Pushing back his straw porkpie hat, Cecil stood up and leaned over to open the cooler. He reached in, took out two bottles of water, closed the box, and sat back down on it again. Opening one he’d laced with some bourbon, he took a deep swig, resigned to the heat and humidity. The month of March was just the beginning of a long season of sweat-soaked days for New Orleans street musicians.
He waited until the young cop looked in his direction. Cecil held up the bottle of pure water in a gesture of hospitality. The police officer walked over.
“Thanks,” said the cop, accepting the ice-cold bottle and twisting off the cap. “What a morning.”
“Bad news, man,” said Cecil.
“The worst for that guy,” said the cop. He took a swallow of water. “What a gory mess it is in there.”
Cecil looked up expectantly and waited for more information.
“Muffuletta Mike was whipped to shreds, but it looks like he was strangled first. The detectives think the whip was used as a garrote before the killer really got into it. The poor guy was slashed to a bloody pulp, all while the ham and salami and pepperoni were still lying there on the counter.”
“Whipped to the red,” murmured Cecil. He nodded knowingly at the thoughts that came to his mind. Petro loa, the dark spirits, were the most aggressive and easily annoyed. Red was their color. Pig sacrifice was their appeasement.
The bloody shop and all the pork strewn around were signs of Petro loa.
The patrolman thirstily emptied the rest of the bottle and threw a dollar bill into the instrument case. “Thanks for the water, Ceece. Got to get back to work.”
“Me, too,” said Cecil. As he brought the clarinet to his lips, he considered the Petro loa’s other calling card: It was the whip.
Chapter 25
Standing just a few feet from the street musician and the police officer, Piper recognized the man she had seen in Muffuletta Mike’s sandwich shop yesterday, the one who’d seemed angry with Mike when he stormed out of the store.
Now she’d heard his conversation with the cop. She looked across the street at the muffuletta shop. Yellow tape crisscrossed the front door. Despite the heat, Piper shivered involuntarily at the thought that the shop owner had made her sandwich just the day before. She wondered what had happened to the poor man. How painful had his death been? His last conscious moments must have been truly frightening.
Her mind slipped to thoughts of what she went through last month. The minutes had seemed like hours as the poison coursed through her system, paralyzing her, blocking her ability to breathe. She’d been certain she was going to die. Piper had been terrified, but she’d also been angry. How dare someone try to take her life?
Had the butcher felt the same way? Had he put up a fight? In the last moments, did he accept his fate?
And what now for his family and friends and customers? Piper supposed the customers would miss him for a while, but they’d find another place to buy meat and sandwiches. Obviously his friends would be more affected, thinking a lot about him in the beginning, then less and less as time went on. It was the family members who would have to live with the memory of their loved one and his violent death, year in and year out, at every family dinner, at every birthday, at every Christmas, Easter, or other special occasion. Piper wouldn’t even let herself imagine how her parents and brother would have taken it had she not survived.
As she forced herself to move on down the sidewalk, she thought of the teenage boy who’d been complaining to his father yesterday, not wanting to come in early and open the sandwich shop. Piper felt so sorry for the kid now. How many times had she whined to her own parents about things that didn’t really matter all that much, never thinking that the next day they could be dead? The poor kid must be in horrible pain.
Chapter 26
The murder on Royal Street had come at the perfect time.
Even before the tense conversation with his program manager, Aaron had been consumed with anxiety. His contract was up for renewal, and the ratings for his radio show had been evincing a consistent downward trend. Calls from listeners, which he depended on to stoke the show’s energy, were down as well. He wondered if people were finally getting tired of his incendiary taunts and criticisms.
He gnawed at the nails on his pudgy fingers, wincing as he tore one nail so far down that the ripped skin began to bleed. He sucked on the damaged spot and considered what he had been haranguing his listeners about on past shows. There was a wide selection from which to choose. Government corruption, police malfeasance, urban poverty, drugs, the homicide rate, depression and suicide among teenagers trying to cope with the legacy of Hurricane Katrina.
No wonder people were changing stations. Who wanted to listen to that misery all the time? Many nights when he left the studio, Aaron himself felt sad, dejected, and exhausted after pounding at the same gloomy subjects. The show was stale. He needed something new.
When the police scanner on his kitchen table called for officers to proceed to Royal Street, Aaron opened the French doors to the balcony and stepped outside.
The police activity excited him, and he’d hurried down to see what was happening. The first cop he asked merely shrugged and motioned him to keep moving. The next one was more forthcoming.
“Gun wounds are bloody, but they look antiseptic compared to the gashes on poor Muffuletta Mike. The guy was whipped to shreds,” said the officer, shaking his head. He gestured to the corner across the street to the musician wearing a porkpie hat while he played his clarinet. “Cecil over there claims it’s some sort of voodoo-hoodoo thing. But I’ll tell you this much—whoever did it is one mean, angry bastard.”
“Have any clues?” asked Aaron.
“None that I’m going to share with you,” answered the cop.
“But at least you’ll investigate this one, won’t you?”
