Magic and Macaroons

by Bailey Cates

  The back door opened into a courtyard, charming in its simplicity and lush with the sun-warmed scents of lavender, sage, basil, and jasmine. Cookie and I exchanged glances as we realized it was laid out in the shape of a five-pointed star, a classic witch’s pentacle. Each of the points was devoted to plantings, while the center was paved with smooth stones, upon which wicker furniture clustered in an intimate seating arrangement. With increasing curiosity, I took in the plants, realizing as I did so that they were grouped much as I had arranged the beds in back of my carriage house.

  In one section, savory herbs offered their leaves. In another, roses and lavender circled around a five-foot stone obelisk. Pink flowering jasmine climbed toward the point, all surrounded by sweet woodruff and the spent leaves of fragrant lily of the valley. A fountain formed of stacked, spherical marble burbled in another triangle, with lotus leaves floating along the edge and King Tut grasses reaching fuzzy flower heads six feet into the sky. But most interesting to me was the grouping of angelica, elderberry, and fluffy, golden Saint-John’s-wort—all traditional magical plants with multiple uses. I turned to see that Jack had settled onto the cushion of one of the chairs and was considering me with those misted eyes.

  He could see me. I knew that somehow. And as I had the thought, I felt a little nudge, an extremely subtle inquiry at the edge of my consciousness. I tilted my head to let him know I felt it, and he raised his eyebrows a fraction before the feeling of mild interrogation vanished.

  Maybe Jack couldn’t read my mind, but, like I was sometimes able to do, he could direct his intuition, focus it, and get very real information that way. He was probably a lot better at it than I was, though.

  “This is a beautiful garden,” I said, sitting next to Cookie on the willow love seat across from his chair.

  “I enjoy it,” he said. “A good friend who is a resident here planted it and cares for it almost daily. It gives her great peace to work out here.”

  “I imagine,” I said.

  “She practices magic,” he said.

  I kept my expression neutral.

  “Of the old-school variety,” he went on. “Like the old village witches used to practice. From what Cookie told me on the telephone, you know what I mean.”

  I hesitated for a second before nodding. “I know exactly what you mean.” Of course Cookie had told her old family friend I was a hedgewitch. He needed to know who he was dealing with. After all, I was about to ask him questions about his own magic. Or was it a religion? Like Wicca, voodoo was apparently both.

  “Are you any good?” he asked.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “At working with plants. Roots. In voodoo, we call your kind grune hexe.”

  That was the term Cookie had used. I leaned back against the woven wicker, and heard it creak. “My kind, being those who practice garden and kitchen magic.”

  He shrugged. “For the most part.” He settled further into the chair like a cat in front of a comfortable, warm fire, as I felt a trickle of perspiration run down my temple.

  “I’m still learning about my gift,” I said, trying for modest. “And I have a long way to go.”

  That nudge at the edge of my mind again.

  I nudged back. “But I have hereditary power from both my mother and my father, and I’m doing my best to learn quickly—from anyone who is willing to teach me.”

  “Is that so?” A small smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “Is that why you’re here?”

  I looked at Cookie. She dipped her chin, encouraging me.

  “Not exactly,” I said, leaning forward. “I need information about voodoo queens in Savannah, and Cookie says you’re the man to talk to.” This was not a time to play games. Jack would know if I kept anything back and would probably refuse to help.

  So I told him everything. I started with Franklin telling me I was a lightwitch—that raised a speculative eyebrow—then gave him the play-by-play on Dawn showing up at the Honeybee, her muttered message and subsequent collapse, and ended with Quinn telling me Franklin was dead. “I still don’t understand how that could be,” I said. “How could he contact me through a psychic if he was still alive?”

  Jack sat for a long time, looking at the garden with his veiled eyes. I could practically hear his thoughts clicking away—and then clicking into place.

  “It is possible,” he began, then stopped, frowning with indecision.

  We waited. My temples throbbed, and I realized I was holding my breath.

