The sound of banjos, horns, and drums filled the air. Ellinore went by the jazz musicians on her way to join the other walkers. As she passed the clarinetist in the porkpie hat, she thought that he looked familiar.
She shivered when she realized who he was. Nettie’s brother Cecil was glaring at her over his clarinet.
Chapter 65
The sign beside the front door of the church proclaimed that confessions were offered a half hour before every Mass. How welcome it would be to lay down this awful burden in the confessional, do penance, and be forgiven. If only it were that simple.
As if telling a priest could actually cleanse the soul and make things right again. Nice in theory for the sinner. Not so comforting for the person sinned against. Shouldn’t the victim of the sin have some say about whether the sinner was forgiven?
And wasn’t one of the tenets of the sacrament to “go and sin no more”? If the sinner went into the confessional knowing full well that there was another deadly sin planned for the immediate future, God would be aware of that, too. He’d know that the sinner wasn’t acting in good faith.
Maybe after the last murder was finished, maybe then it would be worth it to cover all bets and go to confession. But no matter what penance was assigned, it was hard to actually believe that God would ever forgive the bloody atrocities committed in the name of voodoo.
Chapter 66
The jazz musicians finished playing “The Old Rugged Cross” and began “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” as the mourners marched closer to the cemetery. Piper was amazed at the procession. While she was solemn and worried about the terrible events of the last week, she was also aware that she was witnessing something that few people other than New Orleans residents ever experienced.
“These songs are so moving,” Piper said into Marguerite’s ear as they followed the band.
“The funeral dirges help remind us of the ups and downs of life,” said Marguerite, holding a tissue to the corner of her eye. “But wait till later. They’ll be playing ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ or ‘Li’l Liza Jane,’ and people will be dancing under decorated umbrellas and waving white handkerchiefs with the idea that life isn’t over at death. The jazz funeral celebrates the fact that the person who died is free now to dance on the other side. I’m trying to remember that.”
Piper reached over and patted the woman’s shoulder. “I really admire how you’re handling this, Marguerite. You’re incredibly brave.”
“Not really,” said Marguerite. “I’m just trying to do the best I can. I’m determined to carry on, Piper.”
Reaching the cemetery entrance, the pallbearers pulled the casket from the back of the hearse and rocked the coffin to the beat of the music.
“What are they doing?” asked Piper, incredulous.
“They are making sure Muffuletta Mike has one last dance,” answered Marguerite.
Hoisting the coffin up on their shoulders, the pallbearers passed under the tall iron cross that topped the gate. Piper and Marguerite followed with the rest of the mourners.
As she walked along the path made of sand, gravel, and crushed shells, Piper could see why New Orleans cemeteries were called “Cities of the Dead.” The aboveground monuments and crypts looked like buildings and houses lined up along narrow streets. The taller wall vaults, housing dozens of tombs, were the city’s skyscrapers. Walking deeper into the maze of the crammed cemetery, Piper began to feel squeamish and claustrophobic.
Piper stopped. “Marguerite?” she asked. “Would you mind going on without me? I’m going to wait for a bit.”
Marguerite searched Piper’s face. “Are you all right, Piper? You’re flushed.”
“I’ll be fine, really. I just need to take a break. Go ahead. I’ll catch up with you.”
“All right. But if you don’t show up in a few minutes, I’m coming back to get you.”
The morning sun had risen in the sky and was shining down strongly, attracted by the whiteness of the tombs. Piper cursed herself for failing to wear her wide-brimmed straw hat. She separated herself from the other mourners and looked for a shady place, finding an area where a tall wall vault blocked the burning rays. She welcomed the noticeably cooler air there.
From her sheltered spot, she could still see the people filing along the path on their way to watch Muffuletta Mike’s interment. She noticed Aaron Kane at the same time he turned his head and noticed her. Piper groaned inwardly as she saw him break from the group and walk over. The last thing she needed right now was the sloppy smoocher from the St. Patrick’s Day parade.
“Don’t worry. I have no intention of kissing you,” he said, as if reading her mind.
“That’s a relief,” said Piper.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you feeling well?” Aaron asked with concern in his voice as he mopped his own brow. “I have a bottle of water with me, if you’d like it. I’ve been to some funerals here before, and these cemeteries can feel like rotisseries.”
Piper hesitated, not wanting to take anything from the man, but she decided to accept the water. She was overheated and feeling weak. It would be stupid not to take the unopened bottle just because she had an uneasy feeling about the man offering it.
“I fear we got off to a bad start, Piper,” said Aaron as he watched her drink. “I hope I didn’t offend you. The kissing cane is one of our St. Patrick’s Day traditions.”
Piper took the bottle from her mouth and nodded, softening a little. “No harm done,” she said. She pointed deeper into the cemetery. “How long do you think this will take?”
“Not too long,” said Aaron. “They’ll say some prayers and file by the tomb, and that will be it.”
Piper took another swallow and looked around at the nearby vaults. “Each one is marked with one family’s name, but they don’t look large enough to hold entire families.”
