by Cynthia Lott
I’m asking a lot of you, I know.
Roy finished the rest of his glass and poured another. He sipped the second glass as he looked through the tall living room windows. It had been raining the larger part of the day and this only added to our stupor. He stood up and walked towards the kitchen.
“Can you bring me your phone book?” I asked into the air.
“Sure.” He opened cabinets and drawers, sifted through papers and whatever was hidden away in there. I was surprised that the book wasn’t in an organized and reliable place. He walked back into the living room and placed the directory on the coffee table.
“Maybe Elsie had a brother who stayed in the area. It’s worth a shot.” My fingers glided across the pages. “Don’t look at me like that….please. Humor me, okay? Look, there’s one. Only one. A Stella Coupout. Think there’s any relation?” I looked at the phone number next to her name. It was only six pm and early enough to give a stranger an evening phone call.
Why not?
I cradled the telephone next to my ear and dialed the number. After the fifth ring, a voice sounded on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Stella Coupout?”
“Yes, it is. Who is this?”
“Hi, Ms. Coupout. You don’t know me. My name is Detective Brenda Shapira, and I need to talk to you. I know this may all sound terribly strange, but are you related to an Elsie Coupout by chance?” I was nearly out of breath while I waited for her response.
“I’m not sure why you’re asking me this but yes, my great aunt’s name was Elsie. Why?”
This almost seems too easy…
“It’s…hard to explain over the phone. I need to talk to you in person if that’s all right. May I come by this evening? It’s urgent.”
“Can you tell me what this is about?” Her voice was hesitant.
“Yes. We have been tracking a suspect in New Orleans. He’s murdered three people and we think he may have some connection to your great aunt.” I looked at Roy and smiled faintly.
“Excuse me? Why would this have anything to do with my family?”
“It’s complicated but I can explain it all tonight. I would appreciate a little bit of your time.”
“Ummm. All right. Sure. I live at 27 Walnut Street. I will see you then. Is seven okay?”
“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you so much, Stella.” I hung up the phone. “Elsie is her great-aunt.”
Roy poured himself another glass of wine. Looking at the ruby red color and holding the stem between his fingertips, he observed the crimson currents wash over one another with each swirl. Sighing, he stood up and walked towards the kitchen as I followed behind him. Standing motionless for a moment, he looked at the courtyard below. He proceeded to raise one of the kitchen windows an inch above the sill as we stood next to one another in silence.
“Do you hear that?” He sipped from his glass. “The wind making its way through the small crack of the window, that shrill sound?” I nodded in agreement. I did hear it. Haunting, otherworldly.
“When I was a child, my mother used to say, ‘Listen, Roy. Listen closely. That is the voice of a ghost.’”
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
In the driveway of Stella Coupout’s shotgun house, we sat in silence, watching a spring wind blow through the leaves and glass bottles that hung from a tree in her front yard. It was an old bungalow similar to my childhood home. All seven streets of my old neighborhood ended in a small park, complete with a fountain, playground, and a snack stand near a pond. I used to walk to my elementary school just a few blocks away surrounded by comforting homes with large polished front lawns. I occasionally still visited the park with its newfangled jungle gym and when no one was around, I swung for a while, letting the movements tickle my stomach. Feeling the cool wind against my face, I imagined my dad pushing me from behind.
“Swing your legs out, Bren. Don’t curl them all under like that.”
And I followed his instructions, feeling the power of my own legs take me higher and higher.
“The bottles on the trees are meant to capture bad spirits, so they won’t enter the home.” Roy interrupted my thoughts, his hand reaching for mine as I looked at him.
“I know. My father kept blue glass bottles on one of the trees in our front yard. Partly because he loved the decoration of it, but also because he didn’t want any bad spirits to wake me up at night.”
“The situation has left me rather speechless, Brenda. You’re saying that each of these people has been an innocent victim to a hundred-year-old murder. And now we see the results of it?”
“That seems to be the case.”
I opened the car door and walked towards one of the green bottles hanging from the tree. I touched it, feeling the colored glass under my fingers. It had been over a year since I felt one in my hands. After my father died, I removed all of them from the front lawn before I sold our home. I didn’t keep any of them. If I had, they might have met the same fate as some of my snow globes.
Thank you, Dad, for always looking out for me.
I heard the car door close and sensed Roy near me. He touched my elbow and we both walked to Stella’s front door. Roy rang the doorbell. A young black woman in her early twenties opened the door, her long hair pulled back into two side ponytails. She was pretty…flawless skin, dark eyes and high cheekbones.
“Hi, Detective.” She looked at Roy.
“This is my partner, Detective Roy Agnew. I hope you don’t mind that he came along.” We both showed her our badges as Stella nodded. We slipped them back into our pockets as she twisted one of the ponytails around her fingers.
“No, of course not.” She reached out her hand. “Hi, I’m Stella. Nice to meet you.”