  In the silence, a shiny purple dragonfly winged into the garden, zooming from star point to star point, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw it pause at the fountain to drink. If this was one of those taps on the shoulder from the universe telling me to pay attention, it was a bit late. I was already focused like a laser on Jack and what he was about to say.

  Then the dragonfly flew to me, landing on the back of my hand. I sat perfectly still, watching it flex its pairs of iridescent wings, wondering at its appearance. Coincidence? Suddenly it took off again and went toward Jack. It landed on the handle of his cane, which leaned against the arm of the chair. He examined the insect, face impassive, the smooth skin of his head reflecting the sunlight like a sacred orb. A second dragonfly, this time a dark, glistening red, landed beside the first.

  Without warning, he threw his head back and laughed. “Well! I guess I have my answer.” This time when he trained his misty gaze upon me, it felt open. Maybe even welcoming.

  “It is possible,” he said, this time with no hesitation. “That your Detective Taite was suffering from a curse—a curse that put him in a coma like his niece is in now. Deeply unconscious but not dead. From such a place he could perhaps contact this medium you spoke of.”

  I blinked. “Really? Is that normal?”

  He waved a hand in the air. “What is normal? But it is possible, I think. It would have to be a powerful curse, from a powerful priest or priestess.” He pointed at me. “You would do well to steer clear of anyone like that. To be in such a comatose state would be very unpleasant.”

  I felt myself blanch. “Unpleasant how?”

  “Imagine wanting to awaken but being unable to. Being trapped in your own consciousness.”

  A chill ran down my back despite the blazing heat of the day. I felt Cookie looking at me.

  “Katie? We can go now if you want.” She sounded worried. “You can drop the whole thing.”

  I squared my shoulders and shook my head. “There’s a reason why Franklin contacted me, whether he was dead or alive. Now his niece is in the hospital, and no one knows what’s wrong with her. She could be under the same kind of curse you describe, Jack. That’s horrible.”

  Jack dipped his chin in approval. “So, you will continue to seek the gris gris.”

  I held up my palms. “I don’t have any real choice, do I?”

  His eyes smiled, but I also saw regret etch his features. “The fact that you don’t think you have a choice indicates that perhaps for you there is not one.”

  I chose to ignore that. It sounded a little too much like Franklin Taite telling me that lightwitches were incapable of dark magic. “So?” I asked. “Can you tell me who Dawn Taite might have meant when she talked about a voodoo queen here in Savannah?”

  He tapped his a finger on his knee, looking thoughtful. “Three women in this city come to mind. They are all very different, but all could be considered voodoo queens.”

  I leaned forward in anticipation.

  “Do you have something to write with?”

  I reached into the tote bag by my feet and extracted pen and paper.

  “The first one is a traditional vodou practitioner, a woman I knew in Port-au-Prince. There she was a mambo, or high priestess. Here in the United States she has eschewed the title and is only known as Marie LaFevre. She has a shop in Midtown. It is tucked away in a strip mall, eas
y to overlook. The name is Esoterique.”

  “Thank you,” I said, scribbling away.

  “Take Cookie with you,” he said. “Otherwise, Marie may not talk to you at all.”

  I looked up. “Why not?”

  “You’re Caucasian,” he said simply. “Voodoo is not your history, not part of your culture.”

  Technically I had a good dose of Shawnee Indian running through my veins from my father’s side of the family, but Jack wasn’t wrong about the rest. My heart sank. How was I going to get the information I needed to help Dawn Taite if no one would talk to me?

  “Having said that, Mambo Jeni isn’t African-American, and she calls herself a mambo,” Jack said. “She’s a fairly recent transplant to town, but I keep track of all the major practitioners. She is a businesswoman, and I don’t know if she was ever ordained. She’ll probably talk to you, but it might cost you a few dollars. I also don’t know whether she’ll be able help you. She works out of her home.” He gave me an address from memory.

