by Anne Frasier
“No, but we need to get her to a hospital.”
“And him?”
“Dead.”
“Dead is good.”
Avery walked over to Elise and knelt down next to her. “Hey, boss,” he said gently.
Her eyes opened. “Boss?” she asked.
“I heard through the grapevine that you’re being promoted to head homicide detective.”
She groaned. “No.”
“Two gunshot wounds,” David said. “Arm and leg.”
“No vitals?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I was going to quit,” Elise said. “I planned to open a coffee shop. Audrey was going to work with me, and we were going to wear matching aprons.”
“And I’m going to leave homicide to pursue a career in ballet.” Avery grabbed Elise’s uninjured arm. “I hate to do this to you, but—” Bent at the waist, he slung her over his back in a fireman’s carry. She let out another moan, then went silent.
David and Avery looked at Tremain, looked at each other, David shrugged, then they headed out the door into the storm.
CHAPTER 50
What was it about the combined sound of cutlery and conversation that evoked such a sense of well-being? Just silverware and glasses and that low drone of people talking. Somebody should make a mojo from this day, Elise thought as she sat at the dining room table surrounded by people she cared about, people who were important to her. Somebody should throw a butterfly net over the air in the room and grab the magic of the moment, put it in a tiny bag, and pull the string closed so it wouldn’t escape.
“How you doing?” David asked, a bite of turkey on his fork.
Her body had taken a pounding. Her ribs and ankle had been reinjured, and the gunshot wounds sent a bolt of lightning through her whenever she moved. She smiled. “Fine.”
“Liar.” He wasn’t moving all that fast either, but the bullet he’d taken in the shoulder had gone straight through and he was expected to heal without any complications.
Ten days had passed since the abduction. It was Thanksgiving, and they were in Elise’s house. Thick plastic that rattled and whispered hung in front of doorways, and the upstairs bathroom had no toilet, no sink, and no shower. But Audrey’s room was finished, even down to the painted walls, thanks to Strata Luna sending over Javier to help.
The bond between a homicide detective and the owner of an escort service might be considered an unwise and unethical alliance to some. So be it. And anyway, this was Savannah, a place that lived by its own set of rules, and Strata Luna kind of was Savannah, the mystery and mystique she carried and nurtured seeming a part of the city itself.
The rest of the house was still unfinished, but livable. The kitchen stove worked, and the dishes could be washed in the sink. The floor was a plywood base Elise was actually beginning to like. The downstairs bathroom was done, along with the guest bedroom where Elise was staying until it no longer hurt to go up and down the steps.
Home sweet home. It felt good to be here. It felt right, and nothing had felt right in quite awhile.
David had arrived early that morning to help with the meal. He, Elise, and Audrey had stuffed the turkey and made the dressing and even managed gravy that wasn’t too lumpy. And now Elise looked down the table where candle flames reflected off the vintage china given to her by Anastasia. “I won’t be using them where I’m going,” her aunt had said.
An odd crew. Seven people in all, three on each side of the table with Elise at the head. On her left sat Strata Luna. Today she wore a narrow black skirt, but instead of her usual black top she’d opted for something festive and bloodred. Beside the Gullah woman was Medical Examiner John Casper, along with his fiancée, Mara. On the opposite side of the table were Audrey, Anastasia, and David.
“How wonderful to be here,” Anastasia said with a sigh.
Nobody mentioned that this would most likely be Anastasia’s last free Thanksgiving for a long time. She was scheduled to appear before a judge and receive her sentence for insurance fraud, but the concealment of the body was their biggest concern. The man killed that night at the plantation had been identified as Scott Priesman, someone who’d been on the missing persons’ list since the murder. There would be an inquiry, followed by a trial. Elise hoped the jury would go easy on her aunt.
Whatever happened, it looked like the plantation might be waiting for her when she got out of prison. A group of artists in Savannah had started a fund-raising campaign and within a few days it exceeded their expectations, donations flooding in from all over the country, many from artists who’d once stayed at the plantation and had made it big.
Elise’s mother took full credit for exposing Anastasia.
“I knew something was fishy,” Grace said when Elise called with the news. And sadly, she didn’t seem at all happy to discover that her sister was still alive.
The DNA samples supplied by Strata Luna had confirmed the worst. Pure, primo, uncut body parts were being ground and sold for root work and mojos. As the Gullah woman suspected, the ingredients were indeed human. That was enough for her to share the source, and the supplier was arrested and shut down. But, as Strata Luna said, it wouldn’t stop the trafficking. People would continue to look for mojos to make them strong and beautiful and rich. And if it meant killing to do it, people would be killed.
“I’m not going to put anybody on the spot and ask you what you’re thankful for,” Elise said.
What was she thankful for?
For this moment. She was thankful for this moment.
What would they say if pressed?
Chin down, Strata Luna was looking at Elise with a knowing smile on full red lips that matched her top and the wine in her glass. If the woman were honest, she’d probably say she was thankful for herself. And John Casper would be thankful for his fiancée, because it was obvious he was smitten. And his fiancée would be thankful for John, because they could both share a life in which they could discuss dead bodies over dinner and it wouldn’t seem at all strange. And Anastasia . . . she probably wasn’t thankful for being found out, or thankful about the hidden body being discovered, but she had to be relieved it was all over.