“Very nice to meet you too.” We both shook her hand as she motioned for us to enter her home. Roy guided me in first, unaware of Stella’s flirtation, his mind deadlocked on the situation. As I stepped into the front room, I inhaled strong incense burning from two sticks placed inside a small statue of St. Francis. It sat in the middle of the room on a round wood coffee table, next to a multi-colored sofa and a few side tables.
“So you want to know about my great-aunt or something?” She lit a cigarette, the smell of tobacco mixing in the air with incense.
“What did you know about her?” I sat down on the orange, red and green colored sofa, feeling my small frame sink quickly into its deep cushions.
“She was old when she died…a few years before I was born. All I know is that she was a real matriarch in my family. Very loved. She’s buried at the St. Roch cemetery. I visit it on occasion. How is she connected to your case?”
“We think she may have known a family member of the suspect.” I glanced at Roy. “Stella, when your great aunt passed away, did she leave your family any journals or diaries by chance?”
“Of course. She was a prolific writer – well educated. She wrote a few books about the art of voodoo. I have them along with some of her personal writings. Why?” She flicked a few ashes of her cigarette into an ashtray shaped like a guitar.
“Would it be possible for us to see the personal writings? I know it’s a strange request, but we have our reasons.”
Her delicate fingers flicked another ash into the tray, fingernails painted turquoise.
“Her journals…let me see. I think they’re in my closet. My great-aunt lost her own children years ago and my father sort of made me the depository of our family’s belongings. I’ll be honest, I’ve never looked at them. I’ve read some of her voodoo books, though. I don’t practice it too much or at least I haven’t for a while, but I find it fascinating.”
“What sort of voodoo?” I pulled myself out from between the cushions.
“Well, there’s voodoo, hoodoo and black magic, okay? My great aunt stayed away from the last one. I want to make that clear. I know some people have it in their minds that voodoo is evil or dark, but it wasn’t with her. Never was…at least acco
rding to her books. The Cajuns used to call her a Conja but they would still use her services on occasion.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and looked at Roy through the smoke. “Stay right here. I’ll go grab them.”
I looked around the room at all of the various macramé plant holders hanging from the ceiling. Each one held a different kind of plant, giving the room the ambiance of a greenhouse. A large poster of the 1977 Jazz Festival hung on the wall next to a framed album, Malik by Lafayette Afro Rock Band. On another table there was a framed picture of Stella alongside a young man with an afro, a huge smile across his face.
I turned to Roy. “She practiced voodoo?”
Stella returned to the room.
“I looked in the box I thought they would be in and this is what I found. There are two journals that you might be interested in. Here’s the first one.” She handed the book over to me, her wrist jangling with several silver bangle bracelets.
I opened the journal and skimmed through its contents. There was nothing of particular interest other than the entries regarding her business of selling voodoo potions and tarot card readings…notes that she wrote down to use in various ways of persuasion and manipulation of her clients in their needs and wants.
“Here’s the other one.” Her dark eyes looked concerned, her cigarette dangled between her fingers.
The second one featured a snake drawing on the front, the python’s body extending to the book spine.
“Why is there a snake on this one?” I ran my finger along the drawing.
“It represents Damballah, the force of life. Voodoo practitioners don’t see snakes the way you do.”
“Stella, do you mind if Detective Agnew and I have a minute alone with this one?”
“Sure. I’ll go make some coffee.” She looked at us quizzically and walked towards the kitchen.
“Roy…listen to this…
“October 31, 1950
You were the love of my life and of that I am convinced. We were pure chemistry…souls meant to be with one another. I have married, had my children, lived a successful life but I know, had you lived, you would have been the constant companion all of my days. Thomas, now that I am dying, an old woman in my home surrounded by loved ones that I appreciate and adore, I think back on those days and months when you were by my side, next to my body and close to my heart.
My body still yearns for you to make love to me, your beautiful body close to mine, your vibrant mind stimulating me with conversation, your warm open love for me…I shall never forget. I did what I did out of anger…but also out of love.
Something had been growing inside of me and I was waiting to tell you…it had been attached, secure for a while until it realized you were never coming back and it slipped out of my body, exclaiming its liberty. So much loss.
Did my spell come to pass? No. I may be a practitioner but I’m noVoodoo Goddess. They all lived on, Thomas…lived their lives and died of ripe old ages, something you were never afforded. Thomas, when I pass away, I pray you will welcome me into heaven to be with you. It will please me very much if you are there to ease me into the transition…to hold my hand like you once did at the French Market when we first met.
I couldn’t protect you from your own murder. Forgive me, Thomas, for never telling anyone about what took place that night. In looking back now, I should have informed the authorities or your father. But who would have believed ME? I was nothing to any of them back then…I was afraid. But I know you. You understand and you’re at peace.”
I looked up from the journal. “What is all of this about?”
Stella’s phone rang in the next room, and I could hear her voice trailing from the back of the house, “No, no…you did the right thing to call, Jason…sure, sure. All right. I can meet you there tonight for dinner. Silly. Of course we’ll have a few drinks first. Where? Sounds delicious. What? Ha, ha. Well, that does, too.”
“Brenda, she was a heartbroken lover. Nothing more than that.”
