* * *
The moment Marie walked into pediatric intensive care, she could pick out the scent. She wondered if anybody else could. During breaks, after work, before work, she stared into the baby’s bright, glassy eyes. Inhaling the aroma, she thought she was drowning, seeing her mother’s face.
Marie went to Maison Blanche, the city’s finest department store. They had myriad perfumes blended with flowers, chemicals, and oils, but none of them, pure honeysuckle.
At night when policemen were riding stallions at the other end of the park, Marie plucked honeysuckle from vines where it grew wild, untamable. Sometimes it shivered in the night air, and Marie felt the blooms were alive, offering themselves to her. Using an old pharmacist’s pestle, she ground the flowers until they yielded droplets of heaven.
Marie dabbed honeysuckle behind her ears, along her cleavage. She felt comforted—even though her dreams hadn’t lessened, even though each morning, she woke in a sweat, on the verge of screaming.
She wanted to confide in El, to tell her about her strange dreams, about the baby’s sweet scent.
But El always warned, “It ain’t your baby.”
* * *
Marie couldn’t help the hours spent holding the motherless child. Before shifts, during breaks, after work.
Each day, the infant was getting stronger. Each day, she became more attached, afraid to let go.
“What’s going to happen to her?” she asked Antoinette, the social services director.
“Foster care.”
Marie knew what foster care could be like. Indifferent, at best; cruel, at worst. But she imagined someone would rescue the child. The dead mother’s people. They’d sweep in, declaring, “That’s our child. Our family.”
But sometimes, just sometimes, late, when she’d awakened from her dream, after she’d fed the baby Similac (when her womb strangely ached, when her lips feathered the baby’s brow with kisses), the thought would hover, echo through her consciousness—the child could be hers.
Another black single mother—how stereotypical.
She didn’t have time for a child. Still, she was tempted.
Even the baby seemed to know her. Four pounds, six ounces, at birth, the baby wouldn’t feed. A tiny pink tongue spat out the latex nipple. Only Marie could encourage her to start taking a bottle. To suck rather than be fed intravenously. Now six pounds, two ounces, Marie was proud of the baby’s small mound of a belly.
Sometimes the baby cried, wailed like she was dying, pained by some hidden wound. Nobody else could calm her.
Marie was the baby’s medicine.
Something wonderful, magical happened between them. For hours, the child watched her; she watched the child as if no one else in the world existed.
Mon piti bébé. Fais dodo, mon piti bébé.
The baby’s lids would struggle to stay open. But, always, the lilting tune lulled the baby to sleep. The child would go limp like a rag doll. It was startling how the child would go from bright, red rage, fists balled and tears raining down her face, to utter calm. The first couple of times, Marie panicked and unbundled the blanket, unsnapped the undershirt to make certain the lungs were expanding, the chest rising and falling.
Mon piti bébé. Fais dodo. Mon piti bébé.
My little baby. Go to sleep. My little baby.
Except it wasn’t accurate French. It should’ve been Ma petite. “Go to sleep” should’ve been “Endors-toi.” It was Creole. How’d she learn it?
She couldn’t remember. She just knew the song. Knew all its verses:
Fais dodo, mon piti bébé.
La lune toute jaune, se lève.
Fais dodo, mon piti bébé.
Quand tu rêveras, rêve des esprits
qui survolent la mer.
Fais dodo, mon piti bébé.
Quand tu te réveilleras, seize ans tu auras.
Réveille-toi mort.
Fais dodo, mon piti bébé, mon piti si doux.
Fais dodo!
It always worked. When she’d tried the song in English:
Sssh, my little baby. Go to sleep, my little baby.
The moon is yellow, rising high.
Little baby, go to sleep.
When you dream, dream of spirits
flying across the sea.
My little baby, sleep.
When you wake, sixteen you’ll be.
Wake yourself from the dead.
Go to sleep, little baby, my pretty baby.
Sleep!
