by Lyn Cote
She got out and closed the door behind herself. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she teased him.
“This younger generation,” he answered in kind. Sliding the car into gear, he headed back to town. He’d seen Meg leave the ball with his parents, so she should be safe. And in the morning, Jack Bishop would be on the job.
Tonight, Gabe wanted to have a look at Storyville for himself and do a little fishing. He’d recognized one unwelcome face at the funeral. Had the man merely been an acquaintance of the dead girl or more? Gabe needed new information. And maybe some Basin Street jazz would settle his nerves.
He parked his car on Canal under a streetlamp. From under his seat, he drew out a pistol, cool and heavy in his palm, and slipped it into his evening jacket pocket. Stepping out of his car, he set his shiny black top hat on his head at a jaunty angle. Unless someone recognized him as the parish attorney, he’d just be another bon vivant ending a Carnival evening with jazz. He only walked a half block before he was approached by a young black woman wearing a very short purple dress.
“Want some comp’ny, gent?”
He wanted to say no, but experience had taught him that if he didn’t have a woman on his arm, he would have to turn down many more such offers. “I’m in the mood for jazz. What about you?”
“It’s your nickel,” she replied.
They walked down the way to Rampart Street into one of the clubs and he seated her at a table by the back wall. A six-piece jazz band played “Tiger Rag.” Gabe ordered gin for two. “What’s your name?”
“Philly.” She downed her drink in one swallow.
Deciding to take a chance on finding what he really needed, Gabe pushed his glass toward her. “Philly, you look like a smart gal.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “You need a smart gal?”
He nodded. “Less than a week and it’s prohibition. Who’s going to have liquor? That’s what I need to know.”
“You and everybody else.” She set her elbows on the table, which wobbled at her touch.
“Mario Vincent?” Gabe named one of the notorious powers behind much of the crime in Storyville.
Philly eyed him nervously. “I don’t know him, sir.”
Gabe leaned forward, so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Maybe you know someone who knows him.”
“Maybe. How much you be willin’ to pay?” She sized him up with her eyes.
Gabe took a ten dollar bill out of his pocket. Philly reached for it. Gabe held on to it. “Come back with a man who knows Mario and I’ll give you the ten.”
“What if he busy?”
“Then you won’t get this bill.”
Philly downed the second gin and left him.
Gabe settled his chair back against the wall and listened to “Canal Street Blues.” Tonight, he might gain nothing new or he might get lucky. He rested his hand on the gun in his pocket and remembered that Paul’s telegram still remained there, too. I should have told Meg.
The next morning at nine before anyone else had come down, Meg left the St. Clair home without breakfast. It was broad daylight and she couldn’t face trying to make small talk. The St. Clair chauffeur drove her to her hotel.
At the desk, Meg picked up her key and mail and walked upstairs in the quiet hotel to her room. Halfway up the steps, she heard heart-stopping shrieks coming from above. Her heart racing, she hurried up the last few steps and found a black maid outside the door to Meg’s room screaming, “Gris-gris, Gris-gris!”
Doors on both sides of the hall were thrown open. People leaned out to see what was happening. The desk clerk rushed up behind Meg. “Stop this screaming at once, or you’ll lose your job!”
The screaming stopped, but she pointed her finger to the floor in front of the doorway to Meg’s room. “Gris-gris.”
On the floor, white salt had been spilled to make the sign of a cross. In the center of the cross sat a short white candle on a dish which obviously had burned out hours before. At the end of each point of the cross lay a nickel. Meg stooped to brush the salt away.
“Don’t!” The clerk pulled her back.
“Voodoo!” The black maid shook her head. “Voodoo!”
Chapter 13
Stunned, Meg repeated, “Voodoo? What are you talking about?”
“Black magic,” the desk clerk replied. “Our colored people believe in it.”
Meg pulled herself from his tight grip. She noted that he—the white desk clerk—also didn’t want her to disturb the gris-gris.
The maid warned, “You cross gris-gris you get real bad luck.”
