Roxy opened her eyes a little wider. “Please?”
The woman sighed. “Fine. I can’t promise anything, but if you’re desperate, you can wait over there, and I’ll see if he’ll give you a couple of seconds between items on his schedule.”
“Thank you,” Roxy said. She looked to her left where there were several leather armchairs and a coffee table with glossy brochures arranged carefully across the top. She walked over and sat down. For a few minutes, Roxy did nothing, and as she waited, she began to feel nervous. Her foot jiggled as she traced her finger in patterns on the arm of the chair.
From the coffee table, she picked up a brochure entitled Lamontagne Promotions News, a large, glossy, trifold brochure. Roxy skimmed through it. Across the front was emblazoned a picture of a group of young men standing on a street corner looking dangerously louche. They wore big chains, rings, and belts. On their heads were knitted beanies or baseball caps on backward. The subheading under the picture announced that they were rappers nominated for an industry award. Next to this, in parentheses, it said Management: Lamontagne Promotions. Inside the brochure, there was another image, this time of a jazz quintet playing in a club. It was labeled with the group name, Dirk West Five and also had the Lamontagne Promotions notation in the corner.
Roxy looked up the company on her phone again. This time she navigated to a website. There she learned that Royston Lamontagne was a music promoter specializing in rap, jazz, and soul. He managed nascent but talented groups and solo artists and seemed to have fingers in many music-related pies. His company listed club ownership, tour management, record label ownership, and music festival organization as just a few of its activities. In fact, anything related to music in the South seemed to involve Lamontagne somehow.
As she read the website, Roxy remembered something she’d seen on the front page of the newspaper she’d picked up earlier. She pulled it out of her bag. The front-page headline read Label Languishes After Voodoo Vexation. The paper reported that a deal to sign a rapper to the Lamontagne music label had fallen through after magic was reportedly used by a competitor to scupper the deal. According to the reporting, losing the signing had cost the label hundreds of thousands of dollars, and now it was even rumored to be struggling to stay afloat.
Roxy read the article twice over before the sound of voices disturbed her. She looked up to see the assistant talking to her boss, Royston Lamontagne. He still had his little dog under his arm! Lamontagne and his assistant muttered, their heads together before they looked over and the assistant pointed at Roxy. The big man quickly shook his head and disappeared into the room behind his assistant’s desk.
Roxy stood as the woman wiggled over in her tight pencil skirt, a barely concealed smirk on her face. “Sorry,” she said insincerely. “He said he’s far too busy to see you, and you’ll have to make an appointment. The next we have available is in six weeks.”
“Six weeks!”
“Mr. Lamontagne is a very busy man.”
“So I gather,” said Roxy. Six weeks was far too long, though. By then the murder investigation would be long wrapped, and if things didn’t change, Dr. Jack would be in prison. “Is there not any way I can get squeezed in sooner? I’m willing to meet him somewhere else, wherever’s convenient.”
“I’m afraid not.” The woman’s voice was as smooth and syrupy as molasses. “The elevator is over there,” she pointed.
It was rare that anyone could make Roxy feel small anymore, but this receptionist was certainly trying her very best. “Okay,” Roxy said, getting up. She stuffed the newspaper and glossy brochure into her bag. “Thank you for your help.”
“You’re so welcome. Anytime. Well, six weeks’ time.” The assistant giggled and wiggled off.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“WHAT WOULD YOU like to do tonight, Charles?” Roxy asked.
George and Charles were slumped in armchairs in the lounge. George was flicking through a New Orleans guide on Voodoo, vampires, graveyards, and ghosts, but Charles leaned on his elbow, chin on his hand, staring into space.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Anything that you want to do, George?”
“I think we need to get out. Why don’t we have dinner in a restaurant, and then head to the Palace of Spirits? Let’s all of us go. The two of us are sad sacks. A few friends will take us out of ourselves.”
“I think Meredith mentioned that place,” said Charles. “She…” he sighed heavily, “…said it was probably just a tourist trap.”
“But still, I’d like to visit. It’s a museum located in the former home of Marie Laveau’s aunt,” George countered.
“Who?”
