Voodoo or Die

by Stephanie Bond

  Although hadn't she known it would be that way? It had to be.

  In her bedroom, the reminders were even more vivid. The bedclothes were tousled, the position of the pillows striking her as particularly poignant—her pillow hung off her side of the bed at least six inches, and the pillow that Zane had slept on was tucked next to hers. He had followed her across the bed as they'd slept. The symbolism struck her like a physical blow—he was seeking her, and she, as always, was running.

  Her collection of extravagant lingerie was scattered about the floor, and the scent of sex and musk hung in the air. If she hadn't left at dawn to run a fool's errand, she and Zane might have greeted the morning and each other with wonder. They would have said a reluctant good-bye, and she wouldn't be dreading their next meeting.

  A lump of emotion lodged in her throat. Humming to keep her mounting panic at bay, she changed clothes quickly and found a scarf to cover most of her horrifying hair.

  After a quick check on the cat, who seemed to be exploring his new space, she left to make the short drive to Goddard's Funeral Chapel, which resembled a home. It was nestled among other houses facing Charm Street. The marquee near the road read "Prepaid Funerals Make Lovely Holiday Gifts."

  Gloria pulled into the circular driveway that led to the rear of the funeral home and parked in the expansive lot, which had been packed when she had been here to attend Deke Black's funeral a couple of months earlier.

  She sat with her hands glued to the steering wheel, staring at the angel statuette sitting next to the set of white double doors, lifting a beckoning arm. How evil was it to plan a man's memorial service while withholding information about persons who might have killed him?

  Heaving a sigh, she turned off the engine and climbed out with leaden resignation. It was the one thing she could do for Steve Chasen before she left Mojo.

  Chapter 22

  "Open casket or closed?" Greg Goddard, portly elder son of the Goddard family, asked, his voice somewhere between that of an NPR announcer and a hypnotist.

  "Closed." But as with every other decision she'd made over the past hour, Gloria second-guessed herself. Was it guilt that made her not want to look Steve Chasen in the face?

  "What type of flowers?"

  She had no idea Her father had always liked lilies... since he'd been buried quickly and without a funeral, maybe she could get through these arrangements for a stranger by thinking of what he would have wanted. "Lilies... yellow."

  "And do you have a preference for music?"

  "Piano music, maybe a hymn or two. Nondenominational."

  "Sermon?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "In these parts, it's common for a minister to come in and say a few words." Greg Goddard gave a little chuckle. "Try to save the souls of a captive audience."

  Considering Steve Chasen had been a blackmailer who'd been poisoned and had had his house set on fire, very probably resulting in the death of someone else, Gloria suspected the audience would be riddled with enough sinners to keep the minister busy for a while, herself included. Still, her father hadn't been much on organized religion.

  Organized crime, yes. Organized religion, not so much.

  "Maybe just a eulogy," she said.

  "Would you like to read it? Or someone else who was close to Mr. Chasen?"

  Gloria's mind replayed all the conversations she'd had with people who had known Steve, and the choice adjectives they'd used to describe him. "Is that something you could do, Mr. Goddard? You have such a nice voice."

  He blushed and dimpled. "Why, thank you. I'd be happy to read the eulogy. What about notices of the memorial service to hand out to friends, coworkers?"

  She frowned—notices? "I don't think that will be necessary—it probably will be an intimate crowd."

  "Extra mourners are available for a fee."

  "Pardon me?"

  "It's one of our customized options. We'll bring in extra mourners for twenty-five dollars a head to fill in the pews, if you like. They will, of course, be dressed appropriately and will be duly grief-stricken."

  "Nice to know," she acknowledged. "But I don't think so."

  "Life souvenir?"

  "What is that?"

  "A little something for attendees to take with them to remind them of their loved one, such as engraved fingernail clippers or maybe a refrigerator magnet with the deceased's picture on it. Life souvenirs are very trendy in the big cities."

  "Uh, I'll pass."

