“I wish you wouldn’t, Cecil,” she whispered, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. “It’s so hard to get rid of the smell. We’ll give ourselves away to Miss Ellinore.”
“Maybe we should invite her to join us some Sunday,” Cecil said with a laugh as he blew a smoke ring into the air. “She might like it. The old girl could afford to miss a Mass.”
He and Nettie had been raised Catholics, but now that they both practiced voodoo, he saw how many similarities there were between the two religions. Both believed in a supreme being. Both believed in an afterlife. Both believed that invisible demons existed. Voodoo loa were like the Christian saints who had lived exceptional lives and possessed special attributes. Followers of voodoo believed that each person had a master of the head, which corresponded to a Christian’s patron saint.
“That’s not funny, Cecil. You know that Miss Ellinore wouldn’t approve. With all the talk about the Hoodoo Killer on Royal Street, Miss Ellinore would likely lose her mind if she knew what we do down here.”
“Makes no difference to me if she approves or not,” said Cecil, putting out the cigar. “But I don’t want to get you in no trouble, Nettie.”
Chapter 47
On the taxi ride back to the French Quarter, Piper’s cell phone rang. It was Marguerite.
“I was wondering if you might like to have something to eat with me at Napoleon House.”
“Yeah, that sounds great,” said Piper, not wanting to be alone. After shooting the tomb scene, she needed to be in the land of the living again.
Piper had read about Napoleon House online. The place was listed as the former residence of a mayor of New Orleans who had offered his home to Napoleon Bonaparte as a refuge during his island exile. Napoleon died before sympathetic New Orleanians could rescue him, but now the three-story example of Creole architecture was registered as a National Historic Landmark and housed a bar and restaurant. It was on Chartres, just a block over from Royal.
When she arrived, Piper spotted Marguerite waiting for her out front. The line moved quickly, and the two of them entered the building and proceeded into a dimly lit, weathered-looking bar area. Old prints, proclamations, and newspaper articles were framed and hung on the mottled walls. Smiling, chattering patrons ate and drank at the banged-up tables. Classical music played on the sound system.
They followed the hostess through the bar area into an adjoining room that, like the rest of the place, also had an overall cocoonlike feeling of benign neglect. An old black fan whirred from the chipped, brown-painted ceiling. A portrait of Napoleon and other varied faded pictures decorated the walls. The terrazzo floor was scuffed. Piper and Marguerite were escorted to a small round table placed beside French doors that opened directly out to the sidewalk.
They both ordered red beans and rice with sausage and a side salad.
“And to drink?” asked the old waiter.
“Um, I’m not sure,” said Piper, glancing at Marguerite. She was in New Orleans. Ordering a club soda seemed boring and unadventurous. “What do you suggest?”
The waiter shrugged. “The house specialty is the Pimm’s Cup.”
“Which is what, exactly?” asked Piper.
“A gin-based British liqueur, lemonade, and a splash of lemon-lime soda,” answered the waiter. “It’s very refreshing.”
“Okay. I’ll have that.”
“Make that two,” said Marguerite.
While they sipped their drinks, Piper told Marguerite about the morning filming, confiding how terrified she’d been when trapped inside the fake crypt.
“I had an experience recently that I’d really rather not talk about,” said Piper. “But being unable to move just brought back the terror of the whole thing.” She shook her head to clear it. “This is such a fantastic, magical place, though. I don’t want to focus on the negative while I’m here. I really want to enjoy New Orleans.”
“I’m so sorry for your struggle, Piper, but I’m glad you’re enjoying our city,” said Marguerite, smiling. “I love it, too.”
“Were you born here?” asked Piper.
“Yes. I grew up in a little shotgun house, eating creole food and listening to jazz. When I was young, I took it all for granted. It’s only now that I truly appreciate how special this town is. I’d never want to live anyplace else.”
“I can sure see why,” said Piper, taking a sip of her Pimm’s Cup.
