“Mr. Lamontagne? Roxy Reinhardt, from the Funky Cat Inn. And Meredith Romanoff’s séance. You asked me to meet you here. To talk.”
Lamontagne looked at her. Or at least she thought he did. It was hard to tell what he was doing behind those sunglasses. She heard a drumroll and the crash of a cymbal from the direction of the stage. A bass guitarist began to warm up.
Lamontagne lifted his head to the stage and beckoned to her. “Five minutes, I said.” He led her away from the club down a corridor. When they were far enough away that they could speak without shouting, he stopped and leaned against the wall.
“You’re looking into Meredith’s death?”
“Yes, um, as a sort of…adjunct to the police department.”
“What do you want to know? Be quick.”
“Well, how did you know Meredith?”
“I’ve been seeing Meredith for years. She gives me, well, let’s call it advice. I’ve had many private consultations with her. This was the first public one. She’s not been to New Orleans before. I usually see her when I’m traveling. This was the first time I agreed to meet her with other people being present. Big mistake. One I won’t be making again, obviously.”
“What sort of advice?”
“Adv…? Look, that’s private. It’s nothing. I’d ask her questions, and she’d give me answers. Sometimes I’d take her advice, sometimes I wouldn’t. It was just a bit of fun, you know.” Royston looked around. “Look, you’re not going to tell anyone, are you? That I was there?” Lamontagne’s little dog gave a yip and snapped at Roxy as if to warn her off.
“That depends, Mr. Lamontagne, on whether you’ve got anything to do with her death.” Roxy could hear the band clearly now. Their beat was untidy and they weren’t very tight, unlike the high, whiny voice that was currently singing along with them. Whoever it was, she didn’t think they’d be scouted for a record deal that night, or anytime soon.
“Me? Are you kidding? Of course I had nothing to do with Meredith’s death! We were associates, that’s all. She gave me advice that I used to help make my business decisions. I’ve made a lot of money over the years, in part thanks to Meredith. Why on earth would I want to kill her? It would make no sense.” Fenton yipped three times in a row in agreement. Lamontagne leaned down so that his lips were close to Roxy’s ears. He was so tall that it was quite an effort for him. “If you want to find out who killed Meredith, look into that husband of hers.”
“Why do you say that?”
“My assistant went to a retreat run by Meredith in Arizona. I wouldn’t go because it wasn’t private so I sent him instead. I was expecting great things, it being in Sedona and all. Those vortexes are supposed to be pretty powerful, but according to my assistant, it was a total bust. Charles ruined it. My assistant said that Meredith was harsh and rude during the retreat, but that it wasn’t her fault. She confided in my assistant that Charles—because he didn’t support her and her work—was causing ‘energetic disturbances’ that stopped her connecting with the spirits properly. She said that she had a vision that Charles was trying to kill her. Like he was trying to stop her from doing important work. I never saw him sabotage her but…Wait!
They both listened. From the club, the noise had died down. The crowd was silent, attentive. Roxy could hear the piano playing chords, just chords, allowing someone their moment to sing and, Roxy could tell, sing mightily. It was a woman, her voice low, deep, rich, awash with longing and mood. The voice swelled to a crescendo and then peaked as she belted out the chorus to a ballad full of sorrow and lost love. A few in the crowd whistled and cheered before being quickly shushed by others wanting to hear more.
“Oh my…Who is that? Who is that?” Lamontagne, Meredith Romanoff’s murder forgotten, pushed past Roxy. “I have to see her. I have to.” He disappeared through the open door into the club and the crowd that filled the room to bursting. Roxy stood where she was. She didn’t need to see who was singing. She already knew. It was Nat. She was singing in front of people. Unfamiliar people.
CHAPTER THIRTY
WHEN NAT CAME to the end of her song, the crowd who had remained silent to the end erupted in cheers and applause. They drummed their feet and their hands on whatever surface was available to them. Nat stood and looked out, apparently bemused, perhaps confused, certainly unmoving. She swayed a little. Roxy stood at the back of the hall and watched as the crowd began to chant “Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?”