  Greg Goddard nodded, noting her choices as he moved down a form. She marveled that disposing of the dead had been reduced to a party checklist: Centerpiece? Check. Background music? Check. Invitations and party favors? Check, check.

  "Now then—clothing," the man said. "I understand Mr. Chasen's house burned this morning with, I presume, all of his belongings inside."

  "That's correct."

  "No bother, I have an array of suits to choose from, if that's okay with you."

  "It is."

  "There's a rather nice bone-colored pinstripe that will look especially good with his tanned skin tone."

  She wasn't sure it mattered, since the casket would be closed, but she appreciated the man's attention to detail. "Fine." The mention of Steve's tan made her think of Sheena Linder—she needed to finish reviewing those contracts. It was one loose end she could tie up in case she had to make a quick getaway.

  Greg Goddard coughed. "And where shall I send the invoice, Ms. Dalton?"

  "If Mr. Chasen's estate doesn't cover the burial fees, I'll take care of it." She handed him her credit card, thinking if she had a new name before he ran the charge through, she'd have to get George to take care of things.

  "That's very generous, Ms. Dalton."

  She smiled, thinking this made her and Steve even; she would forgive him for planning to blackmail her if he would forgive her for keeping those file folders a secret.

  "I appreciate you putting together a service on such short notice," she said.

  "No problem—business has been slow lately," he said, sounding dejected, then he gave her a wry smile. "If it weren't for the voodoo dolls, I'd have to shut down until the casualties from the spring hunting season started to roll in."

  Her stomach pitched. She understood his point of view, but still. "Voodoo dolls? Do you think they actually have black magic powers?"

  He shrugged. "I've seen a lot of things in the scheme of this business—voodoo dolls aren't that strange."

  "Do you have any idea who might be creating the dolls?"

  Greg Goddard laughed. "Take your pick in this wacky town. Haven't you noticed there's plenty of crazy to go around?"

  She forced a smile to her face—she had noticed.

  "We'll have everything ready to go tomorrow at 11:00 a.m., Ms. Dalton."

  She thanked the man and returned to her car, still reeling from how clinical and orderly the procedure had been. She wondered briefly about who would someday take care of burial arrangements for her. If something happened to her, would her mother even know?

  It didn't seem likely. If Maggie Lawson, aka Miranda Dobson, aka whatever she called herself these days, was still alive, she could be in West Virginia, on the West Coast, or in the West Indies. In that last phone call, she'd made it clear she planned to get as far away from Gloria as possible.

  And she had, Gloria acknowledged, rubbing her fist over the hole in her heart. Her mother was even slipping from her memory, her face and features growing dim. The thought of her mother recovering alone from injuries received at the hands of Riaz's men tormented Gloria. She wondered if her mother had found her own mojo—a new life, a new husband, maybe stepchildren. And her mother had been only in her mid-forties when she had disappeared. It wasn't completely out of the question that she might have had another child of her own.

  Gloria's heart wrenched in anguish at the thought, but she did hope that her mother was alive and well... somewhere. All the more reason for her to get on with her own life.

  With her to
-do list scrolling through her mind, she drove back to her office, smiling when she saw Elton Jamison out front with an array of power tools, measuring and marking the opening for a window.

  She alighted from her car and approached him. "Hello, Mr. Jamison. Have the supplies arrived?"

  He paused from his work to scratch his lower back (she gave him the benefit of the doubt). "Folks around here call me Elton."

  "Right. Elton, have the supplies arrived?"

  "Yep. I'll get the window in today and come back tomorrow to finish the rest."

  "Great, thanks."

  She opened the door to see Diane hanging up the phone.

  "How did it go?" the woman asked.

  "Okay, I suppose. The service is at 11:00 a.m. tomorrow. I think we should plan to close for the day."

  "That's a nice gesture."

  Gloria smiled. "Have you had your lunch break?"

  "No, I thought Henry and I would go now if that's okay."

  "Sure. Any phone calls?"

  Diane retrieved the tail-wagging Henry from the bathroom and swung her purse to her shoulder. "No, but when Elton got here, there was a package sitting in front of the door."

