Ellinore knew that Sabrina in some sense was a substitute for her own daughter, the little girl who had passed away such a long time ago. While no one could ever really take Ginnie’s place, there was nothing wrong with loving someone else. Human beings were meant to love, and life was empty without that. Ellinore was so grateful to be able to shower her affection on Sabrina.
She felt the ache of arthritis in her hands as she picked up a sleek crystal decanter. Ellinore considered it for her auction donation as the bell tinkled over the front door. She turned to see her nephew as he entered the shop.
“Hello, Auntie,” said Falkner, thrusting a bakery box at Ellinore. “I was just at Boulangerie Bertrand, and I thought of you.”
“How sweet of you, Falkner. What is it?”
“Open it up and see.” He grinned, the dimples in his cheeks deepening.
Putting the box down on the mahogany sideboard, Ellinore pulled at the string and opened it.
“Voodoo-doll cookies?” she asked, smiling. “What fun! Thank you, Falkner.” She held out the box. “Want one?”
“No thanks, Auntie. They’re all just for you.” Falkner looked around the shop but saw no customers. “Business all right?” he asked, his brow knit in concern.
“Not bad,” said Ellinore. “We were quite busy this morning. It’s only been slow the last hour or so.”
“That’s good,” he said. “You deserve to be successful. You work so hard.”
Watching Falkner seemingly casually peruse the merchandise, Ellinore wondered how often he tried to estimate what kind of income she earned. She’d bet it was very often. Just as she’d bet he thought all the time about inheriting her house in the Garden District. Ellinore had heard through a friend of hers that Falkner had asked a local real-estate agent to give him a ballpark estimate for the place.
“What can I bring tomorrow night?” Falkner asked as he picked up a heavy brass candlestick.
“Just yourself,” said Ellinore. “You’ve already brought these cookies. We can have them for dessert.”
“I’ll look forward to it, then, Auntie.” Falkner put down the candlestick. He leaned forward and kissed Ellinore on the cheek. “Is Nettie cooking?”
“No, Nettie is off on Sundays, remember? I’ll be cooking myself. Pompano en papillote.”
“Can’t wait, Auntie,” said Falkner. “You’re such a good cook. See you then.”
Ellinore watched with discomfort as her nephew sauntered away. Though he was related through marriage, she’d never held any affection for him, even when he was a child. There was something grasping and utterly self-absorbed about him. She still remembered how, when Ginnie was so sick, he’d never once come to visit his only cousin. Ellinore had never forgiven him for that. But boy, in recent years Falkner made it a point to stop by and visit his aging aunt and frequently wangle dinner invitations. Ellinore had no illusions about the reason.
Falkner was in for a rude awakening. Ellinore could only imagine how he would rage at the reading of her new will.
Not that she had anywhere near as much as Falkner probably thought she did. But what Ellinore did have left—the house in the Garden District and the contents of her antique shop—was not going to Falkner Duchamps.
Chapter 41
It was time to implement step two. The next victim had been determined long ago.
It was going to be easy enough to pick up the weapon right on site, but highlighting the hoodoo connection took more planning. Invoking Damballah, the sky god, associated with creation, seemed to make sense. Damballah was represented by the serpent. His color was white. His offerings were very simple: an egg on a mound of flour or salt satisfied Damballah just fine.
Damballah was the protector of the handicapped, albinos, and young children, so it would make sense for him to be lingering near the fund-raiser for a handicapped child at the Gris-Gris Bar. Yet it was taboo to feed Damballah tobacco or alcohol in any form, so the killing couldn’t take place at the bar with its drunken, smoking patrons. It had to be done somewhere clean and white. That could be arranged.
Damballah’s corresponding figure in Catholicism was St. Patrick, the man who drove the snakes out of Ireland. How appropriate. The next hoodoo murder would take place on St. Patrick’s Day.
Sunday
March 16
Chapter 42
Piper’s eyes widened as she arrived at the soundstage. A deteriorating brick-and-concrete society tomb from Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 had been expertly replicated. The imposing, multilayered wall contained several burial vaults, similar to a mausoleum. Piper had read that in real life most of those buried in a society tomb were connected in some way. Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 had society tombs for volunteer firemen, orphans, members of the YMCA, and residents of the New Orleans Home for Incurables.
In Named, the twisted killer renamed women before murdering them and depositing them in the same tomb. It was a society that Piper never imagined she would join.
After the AD got Piper settled in her trailer, she reported to the wardrobe mistress, who gave her the same short black skirt and tight-fitting green-sequined top she’d worn in the parade scene the day before. Next Piper went to a small room at the rear of the soundstage and sat while the makeup artist applied cosmetics. Piper watched in the mirror as fake blood was dabbed at her temple and matted into her blond hair.
“Don’t forget these. They’re Channing’s calling card.”
Piper looked up and saw the reflection of the wardrobe woman behind her. She was carrying strings of green plastic beads, which she wrapped around Piper’s neck.
“Nice,” said Piper, managing a smile as she viewed her transformation in the mirror. “My boyfriend will love it.”
When the director came over to greet her with a kiss on the cheek, Piper’s heart rate increased as he began to describe what he needed from her.