It never worked. The baby cried and cried, gasping for air.
* * *
“We’ll be moving her to the nursery tomorrow.”
Marie shuddered. “Has anyone come to claim her?”
Antoinette shook her head. “Two weeks, not a word. Not even an ID on the mother.”
Marie buried her nose against the baby’s cheek. She stroked the fragile fingers, the tiny nails.
“You could name her, you know?” Antoinette dressed like a banker instead of a social worker. Silk suits with clean lines.
“Doesn’t seem right.”
“Why? Are you afraid of keeping her?”
“No. Afraid of letting her go.”
Marie laid the baby in the bassinet. “Don’t worry. I’ll find your people.” She kissed the child’s brow.
* * *
The elevator slid smoothly down.
“You didn’t name her yet, did you?” El didn’t look up from the papers at her station. Marie noticed her nails were blue this week.
“What can I help with?” Marie put on her white coat, a stethoscope dangling from her pocket. “Pneumonia? Fever? Vision impairment? Ears going deaf?”
“Don’t name her. If you do, you won’t let her go.”
“I liked it better when you were asking about my love life.”
“So did I. You got one?”
Marie laughed. “No.” Then she leaned over the counter, embracing El.
Flustered, El pushed her away.
Marie smiled. “Put me to work, El. Otherwise, I’ll hug you again.”
“Sass. Nothing but sass. Red peppers in you.”
“And not in you?”
El slapped a clipboard on the counter. It held a pencil and a blank sheet.
“I got an odd one for you. DuLac wants you to help him with a patient. ’Course the boy’s dead, but he said he needed your help.”
“What does he think I can do?”
“Lord knows. But do I ask the almighty doctor? Last time I checked, he was still the boss.”
“Right. I’m going.”
“Good. Last urgent care room.”
“That’s unusual for a dead man.”
“You bet. Taking up my space,” El grumbled. “Stop by later,” she called after Marie. “I’ve got a rattle for the baby.”
* * *
Marie stopped at the door. Through the glass, she knew someone was sitting in the corner. Smoke spiraled upward, hovering in a thin layer on the ceiling.
“Smoking’s not allowed. Bad for the patients.”
“I didn’t think it much mattered to him.”
Marie was glad her hand was still on the door; it steadied her. She felt—what? Recognition? Déjà vu?
He was average height like her. More interesting than handsome. Arched brows. High cheekbones like a Choctaw’s. Lashes so long, they touched his cheeks when he blinked. His hair was jet black, pulled tight in a ponytail. He was dressed in black shirt, black pants, a leather bomber jacket, and wore a gold cross dangling in his left ear.
Marie exhaled. She realized she’d been holding herself incredibly still because he’d been still. Like a stop-motion character. Paused. Expectant.
He pinched off the cigarette. Ash was on his index finger and thumb. “If you say I’m as still as an Indian, I’ll have to arrest you.”
He drawled. Marie grinned.
“You know everybody in Louisiana mixed with something. I’m just a good old southern boy.”
“Like hell.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
Marie shook his hand. “Doctor Levant.”
“Reneaux.”
She raised her brow.
“Frenchmen used to own my family. I’m plain southern, through and through. Work for the New Orleans Police Department.”
“Undercover?”
“Naw. Just a detective.”
“No uniform? Not even a suit?”
“Even nuns have given up the habit. Don’t you get tired of that white coat?”
“Very funny.”
DuLac swept in, snapping his gloves on. Marie flinched at the sound.
“You two been getting to know one another? Bon. Reneaux is an old friend. He wanted us to take a look at this one—since it’s the second we’ve found.”
“The second what?” asked Marie.
“Murder.”
“Death for no apparent cause,” added Reneaux.
“You were the first to notice something odd about the girl. I wanted you to take a look at this, too.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Marie could see the girl’s body stretched, languid, petal-open, just before she sliced into the abdomen. Smooth, soft skin, free of bruises, wounds . . . a body that seemed not to have died.
