The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  Marie looked around, snapping, scanning images in her mind. At the trolley turnabout, mothers and mothers-to-be crossed and uncrossed tracks.

  To her left was the Mississippi; to the right the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas with flags, billboards with painted alligators, sea turtles, and fireflies. Behind her was St. Louis Cathedral, its three spires piercing the clouds. In front of the cathedral was Jackson Square, grass and cobblestones, filled with street peddlers selling Mardi Gras trinkets and French Quarter paintings, and tarot card readers encouraging tourists to “Buy souvenirs”; “See your future. Mama Rosa doesn’t lie.”

  Actually, Mama Rosa did lie. Marie knew she never gave a bad reading, even when the cards signaled danger or death. “If bad things coming, and they can’t be changed, why worry someone?” Mama Rosa philosophized. But good or bad, Marie preferred knowing what was coming. She didn’t like surprises, being left in the dark.

  Church bells tolled. Nine AM.

  Pigeons burst upward, flying and landing like a wave of mottled gray. Birds settled in the fountain; others landed atop the statue’s cast-iron wings; still others, reassembled, like a small army, on the ground.

  Beside the fountain stood Walker. His suit jacket folded over his arm, he dangled his fingertips in the water. He knew she saw him.

  Watching tourists, peddlers, and locals flow around Walker, Marie knew no one recognized him as evil. People had a desperate need to see what they wanted to see. Everyday reality was, more accurately, a reality of multiple worlds—the lawful and the lawless, the fair and the unfair, the living and the dead. Mysteries abounded.

  Some said the French Quarter didn’t hide a man’s sins. That was part of America’s fascination with the Big Easy.

  Except it was a lie.

  Plenty of New Orleans’s sin, courtesy of city government and the Department of Tourism, remained hidden. Sex and alcohol were abundant, but the extreme, soul-destroying sins were layered beneath a garish surface. Conference attendees could be naughty in New Orleans, but miss the clues to a more pervasive evil. The abusive desires hidden behind sly smiles. The addictions—alcohol, drugs, gambling, and sexual—that encouraged pathologies, and could be dressed up in leather, sequins, and feathers, or be veiled, more horrifically, by a businessman’s suit, a priest’s robes, or a schoolteacher’s cotton dress. Police weren’t necessarily always on your side; bribery was their mother’s milk.

  Agent Walker was concrete evil down to the bone.

  Yet no one recognized Walker for who and what he was. None of the mothers or mothers-to-be thought to run. If they saw what she did, they’d gather their children, cover their abdomens, and run screaming. That was the problem with sight, seeing what others didn’t see. Knowing what others didn’t know. On the one hand, Walker was a thin, bloodless-looking man. White hair, sunglasses covering his nearly pink eyes; for some, he might be an object of pity. But he was deadly.

  What did it all mean? Pregnant women; Nana’s death; a mermaid spirit; and Walker, a human predator.

  She scooped Beau up and kissed the top of his head. “You sensed him first, didn’t you, Beau?”

  Beau licked her cheek.

  She slowly smiled.

  Given all the unknowns, the confusing symbols and signs, Marie felt a perverse joy in knowing with certainty that Walker was her enemy.

  FIVE

  HOME, NEW ORLEANS

  MIDMORNING

  “Momma!” Marie-Claire squealed, her finger-painting hands high in the air.

  Construction paper and bottles of red, yellow, and blue paint were on the kitchen table.

  “Doggie,” Marie-Claire shouted.

  “Who’s my baby? My, oh, so pretty baby?”

  “Me.” Marie-Claire, her fingers still sticky blue, wrapped her arms about Marie’s legs.

  One hand held Beau; her other hand hugged Marie-Claire, relishing her daughter being healthy and well.

  “Let me see,” Mare-Claire squealed. “Doggie. Let me see.”

  Marie stooped, lifting Beau’s paw to shake Marie-Claire’s hand.

  “Oooo,” said Marie-Claire.

  Marie’s heart thrilled, seeing Marie-Claire gently stroke Beau’s paw. Seeing Beau keep still, careful not to frighten Marie-Claire, his little big eyes watching her.

  “You’re going to have to pay me extra,” yelled Louise, her hands, bubble covered, in the sink. “Walking a dog. Ain’t like walking a child.”