Casting about in her memory for an adequate reply to this demented assault, she stared down at the salt cross, the stubby white candle. Leave it to evil to use religious symbols and pervert them. A quiet voice, her father’s, began reciting the truths she’d been taught as a child—You are the salt of the earth. If salt loses its saltiness, can it be made salty again? No, it is good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled under foot. If any man loves me, he must take up his cross and follow me. And a candle, an ancient symbol of prayer. How dare someone corrupt that which drew one closer to the divine? She grappled with her outrage, trying to find a course of action.
No one went back in his room. No one spoke. Everyone stared at Meg and the voodoo symbol.
Meg closed her eyes. Father, what should I do? She couldn’t differentiate in her own heart—was she praying to God or appealing to her own father. In this moment, they’d become entwined in her heart. A battle raged around her. She could almost hear demons shrieking.
Meg voiced the words that had come: “As the archangel Michael said to Satan, the Lord rebuke you.” Meg stooped and picked up the candle and dish, the four nickels, then with one wave of her arm swept aside the salt, obliterating the sign of the cross. The black maid gasped and crossed herself.
Rising, Meg unlocked her door, stepped across the scattered salt, entering her room. Then she turned and faced the horrified witnesses. “Greater is He who is in me than he that is in the world.” She closed her door. The murmur of disturbed voices filtered in from the hallway.
She walked to her bed and let herself down. She’d heard of voodoo long ago from Fleur Bower. People paid a voodoo priestess for these powerful hexes against enemies. Who had paid for her gris-gris?
A polite tapping on her door roused Meg from her thoughts. “Meg? This is Gabe. Will you come out?”
She shook herself, rose, and opened the door. “Gabriel?” The foolish desire to throw herself into his arms surprised her. Gabriel’s gaze searched her eyes. Their acquaintance so fresh, so conflicted had led somehow into a special intimacy. Gabriel was enemy, friend, the man who last night had bruised her lips with a kiss.
She shifted her attention to a black man with a barrel chest standing behind Gabriel. “Is this Mr. Bishop?”
Jack gave her a wide smile. “Please call me Jack, Miss Wagstaff.”
“Very well, Jack.” She struggled to keep her voice light. “I understand you’re going to be my driver.” She paused to give Gabriel a significant look. “And my bodyguard.”
“So my father told you?” Gabriel said.
Jack let out a sudden wordless exclamation, then pointed down to the rug. “Is that salt?”
“Yes, someone had a gris-gris waiting for me when I came home this morning.” Her pulse jerked awake, but Meg watched for Gabriel’s reaction.
“That is bad,” Jack pronounced.
“Someone is taking pains to make me feel distinctly unwelcome,” Meg pressed Gabriel.
Gabriel couldn’t seem to stop glaring and frowning at the remains of the gris-gris. Finally, he shook his head. “I never expected anything like this.”
What would you expect, Gabriel? A knife blade in my back like Del or a bullet in the head like LaRae?
“Who got rid of the gris-gris for you?” Jack asked.
“I did.” Meg answered.
Looking impressed, Jack studied her. “I hear from Mr. Gabriel that you
got a lot of bad luck already, Miss.”
Meg shrugged.
Gabriel cleared his throat. “You should call my father. He’ll want to know right away.”
And my own father, too. Meg passed a hand over her forehead, disturbing her bangs. “I was just so shocked. I couldn’t think straight.” She went to the phone at her bedside and asked the operator to dial the St. Clair home.
Mr. Sands had been driven into town.
“Then Jack and I will take you over to pick up your Cadillac,” Gabriel offered briskly.
She scanned his face. His jaw had hardened and a vein along his neck bulged.
“Can you wait downstairs?” Motioning to herself, she continued in a humorous tone, “I don’t usually pick up a car in evening dress.” She wouldn’t give in to the flutter in her pulse. She’d faced an earthquake, then a war. Now New Orleans, even with its voodoo, wouldn’t conquer Del or her.
“We’ll wait downstairs.” Gabriel closed the door.