  “The third woman, Eulora Scanlon, has lived here in Savannah for twenty years. She is from Louisiana originally, where she learned from an older mambo and grew into her power in New Orleans. She does not call herself a priestess or a mambo, however, only a spiritualist. As such, she is known as Mother Eulora.”

  New Orleans again.

  “Unfortunately, she is semiretired. However, she is well-known in the city, and has many former clients.” He gave me another address.

  “Thank you,” I said, tucking my notebook back into my tote bag. Sitting back, I regarded the old gentleman.

  “You have another question, Katie Lightfoot,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Spit it out.”

  I couldn’t help a smile, but it dropped away as I asked, “Do you have any idea what the gris gris might be for? What kind of power it might have? And why Dawn wanted me to find it?”

  He shrugged with one shoulder, then pushed himself to his feet with the aid of his cane. Cookie rose and hurried to take his other arm.

  “A gris gris is usually a charm bag filled with herbs and other items specific to its intended use. Most often it is worn for protection. But like many voodoo spells, a gris gris’ power can be reversed. If so, a protective gris gris can do harm instead.”

  I followed them back into the building, shivering in the refrigerated air after acclimating to the garden.

  “Thank you,” Cookie said when we reached his doorway.

  “Yes, thank you, Jack.” I held out my hand.

  His palm was dry and warm in mine. “Poppa Jack to you, Katie. It has been an honor to make your acquaintance.” He turned to Cookie. “And you, young lady. You must promise to come see me often. We could use some of your bright light around here.”

  “I promise,” she said, warmth shining from her eyes.

  “Katie,” he said as we turned to go.

  I paused.

  “The gris gris might not be for protection. It could be for anything. It might only be lost.” He looked grave. “Or it might be taken. If it is taken, you must be very careful. There is only one reason somebody takes another’s talisman, and it is not to do good.”

  Chapter 9

  In the parking lot of Magnolia Park Senior Care, I leaned my tush against the side of the Bug and examined the addresses Poppa Jack had given us. Cookie opened the passenger door but didn’t get in. “You want to visit them immediately, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Well, this Mambo Jeni person’s address is on the way back to the bakery. Do you mind stopping by there on the way? It’s just after three.”

  “Of course.” Cookie got in the car, and as I went around to the other side, I heard her mutter, “Apparently, I have to visit all the mambos with you.”

  In the car, I gave her a grateful smile and started the engine.

  A few minutes later, we turned onto Davidson Avenue. My eye was immediately drawn to the one-story rambler in the middle of the block. Unlike its more sedate neighbors, it was painted a brilliant periwinkle with a purple undertone that popped right into my retina, thanks to the summer sun. As I steered closer, it became apparent that the house number would prove to be the one Poppa Jack had given us. The red neon sign in the front window blinked the words PALM READINGS—PAST LIFE REGRESSIONS—VOODOO SPELLS.

  As I pulled to the curb, Cookie’s lip curled in distaste. “I don’t know what Poppa Jack was thinking, sending us here.”

  I shrugged. “He said voodoo queens come in many forms. This one appears to be in the form of a Jackie-of-all-trades.”

  She sniffed and reached for the door handle. “Or a charlatan. I’m surprised she doesn’t sell Tupperware and Amway.”

  “Maybe she does. I could use some new refrigerator dishes for the Honeybee.”

  Cookie gave me a look.

  I grinned.

  The lawn needed to be mowed, and the leaves on the verbena and ferns in the pots on each side of the front door were curling from neglect and lack of water. The paint on the doorframe had begun to crack and peel. I reached for the doorbell, hesitated when I saw it was in the shape of an elaborate eye, then went ahead and gave the dark pupil a push.

  The sound of rapid footsteps approached, and the door was flung open. A large woman regarded us through the screen door before pushing it open and gesturing us inside with a huge smile.

  “Welcome, ladies!” She looked to be around fifty and was dressed in a skirt, flowery smocked top, and flip-flops. She wore no makeup, and her skin was the kind of pale you’d expect from a teenage boy who played video games and swigged cola in the basement all day. As she blinked at us in the light of the doorway, I wondered if she ever ventured out into the sunlight. When she turned, I saw that her iron-gray dreadlocks reached almost to her waist.