  “How much, Louise?” Since she’d brought Marie-Claire home from the hospital, Louise had cared for her.

  “A dollar a walk.”

  “You got it.”

  “No, fifty cents. I don’t want to be greedy.”

  Marie winked, and tickled Marie-Claire. Marie-Claire laughed.

  “Let’s make it an extra hundred a month. Who knows how many times he’ll need a walk?”

  Beau blinked, as if to say, ‘I won’t walk that much.’

  Louise whooped, ecstatic. Marie knew she’d use the money to buy lottery tickets and dolls for her grandbabies. She was also happy because she’d found a way to give Louise a raise. Louise was still amazed to be paid good money for raising children; Marie wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Beau. Beau. Beau,” Marie-Claire shouted, twirling around, her yellow skirt billowing, her blue hands high in the air. “His name’s Beau.”

  “How do you know?” Marie asked, her hands on her hips.

  “Just do,” Marie-Claire squealed, her hands outstretched for Beau.

  Marie was still, at times, caught off guard by Marie-Claire’s sight.

  Her first year as a resident, she’d performed a C-section on a woman she’d thought was dead. Only later did she discover that the woman had been alive. Conscious, but paralyzed; a zombie. A distant and up to then, unknown cousin. Marie adopted Marie-Claire, and her love was as powerful as if she’d carried her for nine months and given birth.

  Marie placed Beau in Marie-Claire’s arms and stroked her black curls. “You’re my good, sweet girl.”

  “You don’t mind blue paint on your clothes, then,” said Louise sharply. “Or blue paint on a dog. How you expect me to wash that?”

  Marie laughed. There were blue streaks on her pants. Beau’s right paw and tiny belly were blue, too.

  “Thank goodness finger paint is washable.”

  “Humph,” said Louise.

  “Sorry,” piped Marie-Claire, grinning, not sorry at all. “This dog’s funny. His nose’s smashed.”

  “He’s a pug,” answered Marie.

  “He’s boo-ti-full.”

  “Ugly, more like,” said Louise.

  “Boo-ti-full ugly,” said Marie-Claire.

  “A perfect balance,” Marie said, smiling. For the first time all day, she felt content.

  “Want some food?” asked Louise. “Oatmeal’s left.”

  “O’meal,” squealed Marie-Claire. Oatmeal was her favorite food.

  “No, thanks.” Marie kissed the tip of Marie-Claire’s nose.

  “I could make you some eggs. Grits.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “A woman’s got to eat,” said Louise, scowling, standing tall, proud of her heft. She turned back to the sink, muttering. “Never could stand skinny women.”

  Laughing, Marie hugged Louise. “Thanks. I couldn’t do my life without you.” Louise had helped her since she’d brought Marie-Claire home from the hospital. Marie hadn’t known a thing about babies. Louise, forty-eight, already a grandmother, had done nothing but raise babies. She’d been shocked when Marie refused to own a “child-distracting” TV. But Louise adjusted graciously, and as Marie-Claire grew, she’d come to love reading aloud, finger painting, and sandbox time.

  “Come on, Marie-Claire,” said Louise, picking up Beau, touching his paws to the ground. “Time for day care.” With a wet cloth, she wiped Marie-Claire’s blue hands.

  “I want to stay with Beau. Is he a puppy?”

  “No, full grown. He’ll be here when you get back,
Marie-Claire. Give me a kiss.”

  They both puckered their lips.

  “Day care, Marie-Claire,” said Louise.

  “I want to stay here.”

  “Your mom needs rest. She’ll pick you up this afternoon.”

  “I want to be with Beau.”

  “He needs rest, too. Look at him.”

  Beau, obligingly, lay down, his head between his paws.

  “Have you got your lunch pail?” asked Marie.

  “Forgot.” Marie-Claire rushed to the counter, picking up her vintage Wonder Woman pail. “Beau, come say bye.” Beau trotted after Marie-Claire.

  Marie stopped Louise at the kitchen door. “I need to go away this weekend. Can you watch Marie-Claire?”

  “That child needs more of your time.”

  “I know.” Mother anxieties flooded her body. Being a good mother was the most important thing in the world to her.