Within the hour, Meg walked outside and joined Jack and Gabriel at the curb. The dark St. Clair family sedan was parked there as well.
Sands rolled down his window. “Are you all right, my dear?”
“Certainly. That for black magic.” Meg snapped her fingers.
Sands motioned to Jack. “Miss Wagstaff has an appointment at one thirty P.M. today at the jail. Stay with her at all times.”
With mixed emotions, Meg wanted to see Del and reassure him, but she didn’t want to have to answer any questions about LaRae. She was glad to have Jack’s protection, but his presence announced her inability to protect herself.
Gabriel took her hand. “Jack will take excellent care of you.”
Her skin tingled at his touch—disturbing. We have business to settle between us, Gabriel. I haven’t forgotten last night.
She released his hand, wishing she could bind him to her. Sooner than she wished, they would sit on opposing sides in a courtroom. She had no hold on Gabriel St. Clair, but as he strode away, the strand that connected her to him pulled taut and strained.
Later, Meg walked beside Jack down the corridor to the visiting room at the jail, footsteps echoing in the heavy silence. She couldn’t believe all that had happened since her arrival in this town. Who was friend? Who was foe? At the end of this, would she and Del crawl out of the pitiless New Orleans maze into the daylight—safe once again?
The police officer unlocked the door of the almost empty visitor’s room. Meg sat down across from Dell. She folded her own hands in her lap to keep herself from reaching for Del’s.
With arms folded, Jack waited just inside the door. She forced herself to say, “I’m sorry LaRae is dead.”
“The same could happen to you.”
She pressed a hand to her trembling lips while inside she collapsed in a heap, moaning her guilt and regret. “I’m afraid it’s all my fault.”
“Your fault? I’m the one who came to New Orleans. I’m the one who fought with Kennedy. I’m the one who made her a target—and you.” So thin and drawn, he fidgeted in his chair, still moving stiffly.
What solace could she give him? Had they endured France for this?
Del stared down at the scarred tabletop. “I want you to leave New Orleans—”
“No. Your trial begins in days.”
“Do you want me to have your death on my conscience, too?” he growled.
“I have my own car and bodyguard now. I have my gun. I will not leave you.”
Del folded his hands and pressed his fist to his mouth, masking how close he was to breaking down.
She lowered her voice, “We made a promise once. Do you remember?”
Del stared into her eyes. “I release you from your promise.”
Love for Del and faith in his love for her propelled her toward tears. Her voice came out gruffly: “That’s not possible. The promises we made that day were for life.”
The first floor of Hotel Grunenwald had been reserved for the gala celebration of the election of the new governor, John M. Parker. Standing in the hotel’s lobby, Meg let Jack take her wrap to the hat-check. She waited until he returned, then she, dressed in one of her raven black Parisienne designs topped with a lavish red fox collar, sauntered into the packed room.
A band on the right of a stage blasted an ear-ringing arrangement of “Dixie.” Overhead, red, white, and blue streamers looped and crisscrossed between the chandeliers.
Standing amid laughter and boisterous shouting, backslapping, Meg didn’t feel festive. Behind her, Jack took a place against one wall, his hands folded. His constant presence plucked her tense nerves. All day Meg had looked over her shoulder, hunted.
On the Western Front, she had lived in danger from bombardment, pestilence, fear, and despair. But this present sense of pervading, active evil weighed her down, stretched her nerves. Underlying all this, her unfinished conversation with Gabriel St. Clair at the Demon Rum party nipped at the edges of her mind. Though adversaries, the two of them had drawn closer and dearer. Gabriel sought to convict her dearest friend. But she needed Gabriel to push away the emptiness that lingered in her after France, threatening to drain the life from her. With Gabriel, she could talk about what was central in her mind, her heart.
And he needed her. He denied it, but that didn’t change his need.
The band halted midnote, then sped up the tempo to double time. Everyone around Meg began applauding and whistling. The noise of the crowd and the band deafened her. Finally, broad gestures from men on the stage quieted the gathering. The winning candidate stepped to the front and began to address his supporters.