“The killer thinks he’s murdered you. But you’re not dead—you’re still alive when the killer shoves you into the tomb. You’re only unconscious. You come to after he’s closed your body inside.”
Piper tried to nod calmly but unwillingly felt herself gulp.
“So you start out, eyes closed,” continued the director. “When you open your eyes, you blink, first not comprehending where you are. Slowly it dawns on you: You’re trapped. You grasp at the walls, pushing against them, struggling to get out. You scratch, you claw, you use your legs, kicking as much as you can in the confined space. Eventually, though, you realize you have to give up. Any questions, Piper?”
“No,” said Piper. “I think I’ve got it.”
“All right, then. Let’s get you in there.”
As the stagehands slowly slid her body into the tomb, Piper could feel her pulse pounding. She felt the heat rise in her face, and she worried about the perspiration that was beading on her forehead. It took all the control she had to stay still.
She had thought there was going to be at least some light. Instead she lay in darkness! A special camera lens, designed to record with infrared light, had been inserted into the wall of the tomb.
At the director’s command, Piper closed her eyes, keeping her face expressionless, her jaw slack. She waited, trying to focus, knowing that the camera was rolling. Slowly, groggily, she opened her eyes, closed them, and then opened them again. She rolled her head from side to side.
Piper pushed her arms out tentatively, feeling for her boundaries. Her hands came into contact with the walls of the tomb. Amy, her character, still didn’t know where she was. She pushed harder against the unyielding surface.
Her breath became more labored, coming in short, shallow puffs. Her fingers tensed, clawlike, as she scratched at the top of the tomb above her. She tried to kick her way out, but her legs were constricted in the tight space.
The feeling of being restrained, of not being able to move, triggered the flashback. Pip
er’s mind raced. She was suddenly back on the hotel-room floor in Florida, with paralyzing poison coursing through her body, her head aching, perspiring profusely.
Trapped.
It became increasingly difficult to catch her breath. She struggled to get ahold of herself, to focus on where she really was. It was all make-believe. She was just acting.
As her face went numb, Piper emitted a long, piercing scream.
Chapter 43
Though it wasn’t the closest church to his home, Wuzzy liked attending Mass at Our Lady of Guadalupe. The church was plainer, smaller, and not as overwhelming as the cathedral. He took an odd comfort in knowing that it was the oldest surviving church building in New Orleans, originally serving as a mortuary chapel for victims of the city’s yellow-fever epidemics. It reminded Wuzzy that every generation suffered.
He and Connor were ensconced in a pew near the rear of the church. After the opening hymn, the child sat on Wuzzy’s lap, rocking with pleasure when the psalm was sung. But as they stood for the Gospel, Connor began to fidget in his father’s arms.
When you lived in New Orleans, it was impossible not to know when it was Lent. Mardi Gras, less than two weeks earlier, took care of that. The Gospel was about the Transfiguration, when God speaks from a bright cloud about Jesus: “This is my beloved son, with whom I am well pleased.”
Wuzzy pulled his own son tighter to his broad chest, kissing the top of the boy’s head. His gaze wandered to the stained-glass window depicting the angel appearing to the Blessed Virgin and announcing that she had been chosen to be the mother of God. Poor Mary, she couldn’t have known the heartache and anguish she was to face. How painful it was to see your child struggle and suffer.
As the gifts were brought to the altar, Connor began to cry. Wuzzy knew there was no use trying to soothe his son. Connor’s behavior wasn’t going to improve. The three-year-old had had enough. Wuzzy scooped up the child and left the pew.
“You’re getting heavier and heavier, kiddo,” Wuzzy whispered, supporting Connor’s bobbing head as they walked toward the door.
Outside, the morning air was already warm and sticky. The change in environment quieted Connor. Hoisting the boy higher on his hip, Wuzzy walked around the corner and stood beside the iron fence. Through the bars he gazed at the giant statue of St. Jude. Wuzzy thought the bearded patron saint of hopeless causes had a benevolent expression on his face.
“I’ve given up trying to figure out why this has happened to Connor and to me,” he said softly. “And I’m realistic enough to know that some miracle isn’t going to happen and make him all right. But I’d really appreciate it if you could use your influence with God and give me the strength to be the best father for Connor. I could use some help, St. Jude.”
A long strand of drool dripped from Connor’s mouth onto Wuzzy’s loud, flower-printed sport shirt. Wuzzy knew the truth. God helped those who helped themselves.
Chapter 44
Her ears were ringing from the reverberations of her terrified scream against the tomb walls. Piper was panting, struggling to get hold of herself. She clenched her hands into fists, trying to bring herself back into the moment. She strained to shift her mind to the present. She was only playing a part. Her poisoning in Sarasota was in the past. She had survived.
Piper could feel her body being moved. The stagehands were sliding her out of the tomb. Why weren’t they moving faster? She ached to be free again.
When she finally got out, she breathed a deep sigh, releasing a bit of the tension that coursed through her system. The director was smiling broadly as he waited for her at the side of the tomb.