The waiter brought the plates to the table. As Piper picked up her fork, her mouth turned down at the corners.
“Is something wrong?” asked Marguerite with concern etched on her face. “Isn’t the food what you expected?”
“Oh, no. It’s not that,” said Piper. “I was just thinking about those men in the store yesterday morning. They gave me the feeling you might be changing locations, leaving New Orleans.”
Marguerite cocked her head. “What men?”
“The three guys who came in and talked with Bertrand. They walked around the shop measuring and taking pictures. One of them was asking the customers questions.”
“What kinds of questions?” asked Marguerite.
“Like, if they would come to the bakery if it were someplace else.”
“But where would it be?” asked Marguerite.
Piper shrugged. “I have no idea. The man didn’t name a place. It was just a general question. Anyway, sorry, it’s really none of my business.”
“I appreciate your concern, Piper,” said Marguerite as she slid some rice onto her fork. “That’s really very sweet of you. But you have nothing to worry about. We often have people coming in to take a peek at how we do things. Maybe they have a business of their own and were looking for ideas. I don’t know what those men were doing in the bakery, but Boulangerie Bertrand is staying in New Orleans, right where it belongs.”
Chapter 48
After lunch with Marguerite, Piper considered going to the bakery, but all she really wanted was to go upstairs to her little apartment and relax. Bertrand had said that he didn’t expect her to work on Sundays, but Piper had had every intention of spending whatever was left of her day helping him out. That was before. Now she decided to take Bertrand up on his offer.
She let herself through the black iron gate, locked it, and slowly climbed the stairs. Once in the apartment—and carefully locking that door, too—Piper kicked off her shoes, went to the kitchen, and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She gulped it down and poured herself another, which she took with her to the bedroom. Sitting on the bed, she called Jack. Piper could hear the television set blaring in the background when he answered.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Watching the basketball game.”
“I forgot,” said Piper. “March Madness. Let me tell you, the craziness is alive and well here in New Orleans.”
“I don’t know why, Pipe. LSU doesn’t look good for the Final Four.”
“That’s not the madness I meant. It’s me, Jack. I feel like I’m losing it.”
Piper heard the background noise cease as Jack immediately turned down the sound on his television.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She told him about shooting the scene in the tomb. “It was horrible, Jack,” she said as she wrapped up her story. “It brought back all those awful feelings. I felt totally paralyzed and scared out of my mind.”
“And what did the director say?” asked Jack.
Piper managed a little laugh. “Oh, he was thrilled. He thought it was perfect, that I was flawless. I wonder what he’d say if he knew I wasn’t acting. He’d probably be even more thrilled. Nothing beats authenticity. I was basically reliving something that had pretty much already happened to me. Method acting at its finest.”
“A flashback,” said Jack. “I’m no doctor, Pipe. But I do know that flashbacks are symptoms of PTSD.”
&
nbsp; “Post-traumatic stress disorder? Me? Please, Jack. No way.”
“Why should you be immune? You went through a dangerous, life-threatening event, Piper.”
“It’s not like I got bombed in Afghanistan or something.”
“You don’t have to be a soldier to suffer from PTSD,” he answered. “When we’re in danger, it’s only natural to feel afraid. That fear triggers many split-second responses in the body to defend itself. The ‘fight-or-flight’ response.” Jack slowed his speech a little. “But in PTSD the reaction is changed. With PTSD you can feel stressed or frightened even when you aren’t in actual danger anymore.”
Piper took a sip of juice and considered his words. Though she didn’t like to hear it, Jack was making sense.
“Okay. Let’s just say you’re right,” she said. “What do I do about it?”
“I don’t really know enough about it, Pipe, but for starters I’d imagine that professional help would be a good idea,” Jack said quietly.
“I want to go home, Jack.”
“Come home, then,” he urged. “Come home, Piper.”
“I can’t, Jack. I can’t run out on Bertrand and Marguerite. I’m committed, and I want to see it through.”
