “The pain was unbearable. I had to put it to an end.” She lowers her gaze to the tabletop. “I really didn’t want to.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that you killed someone,” I say quietly.
“You’re right,” she nods, and it sounds like there’s at least some remorse in her voice. “And I have to live with that.”
“Why would you tell us all this?” Dash asks.
Savannah shrugs. “Because no one will believe you. There’s no way to prove it. If I thought for a second that you were any threat to me, you wouldn’t even be here. That thing in the alley, with your leg? That was a preamble.”
She reaches into her own handbag, a small black clutch, and takes out a small doll. She sets it on the table. It’s not flattering, but it’s supposed to be me. At least, it’s wearing some of my hair. My first instinct is to point out that the hip and waist proportions are all wrong, but I’m too busy being frightened to do so.
“A trade,” Savannah offers. “Mine for yours.”
I look at Dash. He nods. I don’t see any other choice. We make the swap.
“What do I do with it?” I ask.
“Keep it safe. Don’t let anyone near it—ever.”
I have a hard time believing it. Am I literally holding my own life in my hands?
Savannah rises from her seat. “By the way,” she says. “That girl… Stephanie. She really was there that night with the psychic. She was trying to give you a message, but I beat her to the punch—or rather, the possession.”
“What was the message?”
Savannah smiles sweetly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more cruel expression. “It was, ‘Don’t go looking.’” She glances at the doll in my hands, puts her own doll in her tiny black clutch, and leaves us there.
After I’m certain she’s gone, I ask Dash, “You got all that?”
He pulls a tiny silver digital recorder from his lap. “Pretty sure.”
Chapter 18
The plan we’d formulated before we’d met with Savannah Sullivan was a rough one, but somehow we managed to pull it off. Of course, it took a bit of coordination from some of Bandit Hills’ finest.
First Dash put in a call to Sheriff Phil and asked for a favor. Phil phoned New Orleans PD and told them he had a tip regarding a citizen of theirs, Savannah Sullivan. On any other day, I’m sure they’d laugh if a police officer told them the tip was from a local psychic, but turns out they’d heard of Bandit Hills, and actually took it at least a little seriously.
By the time they secured the warrant, Savannah was long gone. But they did find a doll with real human hair, and later forensics proved that the hair matched Stephanie Marshall’s. That alone was enough to open an investigation and put out an APB on Savannah. The day after that, they received a recorded confession in the mail from an anonymous sender, along with a letter that claimed the speaker was none other than Savannah Sullivan, clear as day, on the recording admitting to murder.
Even though Savannah is still at large, there’s a warrant out for her arrest. Hopefully they find her soon… or at the very least, if we’re lucky, she’ll stay in hiding.
When Dash and I got back to Bandit Hills, Phil insisted that we tell him the whole story. We did—mostly. We still left out the part about breaking into Stephanie’s townhouse. Considering everything else that happened, I think it’s for the best. After we told him the whole weird and chilling tale, he just kind of looked at us for a long time, shook his head and said, “Well, that’s Bandit Hills for ya.” Then he added, “Why do I get the feeling you two are gonna give me some sort of trouble in the near future?”
We both shrugged and put on our best innocent faces.
***
It’s been nearly a week since New Orleans, and I haven’t heard a peep from Stephanie’s ghost. I’d like to assume that she’s moved on, or is at peace, or whatever it is that happens when a ghost is avenged. Well, we didn’t do much avenging, but at least we discovered the truth.
Yesterday I rented a safety deposit box at the bank and put my Cassie doll in it. At first I kept it in a fireproof lockbox under my bed, but that didn’t feel like enough security. I think it’s safest where it’s at. At least I hope so.
The overblown rumors that Marla helped with a murder investigation by channeling a legit spirit ran like wildfire through town. The locals are impressed, and tourist season has kicked off early as folks flock to our special town to get readings from her. The newfound fame is a little irritating, if I’m being honest; Marla’s been making a habit of coming into the store, touching all the secondhand goods and proclaiming loudly that each one has a dark, evil entity within. But hey, sales have been up, so there’s that.
Much to my mother’s chagrin, Dash and I are not dating. I mean, not officially, anyway. We’re not really calling it anything at the moment. This afternoon he took me to lunch, and halfway through he got up and sat on the same side as the booth as me and held my hand under the table.
If there’s a word for that, then that’s what we are. For now.
Speaking of lunch, while we were sitting there side by side, him sipping a soda and me blushing furiously, he suddenly said, “There’s still one thing I don’t understand.”
“What’s that?”
“Who sent you the doll and the photo in the first place? How did they know that a secondhand store owner would investigate a murder?”
“I have a theory on that.” I had thought about that myself, and I was hoping he wouldn’t ask. “I’m pretty sure that Stephanie sent it to me, before she died.” I told him about the Miss Miscellanea business card I saw on the fridge at her townhouse.
“And Savannah told us that Stephanie’s spirit was trying to tell me not to go looking. I, uh, don’t think that Stephanie wanted me to get mixed up in all this. I think she did enough research to know that she shouldn’t have the voodoo doll, and maybe thought that getting rid of it would rid her of the curse.”
“So you’re telling me that Stephanie sent you the doll so that you could pass it along to someone else, and not so that you’d go all Curious Cassie on it?”
“That’s my story, yes.” I became suddenly fascinated with the last dregs of chocolate shake that clung to the bottom of my glass.
“And her ghost moving the doll to your sales case was probably her trying to tell you to get rid of it.” Dash tried hard to suppress a smile.
I shrugged. “But she didn’t know that there was still a doll of her out th
ere, so she wasn’t really rid of the curse. And we found out about Savannah, so all’s well that ends well, right?”
Dash shook his head, and in the same moment, the lights went out in the diner.
“Sorry, folks!” Tank announced in his booming voice. “Just a tripped breaker, I’m sure. Lights will be back on in a jiffy!”
Sure. Tripped breaker.
Beside me, Dash gave my hand a little squeeze and muttered, “That’s Bandit Hills for ya.”
Copyright 2016 Summer Prescott Books
All Rights Reserved.