The officer looked quizzically at Aaron. “What do you mean ‘this one’?”
“I mean the victim is white,” said Aaron.
“Yeah? What of it?” the policeman challenged.
Aaron shook his head with skepticism. “Let’s face it. You guys are more likely to pull out the stops to try to find the killer of a white guy. You don’t bother as much for anybody else.”
The cop paused, biting at his lower lip. Aaron noticed his hand clenching at his holstered firearm.
“I don’t know where you get your information from, brother, but you’re dead wrong. Now, get on out of here.”
Aaron smirked, but he did as he was told. He looked across the street but didn’t approach the musician. Cecil would be out there another day if Aaron needed him. He was always out there.
Aaron walked back down the block to his apartment. He went upstairs, drank a cup of black coffee, and scanned the headlines on his computer. Then he went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He sang as he soaped his fleshy stomach, knowing the subject of tonight’s show. It would draw the callers and boost the ratings for sure.
He wasn’t even going to get into the racial subject. He had something that was much fresher, something that hadn’t been talked to death. Aaron was really going to stir things up when he nicknamed Muffuletta Mike’s murderer for his audience.
The Hoodoo Killer.
Chapter 27
I feel guilty saying it after the awfulness down the street, but we’ve had a good day, haven’t we?” asked Ellinore as Sabrina got ready to leave the antique shop. “We sold that console table with the cabriole legs, the settee with the scrolled arms, and the lamps with the Murano glass stems. The table and settee we took on consignment, so we made fifty percent on them, and the lamps were from my house. Those are pure profit for us.”
“And don’t forget the antique lanterns,” said Sabrina as she pushed strands of red hair behind her ear. “Those came from your house, too, didn’t they?”
Ellinore nodded. “That’s right. They did. Those once hung at the plantation.”
Sabrina looked at the older woman. “Does it bother you, Ellinore?” she asked gently. “Selling things that are part of your family’s history?”
“I guess it would bother me more if I’d been born a Duchamps instead of marrying one. It’s not like I have children who’d want all the things for sentimental reasons.”
Zipping her purse closed, Sabrina was very aware of the pain that Ellinore must still feel at the loss of her daughter, even decades after the child’s death. Sabrina couldn’t imagine ever getting over something like that. She greatly admired Ellinore’s ability to keep going.
“What about your nephew, Falkner?” asked Sabrina. “I bet he’d be happy to have your things.”
Ellinore laughed. “I know he would. And it makes my head spin to think how quickly he’d sell everything to some dealer. He’s not the sentimental sort, my nephew.”
“You sure? Somebody who is doing his doctoral thesis on nursery rhymes would seem to have a gentle side.”
“You’d think so, Sabrina, wouldn’t you?”
Ellinore didn’t add anything else, but Sabrina saw the shop owner’s brow furrow and she began twisting the old wedding band on her wrinkled hand. Sabrina had learned that was a signal Ellinore was troubled about something. Sabrina was troubled, too.
“Ellinore, I have a confession to make.”
The older woman’s piercing blue eyes focused on Sabrina’s. “What is it?”
“I did something this morning before you came in. I think I may have cost you money.”
“How?” asked Ellinore, pulling her hand away from her gold wedding ring.
“Customers came in and liked the crystal chandelier we got from the old Willis estate. You know, that one,” said Sabrina, pointing up at the large fixture sparkling from the ceiling.
“The one you love, right?” asked Ellinore with a smile.
Sabrina cast her eyes downward. “I steered them to the less expensive antique lanterns instead.”
Ellinore reached out and patted Sabrina’s arm. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said. “Who knows if they would have gone for the heftier price anyway?”
“You’re the best, Ellinore,” said Sabrina with relief, and she hugged the older woman. “All right, I’ll see you tomorrow, then? Remember, I have my dress fitting, but I’ll be in right after that.”
“Take the day off. It’s the last Saturday you’ll have before the wedding. Besides, I know you love going to the parade.”
Sabrina’s face lit up. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I’ll be just fine here.”
Sabrina gave her boss another hug. “I don’t know what to say,” she stammered. “Thanks so much!”
As Sabrina started for the door, Ellinore called after her. “Do me a favor, will you, before you leave? Attach a ‘Sold’ tag on that chandelier.”
Sabrina stopped and turned, her jaw dropping slightly. “Oh, somebody else bought it?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice.
“It’s spoken for, Sabrina,” said Ellinore. “I want you and Leo to have it as my wedding gift.”
Chapter 28
Bertrand and Marguerite were waiting for Piper when she arrived at the bakery. Their expressions were grim. Marguerite’s eyes were a bit puffy, and Piper thought she’d been crying.
“Will you cover the front for us, Piper?” asked Marguerite. “Bertrand and I want to go over to the police station and see what we can find out about what’s being done to make this neighborhood safer. It’s all so terrible.”
Bertrand adjusted his big white apron. “C’est très tragique,” he said, shaking his head.
“Did you know the man who was killed?” asked Piper.