“Ah, that’s the ingenious part. One body at a time is deposited in the vault. Then the sun does the rest, beating down on what is essentially a brick-and-concrete oven. Over a year’s time, the remains disintegrate to almost nothing.”
“Like cremation,” said Piper.
“Pretty much, except there are no flames and it takes longer. But it’s a very efficient system. Before we got here today, the closure tablet was removed from the front of Mike’s tomb and the vault inside was cleaned out of what might be left of past coffins. Any human remains in there were bagged, tagged, and put in the lower section of the vault to make room for Mike.”
Piper’s imagination wandered, from Muffuletta Mike’s body going into a small, dark, hot place to memories of her panicked experience inside the tomb on the movie set to her terrifying paralysis after being poisoned. Suddenly she couldn’t catch her breath, everything started to swim around her, and she sank to the ground.
Someone was shaking her. She heard her name.
“Piper. Piper!”
Slowly, so slowly, she opened her eyes. The light hurt, and she closed them again. Her hand was being rubbed, and something wet and cool was on her forehead. The voice was gentler this time.
“Piper, please, wake up.”
She raised her eyelids and tried to focus. There were dark figures looming over her. The first one she recognized was Falkner. He stood above her—protectively, she felt.
“There you go,” he said. “You’re going to be all right.”
Piper turned her head and saw Marguerite kneeling beside her. She was the one stroking her hand. Piper tried to smile at her, but she couldn’t.
“I’m all right,” she whispered. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You fainted and were out for a bit,” Marguerite said. “What matters is that you’re okay.”
“You shouldn’t be worrying about me,” said Piper, her voice growing stronger. “You have enough to worry about already.”
“Never mind that,” said
Marguerite. “We’re going to get you to a doctor. Do you think you can get up?”
“I think I can,” said Piper. “And really, I don’t need a doctor.”
Falkner and Wuzzy helped lift her. She wobbled at first, but after taking a few steps she began to feel steadier on her feet. She noticed Aaron Kane smiling at her encouragingly.
As they got closer to the cemetery gates, the jazz music grew louder.
“When the Saints Go Marching In.”
The former mourners were now dancers, twisting and twirling in the bright sunshine, the living celebrating the eternal life of Muffuletta Mike.
Marguerite and the others stood with her as Falkner tried to hail a cab. Piper noticed that Sabrina and Leo were nearby, talking to an older woman Piper didn’t recognize. But she heard the woman speaking loudly over the music.
“All right, come in today, but I won’t have you coming in the rest of the week, Sabrina. A bride has too much to do. I’m only going to be open from noon till five this week anyway.”
Chapter 67
After the funeral Cecil went straight to his place. He put his clarinet case down on the floor, peeled off his sweat-drenched shirt, and went to the kitchen and took a cold Fanta from the refrigerator. Hot and tired, he quickly gulped down the orange soda and then angrily crushed the can.
When he saw Ellinore Duchamps in front of the church, it was all he could do to keep himself from putting down his clarinet and spitting in her face. The way she had treated Nettie, after all those years of loyal service, was just not right! As Cecil thought about his sister’s tearful account of Ellinore’s callous dismissal, the resentment rose in his chest.
What had Nettie really done wrong? She hadn’t hurt anyone or stolen anything. She had merely practiced her religion, just as Ellinore practiced hers. Even if Ellinore didn’t believe in voodoo, she should have respected Nettie’s right to her own beliefs.
Ellinore was wicked. But Cecil’s experience told him that eventually people paid for their sins. He had to believe that. Otherwise he would drive himself crazy with thoughts about the unfairness and inequities in life.
He lay down on the old couch and closed his eyes. Cecil thought more about the funeral. He wondered if Muffuletta Mike was pleased, wherever he was. He could be in a heavenlike place or he could be doomed to live on earth as a bodiless spirit. To Cecil it wasn’t clear what fate awaited Mike.
In his mind Cecil went over the experiences he’d had with Mike. Mike had made sandwiches for Cecil, but he made them grudgingly. Cecil knew that Mike couldn’t wait to get him out of the shop whenever he came in.
Cecil didn’t like the way Mike treated his son either. Many times Cecil had heard Mike berating Tommy, who clearly hated working in the shop and, according to his father, had no real aptitude for it. Cecil felt sorry for the kid. When Tommy had asked Cecil to put together the jazz funeral, Cecil had done it for the boy, not for his father.
But when word got to Cecil that Mike had complained to the cops about him, wanting him to move and play somewhere else, Cecil’s opinion about Mike was sealed. How Mike wanted to act in his own place was one thing. Trying to restrain Cecil from playing on the corner across the street from the sandwich shop was quite another. Cecil had owned that spot for years. It belonged to him, tied not with a formal lease but with tradition. His father had staked out that corner. Cecil could still feel his father’s spirit there. Cecil knew it was where he belonged.
Muffuletta Mike didn’t think so.
In the end, Cecil knew, people got what they deserved.
And now Bertrand Olivier was dead, too.