  “Please, come inside,” she invited. “I’m Mambo Jeni. And you are?”

  We entered as requested. I glanced over at Cookie in time to see her school her expression to neutrality, then turned my attention to the mambo.

  “I’m Katie,” I said, “and this is—”

  “Elaine,” Cookie cut in.

  I raised an eyebrow as Jeni nodded and waved for us to follow her toward the back of the house. As we walked through the living room, I took in the sagging turquoise sofa, the big-screen television that took up a chunk of wall space opposite it, the chair with reading lamp, and the bookcase full of videos and CDs. A gas fireplace was set into one wall, and framed movie posters decorated another. It was clean and uncluttered, but had an air of college rental—or, I realized, starting afresh with little money. My bet was that Jeni was either divorced or widowed. A picture on the slim mantle showed a dark-haired boy and girl in their teens, so she was probably a single mom, too.

  With a flourish, the mambo opened a pair of heavy wooden doors to reveal what had once been the formal dining area of her home. A thick, elaborately patterned rug covered the dark hardwood in the middle of the room, and centered on that was a round table large enough to seat four people. A black silk cloth had been draped over it, the abundance of material pooling artfully on the red-hued rug beneath. The walls and ceiling were the color of roasted red peppers, and brass sconces hung at four-foot intervals, unlit. A tapestry covered with black and red runes cascaded down the center of the rear wall, and I could envision the sliding glass door it covered, no doubt leading out to a suburban backyard. The only other art on the walls were three black-and-white enlargements of foggy hands—each open as if in supplication.

  Creepy.

  Mambo Jeni closed the doors, and we were plunged into darkness. I heard Cookie’s surprised intake of breath beside me, then the sound of a light switch being flipped, and the room bloomed back into view. Low light emanated from the sconces now, just enough to define the perimeters of the room and call out the weird hand photos. A recessed spotli
ght shone down on the center of the black-clad table, a golden pool that cast the rest of the space deeper into shadow. No light leaked in from the outdoors, and if I hadn’t just walked in from the bright sunshine, I wouldn’t be able to tell whether it was day or night. The air smelled of day-old sandalwood incense.

  “Sit down, please,” Jeni said.

  We sat.

  “Now, Katie, Elaine, what can I do for you today? Are you here for one or both of you?”

  Cookie and I exchanged glances. “Er,” I said. “For me, I guess. Or both.”

  Jeni sat back in her chair, laced her hands on the table, and smiled. “I see. Are you visiting Savannah?”

  “Noooo,” I answered slowly, wondering how much to tell her. Play it by ear. “We live here. We were told by a friend you might be able to help us.”

  She nodded. “Ah, word of mouth. Excellent. Who, if I might ask, is your friend?”

  I looked at Cookie, and she nodded. “Poppa Jack,” I said.

  Mambo Jeni blinked. “I see.” She considered us. “Or perhaps I don’t. If you went to see Poppa, then you must be in the market for a bit of voodoo magic. However, there is, frankly, nothing I could give you that he couldn’t. So . . . ?”

  “We’re in the market for information,” Cookie said. “We were told a voodoo queen would be able to help us. Yours is one of the names Poppa Jack gave us.”

  Jeni looked amused. “A voodoo queen, you say. Well, I am flattered that Poppa would see me as one.”

  “You aren’t?”

  A slight lifting of her shoulders. “I am a mambo sur point—a certified junior voodoo priestess. I also do palm readings and past-life—”

  “We saw the sign,” Cookie said.

  The mambo lifted an eyebrow. “Hmm. And you obviously disapprove.”

  Cookie didn’t say anything.

  “Well, no matter. A woman has to make a living, and the economy isn’t what it used to be. Before my divorce, I practiced the same things I do now, but once I was on my own, I had to up my marketing. A sign and a few ads don’t take away from my power,” she added.