  Gloria's breath snagged on something sharp in her chest. "Package? What kind of package?"

  "A pretty gift box for you. I set it on your desk."

  "You didn't see who left it?"

  "No, like I said, Elton brought it in." Diane winked. "It's probably from one of your male admirers."

  Gloria managed a shaky smile and waved as the woman and dog left. She raced into her office. A burgundy-colored gift box and gold bow, identical to the one she'd found the first morning she'd arrived, sat on her desk, looking sweet and innocuous.

  With her heart rolling around in her chest, she approached the box and lifted the lid. Inside mounds of tissue paper, her fingers closed around a small hardcover book.

  She removed the novelty book, ran her finger over the shiny, colorful cover, and read the title aloud. "Voodoo Spells for Luck, Love, and Revenge." She smirked and flipped through the pages of recipes and rituals for charms and potions, then realized something else had been placed in the box, beneath the book.

  Moving aside the tissue paper, alarm flooded her limbs at the sight of a voodoo doll... with purple hair. Lifting the crude doll carefully, she noted other details—the round button eyes, the cloth from a jacket she thought she had misplaced. She realized there were no pins protruding from the cloth body, but swift on the heels of ridiculous relief that she hadn't been targeted for some hideously painful impalement was terror when she realized that the purple hair glued haphazardly around the doll's head was real.

  Her hair.

  She dropped the doll and ran outside, startling Elton. "Mr. Jamison, did you see who left the gift box in front of the door?"

  "Folks around here—"

  "Elton—did you see anyone?"

  "No, ma'am. It was sitting there when I got here."

  "Did you see anyone walking around or driving by?"

  He scratched his groin area. "Sure, lots of people shopping and such."

  "Have you seen Jill or Melissa or anyone who works at the hair salon walking around?"

  "No, ma'am."

  Frustrated, Gloria scanned the parking lot and shielded her eyes to see to the end of the shopping center where the hair salon was located. She saw Melissa Phillips in conversation with a man. Gloria squinted—it was Dr. Whiting.

  A woman who had access to the hair from the salon floor, and a man who admitted he believed in voodoo.

  She jumped off the sidewalk and jogged across the parking lot toward the odd couple, her blood pumping—how dare they try to scare her!

  Before she could reach them, they entered the Looky-Loo Bookstore. She followed, her mind working furiously. Dr. Whiting knew about poisons, and Melissa had had a beef with Steve Chasen. Maybe they'd been in cahoots to murder the man. Propelled by the hope that she could get to the bottom of things, she reached the door of the bookstore, panting, then stopped to catch her breath before going inside.

  The interior of the Looky-Loo Bookstore was surprisingly large, and crowded, although it seemed that most shoppers were enjoying the lunch special in the coffee shop. Long, imposing bookshelves were laden with volumes of all shapes and sizes. Hazel Means stood on a stepladder, stocking a high shelf. Gloria spotted Dr. Whiting and Melissa standing in the next aisle, their heads close in conversation, Melissa's face tense and heightened in color.

  What were they discussing? Who to scare next with their creepy voodoo dolls?

  "Excuse me," Gloria said, insinuating herself between them.

  Melissa frowned and drew back. "Hey, we were talking."

  "It's all right," Dr. Whiting said quickly. "Good to see you, Gloria. How's your hand?"

  She stroked the bandage absently, but she was determined not to be distracted. "It's fine, thanks."

  "You should come in soon to let me remove those stitches."

  "I will. But right now I need to talk to both of you."

  His eyebrows shot up. "Me and Melissa? About what?"

  "About a voodoo doll that was delivered to my office today."

  He glanced at Melissa, then back to Gloria. "What does that have to do with either one of us?"

  "You're familiar with voodoo."

  He gave a little laugh. "Yes, but I don't create voodoo dolls."

  She eyed Melissa. "The doll has real hair—my hair, the color it is now."

  The young woman smirked. "Then I'm sorry for the doll, but I don't know what it has to do with me."

