The sky rumbled menacingly overhead as I walked to the foundation. I thought it was crazy to plan to film outside in this weather; but I also knew there was a lot of money at stake for every day of filming that D30 lost. So they’d stick to the schedule tonight unless it became physically impossible to do so.
When I arrived at the Livingston Foundation, I was a little surprised at how normal everything looked. You’d never guess that less than twelve hours ago my friends and I had been destroying an evil bokor’s lair in the basement and searching the building for zombies.
I was also surprised that I felt no serious anxiety about entering the building now. Mambo Celeste was still on the loose, after all, and this was where she had conducted her dark rituals. However, her work space was destroyed, and her snake was dead. By day, the building looked prosaic, and there were plenty of other people here. Thinking about safety in numbers, I touched the reassuring gris-gris charm that hung around my neck, then went inside the foundation to teach my class.
Considering the weather, I wasn’t surprised to find my class was almost half empty. If I were a student instead of a teacher, I’d probably have stayed home, too. Still, we had a good session, and I thought the kids who came were probably glad they had braved the elements and attended.
As class ended, one of the students who lived in Brooklyn said that her mother had just phoned to tell her not to take her usual route home. Most of the lower third of Manhattan had lost power a few minutes earlier, and the girl’s parents were worried she’d get stuck somewhere.
“How will you get home?” I asked with concern.
“I’ll take the subway to Queens and transfer there.” The girl blew out her breath on a sigh and summoned her resolve. “It shouldn’t take me too much longer to get home than it does by my normal route.”
I was startled to hear that a third of Manhattan was without power now, so I logged on to one of the foundation’s computers to check current local news. Sure enough, high winds had continued causing power failures all over the city while I’d been teaching the acting workshop this afternoon, and many neighborhoods were now without power.
As thunder boomed overhead, I turned off the computer and went to the window. Still no rain, but the sky was dark gray and roiling. I flipped open my phone and called D30 again. The connection was full of static, and the harassed production assistant’s voice kept fading out while we spoke.
I said, “We’re not still shooting this evening, are we?”
Yes, we were. Given the probability of heavy rain, though, they were looking at the prospect of moving the location indoors. Most of midtown and uptown still had power, and since we’d be working in Harlem, that meant the power outages wouldn’t affect the location crew.
I refrained from pointing out that I was in Harlem right now and had seen power outages just a few blocks away from here. I didn’t think my opinion would count for much when the C&P empire was intent on keeping the wheels of production rolling forward. I also didn’t want to get my head bitten off by this stressed-out assistant who, in any case, had no power whatsoever over that decision.
She told me the location crew was currently on their way to the Mount Morris Park neighborhood for tonight’s shoot. I thanked her, apologized for bothering her, and got off the phone.
Then I checked my messages. There was one from Lopez. I dialed my voice mail and listened.
“That mattress is gone? People in this city really will take anything that’s left outside, won’t they?” he said. “And there goes my hope of proving to you there’s a rational explanation for what happened last night. To the bed I mean. There’s never a rational explanation for what happens between us.”
I smiled wryly, realizing I was forgiving him already for last night’s sour parting. I heard him speaking to someone in the background.
Then he said again into the phone, “Sorry, Esther. Things are hopping here. This storm coming in, power outages, traffic snarls, trains stranded, a shooting, some looting . . . What did I want to ask you? Oh, right! What did you mean, you were on your way to teach class? I was serious last night when I told you to stay away from the foundation. Listen to me. Before things got crazy here today, I looked into—What?” He was speaking to someone else now. “Okay. Right now? Yes.” Then he said to my voice mail again, “I’ve got to go. Call me as soon as you get this. If I can’t pick up, leave me a message. And please tell me that you’re not still at that place.”
I called Lopez back. A couple of people who passed me in the hallway glanced at me as I made a sharp sound of frustration when I got his voice mail.