Louder and louder they chanted as they pressed forward toward the stage. Nat looked around, unsure of what to do, fear beginning to cross her face as she looked from side to side, her feet planted to the spot. Cocktail umbrellas, beads, even a scarf were tossed onto the stage making Nat blink and stare. Then to her right, there was movement. A group of men led by Elijah appeared and barreled Nat off the platform. They formed a circle around her as they propelled her through the noisy throng to the back door where Roxy was standing.
“Get her out of here!” Elijah cried. “Quickly!” The crowd had followed them and were now pressing in again, like a formless, mushrooming, many-headed monster that threatened to subsume them, gobbling them up. Roxy, startled, immediately grabbed Nat’s hand. “Come!” she commanded Nat. They ran.
Outside, the cold air stung their faces as they sprinted, but it only served to propel them faster up the steps and down Frenchmen Street, and into the neighborhood beyond. “Can you run all the way back to the Funky Cat, Nat?” Roxy asked breathlessly. She hopped as she pulled off her high-heeled shoes one after the other to run barefoot.
“Yes, I think so, let’s try it,” Nat said laughing, the cold air making her eyes bright. “Phew, that was something wasn’t it? I thought they were going to eat me alive. What a night!”
What a night indeed, Roxy thought wryly, feeling the wind blow her hair and her feet slap the pavement as they ran back to the safety of the Funky Cat Inn.
Roxy sighed and slumped back against her headboard. She’d packed Nat off to bed and was now sitting cross-legged on top of her own. It was 2 AM. Her laptop sat in front of her, the glow from the screen illuminating her face while Nefertiti squeezed into the space between the keyboard and Roxy’s belly button.
Roxy considered everything Lamontagne had told her earlier. Could Charles really be the kind of person he’d described? Was his feedback, second-hand as it was, meaningful? Was Meredith right? Was Charles trying to kill her?
“Okay, fine,” she said. She was going to do a little online sleuthing and see if the Internet could help her out. Her fingertips hovered over her keyboard. “Right. Charles Romanoff,” she said, typing his name into the search bar.
The first result was his business profile, stating that he was—as he had told her—a pediatric surgeon in North Carolina with over forty years’ experience. There were articles about his foundation and the life-changing work it did in developing countries. Roxy read that Charles had been recognized with several awards, as one would expect of a ground-breaking surgeon of his experience and stature. She quickly clicked over to view the image results. As she scrolled down the page, she saw pictures of Charles in his white coat, his green operating scrubs, with Meredith at events, with his colleagues, and out in the field among the people who lived in the impoverished villages where he did his work. She scrolled back up the page.
She stopped at a picture of Charles and Meredith. He had his arm around her shoulder. Meredith was dressed to the nines in an off-the-shoulder black dress and sparkling jewelry. Roxy peered in close. Behind them stood a woman. She was glaring, her red mouth twisted into a growl. Roxy scrolled back down the page again and suddenly caught her breath. Yes, there she was again.
This time, the woman was standing next to Charles, and they were surrounded by young children dressed in brightly-colored loose clothing, their hair cropped close or braided in cornrows. The caption underneath said they were in a village called Lietbhar in Sudan. This time, though, the woman wasn’t growling. She was looking up at Charle
s, smiling adoringly.
Roxy continued to scroll. Sure enough, she found another photograph taken at the same time. The same village, same children, Charles and the woman, but this photo was different again. Not only was the woman craning her head to look up at Charles as she smiled, but he was looking down into her eyes, reciprocating. Roxy shifted her position on the bed. The scene looked a little too cozy for Roxy’s liking. She thought that the look Charles was giving the woman wasn’t of a type that would leave Meredith calm and collected had she seen it. She leaned back against her pillows and thought for a moment.
How had Meredith and Charles really been with each other? He had appeared attentive enough, but he had also seemed ambivalent about her work, sometimes believing in it, at others not so much. Meredith was also tricky, and Charles had looked long-suffering the first time Roxy had met him. She wondered if Charles might have fallen out of love with his wife. Or perhaps he was jealous of the fame and recognition Meredith received? Or he felt overshadowed. Or that she was a liability. He might have faced ridicule and censure from his peers and found her an embarrassment. Spirits and healings and readings were hardly compatible with a worldview steeped in science.