David. What was he thankful for? That his pumpkin bread was every bit as good as he’d hoped? Thankful that his ex-wife was finally dead? Thankful that Tremain was at the bottom of the river, being eaten by alligators? Because, unfortunately, Tremain’s body was gone when the police returned to retrieve it, and drag marks to the water’s edge indicated an alligator had most likely claimed him. Elise was trying not to dwell on it, but a body would have given her more closure.
And Audrey—Elise was sure she was just glad she wasn’t in trouble, and glad Elise wasn’t dead.
And Elise? Even murderers could teach a person lessons. What had Tremain taught her? Had there been some truth about her unwillingness to accept who she was? Yesterday Audrey asked if she planned to get the tattoo removed.
Elise told her no.
“Because it’s so big?” Audrey had asked. “And it will cost a fortune and take forever and probably really hurt?”
“None of those things,” Elise told her.
Yes, the tattoo represented a bad event, a dark event, but maybe Tremain did her a favor by leaving her with a permanent record of her heritage. No more denying where she’d come from. No more denying that she was the daughter of a root doctor, a conjurer. And no more kidding herself about owning a café. That wasn’t who she was. She could look at those coffee-shop people and imagine herself living that life, but it wasn’t her. It was a nice dream, but that’s all it was, a dream. She had to figure out who she was and remain true to that self, and part of the secret would be accepting her heritage. Maybe even embracing it.
Heritage . . . People spent their lives trying to leave it behind, hang on to it, or find it.
Was there
anything to root magic? Maybe. Maybe not. But she owed it to herself and Audrey to explore the possibilities. Head of homicide and a conjurer’s daughter. Who would have thought?
Yesterday she’d called Major Hoffman and accepted the position as head detective. She would take the job and Audrey would be fine. They would both be fine. They would all be fine.
“This pumpkin bread will blow your mind,” David said as he held the plate high for everyone to see before he passed it. “I used fresh pumpkins this time.”
Halfway through the dinner, Audrey announced, “While I was at Strata Luna’s we made mojos.” She ran off to reappear with a handful of small velvet bags in different colors. “I have spells for love, I have spells for wealth, and I have spells for happiness.”
“I’ll take love,” John Casper said.
His fiancée play-punched his arm, and he fake-grimaced. “You already have love,” she said.
“I just want an extra helping of it.”
“I’ll take happiness,” Elise said.
Audrey handed her the blue velvet bag. “No body parts.”
“I’ll take love,” David said. “Because someone shredded my last one.” Audrey dangled the bag in front of him, then dropped it in his hand. “There’s name paper inside,” she said. “And instructions.”
He smiled and nodded and shot a look at Elise. Later she would take him aside and tell him not to write her name on that paper. And he would laugh at her again, because he didn’t believe.
“We got in an interesting body this morning,” John said. His fiancée nodded with the kind of enthusiasm most young women saved for clothing or really good food.
Mara smiled. “We unzipped the bag and the smell of almonds almost knocked us over.”
“Poison,” David and Elise and Strata Luna said in harmony.
“I did a bit of research,” John Casper told them. “And the decedent was a fairly well-off elderly guy. Recently married to a younger woman. We put him back in the cooler. We’ll do the autopsy tomorrow.”
And the conversation turned to bodies and murders and black widows who preyed on elderly men.
“Who wants more turkey?” David asked as plates began to show empty spots. He lifted the platter and passed it to Audrey.
“Good Godzilla.” Audrey paused, platter in her hands as she stared at the turkey carcass. “Is that the wishbone?”
The doorbell rang and everything stopped.
“You expecting someone else?” David asked Elise.
“Melinda is stopping by later this evening.”
Audrey pushed away from the table. “I’ll get it.”
She ran off, then reappeared a minute later. “There’s some old guy here.” She made a strange face. “Says his name is Jackson Sweet.”
Strata Luna’s wineglass slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor, her eyes wide as she stared in the direction of the living room.
Finally, after what seemed like minutes but had probably been only seconds, David spoke. “I’d suggest a swab of his mouth and maybe a hair sample.”
A murmur of agreement went around the table. Strata Luna grabbed the wine. Since her glass was broken, she took a swallow straight from the bottle.
And then the man in question, the very man who’d visited Elise that night at the plantation, appeared in the arched entry that separated the living room and dining room.
Strata Luna made a choking sound—a kind of sob. Everything about her said the man standing there was none other than Jackson Sweet, the person responsible for the darkness in Elise’s life. The whispers at the police station, the fear in her stepmother’s eyes, and later the rejection. She was an outcast because of him, and she’d been kidnapped and tortured and shot because of him. And now, here he was, showing up on Thanksgiving.
No need of a DNA test to identify him as Jackson Sweet. The expression on Strata Luna’s face was confirmation enough. Elise tossed down her napkin, ready to tell him to get the hell out.
David rubbed his hands together with way too much enthusiasm and said, “Grab a plate and pull up a chair.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Frasier is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of twenty-five books and numerous short stories that have spanned the genres of suspense, mystery, thriller, romantic suspense, paranormal, and memoir. Her titles have been printed in both hardcover and paperback and translated into twenty languages. Her career began in 1998 with Amazon Lily, a cult sensation and winner of numerous awards. Her first memoir, The Orchard, was a 2011 O, The Oprah Magazine Fall Pick, number two on the Indie Next List, and a Librarians’ Best Books of 2011. She divides her time between the city of St. Paul, Minnesota, and her writing studio in rural Wisconsin.