  Louise snorted sympathetically and patted her hand. “Only one Marie Laveau in this world. Just don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Come on, Momma.” At the front door, with her lunch pail, Marie-Claire rocked back and forth on her sparkly tennis shoes. “Come say bye.”

  Marie scooped her up in the hall, kissing Marie-Claire, holding her extra tight.

  “Don’t worry, Momma,” said Marie-Claire. “I’ll be okay.”

  Marie set her down. “Who says I’m worried?”

  “Me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just do,” Marie-Claire cooed. Then she patted Beau, who was sitting, his ears down, his tail curled beneath him.

  It was hard work being a mother and a healer; hard work being a mother, period. She was blessed that Marie-Claire was so well adjusted.

  “Forgot. Momma, I forgot.” Marie-Claire started to run back into the kitchen. “My picture’s for you. I painted it for you.”

  “Thank you. But I’ll get it, love.” She hugged Marie-Claire again—feeling tiny hands patting her back as if Marie-Claire were the reassuring mother. Suddenly, Marie felt like crying, felt as if she never wanted to stop holding her daughter.

  “Have a good day at school, sweet pea.”

  “You’re a sweet pea.” Marie-Claire kissed her mother’s cheek, and followed Louise.

  Marie watched them from the porch. Humidity was still high; clouds were rolling in from the Gulf. The horizon, once clear and sunshine filled, had turned purple with storm clouds.

  “You got an umbrella, Louise?”

  “In the trunk. Weatherman says a hurricane is headed for Florida.”

  “Not here?” asked Marie.

  “Naw, it’s probably going to turn. Blow out to sea. Louisiana’s fine. Florida’s just unlucky.”

  Marie sniffed the air. It was normal for the season—moist, pungent with Gulf odors of diesel, fish, and algae. She smelled bacon and strong coffee. If people were really worried about a hurricane, she’d smell fear.

  She watched Louise buckle Marie-Claire into her car seat. Through the glass window, she could see Marie-Claire’s pigtails, decorated with yellow beads, swinging. See Marie-Claire waving good-bye to her and Beau.

  “See you at three,” Marie called. “Have a good day.” She kept waving, watching the car drive away. Kept wishing she had more hours to spend with her daughter.

  Marie went back inside the house. DuLac had willed it to her and she was grateful. The Orleans parish house was much better for raising a child than her French Quarter walkup. It had front and back yards, three bedrooms—one of which DuLac had designed as an altar room to the voodoo gods.

  DuLac’s belle époque furnishings were a bit risqué for a child but Marie hadn’t had the heart to change it. Sometimes she imagined DuLac, a handsome, elegant Creole, in the chair near the fire. It was DuLac who’d guided her to the faith she hadn’t known was hers.

  “It’s your fate, your fa,” he’d told her when she’d been most afraid. And for the first time in her life, he made her feel normal, part of a community.

  Marie looked about the kitchen: a messy kitchen table; clean dishes in the rack; light streaming in through the oversize window; and a fan, above the sink, blowing hot air in from outside. The kitchen was the last place she’d seen DuLac alive. He’d been happy, cutting up chicken for gumbo.

  “Beau.”

  The little dog looked at her, then stood on his hind legs, trying to climb onto Marie-Claire’s vacant chair.

  “Beau, come on, time for bed. I know you like the bed.”

  The little dog wouldn’t move.

  “Come on. I’ll snuggle you.” Rather, she’d take comfort from the little dog. If she didn’t have a man, having a dog to snuggle against wasn’t bad. “You want to be carried?”

  Beau lifted his paw, scraping the air.

  “You hungry?”

  Beau barked, more fiercely, trying to leap onto the chair.

  “What? The painting?”

  She lifted Beau; he yapped. Marie swore he wanted her to see Marie-Claire’s painting.

  She stared at the glossy paper. Usually, Marie-Claire painted stick figures. She and her mama holding hands. She and her best friend, Susie, at day care. Sometimes, she painted El, DuLac, or Kind Dog. She remembered them all. Her surrogate family. All dead now. Marie prayed Marie-Claire didn’t remember that each had died protecting her.

  Marie picked up the painting. The color had dried and was already starting to flake. Three blue wavy lines, in layers, extended across the page.

  “What’s it mean, Beau?” The little dog, held, burrowed against her breast, had fallen asleep.