“Marie Laveau. She was the famous Voodoo Queen.”
“Perhaps she can exert some spiritual influence,” Charles jiggled his hands in front of him, “from beyond the grave and ensure justice for Meredith.” He was joking, but George’s eyes lit up.
“Yeah, she might!”
“Evangeline, the old owner of this place, believes in all that,” said Nat, walking in the room and overhearing the tail end of their conversation. “She said her mother used to visit Marie Laveau’s grave and had plenty a wish granted by the old girl’s spirit. Perhaps she’ll go with you. Or Sage. They could act as tour guides.”
George smiled warmly. “I knew you’d understand.”
Nat would normally have been the last person to understand, but around George, she seemed somewhat different. Softer.
They decided to go to Bramwell’s on St. Charles Avenue, an upscale Creole restaurant that was one of the most expensive in town.
“In Meredith’s honor,” said Charles, “Our treat.”
Sage joined them. She took some persuading.
“I’m busy working with the angels on Dr. Jack’s behalf, honey,” she told Roxy. “I don’t think they’d appreciate me taking the night off.”
“Nonsense. Ask them for guidance, they’ll tell you what to do. Isn’t that what you tell me?”
Sage sighed. “Yes, you’re right.” She paused and appeared to stare blankly at the wall although Roxy knew her mind was with the angels. “Okay, they’re saying yes. I’ll come.”
Evangeline couldn’t make it. “I’ve just got myself a new puppy, cher,” she cooed down the phone. “I’ve been wantin’ one for ages, and now I don’t have guests to look after, I have the chance. I’ve called ‘im Pinkie after his ridiculous pink ears. He’s a French pug, don’t ‘cha know!” Roxy heard some snuffling. “Shush, shush, now Pinkie-winkie. Mommy on the phone,” she heard Evangeline coo. Roxy’s eyes widened. “I can’t leave him,” Evangeline added.
“Of course. He sounds adorable.” Roxy wondered if Evangeline had taken leave of her senses. Training a new puppy was a lot of work and a French pug? They were a handful. But she could still hear Evangeline talking to her pup with a voice full of love. Roxy left her to it.
“Of course I’ll come!” Elijah said when she asked him. “I know the maître d.”
“Is there a maître d or restaurant owner you don’t know in New Orleans, Elijah?”
“Hmmm, let me think.” Elijah tapped his finger against his cheek and looked up to the ceiling as he thought for a moment. “Nope,” he said pointing his forefinger at Roxy. “I know them all. Now, what time are we going? Do you want me to get us a table? They’re often booked up, but I’ll sweet talk Mateo.”
Sam agreed to join them, and so it was Roxy, Sage, Nat, Elijah, Sam, George, and Charles for the evening. They dressed in all their finery. Roxy finally got to wear the royal blue one-shoulder dress she’d found in a vintage clothing store on Magazine Street a few weeks back. Sage wore her trademark robes, this time in bright mango, a matching scarf wrapped around her head. The men wore sharp suits, Elijah toning down his appearance this time with a forest green ensemble. But the surprise of the evening was Nat. She wore a black t-shirt, nothing new there, but this one was flecked with diamante and—she was wearing a skirt!
It was true that the sk
irt reached her ankles from beneath which poked some patent, night-blue Doc Martens, but still—a skirt! Also, she was curiously wearing some long, elaborate—but delicate and feminine—silver earrings in addition to the cuffs, bars, and studs that curled around her outer ears. Roxy quickly recovered from her astonishment and linked her arm in Nat’s. “Ready, girlfriend?”
“Ready, boss. I’ve fixed Nefertiti her own feast, cooked chicken and kibble, and left it for her in the courtyard. Maybe that ginger tom will come by and make it a romantic meal.”
“Maybe,” Roxy said wondering what had come over her friend.
They piled into a luxurious black minivan and soon arrived at Bramwell’s. It was housed in a magnificent, traditional New Orleans mansion. It was painted white. On all sides of the building were huge floor-to-ceiling leaded windows and black shutters across two stories. Pairs of pillars supported an elaborate wrought-iron balcony on the second floor that wrapped its way around the mansion and provided outdoor dining for the restaurant’s clientele. Downstairs, noise from the busy, chattering diners poured out of the open windows and onto the green lawns outside. On the third floor, more windows jutted from the roof.
