The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “I’m not an idiot, Walker. I won’t let this rest.”

  “You think you can hunt me?” His voice was taut, mimicking his body.

  “I know I can.”

  Marie moved through the maze of office desks and chairs. Some of the policemen tipped their hats, others stared, curious, still others showed outright hostility to a civilian interfering with police work.

  She could feel both Beauregard and Walker watching her back.

  It was an odd choice of a word—“hunt.” That’s what it had felt like in the bayou, a hunt. The family had been hunted and killed as if they were animals. On their bayou porch, she’d been watched as if she was prey. But just as Walker had decided then not to harm or pursue her, she’d decided not to hunt or be a predator now. Timing was everything.

  She looked back at Beauregard, standing in the doorway, diminished and unsettled, while Walker, deadly as a tiger, leaned nonchalantly against the door frame as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Outside, in the bright sun, Marie blinked, shading her eyes. In seconds, sweat caused her shirt to stick to her breasts and abdomen; her pants hitched tighter against her crotch.

  In Louisiana, every August was the same. Heat from the Sahara blew across the sea, the Caribbean islands, and into the southern United States. Hurricane season. The city was a giant swamp bowl, twenty feet below sea level.

  Even the air was pregnant with moisture, making Marie feel as if she were walking through water. Swamp air, rather than swampland. Sultry, almost unbearable.

  She needed to think, come up with a plan.

  She stared upward at the blue sky—not a cloud on the horizon. But that didn’t mean anything. Any moment rain would come, thundering, showering, and sweeping up from the Caribbean and into the Gulf. The radio said there was Katrina, a tropical storm. Most times storms were small or medium size, but there was always the tense expectation that the “big one” was possible, even probable.

  It was a never-ending cycle during hurricane season. Will it or won’t it become a hurricane?

  The sky was sweet baby blue. A hurricane hadn’t ravaged New Orleans since Betsy in ’65.

  She was tired, spent. She could use a stiff drink—anything but a hurricane, the tourist drink of punch and cheap rum.

  Last night—or was it this morning?—she’d lost two patients, an elder without insulin, a child with pneumonia. Beauregard had wasted four possible crime-solving days. Ninety-six hours. If Parks were here, he wouldn’t have allowed it. She was merely a medical doctor who Beauregard had blown off.

  She felt a strong urge to see water. The Mississippi—misi-ziibi, named by the Ojibwa as the “great river,” was North America’s largest river road. At its mouth, river water commingled with Gulf waters. She couldn’t help believing the L’Overtures, the viscious darkness, and the waterways were interconnected. Water usually signified amniotic fluid, rebirth. Did it mean anything that Brenda was about to give birth, that Nana appeared pregnant, and that the DeLaire newborn was dead?

  She walked toward the river, stopping at the Café du Monde to order a café au lait to go.

  New Orleans, despite sweltering heat, was not the land of iced coffee and Starbucks. Hot coffee laced with chicory and mixed with steaming hot milk was, for most residents, the drink of choice, at least when they weren’t drinking Sazeracs, absinthe mixed with rye.

  The outdoor patio was packed. A duo, a young man with a guitar, a girl with a violin, strummed and bowed, a G-rated, “Fire on the Bayou.” They were entertaining the tourists, the local schoolchildren on summer vacation. Scattered among them were prostitutes and pimps, all-night blues and rock musicians drinking their “morning coffee” before going to bed all day, to work again all night.

  She paid for her coffee, then walked toward the river, powdered sugar from the café’s beignets sticky on the concrete and her shoes.

  Pigeons sauntered, pecking fluffs of the sweet bread.

  Occasionally, someone recognized her and tipped a hat, nodded a head, or made the sign of the cross to ward against her supposed evil.

  The real evil was inside the city police department.

  She kept walking toward the river, down the promenade where tourists strolled, lovers kissed, and hopeful fishermen tried to catch catfish. Leaning over the rail, she watched the swirling muddy brown water. No visible fish, no blue-green algae, only dirt and more dirt. The public health department warned about PCBs and heavy-metal toxins. Steamboats, cargo ships, and pleasure boats spilled their refuse into the water. There was the romance of rolling down the river as well as the poison. For poor people, unhealthy fish was better than nothing at all. Like New Orleans, the river was a contradiction—beautiful but capable of being deadly.

