As she perused the garments hanging in the closet, she supposed she should choose something in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. But between the parade attire she’d watched revelers wearing, the film shoots where she’d worn the emerald-colored sequined number, and all the tinted bakery goods she’d been making, wrapping, and selling over the past few days, Piper was over green. She picked out a fresh white T-shirt and her favorite jeans and called it a day, knowing that there was no dress code at the Gris-Gris Bar.
When she arrived, the place was packed. Piper was amazed at how many people were familiar to her now after just her few days in New Orleans. It pleased her to see Sabrina and Leo at the bar talking to Wuzzy. Aaron Kane was at his table speaking into a microphone for his radio show. He appeared to be interviewing another man, someone Piper didn’t recognize. She walked closer, listened to the ongoing radio conversation, and learned that the man was another Royal Street merchant who was supporting a neighbor and fellow businessman and his son. Aaron spotted Piper watching and nodded at her.
A jazz band played in the corner of the bar. Piper recognized one of the musicians as the seemingly angry man she had seen at Muffuletta Mike’s on her first day in New Orleans and then heard talking to a cop about a hoodoo connection to Mike’s murder the next day. The musician was dressed in white pants and a white shirt. He wore a porkpie hat on the back of his head and a plush toy snake, striped with yellow, green, and purple, around his neck.
He may have felt Piper watching him, because when there was a break in the music, he beckoned to her to come over.
“Anything you want to hear, miss?” he asked. The man didn’t appear to recognize Piper.
She considered for a moment. “It’s not very original, but how about ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’?”
On cue a trumpet, a saxophone, a trombone, and a bass joined the clarinet in the familiar tune, though Piper had never heard a jazz rendition of it. She and the others gathered in the bar applauded heartily when the song ended.
“That was great!” yelled Piper over the din.
The musician tipped his hat toward her. “Glad you liked it, miss.”
Piper wanted to talk with the musician, but she didn’t want to open with the fact that she’d seen his annoyed departure from Muffuletta Mike’s or had overheard his conversation with the police officer about the murder. Those weren’t exactly conversation starters. Instead she asked the next question that popped into her mind.
“Is that snake around your neck supposed to signify St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland?” she asked.
“If that’s what you want to believe, miss. But in my religion the spirit Damballah is St. Patrick’s counterpart,” the musician said proudly. “And Damballah is represented by the serpent. That’s why I wear the snake, and that’s why I wear white tonight. The spirit Damballah’s color is white.”
Before Piper could respond, someone else yelled, “Cecil! Hey, man, are we playing or not?” The trumpet player was looking at Cecil with an exasperated expression on his face.
“All right, all right,” said Cecil, raising his clarinet. He looked at Piper. “I’m sorry, miss, but I have to get back to work.”
Tables had been set up to display the donated prizes for the tricky tray. Fund-raiser participants purchased tickets for cash and then deposited the tickets in bowls placed in front of the prize or prizes they wanted to win.
Piper spent fifty dollars on ten raffle tickets, green and shaped like shamrocks. She scribbled her name on the back of each one. She put five of them in the bowl to win the brass candlesticks from Duchamps Antiques and Illuminations. As she deposited her remaining shamrocks for a chance to win another session with the Royal Street fortune-teller, Piper felt a hand on her arm. It belonged to Falkner Duchamps. His face dimpled as he smiled at her.
“So you want to know what the future holds, huh, Piper?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Well, you’re talking to the guy who’ll be pulling out the winners tonight,” said Falkner. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Now, I wouldn’t want any preferential treatment,” said Piper.
“Aw, what fun is that?”
Piper laughed. She glanced around the room and said, “I haven’t seen Bertrand and Marguerite yet tonight. Have you?”
Falkner pointed. “I saw Marguerite over there,” he said. “But don’t run off, Piper. Keep me company. I can make sure it’s worth your while.”
Piper waved as she walked away. “See you later, buddy.”
Marguerite was at the buffet sampling the food from Bistro Sabrina.
“These crab cakes are delicious, and the Gulf oysters are sublime. Try some, Piper.”
Piper made a little face. “No thanks, I haven’t had much of an appetite for seafood in a while. I think I’ll indulge my sweet tooth instead.”
She selected a cookie from Boulangerie Bertrand. It was shaped like a bathtub with three men’s heads peeking from the top. They’d made the nursery-rhyme cookies as a tip of the hat to Connor.
“Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub,” said Piper. “Bertrand and you do such a great job with these things. I gotta tell you, I’m definitely going to steal this idea and take it back north with me.”
“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?” asked Marguerite. “Bertrand and I will be flattered to think our cookies are being copied.”
“Where is Bertrand?” asked Piper, looking around again. “I haven’t seen him yet.”
“I was just wondering the same thing,” said Marguerite, pulling her cell phone from her purse. “I went home to shower and dress. We were supposed to meet up here.”
When the phone call to her husband went directly to voice mail, Marguerite looked at Piper and made a suggestion. “Let’s go over to the bakery and see what’s keeping him.”