“The baby’s mother,” insisted DuLac.
DuLac drew close, too close. Marie could see the pores in his skin, the redness of his eyes. She smelled licorice trying to mask alcohol.
“Two bodies that shouldn’t have died. Both marked with some sign. A mystery, don’t you think?”
“I’m just a doctor.”
“I think you see more than you let on. Humor me.” DuLac swept off the sheet, it rose, buoyant and, for a second, Marie saw the barest outline of a body. Then, the sheet, as if swept up by an ill wind, went awry, settling on the floor.
“My Lord.”
Both men looked at her. She closed her eyes, then forced herself to open them.
“You knew him?” asked Reneaux.
“Yes. His name is—”
“—was,” corrected Reneaux.
“—Jacques.”
Marie bit the inside of her lip, tasting blood. “Don’t get emotional,” she murmured.
Jacques’s forehead was marked like the girl’s. Even in death, his body was beautiful.
Flashes of memory: her, holding him, kissing him—there and there; feeling his teeth biting her breast; his body inside hers.
Lord, she mustn’t blush. It was a body. Fluids, flesh, sinews, cartilage, organs. An impersonal body. “The spirit has passed,” as DuLac would say.
It looked as if Jacques hadn’t died in pain. She brushed his hair back from his brow.
“Some kind of chalk. Powder. Odd,” she murmured. “A cross? Upside down?”
The men looked at each other.
She lifted his arms. No needle marks. She felt his abdomen. All in place. His penis and scrotum were slack. No bruises on his legs. No trauma of any kind.
“Help me turn him over.”
She and DuLac wrestled the body. It was stiff and smacked awkwardly. The bridge of Jacques’s nose pressed into cold metal. Marie turned his head on the side. She could almost pretend he was sunbathing. That the bright lights overhead were UV lamps.
“You knew Jacques?”
“Yes.”
“How long? Where’d you meet?”
Marie cocked her head. “Are you interrogating me?”
Reneaux shrugged, palms open. “That’s what detectives do.”
“We went out once, that’s all.”
“I see.” His voice pitched higher.
Marie scowled. “We’ll need a toxicology report.”
“I think it’ll be negative,” said Reneaux.
“Why?”
“This isn’t the second, it’s the third. A girl was found dead by the pier three weeks ago. Young. Her face marked. The coroner couldn’t determine a cause of death.”
“Look at him again, Marie,” pleaded DuLac. “Is there anything else you see? Anything you feel?”
“You can see him as well as I can.”
“No,” said DuLac, longingly, his voice hoarse, “I can’t.”
Marie looked again.
Jacques opened his eyes.
She screamed.
* * *
“Reflex like hell,” she thought.
“You all right?” Reneaux squatted over her, blocking her sight.
“I fainted.”
“Sure did.” He stood, extending a hand.
Marie shaded her eyes. The light was too bright. “You’ve got a halo.”
“Do I?”
She was on her feet.
“Now my mama would laugh to hear that.”
“Do you always drawl?”
“Do you always faint?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Naw. Lash out all you want. That way you won’t cry.”
Marie wanted to slap him. But it was true. She did want to cry. She wanted to go upstairs, see the baby and smell honeysuckle.
“Let me take you outside. Away from the body.” His voice was less drawn out, more clipped, a bass rather than a breathy tenor. “I always like playing with you Yankees. Think none of us ever went to college. A southern twang means we’re dumb.” All the while, his elbow under her arm, he was moving Marie up, outside, toward a chair in the hall. “But a southern drawl is a birthright.
“Now Creoles think they’re sophisticated ’cause they speak smatterings of French. Cajuns think they’re just authentic; though, most times, nobody can understand them. But real New Orleanians are just southerners. Grits. Corn pone. Fatback. You know the stuff.” He eased her down into the chair. “All those stereotypes northerners have. And if I just keep talking, you’ll stay mad at me and forget you fainted and how embarrassed you feel.” He filled a paper cone from the water cooler. “Here.”