  El strolled beside her. “It is what it is.”

  “And I’m going to find justice, El. Solve the crime.”

  The L’Overtures stood at the Riverwalk guardrail, staring at the waves and swirling brown currents.

  It was the first time she’d seen the ghosts since the bayou. It was as if they were tourists, enjoying the city sights, a family vacation. If they were alive, they’d be chattering, eating taffy. The baby would be squealing gleefully; her parents would be showering her with kisses.

  Marie turned toward El. She looked fragile, translucent, and cold. Not at all the warm, big-boned, and big-hearted woman she’d loved in life.

  “I wish I could have saved you, El. You were so much more than a friend.”

  If El were substance, Marie would have embraced her.

  El pointed at the water.

  Marie looked. Nothing unusual. White seagulls diving, and brown, muddy water stretching toward a stormy horizon. “I don’t see anything.”

  A shape rose from the water, spiraling upward, water dripping like a rough waterfall. She dropped her coffee. Beige liquid splattered, the cup rolled over the wharf’s edge. When the muddy Mississippi fell away, the shape, beneath it, glinted like diamonds, sparkling rainbows, revealing the outlines of a woman’s face, with white foam-filled hair.

  A spirit-loa rebirthed in water.

  Tourists kept chattering, leaning over the wharf’s rail, walking, arm in arm, or staggering with their plastic cups of beer. A boy lost his balloon, wailing as it floated high. The Natchez riverboat churned watery foam while a quartet played ragtime, and passengers, their hands dirty with spice, sucked crawfish heads.

  The vision was hers. And El’s. And the L’Overture ghosts’.

  “She’s beautiful,” murmured Marie. The figure spun, facing the shore, facing Marie. Her breasts were teal, her legs fused into one.

  El whispered, “See.”

  “I’m seeing,” she answered, awestruck. “I don’t believe it, El. A mermaid.”

  El disappeared. But the water spirit was poised atop the water, her hands, droplets of coalescing water, rose upward, then lowered, stretching, reaching across the watery miles toward Marie.

  The L’Overtures, too, had faded.

  “Maman Laveau.”

  Startled, she turned.

  Deet, eyes bleary, stubble on his cheeks and chin, stood beside her holding Beau.

  She knew immediately that Nana had died. Her heart ached. “I’m so sorry.” She hugged Deet. Beau, his small head pressed between their chests, licked her face.

  “When did she die?”

  “Last night.”

  “And you didn’t stay? You drove here?”

  “Nana wanted me to. Before her last breath, she told me to leave.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Told me where you’d be. Said you’d be right here on Riverwalk.”

  “She knew?”

  “Even about your visits to the police.”

  Marie averted her gaze. The Mississippi was still dirty brown; the water was placid, flat like a mirror.

  “Nana understood why you needed the city police.” Deet set Beau down. The pug peed on the boardwalk’s iron rails.

  “You and Aaron ou
ght to do what’s right. Report, solve the crime.”

  Deet shook his head.

  “I forgot,” she said bitterly. “Tin sheriff and deputy. You don’t care about victims. Take the money and run.”

  “We didn’t take any money.”

  “Just medical supplies. You think that isn’t money, Deet?”

  Tears filled his eyes. “Aaron always looked out for us. Tried to do it right. For Nana. Me.” The young man who’d confidently tried to woo her was gone.

  “Sit. Tell me about Nana.” She pulled Deet toward a bench. Beau waddled, and lay between their feet.

  “Aaron said she’d live longer. But she didn’t. He said she wouldn’t have any pain. But she did.”

  Marie heard the child’s wail in Deet’s voice. She heard his fury at Aaron, his grief that his grandmother had left him.

  “There were plenty of sedatives. Even morphine.”

  “She wouldn’t take anything. Said it was her punishment. For betraying you, the faith.”

  Marie closed her eyes. Nana’s death would have been brutal, filled with excruciating pain. She sat back, straining for air.