“All right.” He sighed. “I suppose waiting another week or two to see a doctor won’t be the end of the world. But you have to promise me that you’ll call if something like this happens again, Pipe. Call me if anything at all bothers you.”
“Don’t worry. I will,” answered Piper. “I feel like I need to get this under control or else I won’t even be able to act anymore. It really scared me, Jack.”
Chapter 49
Jack pumped the sound back up on the television, but he couldn’t focus on the game. After fifteen minutes of turning the conversation with Piper over in his mind, he reached for his phone. He called the FBI operator and asked to be connected to Nick Kilcannon at home.
“Hey, Jack,” said the bureau psychologist when the connection was made. “What’s up?”
“Sorry to bother you at home on a Sunday, Nick. You’re in the middle of watching the game, right?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not. I guess I’m one of the few men in America who couldn’t care less.”
“The only one I know.” Jack chuckled. “But that’s good for me. I have a personal situation I was hoping I could run by you. It’s my girlfriend. I’m worried about her.”
“Sure. Go ahead, shoot.”
Jack’s tone turned serious as he explained the situation: Piper, the paralyzing puffer-fish poisoning in Sarasota the month before, administered by a killer she’d uncovered, how deathly ill Piper had been, and the flashback she’d experienced this morning. The psychologist listened in silence while Jack told the story.
“So I was thinking Piper might be dealing with PTSD,” Jack finished. “What do you think?”
“It sounds like she’s had the first ‘reexperiencing’ symptom,” said Nick. “Have there been any avoidance symptoms?”
“Avoidance symptoms?” asked Jack, grabbing a pencil and pad. “What do you mean?”
“Has she wanted to stay away from places or things that remind her of what happened to her?”
As he ran the fingers of his free hand through his dark hair, Jack thought about it. “Well, she’s refused to eat seafood since it happened, but I can’t think of anything else.”
“Depression, worry, guilt?” asked Nick. “Has she mentioned that she feels emotionally numb?”
“No on the numbness—or at least she hasn’t said anything about that to me. But I’d say she’s definitely worried,” answered Jack. “And guilt? I don’t think so. She hasn’t seemed really depressed either. Tired sometimes, and a little listless, which would make sense after how sick she was, but not really depressed.”
“Okay. Has she lost interest in activities that she previously enjoyed?”
Jack considered before answering. “Not that I’ve noticed.”
“And you tell me she has no trouble remembering what happened to her when she was poisoned?”
“No,” said Jack. “I’d say she remembers it all too well.”
“How about hyperarousal? Have you noticed her being easily startled? Does she seem tense or on edge?”
“A little bit maybe.”
“What about sleep? Is she having problems sleeping?”
“Yeah,” said Jack “She’s complained of not being able to fall asleep and waking up a lot during the night when she does.”
“Any angry outbursts?”
“None that I’ve seen.”
“Watch for those, Jack. Watch for all the things we’ve just talked about. But I think it may be a little early to be diagnosing PTSD. Piper would have to have at least three of the avoidance symptoms and two of the hyperarousal symptoms for at least a month. It doesn’t sound like she’s there yet. With luck, she may never be.”
“So that’s all there is to do at this point?” asked Jack. “Keep an eye on her? That’s hard, since she’s in New Orleans. But I’ll try my best to stay on top of how she’s doing.”
“I have no doubt about that, Jack. And I’ll give you the name of a psychologist for Piper to see if she wants to talk to somebody when she comes back north. In the meantime don’t hesitate to give me a call if you need to.”
“Thanks, Nick, but I hope I’ve just overreacted.”
“Better safe than sorry, buddy. Besides, some people with PTSD don’t show any symptoms for weeks or months. It could be a while before you know with a fair amount of certainty that Piper is out of the woods.”
Chapter 50
Closing her antique shop precisely at five o’clock, Ellinore stopped to buy pompano fillets, crabmeat, mushrooms, and green onions before going home. Falkner was coming for dinner. She wanted to feed him well before she broke the news to him.