Inside, a fireplace with a huge, dark, oak surround reached to the ceiling, dominating the entryway. Lights cast by the colored, leaded glass in the windows gave the reception a warm, muted, early-evening glow. In the dining room, the interior walls and ceiling were painted a muted sage green with white paneling detail, white majestic columns, and white tablecloths. An elegantly tiled floor was marked in a black and white checkered pattern.
As Elijah had predicted, the restaurant was full, the air humming with the sounds of diners.
“Mateo, we are here!” Elijah swept up to the welcome station. An older, distinguished man in a tuxedo gave him a small bow, the glow of the lights bouncing off his oiled salt and pepper hair.
“Good evening and welcome to Bramwell’s. Sir, I have a special table ready for you, as you requested. Please,” he said, looking at the group, “come with me.”
Led by the maître d, they wound themselves around the restaurant tables to a small private back room. The other diners paid them no heed as they passed, but Roxy looked around as she walked. Bramwell’s dress code was certainly formal. No one in the restaurant was casually dressed. The women wore floor-skimming, shiny dresses with big, expensive jewelry while most of the men wore tuxedos. Through the air came the warm, delicate sounds of mellow jazz. A man in a white tux sat at a white grand piano, his fingers dancing across the keys effortlessly.
“Wow,” said Nat, whispering in Roxy’s ear. “You sure they’ll let us eat here? It’s super schmancy.”
Roxy laughed. “We just came from the Funky Cat,” she whispered back. “We’re schmancy too, remember!”
Roxy was looking forward to the evening. She glided into the seat that the maître d’ pulled out for her. He picked up her napkin, shook it out with a flourish, and laid it on her lap. Sam, catching her eye from across the table, gave her a small smile.
“Here is your waiter, Mesdames et Messieurs. “Let him know if you need anything. Enjoy your meal.”
“Thank you, we will,” said Roxy.
“Thank you, Mateo,” Elijah said, winking at him.
Despite the heavy circumstances, the evening turned out to be a glorious form of escapism. The food was extraordinary. The menu comprised haute cuisine with a Creole twist. For her appetizer, Roxy ordered Louisiana lump crab with avocado and a hard-boiled egg topped with gribiche dressing on top of homemade seeded bread. She followed that with an entrée of slow-roasted duck soaked in an orange-sherry sauce. As they ate, they talked about everything except the murder, everything except Meredith. Mostly, Sam, Sage, and Elijah, the three native New Orleanians told the four non-natives tales of the city.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“SO,” SAID GEORGE, sipping on his turtle soup. “What do you know about Marie Laveau? Or any type of Voodoo?”
“My family’s Catholic,” Sam said, “but a lot of the Voodoo and Catholic traditions are…I guess, more interconnected than you might think. The Saints feature in both, for example.”
“Sam is correct,” Sage chimed in. “Did you know that the Africans, when they were shipped here and forced into slavery, weren’t allowed to practice their religion so they allied each of their gods with a saint and practiced covertly.
“Oh, interesting,” said Charles.
“Marie Laveau was a kind woman, a lifelong Catholic as well as being known as the Voodoo Queen. She held Voodoo ceremonies in New Orleans that thousands came to, but she also attended church regularly. She worked all sorts of magic. It’s all woven into the fabric of everyday life here, I guess. You’ll see signs of her everywhere. Or nowhere. It depends on how you look at things.” She trailed off and pursed her lips, seeming far away.
Elijah piped up. “You’ve heard of Voodoo dolls, of course?”
“Yes,” said George.
“Don’t you stick pins in them to hurt people?” Nat asked.
“I don’t think it’s quite that simple,” Elijah said frowning.
“No, it isn’t,” Sage said, coming back to the present with a chuckle. “It’s a popular misconception and something of an old wives’ tale. Most commonly they’re used to help people, or to communicate with loved ones who have passed on.”