“She was so in love with him that she put some sort of spell on this man after he was murdered. Roy, this woman practiced voodoo. Now I’m no expert on black magic or white magic – but something happened on that night after his murder. It made him come back and kill these people…some sort of magic put on him by her.”
He took the book from my hands.
“And she was pregnant. He never knew and after his death, she had a miscarriage. So many things taken from the both of them. Even though she didn’t think the spell would work, perhaps her energy, immense loss, passion and anger made this happen. So one hundred years later he returns and at first his murders are violent or vengeful. The spell is not necessarily wearing off but it’s losing some of its grasp and by the time he murders Connie, he’s less angry. He still must commit the murders because he has an obligation to. He knows this,” I whispered as Stella reentered the room, holding three cups of coffee.
“Stella, would it be all right if we borrowed these two books? I promise to take care of them and return them in a few days.” I sipped the strong chicory coffee. “Also, you said you know some voodoo. You’ve practiced it before, right?” I leaned in closer towards the coffee table.
“Yeah, some of my great-aunt’s own spells. It’s hit or miss. Sometimes I’ve seen big changes and other times nothing happens, but that could be my own fault. You have to truly believe…have a strong feeling for it to work or it will fall flat.” She took a sip of the coffee and placed the mug down on a small silver table next to her chair.
“Would you know how to reverse a spell?”
“What kind of spell?”
I paused for a moment. “A spell put on someone by your great-aunt. A spell that would bring a person…a man…back to life one-hundred years later to murder the descendants of the five people who killed him…in 1878.” Roy’s body tensed up next to me.
Stella looked at me for a good minute before taking another long sip of coffee. “You’re telling me my great-aunt is the reason your suspect is murdering people? And that’s why you want to borrow her journals?”
“Elsie loved this man. They were lovers, soul mates. His name was Thomas Carpenter, and she put a spell on him to avenge his own death. I don’t think she meant for it to happen, but out of her anger over his murder, she placed the spell nevertheless. Well, it did work. And he has murdered three people, all descendants of the friends who murdered him. You see, Stella, it’s important that I know if you can reverse this spell because there are two people left he needs to kill. He’s on a mission put on him by her.”
She looked at Roy with a furrowed brow. “Is this true?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. I don’t believe it but my partner here seems convinced. I think we’re dealing with a proficient murderer, not some ghost from the nineteenth century but I’m playing along with this game because Detective Shapira here claims he informed her of his own murder. You know the world of voodoo. It’s impossible, right? I mean we’re talking about fictional stuff here. These things don’t happen. They can’t happen. Not in the real world.”
I sunk down deeper into the sofa cushions, feeling stung by Roy’s words.
Stella covered her mouth and nose before speaking. “Brenda, that’s what she wrote in her journal that you just read? Is she talking about his murder?” She held out her hand to receive the journal, bangles sliding down her arm.
“Yes.” I reached over the coffee table and handed her the book.
Stella read the diary entry, closed the journal and looked at both of us. “So he has to kill two more people, so he can be at peace?”
“That would follow the pattern.”
“How long do we have?”
“I don’t know. It could be anytime. Carpenter murders his victims in a short timeframe…usually a few days to a week between them.” I glanced at Roy.
“Wait…hold on a minute. You believe this, too? Jesus, am I the only sane person here?” Roy stood up, exasperated with the conversation.
&
nbsp; “Mr. Agnew, voodoo derives from the word, “Vudu”, which means “spirit”. Mixed with Catholicism, it can become a powerful concoction. More powerful than you know. The world of voodoo can be complicated and, although my great aunt would never mean harm to anyone, her emotions must have been strong enough to set in motion this man’s journey. As a voodoo practitioner myself, I am used to skeptics. You’re not the first one and you won’t be the last. I understand how you may seem…bewildered by the concept of this man returning after one hundred years but let me assure you: it is very possible.”
Roy remained standing. “So you’ve seen something like this before?’
“Once before. Only once. A few years ago. Let me just say that the situation was resolved through voodoo and if you believe in it enough, magical things can happen. After that, I put much of my practice aside but I will do this for you. I’ll look through her voodoo books. I’ll see if there’s anything there of relevance. It doesn’t hurt to explore this route. Detective Shapira may be absolutely right about this. Where should I meet you?”
“Station six. But if we could keep this…discreet I would appreciate it. Here’s my card.” Roy handed it over. “I still think this is really a waste of your time, Ms. Coupout. My partner has been through a lot lately. The last year has been really difficult for both of us.”
I looked at Roy. “My father’s death has nothing to do with this.”
“Brenda, please. Let’s not talk about this right now.”
“Stella, do you think I’m insane?” I stood up and pulled my hair into a ponytail.
Roy sighed, walked towards the door and stopped. He leaned against the wall and waited for her response.
“No. I don’t. If you are right, Detective Agnew, and we’re dealing with a very mortal killer, then we have nothing to lose. Lower your guard and give it a chance. I know that all of this can be…unsettling. But if you’re wrong, then we have a possible chance of saving two people.” She took a long drag of her cigarette and looked at me through the smoke.