  "You had access to my cut hair that was on the salon floor."

  "So did Jill... so did everybody in the shop today, which is about twenty people." Melissa gave a derisive snort. "I'm out of here."

  Out of the corner of her eye, Gloria saw a frantic movement—Hazel Means, losing her balance on the stepladder. The woman flailed, then fell against the massive bookshelf.

  "Watch out!" Dr. Whiting shouted.

  Gloria looked up to see the bookshelf toppling toward her. Frozen in place, she had a vision of a purple-haired voodoo doll lying under a book.

  Er, make that squashed under a book.

  Chapter 23

  A fierce push to Gloria's back sent her airborne. She landed on her stomach, sprawling and gasping for breath.

  Behind her, a sickening crash and splintering of wood sounded, followed by an unending avalanche of books. Gloria pushed to her feet; from the expressions of horror on the faces of onlookers, she realized that the bookshelf had fallen on someone.

  "Melissa!" Dr. Whiting shouted, scrambling to uncover the woman buried in a mountain of thick tomes.

  Gloria joined in, as did several customers, as well as Hazel Means, who had managed to land on a couch and seemed none the worse for her fall. Someone called 911. In the flurry of digging through the pile, Gloria was the first to uncover Melissa's face, and the deathly pallor of her skin made Gloria's heart stall. "Dr. Whiting!"

  He was beside her in a split second, shoving aside books. Several people pitched in to lift the bookshelf from the woman's chest. Dr. Whiting checked her pulse, but the crestfallen look on the man's face told the story.

  Gloria covered her mouth with her hand, stunned that she had been talking to the woman only seconds earlier, and remorseful that she had been less than kind.

  "Poor thing," a bystander murmured, picking up an oversized medical dictionary. "It was the reference section—she didn't stand a chance."

  Someone started to weep, and Gloria looked up to see Hazel being led away. "It was an accident," the person assured her. "A terrible accident."

  Gloria found herself wanting to agree, but the words were trapped in her throat, trapped by the image of the voodoo doll she'd received and the overwhelming feeling that she was supposed to have been the person crushed beneath the books—and would have been if not for the quick action of Dr. Whiting.

  She touched his arm. "Thank you."

&n
bsp; "I wish I could have reached Melissa, too," he said, then turned back to the gruesome task at hand.

  "Stand back," a man's familiar voice commanded.

  Gloria closed her eyes briefly before making eye contact with Zane, his clothes and skin still dark with soot. Apparently he'd only recently left the scene of the fire. When he took in the scene, his gaze cut to her, and his jaw hardened. She wasn't Marie Gaston, but she didn't need ESP to know what was going through his mind.

  You again?

  "Everyone, please stand back," Zane said, kneeling to confer with Dr. Whiting, his face going grim when the doctor told him that the young woman was dead. They stood, and as Dr. Whiting talked, he gestured to the bookshelf and to Gloria. Zane glanced at her, instructed one of his officers to clear the area, then strode toward her.

  "Are you okay?" he asked abruptly.

  She nodded.

  He crossed his arms and shook his head. "You seem to be finding your share of trouble today."

  "Wrong place at the wrong time," she offered weakly.

  He squinted. "Do you know your hair is purple?"

  She raised her chin. "Yes."

  "Was it last night?"

  "You didn't notice what color my hair was?"

  He hesitated, as if trying to gauge which answer was less problematic, then squared his shoulders. "So what's all this nonsense about another voodoo doll?"

  So like a man to change the subject. She told him about the gift box and its contents, including the fact that the doll had been made with her own (purple) hair.

  "Do you know who left the box?"

  She squirmed. "No."

  "But?"

  Gloria wet her lips, glanced at Dr. Whiting across the room, then back. "But I saw Melissa Phillips and Dr. Whiting walking together. Melissa had access to my hair at the salon from this morning, and I know that Dr. Whiting believes in voodoo."

  "Oh? How did you know that?"

  "I asked him about a pouch around his neck, and he told me it was a voodoo charm."