The night air was balmy as they crossed Royal Street. Piper and Marguerite jostled their way through the St. Patrick’s Day celebrants. Shamrocks, green T-shirts, and leprechaun hats were the dominant apparel. Many pedestrians carried cans of beer and cocktails in plastic cups as they sang and danced, turning the road into a street party.
“And just think!” Marguerite yelled over the noise to Piper. “In another two days we’ll be celebrating St. Joseph’s Day!”
Approaching the bakery, they saw that the Closed sign was in the window. A single night-light dimly illuminated the display room. But, beyond that, a bright beam streamed from the kitchen out into the corridor. Neither woman could detect any movement inside.
Marguerite took out her keys and unlocked the front door, immediately disarming the alarm as they entered. She called out. “Bertrand?”
Flipping the switch for the chandeliers, Marguerite called out again as the room was immediately filled with light. “Bertrand?”
Piper followed as Marguerite led the way toward the kitchen. When she heard Marguerite’s gasp, Piper was seized with fright as she forced herself to look.
Bertrand lay in the middle of the corridor floor, a puddle of blood next to his head. Piper looked on in horror as she realized that a flower needle was sticking from his neck.
“Oh, my God, Piper! Call 911!” screamed Marguerite as she collapsed onto her knees beside her husband. She reached over and touched his face, then shook him by the shoulders.
“Bertrand, Bertrand!” she yelled. “Wake up!”
Piper made the emergency call, quickly giving the information the dispatcher required. “They’re on their way, Marguerite,” she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice.
Marguerite put her ear to her husband’s chest and then next to his mouth. “I can’t hear a heartbeat!” she cried. “He’s not breathing!”
“I know CPR,” said Piper. “Let me try.”
Even as she started chest compressions, Piper was fairly sure it was too late. The ef
fort to make the heart pump again and get blood and oxygen to keep the brain functioning could be a precious lifesaving tool. Though CPR usually worked on TV shows, it was nowhere near as successful in real life. It was only likely to be effective if started within six minutes after the blood stopped flowing. Looking at Bertrand’s open mouth and ashen face was discouraging. Piper also could see that blood wasn’t seeping from his neck wound and most likely hadn’t been even as Marguerite had tried calling him from the Gris-Gris Bar. Those critical six minutes had come and were probably long gone.
But she continued with the compressions until the EMTs got there.
The police arrived as the paramedic stated the obvious: Bertrand Olivier was dead.
Piper watched as the body was examined. She hadn’t noticed until now the mound of white powder that had been formed near Bertrand’s feet or the egg that had been placed on top of it. In fact, there was a white dusting over almost the entire hallway. Piper looked down at her arms and legs, noting that after kneeling on the floor beside Bertrand she was covered in the white powder as well.
“Flour,” remarked one of the officers.
Piper held Marguerite as she wept while the police took pictures of the body and the rest of the crime scene from every imaginable angle. When a detective asked for details of what had happened in the time leading up to the discovery of the body, Marguerite looked helplessly at Piper.
“I just can’t talk—not now,” she whispered.
Piper answered. “We were supposed to meet up with Bertrand at the Gris-Gris Bar across the street for the fund-raiser there tonight,” she explained. “When he didn’t show up, we came here to look for him. We found him on the floor.”
“Was the door unlocked?” asked the detective.
“No, it was locked,” answered Piper. “And the security alarm was on.”
“No sign of forced entry,” muttered the detective. He turned to Marguerite. “Was your husband expecting anyone, somebody he would have let in?”
Marguerite sniffed and shook her head. “Not that I know of,” she said softly.
As Piper viewed the anguish on Marguerite’s face, for some reason the memory of the men who had come into Boulangerie Bertrand her first morning in the bakery, taking measurements and pictures, flashed through her mind. Could they possibly have something to do with this?
The understanding detective agreed that Marguerite and Piper could come to the police station the following day and make their formal statements.
“Is it all right if I come in around noon?” asked Marguerite. “I have a funeral to attend in the morning.”
The detective looked at her skeptically.
“Bertrand and I had been planning to go to Muffuletta Mike’s funeral in the morning. I know Bertrand would still want me to go and pay our respects.”
“Are you sure, Marguerite?” Piper asked incredulously.
Before Marguerite could respond, they heard shouting in the corridor. One of the police officers stood at the opened door to the dumbwaiter. He yelled in fright at the sleek, coiled body and the two beady red eyes that peered out.
Chapter 57
The air filled with the sound of patrons laughing and yelling to be heard over the jazz band’s loud music. Falkner surveyed the Gris-Gris Bar and smiled. They all looked like they were having a good time.
With admission being charged at the door and people crowded at tables and jammed three deep at the bar, the evening was already a monetary success. Judging by the fat piles of shamrock tickets inside the individual glass bowls stationed in front of the prizes, the tricky-tray auction was also going to raise quite a bit of money for Wuzzy and his son.
It seemed as good a time as any to pick the winners. Falkner went over to the band and asked them to stop playing. He held up his arms to quiet the crowd. It didn’t work.
“Hey, everyone,” he called. “Is everybody having fun?”
The partygoers paid no attention, continuing to talk among themselves.
Falkner looked beseechingly at the band. “Can you do something to get their attention?” he asked.