  She kissed Beau’s head. For a second, she could see Beau curled against Nana. Beau, loyal, steadfast, was more virtuous than Nana’s grandsons.

  “Hey.” She scratched Beau’s ear. The little dog opened his eyes and yawned. Then he wiggled his stub of a tail and fell back asleep. Carrying Beau, kicking off her tennis shoes, she walked down the hall to her bedroom.

  She laid Beau on a pillow (he didn’t wake), laid the painting on the nightstand, and closed the blinds.

  She grimaced; working the night shift sometimes made her feel like a vampire. She pushed the thought away, stripped off her clothes, and slid beneath the sheets.

  Inside her jeans pocket, her cell phone rang—the muffled tune, “It’s Raining Men.” A single mother’s wish.

  Marie-Claire laughed, hearing her mother sing the lyrics. For Christmas, Marie bought Marie-Claire the picture book, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, and together, they’d giggled over raining meatballs. For weeks, they’d alternated singing “It’s raining meatballs,” “It’s raining men. Hallelujah!”

  In New Orleans, rain—like everything else—was a double-edged sword. Rain cleared the polluted air, encouraged the lush green, but during rough storms, it lashed like knives and caused deadly flash floods.

  She burrowed in the sheets, letting the call go to voice mail.

  She heard distant thunder.

  Beau snored. Marie counted the seconds between the rumbling sounds to tell how fast the storm was approaching.

  She sat up, turning on the nightstand lamp, and looked at Marie-Claire’s painting.

  Three wavy lines. Blue, horizontal, like ocean water? She thought of ships at sea caught by lightning, trapped by cresting waves. Did sailors believe in mermaids?

  Did Marie-Claire know something she didn’t? Innocents, supposedly, had purer sight.

  Like a flash, she saw the second statue. Dual sexed. No siren lured it, rather, it had its own unique power. Both seducer and seduced.

  Strangely, she thought of Parks. They’d been good together.

  Marie exhaled, punching the pillow before settling her head. Beau shifted his weight closer to her, his short back against her shoulder.

  A family of ghosts. A river siren. Darkened pools. A face in the water. Country. City. Water, earth. What did any of it mean?

  She refused to worry. Today, she needed to rest. Needed to be ready for the future. Needed to do w
hat Nana and her grandsons couldn’t do. Make peace, find justice.

  Her skin broke into a sweat.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire, she thought, remembering the childhood chant.

  When the loas called and signs appeared, she felt blessed, grateful. She also felt anxiety, and sometimes, fear. With the spirit world, anything could happen, including emotional and physical wounds that no medicine could fix and the creating of consequences beyond her control.

  She thought she saw Baron Samedi in the corner, but she decided it was just another shadow. Her mind playing tricks.

  Let me dream, she thought, and, in the next second, she thought, Don’t let me dream.

  She opened the nightstand drawer. She lifted a photo of herself and Parks on the Riverwalk. Asleep, Marie-Claire was slumped in her stroller, a huge rainbow lollipop still in her hand and sticking to her hair.

  For a little while, they’d been a family. Just like the murdered L’Overtures.

  She looked at the Jersey boy, blond, sun-kissed handsome like a surfer boy. Not her usual type. A Korean tourist, crazy about jazz, had taken the photo. Too bad Parks hadn’t loved her enough to stay. Maybe it was because she hadn’t had the courage to ask? Maybe asking would have made all the difference.

  She punched the pillow.

  Beau, dreaming, stretched, rolling onto his back, exposing his soft belly. Amazing, she thought, how dogs could trust and make themselves vulnerable.

  She stroked Beau’s belly, his little legs twitched.

  “Parks,” she murmured, “touch me.” She stretched her toes and threw her arms above her head. She tried to imagine Parks lying beside her, stroking her belly and breasts. She felt nothing but humid air.

  Beau snuggled closer. She kissed the little dog’s head.

  She slept, long, hard, and deep.

  SIX

  CHARITY HOSPITAL

  EVENING SHIFT

  Marie stood beneath the parking garage’s overhang. The world was gray. She’d brought an umbrella, but the rain was heavy, the wind brisk.

  She scanned the sky, hoping for a lessening of rain, before dashing across the street to Charity for another twelve-hour shift. Thunder cascaded, and lightning, like a jagged knife, ripped the sky.