“I am at the foundation,” I said. “I work here. I can’t just not show up.” I frowned as I thought about the possible cause for his concern. Maybe, despite our differences of opinion, we had shared some similar suspicions without realizing it. “Listen, Mambo Celeste calls herself a widow, but other people say her husband left her. I’m wondering what really happened to him. I guess this sounds crazy to you, but . . . Is there any chance he was murdered?”
I decided to leave it at that. If there really was something to discuss, we’d talk about it after Lopez had time to get the facts.
I concluded, “Anyhow, I won’t be here much longer. I have to go to the D-Thirty set soon. Can you believe they’re still planning to film tonight, despite everything that’s happening out there?” I paused for a moment, then said, “Call me back, if you have time.”
I glanced at the clock. I had about an hour before I had to be on the set. Considering that I’d left carnage and wreckage in her foundation building last night, I thought I should probably go upstairs and speak to Catherine about what had happened. I had sort of assumed Max would speak to her, and I preferred that scenario, since I didn’t like her. But since I seemed to be stuck here for a while longer . . .
I turned and started walking toward Catherine’s office. I reached the double doors leading to the main lobby at the same moment as two teenage boys who were coming in the opposite direction. I was preoccupied, and they were so involved in their conversation that they didn’t see me. One of them was gesticulating enthusiastically with his large beverage cup as he pushed his way through the doors—knocking me off my feet and somehow managing to spill the entire contents of his cup on me. It contained a chocolate milk shake.
I gasped at the ice cold sensation seeping through my clothes to chill my skin as I lay on the floor trying to catch my breath. Cold chocolate muck was all over me.
“Oh, my God, miss! Are you okay?”
The two boys hauled me to my feet. Icy chocolate slid down my stomach to my crotch, and down my neck into my bra. A huge glob of it covered the gris-gris bag, which now looked as if it had been dipped in the shake.
I made a shrill sound of discomfort and spread my arms, helplessly watching the shake melt stickily into my clothes.
“Miss?” one of the boys prodded.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. Just a little . . . cold. But the happy part of this accident, of course, is that nothing got on the floor.” Every drop of the shake seemed to be on me.
Uncomfortable and filthy now, I realized that, although it was far from ideal, I did at least have a change of clothing with me. I’d have to don Jilly’s costume in another couple of hours anyway, if D30 persisted in its determination to film the rest of my episode tonight. And at least I had a rain slicker and an umbrella to keep the costume dry while I was in transit. So I got my duffle and went into the ladies’ room. I removed my cold, soggy, dirty clothes and put on Jilly’s costume—except for the cruel boots. Though my roped-soled canvas shoes didn’t go with this outfit, they were comfortable and still clean, so I kept them on.
The gris-gris bag was so messy and sticky, I gave up trying to clean it while it hung around my neck. I felt considerable anxiety as I removed it, but nothing burst into flames. I tried wiping it off, but the milk shake had seeped into the bag and soaked all the ingredients. Apparently the thing had not been designed with this
sort of mishap in mind. I wondered if it even had mojo anymore. Either way, I couldn’t put it back on, especially not while wearing my D30 costume. So I wrapped it in some tissues and stuck it in my purse. I still had it with me, I assured myself. And, after all, the mambo’s altar was destroyed, and I had burned the remnants of my poppet before going to bed last night.
Now that I was presentable again, in a manner of speaking, I went to see Catherine.
Her cool gaze assessed my appearance with ironic detachment, and she gave no response at all to my awkward explanation about why I was once again dressed as a prostitute.
Instead, she said, much to my embarrassment, “Goodness, what are those marks on your neck?”
I put a hand self-consciously over my throat, realizing I should have used makeup to cover up the marks Lopez had left on me. I had chosen a blouse with a high collar today, so I hadn’t expected my skin to be this exposed before I met with D3’s talented makeup artist.
She smiled. “So the detective can lose control, after all? I had wondered.”