Cecil turned to his bandmates. They’d had to do this at many parties in the Big Easy. “Let’s give it to ’em, brothers,” he called.
All the horn players put their instruments to their lips and blew one long, loud, screeching note. The bar patrons winced at the resulting cacophony, many putting their hands over their ears. Everyone turned to look at the band, giving Falkner the chance to make his announcement.
“We’re going to call the raffle winners now. It’s time to get out your tickets.”
He went to the prize table and began picking shamrocks from the bowls and calling out the lucky names. Winners and their friends cheered as they won the prizes, among them a dinner for four at Bistro Sabrina, a trip to the radio station donated by Aaron Kane, a series of massages and beauty treatments at local spas and salons, a gift certificate for six psychic readings at a Royal Street fortune-teller, a tour of New Orleans donated by Falkner himself. But when he got to the brass candlesticks, Falkner slid his hand into his pocket and felt for the ticket he had taken from the top of the pile the moment Piper had walked away after depositing it in the bowl.
“Okay, folks,” he called. “Next prize is these glorious candlesticks donated by Duchamps Antiques and Illuminations. Let’s see who the winner is.”
With Piper’s ticket already clenched in his hand, Falkner stuck his fist in the bowl. He wanted Piper to have the brass candlesticks to remember him by.
He pulled the ticket from the bowl and glanced at it. Falkner opened his mouth to announce the winner just as the crowd heard the blaring sirens.
Chapter 58
Everyone in the bar hurried out onto Royal Street. Aaron Kane grabbed his microphone while his engineer scooped up the necessary equipment to broadcast from outside. A large crowd of St. Patrick’s Day merrymakers had already gathered to gape at the activity. Police cars, emergency lights flashing, were parked in front of Boulangerie Bertrand.
Approaching people on the sidewalk and sticking his microphone in their faces, Aaron asked them what they had seen or heard.
“My friends and I were just hanging out here on the street, drinking and having a good time,” said a young man wearing green Bermuda shorts and a Tulane T-shirt. “We thought the bakery was closed for the night. Then we saw a couple of women let themselves inside and turn on the lights. I didn’t pay any more attention until an ambulance came hauling up the street.”
Other pedestrians offered more.
“One of the paramedics came out a little while ago to get something from the back of his truck. I heard him say that they found a snake in there.”
“I saw a cop shaking his head, and he told another cop he couldn’t believe that the baker inside was dead. Said he’d been in the bakery buying beignets only this morning.”
Aaron listened to additional accounts. He tried to keep his excitement from showing on his face. The misery inside Boulangerie Bertrand should translate to higher ratings for his radio show tonight.
When a television news van arrived, no doubt alerted by an assignment-desk police scanner, Aaron wasn’t too upset. The words of the people on the street were vivid and very human—better, in Aaron’s opinion, than some packaged television news report written and constructed by a reporter who was more interested in seeing himself on the air than in staying with the reactions of the average citizen. It was only when the front door of the bakery opened and a stretcher was carried out that Aaron wished he had video images to broadcast. Seeing a body bag so obviously stuffed with a corpse was a powerful and unforgettable image.
As more of the familiar yellow police tape was pulled around the crime scene, Piper and Marguerite exited the bakery. They both looked extremely pale, their appearances made more ghostly by the fact that they were covered in white powder.
Aaron pushed forward, trying to get close enough to the victim’s wife and Piper to ask them some questions. But the women went straight to the black wrought-iron gate next door, quickly unlocked it, and disappeared inside.
Chapter 59
The minute they entered the apartment, Piper went to the bathroom and got two towels. She and Marguerite brushed the flour off their skin and clothes.
“Can I get you anything, Marguerite?” asked Piper. “Coffee, tea, or maybe some juice? I wish I had something stronger to offer you.”
“A cup of tea would be fine,” Marguerite answered in an unsteady voice. “I’ll only stay for a little while, Piper, but I can’t face going home yet.”
Piper left Marguerite in the living area while she went to the kitchen, filled the kettle with water, and set it to boil on the stove. Then she returned to sit with Marguerite.
“Would you like to stay here with me tonight?” Piper offered.
Looking around the room, Marguerite’s eyes came to rest on the French doors that led to the balcony.
“I appreciate the offer, Piper, but I think it would be even harder to stay here than it will be to stay at home. Bertrand and I were so happy when we lived in this tiny little space. We’d work hard all day downstairs, loving being together, building our dream. Then we’d come up here, relax, and enjoy each other. I can’t tell you how many bottles of wine were consumed out on that balcony.”
Piper smiled sadly. She didn’t really know how to respond. She’d known Marguerite for only a few days, and talking on an intimate level didn’t come easily. When the kettle whistled, Piper sprang from her chair, glad to have something to do.
After they finished their tea, Marguerite rose slowly to leave. “I must go home now,” she said wearily. “I have to call Bertrand’s family in France and let them know what’s happened.”
Piper nodded solemnly. “I want to help in any way I can. And I’ll go with you to Muffuletta Mike’s funeral tomorrow morning if you’d like.”
“You don’t mind?” asked Marguerite.
That Old Black Magic Page 13