Roxy sat up again and went back to her search results. She clicked over to the foundation’s website. On the About page, she learned that the woman in the photos was Stacey Wilson, a nursing administrator at Charles’ foundation. She had worked for it for 20 years. Roxy’s mind raced. Could Charles be having an affair? Was that where he had gone when he went missing? To meet with his mistress?
Roxy took a deep breath. “Calm down, Roxy girl. You have no basis for this thinking except for a couple of photos found on the Internet. Keep an open mind.” She let out a big yawn with a groan but forced herself to consider the motivations of all the suspects before she would allow herself to sleep.
She had to admit, the murderer could be Dr. Jack. Perhaps she had overestimated his kindly, calm nature. It was possible that he had become so incensed with Meredith over the argument they’d had, that he’d decided to shoot her.
The murderer could be Terah. She might have killed Meredith in revenge for the treatment Meredith had meted out to Terah during high school. It seemed unlikely 40 years later, but it was possible.
It could be Royston Lamontagne, though Roxy didn’t have a motive for him yet. Still, she could find one, she was sure of it. He didn’t seem a very agreeable sort of person, and his lifestyle was of the type that would contain plenty of potential for shady dealings. She just needed to dig further. She was sure she’d find something.
The murderer could be Charles, a man who may be having an affair with his co-worker or may have felt his wife’s livelihood an embarrassment, one that impacted him negatively or overshadowed him. Or he might have been so jealous of his wife’s success that he was driven into a murderous rage. Oh dear, Charles had a lot of motives.
It might even be George. Perhaps secretly he wanted to break free of Meredith’s vice-like grip over his life and gifts, or he had simply had enough of her humiliating him.
Roxy’s eyes scanned her room, searching for something, anything that might provide a flash of inspiration. Her eyes alighted on her purse. Meredith’s book—it was at the bottom of her bag. Of course! Why hadn’t she looked at it before? Maybe there were some clues in there. Roxy pulled the book from the bag, got herself comfortable, and immersed herself in the pages. There was no index, and while it was a thin book, it was no pamphlet. She’d have to skim it.
For half an hour, Roxy scanned the pages and found much that was interesting but not pertinent to her mission. The exercise was becoming tedious. She was losing hope that the book would prove to be of any use and was considering turning out her light when she came across some passages that mentioned George.
Nothing looked meaningful initially. Meredith described how the pair met—at a retreat she was running—and how he was “immature” in his psychic gifts, but very eager. Roxy got a bad feeling as she read the words. It did look like Meredith was determined to paint George in the role of a bumbling but well-meaning apprentice.
George came to me with an idea of how the spirit and soul interact, and I laughed at his spiritually juvenile ideas. Later, I explained how it all worked…
A couple of pages further in, George was mentioned several times in one paragraph. Roxy slowed down to read it carefully.
One day, a wealthy client from New Orleans came to see George and me. He was a businessman who wanted to use my spiritual powers to influence a business deal.
Roxy read on.
George and I worked with many spirits to produce the outcome the client wanted. It was strenuous work, and George—with his delicate constitution—ended up bedbound for three days while he recovered. I, being much more spiritually experienced and resilient, of course, was fine to carry on my work and life as normal.
The businessman, a famous, wealthy music producer, wanted to prevent a rival company from acquiring a major new talent.
Something clicked in Roxy’s mind as she read these words. She knew she’d been given a piece of the puzzle, but it was just a sensation. She paused—her mind hadn’t caught up yet.
“A music producer,” she whispered to herself. “A major new talent.” A moment later, she banged her hand on her quilt. “Of course!” She thought back to what she had read when she’d been waiting in Royston Lamontagne’s office: Lamontagne’s company had “bounced back” after a rival company had used Voodoo to stop a deal. One by one, pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Royston, far from having benefited from Meredith’s “help” had suffered from it—when she and George had acted on behalf of a client who was a rival of Lamontagne’s. Meredith and George had scuppered the deal that had caused the near-ruin of Lamontagne Promotions. Did he know they were the agents of his company’s problems? Had he killed Meredith for her betrayal?