I stiffened, taking offense. Since Catherine had seen us together on Friday, right after the chaos in the lobby, I supposed it was natural for her to assume that Lopez was the source of these love bites. But I scarcely knew this woman, and what had happened in my bedroom was private.
Catherine added, “Perhaps the spirit trance that he experienced at yesterday’s ritual unleashed something inside him?” Seeing my surprise, she smiled again. “Yes. I heard about it. How I wish I had been there to see it.”
“Why weren’t you there?” I asked baldly, trying to change the subject. I didn’t want to talk about Lopez with her, let alone discuss what had happened to him that evening. “It seemed like the sort of thing that interests you.”
“Other things needed my attention.”
Since she obviously didn’t intend to say more, I moved on to the reason I had sought her out. “Did Max—Dr. Zadok—speak to you about last night?”
Her face wrinkled with distaste. “Yes. His tale was quite extraordinary.”
“Where do you think Mambo Celeste is now?”
Catherine shrugged indifferently.
I found her casual attitude odd, given that a trusted employee had been found practicing black magic in her basement, as well as endangering innocent people. I wondered how much Max had told her. Considering Catherine’s academic approach to magic and mysticism, Max might have lost all credibility if he had talked about Celeste raising zombies from the grave.
“You and your friends left quite a mess downstairs,” Catherine said to me. “Still, it doesn’t matter now. The altar is no longer needed.”
I blinked. “You mean because the mambo has fled?”
“Because matters have progressed toward their inevitable climax, despite a number of discouraging set-backs. Some of which you caused.”
My heart started to beat more heavily. I remembered my first visit to this room, dressed as I was now. The mambo wasn’t the only Vodou expert at the foundation who’d become acquainted with me in these clothes.
“It’s strange about the poppet.” The words popped out of my mouth unbidden, surprising me. It was only in that moment that I realized it was strange. “I was told the mambo doesn’t approve of voodoo dolls being sold in Puma’s Vodou Emporium, where she buys her supplies.”
“She was a rigid woman,” said Catherine.
“Was?” I said.
“But rigidity can be its own kind of strength.”
“Why would someone so strict about Haitian tradition adopt a custom from another branch of voodoo?” I wondered. “A custom she thought gave the wrong impression of the religion? A custom she berated Puma for humoring?”
“That seems a minor deviation from her traditions, compared to the things Dr. Zadok described when he phoned me earlier,” Catherine pointed out dryly. “But all people have private desires and deep yearnings which can’t necessarily be met in the conventional ways they’re most comfortable following.”
“I’m wondering . . .” I felt uneasy. Anxious. “Those practices I saw last night, in that room.” I heard my phone ring, but my gaze remained locked with hers. “How could that have gone on in your own building without your knowing about it? You and Celeste were close. How it is possible that you didn’t—”
“Your phone is ringing,” Catherine said. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”
Feeling tension spread through me, I reminded myself that there were other people in the building. I didn’t really have any clear suspicions yet, just doubts. I tried to organize them rationally as I fumbled in my purse for my phone, glad for an excuse to get out of this room.
“I’ll take this outside,” I said.
“No need. Please stay seated.”
I looked at my phone and saw with relief that the caller was Lopez. “No, you’re busy. I’ll leave. I just wanted to apologize for . . . you know. Downstairs.” I flipped open the phone, as eagerly as if the static- filled communication with Lopez was a protective charm.
Catherine opened a drawer in her desk and reached inside. “Stay,” she said.
I tried to rise and found that my legs felt too weak to support me. My knees buckled. I sat back down with a thud.
“Esther?” Lopez said. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I said faintly, staring into Catherine’s cold, dispassionate eyes.
Out of the blue, I recalled that I had once heard evil described as an absence of empathy. Why had looking at her made me think of that?
“Please tell me you’re not still at the foundation,” Lopez said, his voice faint. “This is a bad connection. Can you hear me?”
“I’m here,” I said, anxiety welling up inside me.