“Not well,” said Bertrand, “but I buy sandwiches from him sometimes. We—how do you say?—we are all in the same boat. We earn our livings on Royal Street and try to support one another. I buy from him and he buys from me. He enjoyed my beignets, I enjoyed his muffulettas. You see?”
“One hand washes the other,” said Piper, nodding.
Bertrand paused as he thought about the expression. “Yes. That is it,” he said.
Piper hesitated for a moment before asking, “Are you worried about your own safety here, Bertrand?”
“I would be lying if I told you that I’m not, Piper. But I have a very good alarm system on this shop. If someone tries to break in, the alarm would wake the dead.” Bertrand pointed to the front window. “See? I have the security company logo right there where anyone can see it. I hope that makes any intruder think twice. But if that doesn’t work, I have a handgun in the office.”
Piper turned to Marguerite. “Of course I’ll watch the shop. You two go ahead.”
“Thank you, Piper,” said Marguerite as she kissed Piper on both cheeks. “Come with me. I have a few things I want to go over with you before we leave.”
Piper followed Marguerite to the office. Marguerite gave her the code to retrieve phone messages should she be unable to answer because she was servicing customers up front.
“And here is the code for the alarm and keys to get into the bakery. You should have a set while you’re here.”
“Thanks, Marguerite,” said Piper, pleased that the woman was showing she thought Piper trustworthy.
When they went back out to the display room, Marguerite nodded to a stack of bakery boxes tied up and waiting on the counter. “Sabrina Houghton should be stopping by soon. Those are napoleons, éclairs, and jésuites for the restaurant.”
“Jésuites?” asked Piper.
“They’re triangular, flaky pastries filled with frangipane crème and sprinkled with sliced almonds and powdered sugar. They originated in France, and the name refers to the shape of a Jesuit’s hat. Bistro Sabrina goes through them very quickly.” Marguerite pointed to a tray in the glass display case. “There’s some in there. Try them.”
Piper donned an apron and waited on customers who came in after Marguerite and Bertrand left. She sold two pecan pies, a box of petits fours, and a dozen chocolate croissants. As soon as there was a pause, Piper selected a jésuite from the case and bit into it. She was wiping powdered sugar from her lips when a smiling Sabrina Houghton entered the shop.
“You look so calm,” said Piper, returning the smile. “So many brides are going out of their minds the week before their wedding.”
“I probably shouldn’t be happy, what with the horrible thing that happened down the block, but I just received the most wonderful wedding present, Piper.” She explained her boss’s gift.
“Wow! That was really generous of her,” said Piper. “She must love you.”
“I think she does,” said Sabrina. “Her own daughter died when she was young, and Ellinore doesn’t have any other children. Though she has never come out and said it, I think sometimes that Ellinore considers me more than an employee. I know that I consider her more than a boss. I’ve learned so much from her, and she’s been so supportive of me and Leo and the wedding. Anyway, I’m just thrilled to have that chandelier!”
“That’s fantastic,” said Piper, looking upward. “If it’s anywhere near as pretty as the ones in here, you totally scored. Marguerite told me she got all of these from your shop.”
“You should stop by when you have some free time, Piper. I’d love for you to see the things we have.”
Piper took the receipt that Marguerite had left on top of the bakery boxes and rang up the figures on the cash register. Sabrina pulled a credit card from her wallet and placed it on the countertop.
“Anything about our wedding cakes yet, Piper? I know we
only spoke about it last night, so it’s probably too early to ask, but I can’t help myself.”
“Actually, Bertrand and I were talking about them a little while ago. We have some ideas we’re playing around with, but Bertrand still wants to work on it some more with me.”
“I’ll bet he does.” Sabrina rolled her eyes and smiled. “Has he come on to you yet?”
Piper wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Bertrand hadn’t really done anything truly objectionable, but she definitely got uncomfortable vibes from him. He was too touchy, the look in his eyes too appreciative of her physicality.
Sabrina’s question signaled that Bertrand was a womanizer.
“No,” said Piper. “He hasn’t really done anything.”
“Give him time,” said Sabrina. “He will.”
“Why do you say that?” Piper asked.
“Because he’s come on to me. Leo would kill Bertrand if he knew. I haven’t said a word, because I don’t want to ruin their professional relationship. But, Piper, I just want to warn you. Watch out!”
As Sabrina left the bakery, Piper’s iPhone rang. It was Gabe.
The director had seen her audition tape and liked it. Could she come in this evening and read for him in person?
Chapter 29
The crowd at the Gris-Gris Bar the night before had been better than usual for a Thursday. The place had been jammed—and some of the patrons had taken their beers and drinks in plastic cups out onto the street in front. Wuzzy could only imagine how many more customers he could have served had they not been discouraged by the crowd, passing by the bar to find another.
Wuzzy counted out the money from the cash register and wished again that he could convince Ellinore Duchamps to give up her lease on the adjacent store. If Wuzzy could get Ellinore to agree, he could expand his bar and double his profits. He needed the money more than ever. Connor’s medical and child-care bills were overwhelming him. And now there was the latest huge expense on the horizon: the power wheelchair.
That Old Black Magic Page 7