“Darling, that was great!” he said. “Absolutely terrific. There was nothing I’d have you do differently. You were so realistic. I can’t believe we got that in one take.”
“Thank you,” Piper said softly.
She was weak with relief. The thought of having to do it again sickened her. She knew she couldn’t go in there and do it another time.
“The scream was great,” the director continued. “I’d have thought it would have been too much, but it was bloodcurdling. Just chilling, as if you really felt buried alive.”
Piper nodded. “I did.”
The director studied her flushed face. “Are you all right, Piper?”
“Mm-hmm. I think I need to sit for a little while.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need,” said the director. “You’re done here for the day.”
Piper slowly unwound the string of beads from around her neck, relieved at the director’s praise but too unhinged to enjoy it.
Chapter 45
Aaron was bent over at his kitchen table, concentrating intensely on gluing the small pieces of the banister lining the deck of the model paddleboat. There were over a hundred tiny posts waiting to be attached, and it was a challenge getting intricate work done with his chubby fingers. But Aaron didn’t mind. He relished concentrating on the task. It took his mind off his worries. Working on his models on Sundays soothed him more than going to church.
After the tension of the last few days and girding himself for the week to come, Aaron needed something to keep himself calm.
His hobby had started at the same time he began in radio. He’d gotten a job at a station on Cape Cod, not knowing a soul when he arrived. One weekend, without anything else to do, he took a whale-watching cruise. After the boat ride, he stopped at the small gift shop by the pier and purchased a kit for making a replica of an old multimasted whaling schooner. By the time he left for his next job, he still hadn’t made many friends, but he had four more ship models packed carefully into cartons to move with him.
New London was twenty-five markets higher than Cape Cod on the Arbitron radio rankings and meant significant career advancement. It was also home to the United States Coast Guard Academy. Aaron became fascinated with the USCGC Eagle, the only active-duty tall ship, used as a training vessel for the cadets. Soon a miniature of the majestic craft stood in the middle of the fireplace mantel in the small saltbox-style house Aaron had rented. The navy’s primary submarine base was also in New London and nearby Groton. So Aaron got to work on building submarine replicas as well.
It had continued like that. In Poughkeepsie, Aaron learned about the development of steam navigation on the Hudson River, the cradle of American steamboating. He’d had time to construct miniatures of the Clermont, the Mary Powell, and the Car of Neptune before moving on to the next-larger market. Those two years in Pensacola added battleships, aircraft carriers, and destroyers.
And on it went. By the time he arrived in New Orleans, Aaron’s boats made up the bulk of his possessions. He had shelves built along the walls of his French Quarter apartment to display his treasured babies, the prized outlet for his time and loving attention.
As he put down the tube of glue, Aaron sat back and looked at the collection on the wall. There was barely a place for him to put the model of the Natchez when he finished with it. Maybe it was time to find another interest.
Hoodoo might be it. The more he learned about the practice, the more fascinated he became.
At the very least, Aaron didn’t plan on moving to another market to find a new type of seagoing vessel to build. New Orleans was number 47 in the ratings, by far the largest market he had ever been in. He’d worked his tail off to get there. He felt satisfied in this city he loved and the place he occupied in it. He didn’t want to move upward anymore, and Aaron was determined not to move down.
Chapter 46
Every Sunday, Ellinore Duchamps attended Mass at the cathedral before going to her antique shop for the afternoon. Cecil waited in the pink azalea bushes until he saw her drive out of sight. He stood, brushed at his white chinos, and picked up his bag of tricks before climbing the steps to the back door.
Nettie was waiting for him, opening the door quickly and whisking him inside. She was dressed
in a long, flowing white skirt and blouse. A white turban was wrapped around her head. Her feet were bare.
“Brother,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
Nettie led the way down the old wooden steps to the basement. Together they lit the two dozen candles she had arranged around a clearing at the back of the room. Then Nettie took her place in the middle of the space while Cecil took a seat on a small bench to the side. When his sister gave the signal, Cecil began patting his bongo drum.
The rhythm was slow at first. Nettie knelt down and reached into a bowl on the floor, taking pinches of flour from it. She drizzled the white powder on the dark cement, forming a cross. As she drew the lines, she chanted.
Cecil increased the tempo and began rocking to the rhythm. He joined Nettie’s chanting. Their voices grew louder as they called on the spirits who linked the mortal and the immortal worlds.
Nettie rose from her knees and started to shake her shekere, the handmade rattle Cecil had fashioned from a hollow gourd he covered with a net of seeds, beads, and shells. Cecil banged the bongo harder and faster as Nettie began to move her body, undulating her shoulders and hips. Soon she was dancing and whirling, her long skirt billowing out around her.
Cecil got off his bench and joined his sister, dancing and praying to reaffirm the same moral principles. Reaching into his bag of tricks, Cecil felt for the leather cat-o’-nine-tails. Pulling it out, he snapped the floor with it. An angry popping sound reverberated in the dark cellar air as he tried to summon the spirits.
But he was disappointed. Cecil didn’t feel the spirit mount him. Why wasn’t the loa visiting him?
After they were through, Nettie collapsed while Cecil took a cigar from his bag and lit up.
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