“You left me a message asking about Celeste’s husband. He’s alive and well and running a plumbing supply store in Philadelphia. I checked on Friday.”
“I’m at the foundation,” I said to him.
“I want you to get out of there,” he said. “I’ve been checking on Catherine Livingston, too. When you told me she’d been sleeping with Darius, it got me to thinking. Two men dying of natural causes. Sure, it happens . . .”
I tried to rise again. My legs felt as if they didn’t belong to me.
“But three? And all within a decade?” Lopez said. “That’s just too much coincidence. Especially given their ages.”
“Three?” I said faintly.
Catherine smiled.
“Her first husband died not long after she met Martin Livingston. Same scenario as Martin and Darius. Unexpected death from sudden, catastrophic natural causes in a man previously thought to be in good health.” Lopez said, “It’s the sort of death that could be arranged by someone who’s an expert in exotic folk medicine and ritual poisons—and Dr. Livingston is exactly such an expert. It was the focus of her research before she started working at the foundation.”
“What?” I was shaking.
“Martin and her first husband were cremated, and Darius’ body is missing, which means I’ll never be able to prove anything,” Lopez said in frustration. “So you can’t repeat this to anyone. Do you understand me? But I’m telling you, Esther, she killed those three men. I know she did. I can see it in her face. She got away with it, and she’s gloating. So I don’t want you anywhere near her. She’s a dangerous woman.”
My lips where trembling. My throat felt swollen. My gaze was locked with Catherine’s.
“Esther?” Lopez said. “Esther?”
“I’m with—”
There was a deafening clap of thunder overhead, and a blinding bolt of lightning split the gray sky. The lights went out and the phone went dead as rain started pouring down heavily.
“Lopez?” I said into my phone. “Lopez!”
But he was gone. The connection had been lost.
“Oh, goodness,” said Catherine. “The city has lost power.”
I shook my head, wondering frantically why I couldn’t get up. Why couldn’t I make my ow
n legs work? “It’s probably just this neighborhood.”
“No, it’s the whole city. It must be.” The window was behind her. Although it wasn’t yet evening, the sky was so dark, now that the lights were dead, that I couldn’t see her facial expression. But I heard a chilling satisfaction in her choice as she said, “Later, you’ll see for yourself.”
“Later?” My teeth chattered with fear. Why couldn’t I move?
“When true darkness descends.”
“It’s you, isn’t it?” I was panting with terror now, like a trapped animal. “You’re the bokor, aren’t you? Celeste was just . . .”
“A tool,” she said. “In the end, a decoy. You and your friends are . . . dreadfully nosy, Esther. Darius goes missing one night, and the very next day, you, Dr. Zadok, and Detective Lopez all show up, full of detailed questions. Academics aren’t children, for goodness’ sake. I knew what you were after from the moment you arrived here.”
“Then why hire me?” I asked, trying with all my might to move my foot.
“I acted in accordance with a wise old saying: Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.” In the dim light coming through the window, I could see Catherine shake her head. “You ask me questions about Mama Brigitte, and then—what a coincidence!—Shondolyn’s mother calls me the next day to say the girl is leaving town. Good God, did you really think I haven’t known every day since you came here what you were up to?”
“I’ve only been here a few days,” I pointed out. “What were you trying to do to Shondolyn anyway?”
“Ah! You still don’t know?” She sounded smug. “Well, well. What an interesting evening this will be for you.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Celeste wouldn’t have explored these avenues on her own,” I said, breathing hard as I struggled to move my legs. “We should have realized that before now. She was too rigid. Too traditional. Her horizons were broadened by someone with a wider education. Someone who was knowledgeable about many traditions, not just the one. Black magic, ritual poisons, multiple religions, different branches of Vodou, the voodoo dolls that Celeste despised . . .” I nodded with certainty. “It all came from you, you syncretic slut!”
Unsympathetic Magic Page 33