“You’re good. You should’ve been a doctor.”
“Some say I am. I’ve got a great bedside manner. You like to try?”
Laughing, Marie rocked forward. The water spilled.
Reneaux took a kerchief from his pocket, squatted again, and wiped the floor.
“Boy Scout, too.”
“You betcha, ma’am.” He tapped her knee. “In all seriousness, you feeling better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“What happened?”
No more nonsense. This was the detective speaking. Forthright. Face expressionless; brown eyes piercing. Marie felt as if he could see straight through her. She felt, too, that she knew these eyes, knew this man bent before her. Knew he had a good heart. Knew, too, that their fates were linked.
She cupped his face in her hands. Reneaux didn’t move, just kept his eyes steady on her. She saw herself reflected—no, more than that—she saw herself inside his eyes.
She pulled back. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Strange dreams. Strange—”
She paused, folding her hands in her lap. “I just got scared.”
“I understand.”
She cocked her head. “Did DuLac order the toxicology report?”
“I don’t know. He just left. Thought you’d be madder than hell ’cause he saw you faint.”
“He’s right.” She went back inside the room. “I haven’t eaten.”
“Been working too hard.”
She squinted at Reneaux. “Not sleeping.”
“You’re not the type of women who usually faints.”
“Never.”
“’Til now.” Reneaux snapped his fingers. “Dog, I didn’t mean to say that.”
“‘Dog?’ What kind of detective talk is that? You should at least say, ‘damn.’”
She stopped short. Tears welled. Jacques dead. Here she was teasing, flirting.
“I’m sorry. It’s hard losing someone you know.”
Marie picked up the sheet and covered Jacques’s torso. “The dead should have some dignity.”
“The living, too? I see why DuLac thinks you can help. You have the sight.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Reneaux smiled, opened a small notebook. “This is what I know. Three unexplained deaths. Two women. One man. All under twenty-one.”
“Jacques was nineteen.”
Reneaux scribbled on his pad. “One woman. The girl, the one who was pregnant? Did you know how old she was?”
Marie shook her head. “Sixteen at most.”
He scribbled more. “The deaths all took place within the city limits. A pier. An alley.”
“Was that Jacques? Found in an alley?”
“Yes.”
“Clothed?” She had to ask.
He shook his head. “Like you see him. Where’d they find the girl?”
“Breezy’s, I think. But I don’t see how this has anything to do with me. I doctor the sick, not the dead.”
“Maybe you’ll see some clue, sense something that will help. I trust DuLac. He knows these things.”
DuLac appeared, framed in the doorway.
“Speak of the Almighty,” Marie said, sarcastic. “There’s nothing else I can do here, DuLac. I don’t know anything.”
“But you do. Give it time. You’ll discover you know a great deal. About the past. The future.”
“Oh, I get it,” she said, jokingly. “You mean you’re talking as DuLac, the would-be houngan? The would-be voodoo priest?”
“He’s quite famous in the Quarter. Roots, herb doctor. One of the best.”
“You’re serious?” She looked back and forth between the two men. “This is where I’m supposed to say ‘I believe.’ In voodoo? Hex signs? Well, I don’t.”
“Marie, please.”
“Doctor to you, Reneaux. Doctor Levant.”
“How do you explain the baby?”
“Luck.” Marie knew she often noticed things other people didn’t—she was smart, intuitive. But that didn’t mean she had sight. Special knowledge.
“If I could help, Reneaux, I would.”
She tried to pass by DuLac.
He clutched her shoulder. “I worry if you leave, you won’t accept who you are.”
She looked distastefully at DuLac. He removed his hand from her shoulder.
“What made you faint?” asked Reneaux. “You saw something, Marie. I know you did.”
“Sure. I saw a dead man opening his eyes. You saw it, Detective. And you.” She turned back to DuLac. “The reflex startled me.”
Neither man spoke.
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 24