  “That’s why Aaron did it. To help Nana.”

  “Did what?” She kept her voice soft, her eyes fixed on the river. She wanted to hear Deet say it. Confirm what she knew but hadn’t actually seen.

  “Let them burn the bodies.”

  “Who?”

  Deet didn’t answer.

  “Did Aaron kill the L’Overtures?”

  “No. Aaron wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  “Just cover up murder,” she said, scornfully.

  “DeLaire isn’t like New Orleans.”

  “Why isn’t it?”

  Deet’s eyes were dry, his voice brittle.

  “Tell me, Deet, who committed the murders?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “But you can guess.”

  Fear settled on his shoulders like crows. He twisted his head, scanning the Riverwalk crowd, almost as if he expected someone to appear.

  There was a panhandler shaking a Dixie cup of coins, a street preacher singing “Amazing Grace” and sounding like a foghorn. Everyone else was intent on trying to enjoy the too-hot, sunny day.

  Beau’s nose nudged her hand. She stroked his head.

  “Only thing I could do well was play football,” said Deet, continuing. “Got injured in my first season. I kept begging for coach to let me play. I was a rookie wanting to show off.

  “ ‘One play,’ I pleaded.” He swallowed. “My only play. Hit from both sides. My left knee buckled and I felt muscle tearing, the bone shattering. I’d nowhere else to go—but back to DeLaire.”

  “To Nana.”

  “Yes.” He leaned against the wood. “Nana loved me. No one will ever love me like she did.”

  Marie wished she could hold Deet like she held Marie-Claire and soothe away his sorrow. But she already sensed nothing could ease him.

  “I can’t stop seeing her dying,” Deet murmured. “Even when I sleep. Close my eyes.” Compulsively, his hand clutched his khaki-covered knees. “Aaron’s screaming ’cause Nana won’t take the medicine. ‘Take the medicine,’ he’s begging. ‘Take the medicine.’

  “At the end, she blamed me, too, because I supported Aaron. Not the murder cover-up. But him doing what he thought best to heal Nana.”

  Deet’s body shuddered, as if a cold wind had curled about his bones. “At the end, she wouldn’t look at either of us.”

  “Tell me about the L’Overtures.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Won’t?”

  “It wasn’t easy for Aaron.”

  “You think dying is easy?”

  “They were already dead!” Deet shouted. Passersby turned, staring. “Aaron didn’t kill them,” he said, more quietly, “Everybody in DeLaire is dead.”

  Beau barked, tried to claw onto Marie’s lap. A seagull dived, screeching and plucking a fish from water.

  Deet placed Beau on Marie’s lap. “Nana wanted you to have him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “She made me promise. Said Beau needed to be with you. Needed to be with someone who had the sight. Said Beau wouldn’t be happy otherwise.”

  Beau’s pink tongue lolled. He seemed to be saying, “Take me.” Her heart went out to the little dog.

  “I’ll take Beau if you tell me who—”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you suspect someone?”

  No answer.

  “Who gave Nana her medical equipment? Who did Aaron barter with? Report to?”

  Deet’s face twisted with guilt.

  “Was it Walker?”

  Deet stood abruptly, his right hand, itching, sliding up and down his arms. “All I have left in this world is my brother. I won’t get him killed.” He patted Beau’s head. “Beau, you be good for Maman Marie.”

  “Deet, if I don’t press for the truth, who will?”

  His eyes were bleak. For a moment, she thought Deet was going to tell her. Confess what he knew.

  “Nana said she’d be seeing you.” He’d regained control. “Told me to tell you that El was right. Something about the world being hard on women. You know El?”

  “She was a friend of mine.” Behind Deet, the sky was bright blue. “Did Nana say anything else?”

  “Yes. But it didn’t make sense. She was in pain, nearly dead.”

  “What did she say?” She hated pressuring Deet, but she needed leads. Needed to make up for the time Beauregard had wasted. He was Walker’s lackey.