Meg scanned the crowd for Gabriel. At last, she glimpsed him slipping through the crowd toward her. This realization uncapped a delirious joy. I shouldn’t feel this way. She moved forward, her eyes tracking his erratic, but steady progress toward her. Acquaintances interrupted him as he made his way to her. Tonight, perhaps he would tell her what had happened to him, to his heart in France. Tonight, perhaps he would kiss her and not a memory. Just a yard from her, a man tugged Gabriel back toward the stage.
Frustration shredding her, Meg balled her fists. Gabe, no. But Gabriel stood talking to Parker. With a sigh, Meg wended her way to one of the tables and sat down. Mrs. St. Clair walked up. “May I join you, Miss Wagstaff?”
Meg’s heart sank.
Sitting down, Mrs. St. Clair worried her lower lip. “I hope you won’t think me forward, but I would like to discuss my son with you.”
Meg was dumbfounded. “Do you think you should?”
“Yes, I overheard something a few days ago that has given me much food for thought.” The woman pursed her lips. “I have not liked your modern ways, but I am trying to understand why you have had such a startling effect on my family.”
“I wasn’t aware that I have had any effect—” Meg stopped. Perhaps Mrs. St. Clair had a point. Meg hadn’t intended to have any effect, but…She frowned.
“I am sorry if you feel I have purposely tried to change your daughter’s direction in life—” Meg halted, then conceded, “Very well. What do you want to tell me about Gabriel?”
“I’ve wanted Gabriel to marry Dulcine.” The lady stirred her tea silently.
The image of Gabriel waltzing with Dulcine the night before stung once more. Meg flared. “All New Orleans knows that.”
Mrs. St. Clair looked tempted to snap back, but she merely took a deep breath. “When Gabriel returned from the war, I could tell he’d suffered terribly there, not just from his wounds, but from some deep emotional…shock.”
“Is that why you told him not to talk about the war?” Meg couldn’t seem to stop herself from attacking this woman.
“I never said that.” The woman looked honestly surprised. “What are you talking about?”
Meg smothered her irritation. She had been judgmental and evidently wrong, too. “I’m sorry. Go on please.”
“I thought if he would marry, a wife would be able to help him heal. She could…comfort him i
n a way I couldn’t.”
Meg hadn’t been able to see past this woman’s very obvious matchmaking ploys to the motivation behind them.
“Anyway, I knew Dulcine was interested in Gabriel even before the war. Gabriel showed a preference for her…” Mrs. St. Clair fell silent.
“I didn’t come to New Orleans to fall in love and marry, Mrs. St. Clair.”
“Love rarely comes when we plan for it.”
These unexpected words kicked Meg in the stomach.
“Meg, I never thought to find love at a Y-canteen.” Colin cradled her head in both his hands. “Marry me.”
“What do you want from me?” Meg whispered.
“I don’t want you to tempt Gabriel and destroy Dulcine’s chances, only to leave him—”
“Be at ease.” Meg rose and walked away. She couldn’t take any more. I just want to get out alive with Del.
On her way out, Gabriel met her. “Why were you talking with my mother?”
“She was just being polite.” His gaze on her brought an awareness of him, an aching to nestle close.
“I need to talk to you—alone.” Gabe took her arm, hustling her toward the exit. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Dulcine glaring at her. “Gabriel, do you think—”
“Don’t stop now. We’re going.”
His urgent tone sliced through her. “Where? What’s happened?”
Chapter 14
Outside the hotel with the sounds of giddy laughter and the syncopated jazz band still around them, Meg pulled against Gabriel. The cool night air and her fear made gooseflesh zip up her arms. “Where are we going?”
He hustled her into his car. “I told Jack I’d see you home.”
Meg studied him, a sick feeling tightening her stomach. “Is it Del?”
“Sorry.” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “This has nothing to do with Del. I received a telegram today from France.” She touched his sleeve to comfort him, to urge him to trust her. His words came out in a thick, edgy voice, “Her name was Lenore. But I was kissing you.”