She didn’t have to tell him, of course. He would learn the upsetting truth when she died. But somehow it didn’t seem right to let her nephew go on thinking that he was going to be the heir to whatever she had left when she departed this world.
The Duchamps fortune was long gone, and Ellinore had supported herself for years now. Falkner could do the same. Still, she did feel a tad guilty that she wasn’t leaving him the house that had been built by the Duchamps family. But she’d been able to hold on to it only because she’d worked so hard. It was hers now, and she could do with it as she pleased. Ellinore wanted Sabrina to have it, almost as much as she would have wanted Ginnie to have the place if she’d lived.
Ellinore loved Sabrina like a daughter. She did not love Falkner. Nor had Falkner shown any real love for her. More important, he hadn’t shown any concern or compassion for Ginnie.
As she chopped the mushrooms and green onions and browned them in butter, Ellinore wondered how Falkner would take it. She doubted he would react with good grace. She hoped he wouldn’t lose his temper or get aggressive.
She mixed two tablespoons of flour into the vegetables, then added stock and seasoning and set it all to boil for a few minutes. Next came the white wine. Ellinore had to go downstairs to the basement to get a bottle.
The moment she opened the cellar door, Ellinore detected it. As she started down the basement steps, the unmistakable cigar smell grew stronger.
What was Nettie doing down here?
Ellinore started searching for clues. At first everything looked normal. Nettie’s little room at the north end of the cellar was neat as usual. It gave no hint that Nettie had been staying there, though Ellinore well knew she had.
Slowly, Ellinore got down on her hands and knees, pushed back the coverlet, and looked under the bed. She reached in and felt something hard and smooth. She pulled out a black candle, then another and another. Two dozen in all.
She rose to her feet, left the sleeping area, and continued to search. It dawned on Ellin
ore what she was dealing with when she spotted the smudged white cross on the dark cement floor.
Chapter 51
It was twilight as Piper walked into the Gris-Gris Bar. She went up to the counter and took a seat, grateful for the pulsating music blaring from the speakers in the corners of the room. She ordered a glass of white wine and tapped her foot as she waited for it. She was glad to be around people.
The bartender slid a stemmed glass in front of her. “There you go,” he said. “Let me know how you like it. I’m trying a new brand of pinot grigio.”
“Thanks,” said Piper, taking a sip. “Mmm. I like that. Really light. Good choice.”
“Glad you like it,” said the bartender. “And I’m Wuzzy, by the way.”
“Hey, Wuzzy-by-the-way. I’m Piper.” She reached out, and they shook hands.
“And I’m Falkner-by-the-way.”
Piper looked in the direction of the voice. Falkner Duchamps had taken his place on the bar stool next to hers. What was that old-fashioned expression her mother always used? The one about turning up like a bad penny? Falkner seemed to be everywhere. Actually, she wasn’t unhappy about seeing him right now. At least Falkner was somebody she knew, even if only a little. At this point Piper welcomed a semifamiliar face.
“You get around, don’t you?” she asked.
Falkner smirked. “I could say the same about you.”
“If this clown bothers you, just let me know, Piper,” said Wuzzy, nodding at Falkner and smiling. “I know how annoying he can be.”
“Aw, Wuz, don’t give Piper a bad impression of me,” said Falkner. “I can do that all on my own.”
When Wuzzy went to serve another customer, Falkner told Piper about the bartender’s son and the fund-raiser that was being held the next night.
“I heard Bertrand and Marguerite talking about what they’re donating,” said Piper. “Poor little Connor and poor Wuzzy. That’s a lot to handle.”
“I know,” said Falkner. “It’s heartbreaking. But money would make things a lot easier. I have the feeling that though this may be the first fund-raiser we hold, it won’t be the last. There will be a lifetime of expenses. If I were Wuzzy, I think I’d have snapped by now.”
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