Cecil got up from the couch. He wished he had never agreed to go on Aaron Kane’s radio show tonight. He wasn’t only concerned about what he was going to say and if he’d be able to do his religion justice with his words. He was also worried that now, with two murders on Royal Street, his talking about voodoo could implicate him with the police. They were surely looking for someone to pin the bloody crimes on, and he might seem like a good candidate.
Chapter 68
Marguerite insisted on accompanying Piper upstairs.
“Are you sure you won’t see a doctor, Piper?” she asked as they entered the apartment.
Piper shook her head. “No, really, I’m fine. I just want to lie down for a little while.”
Marguerite looked skeptical, but she acquiesced. “All right, but there’s no way you’re coming with me to talk to the police,” she declared. “I’ll tell them what happened at the cemetery. They can interview you another time.”
Piper didn’t protest. She felt washed out, and her eyes burned. Marguerite and she both had seen the same horrible things last night. She doubted she’d have anything to add to what Marguerite would describe. Though Piper was more than willing to talk to the police, it didn’t have to be right now. Better later, when she was feeling stronger and more alert.
But she did want to talk to Marguerite about something else. Sabrina and Leo’s wedding celebration on the Natchez was only two days away, with the reception at the restaurant on the following day. If Piper was to make the cakes, she had to be able to use the kitchen and ovens downstairs in the bakery. Would the police still have the area closed off as a crime scene?
“You know, you’re right,” said Marguerite. “I hadn’t even thought about the wedding. I’m determined that the business Bertrand and I built will go on, but I just assumed the bakery would be closed until after his funeral. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Marguerite,” said Piper, distressed. “I’m so sorry. Really I am. I hate bringing up such a trivial matter at a time like this.”
“I know you’re sorry, Piper.” Marguerite straightened her posture and wiped away the dampness at her eyes. “But of course. Bertrand would want us to fulfill his commitment to Sabrina and Leo. I’ll talk to the police about it. I don’t see why they can’t make sure to go through at least the kitchen today for any evidence. They’d probably want to do that as soon as possible anyway. If they want us to keep the rest of the place closed for a while, I couldn’t care less.”
When Marguerite left for the police station, Piper went to the bedroom and lay down. She breathed deeply, in and out, trying to soothe herself, attempting to practice the meditation techniques she’d learned in her yoga classes. Breathe in through the nose. Exhale long and deeply through the mouth, releasing toxicity and tension. She imagined herself looking out at the calm, clear waters of the Gulf of Mexico, feeling a cool breeze blowing soothingly. Piper started to drift off to sleep.
Her nap was interrupted by her ringing cell phone. She answered immediately when she saw the name on the screen.
“Oh, Jack. I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” she said with relief. “I tried you last night. Where were you?”
“Out with some of the guys,” he said. “The bar was noisy, and I didn’t hear my phone. I called you back on my way home in the cab, but you didn’t answer. I had to testify in court this morning about one of my cases. This is the first minute I’ve had to call you again.”
She pictured him getting up early, showering, shaving, and dressing, all the while going over his testimony in his mind. He probably didn’t have the television on. He wouldn’t have heard the news.
“It doesn’t matter,” answered Piper. “I’m just so glad to hear your voice.”
“What’s wrong, Pipe?”
“Why do you always assume something is wrong?”
“Don’t answer my question with another question, okay? Something’s wrong, Pipe. What is it?”
She told him. About finding Bertrand murdered, about the flour and the snake in the dumbwaiter, the flower nail and the CPR, about the jazz funeral and the fainting episode in the cemetery.
“I’m hanging up now and making you a plane reservation to come home on the next available flight,” Jack s
aid when she was finished. “I’ll call you right back.”
“No, Jack. I can’t come home yet. I can’t abandon Marguerite or leave the couple getting married in the lurch. It’s Tuesday. I’ll come home Friday night as soon as I finish the cake for their wedding reception. I promise.”
“I don’t think you get it, Piper. That first murder was committed down the street. The victim was somebody you didn’t know. Voodoo, hoodoo, whatever is going on down there, Bertrand’s murder puts you right in the middle of it now. That’s a good enough reason to get yourself out of there and fast. And while we’re at it, have you ever fainted before in your entire life?”
“No,” Piper said softly. “But even my father understands why I can’t come home yet. Why can’t you?”
“I get why you think you should stay, Piper, but I think you should see a doctor, a shrink or something. You’ve been through a lot—that nightmare last month in Florida—it’s taking its toll, physically and mentally. The world will go on if you don’t make a wedding cake. I’d come down there right now and bring you back myself if I didn’t have to be in court to testify again this afternoon.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child, Jack.”
“Well, then don’t act like one, Piper. I just don’t think you understand how serious this is.”
Chapter 69
The Gris-Gris Bar was nearly empty. For once Wuzzy was glad that business was slow. Between Bertrand’s murder the night before and Muffuletta Mike’s funeral that morning, he wished he could have taken the rest of the day off to spend with Connor. All that death had left him drained and reminded him of how short life could be. But somebody had to tend bar for the rest of the afternoon. Plus, the place was trashed from the fund-raiser.
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