Elijah grinned. “My grandmother told me a story once about how she was courted by someone who wasn’t so good for her. She kept trying to leave the guy, but he’d do something nice, and she’d just fall in love with him all over again. Her friends were very worried about her, so they took her to a Voodoo priestess for help. This Voodoo priestess told my grandmother to make a doll of herself and tack it to a tree upside down. It was supposed to make her stop caring about her sweetheart. So that’s what she did. And it must have worked because later she met my grandfather and was married to him for over sixty years.”
“And you are here with us!” Nat chimed in.
Elijah smiled. “Damn straight. My grandmomma never really believed in it, though. She said it must have been the placebo effect, but you never know. Either way, she looks back on that moment as a turning point in her life.”
For dessert, Roxy ordered a bruléed parsnip tart with wine-poached pears and bourbon ice cream. By the time they picked up the bill, the food, wine, and music had alleviated any heavy feelings they had felt at the beginning of the evening.
“So shall we go to the Palace of Spirits then?” Sam asked, pulling on his jacket. “I heard that’s where you were interested in going, George.”
“Now?” Nat said doubtfully.
Roxy nudged her in the ribs and giggled. “Thought you didn’t believe in any of that old rubbish.”
“Really, Nat?” George said. He sounded disappointed.
“I didn’t before, I’ll admit,” said Nat. “But hearing all these stories, I’m beginning to change my mind…Are you sure it’s safe, Sage? We’re not going to awaken some crazy spirit, are we?”
“No, honey,” said Sage. “They can be fearsome, yes, but only to protect innocent people from others who want to cause them harm.”
“This may be a dumb question,” Nat said as they walked out of the restaurant, “but am I innocent?”
George took her hand in his. “Yes, you are. You have a good heart.”
Nat blushed and pulled her hand away, but not so quick that Roxy didn’t notice. Roxy felt her jaw drop a fraction and quickly clenched her teeth.
“And if you’re in doubt,” George said, “I’ve cleansed my soul so I can be like an angel on earth. I’ll protect you from anything evil.”
“Really?” Nat replied.
“Really.”
They caught another cab to the Palace of Spirits on Bourbon Street, which turned out to be buzzing with nightlife and lit up with color. People, many of them tourists judging by the fact that they stopped every few yards to take photos with their phones, were roaming around, laughing and talking
, walking in the middle of the street as they made their way down it. When the cab stopped on the corner, Sam told the driver to wait until they were done.
“I don’t know,” the cab driver said, looking nervous. He glanced down the street. “How long are you gonna be?”
“Not long,” said Charles. “Ten minutes at most.”
They walked until they arrived outside a tiny shop, a small sign that dangled from the overhanging roof announcing that they had arrived at their destination. They stood in silence looking at it.
“Not the kind of palace I’m used to, that’s for sure,” Nat said in her London accent. “Not very palace-y, is it?”
The Palace of Spirits was incongruously named. In reality, it was a tiny store in a building that needed some attention. The exterior paintwork was scuffed and peeling. The windows needed washing. A drainpipe outside was stuck with torn and peeling posters that seemed to act as Band-Aids, propping it up and holding it together. The small windows were stuffed full of…stuff. Figurines, beads, cards, masks, feathers filled the brightly-lit space. The doors to the store were open and Roxy could see the inside outdid even the window. She could see bottles, fans, crucifixes, books, jewelry, skeletons, candles, all manner of knick-knacks. It was like Dr. Jack’s botanica on steroids. There was a black t-shirt hanging from the doorway. It had a skull on it.
“Look, Nat, there’s something for everyone here.” Roxy tapped Nat on the arm and pointed upward. Nat looked up and scowled. She looked decidedly uncomfortable despite George’s assurances.
“I’m not sure about this. I wish Meredith were here,” Charles said. “This doesn’t seem like a good place. She’d know how to deal with difficult spirits better than any of us.”
“Don’t worry,” Sage said. “We’re here for a good reason. It can’t hurt, and it might just help. You never know. Let’s go in and see if we can connect with a senior spirit, maybe even Marie Laveau herself!” Despite the liveliness all around them, Roxy began to feel a little nervous.
3 Louisiana Lies Page 10