  “Nana said, ‘Mine the water.’ No, I think, ‘Mind the water.’ Or was it ‘mine’?” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  What did that mean? “Mine,” “Mind,” either way, it didn’t make sense. She leaned over the rail, watching the brown pools swirling about the pilings. Three years after acknowledging her heritage, she’d had enough death and dying to last a lifetime. In medicine, you generally knew why someone died. You fought a known enemy. Bacteria. Virus. Lungs perforated by knives and bullets. Yet, as a voodooienne, she was a detective in two worlds—one tangible; the other intangible. Complications were challenging.

  “See you, Derek.”

  Arrested by hearing his proper name, Deet studied her. “Maman Marie, please. Don’t come back to DeLaire. Stay here. Let it go. For my sake. For Aaron’s and Nana’s.”

  “I promised I’d return.”

  “They don’t want you back.”

  “Not even Brenda? Her baby’s almost due.”

  Deet’s lids half-closed, hiding his feelings. He knew Brenda and her baby needed help.

  He repeated, “They don’t want you back. They loved Nana.”

  “In the afterlife, I can’t imagine Nana resting easy. Can you, Derek?”

  He turned, limping away like an old, battered man.

  “Wouldn’t she want me to support her community?”

  No response.

  The air shimmered; the water’s surface rippled.

  “Tell Aaron I’m coming,” she shouted. “With Nana dead, I claim the community. Tell them. I am . . . I shall be their Voodoo Queen.”

  Deet kept walking, his shoulders hunched, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

  In a voodoo ceremony, Deet would be Legba. Except Legba, with his walking cane, opened the spirit gates. Everything about and inside Deet was shutting down. Secrets did that, she thought—spoiled like cancer.

  He’d reversed himself. In DeLaire, he’d been eager as a schoolboy to take her to Nana; now, he was warning, wishing her away.

  Marie cupped Beau’s little head, her thumbs stroking his furry jowls.

  Beau’s gaze fixed on her. He had an old soul.

  “Time for me to set wrongs right? To do what Nana couldn’t, wouldn’t, do? Blink once for no. Twice for yes.”

  Beau’s stare didn’t change.

  Marie sighed.

  “Come on,
Beau.” Holding him by his belly, she set him down, letting his paws touch the boardwalk. “Let me know if you get tired.”

  Beau’s stomach shook, his four legs moving twice as fast as her two.

  If she forgot the day’s beginning, she’d enjoy her stroll down Riverwalk. Her sprained ankle had healed. Her hands no longer hurt. She wasn’t wounded, physically, just plain old tired. A tiny breeze wafted off the river.

  Beau sniffed and peed at every post. Even when there couldn’t possibly be any more urine inside him, he lifted his stumpy back leg.

  “You know, I don’t usually like small dogs. My last dog, Kind Dog, was big. Brave.” She still had nightmares remembering Kind Dog’s howling while Parks broke down the bedroom door. Marie-Claire was safe because of Kind Dog’s fierce bravery against the vampire.

  Beau barked, his baseball-size head jerking up.

  “Doggy,” shouted a toddler in a stroller, sounding just like her daughter.

  Marie was convinced there was a rule in the universe that all children under five sounded the same. A child shrieked and every mother turned; a laugh, every mother smiled; a cry, and every mother grew anxious. She’d seen it happen on streets, in grocery and department stores. A hundred times she’d heard a cry and gone searching for Marie-Claire.

  Beau kept pace beside her.

  Marie watched a mother cooing to her baby, wrapped in a sling; another walked holding her two children’s hands. A mother-to-be, uncomfortably pregnant during a steamy August, waddled. Another woman wore a pink T-shirt with an arrow, pointing down, and the words, baby on board. And another pushed an expensive stroller strong enough for a safari trek.

  Marie stopped. Beau, not much higher than her ankles, bumped into her.

  Strange, she’d never seen so many pregnant women or women with small children. There was a mother, kneeling, her arm around her child’s waist, pointing at the anchored cargo ships. Another pushed a curly-headed boy, playing with plastic key rings. Two friends, both pregnant, were buying IMAX tickets, two air-conditioned seats for Hurricane on the Bayou.

  Suddenly, Beau started barking, running in circles and chasing his stub of a tail.

  “Beau? Beau.” She picked him up. The fur on Beau’s neck was raised, sticking straight up.