Roxy powered off her laptop, pressing the OFF button so violently that she thought she’d broken it. She twisted to place the computer on her nightstand, causing Nefertiti to give a little protest mewl. Roxy blew out her cheeks. She felt no closer to solving the case than she had when Dr. Jack had asked her to look into it. The only person who had been in the room with Meredith that she could be sure wasn’t the murderer, was herself.
She had to come up with an idea, a way forward to break the deadlock. “I know!” she said, after a few minutes. Nefertiti looked at her mildly, her expression indifferent in the face of her owner’s excitement. Roxy had come up with a plan. It was risky, criminally risky, but she was desperate. Her idea might be unorthodox, yes, but she was sure Johnson would forgive her once the murderer was in handcuffs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“YOU’VE ALWAYS FELT like an outsider,” George told Nat, his voice wobbling. “Is that right?”
“Yes, and unconventional,” said Nat. “Weird.”
“But now…” George looked up. “Oh, hello, Roxy.” He blushed. “I was just trying my hand at palm reading.”
“Trying your hand,” Nat laughed. “Get it?”
With her stomach growling, Roxy had walked into the kitchen to find Nat and George sitting at the counter. They were holding hands. Roxy shook her head and grabbed a beignet from a plate on the kitchen counter. She took a big bite. She was tired. It had been a very late night. “Yes, yes, whatever. Look, guys, I have the craziest idea. I think it might be slightly illegal. But I think Johnson might forgive me if it works.”
“Illegal?” Nat said, shocked. “You?”
Roxy gave an awkward grin. “Your chutzpah is rubbing off on me. Watch yourself.”
Nat frowned. “You know, Rox, nothing is slightly illegal. It either is or it isn’t.”
“Hmm. I plan to hold a reenactment of the crime scene tonight. I want to gather everyone at Dr. Jack’s. Have someone act as Meredith, Sage perhaps, and have all those who were in the room with her the other night there too. I want to re-enact the murder to see how it went down, and if we can find out
anything more.”
George shook his head. “Terah might do it, Charles too if I ask him, but I doubt Lamontagne will play along. I mean, it is kind of intrusive, and he’s a busy guy.”
“You’re right,” said Roxy before grinning sheepishly. “But what if… the police ordered him to do it?” She raised her eyebrows, inviting their comments.
Nat screwed up her nose. “Johnson wouldn’t do that for you.”
“Neither would Trudeau,” George said.
“Nope, you’re right, again, they wouldn’t. But what if the police officer calling wasn’t…well, official?”
Nat’s eyes opened up as wide as the plates she normally carried to and from the kitchen. “You mean, you’re going to call them and pretend to be a cop?”
“Yep.”
“That’s dangerous,” said George. “Jail-time dangerous. Impersonating a police officer? Do you know what you’re saying?”
“I know. But we have to get this case solved. And that’s the best idea I’ve got. We have to flush out the killer somehow.” It felt weird saying these things to George. She still didn’t have evidence to conclusively eliminate him, but nor could she bring herself to believe he was guilty of murder.
George and Nat looked at one another, then back at Roxy.
“I don’t know if it’s a smart idea or a crazy one, but I tell you what,” said George. “I’ll put a protective light around you so that no one can harm you, and that you’ll get the result you want. I think that’s the best thing I can do.”
“And I can amplify that by setting up a shrine in the corner here.” They turned to see Sage glide in the room, her sapphire robes wafting around her as she walked, her laptop under her arm. “I’m here to get your approval for the new website updates, Roxy, but before I leave, I’ll place a crystal healing grid in the center and surround it with candles, mirrors, running water, and incense. They will magnify the impact of the protection field you’ll be surrounded by. Then, before you carry out the reenactment, I will work with you to call the angels and make sure they travel with you. They will make sure you won’t come to any harm.
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