Private Investigations

“It could,” Dallas agreed, “but since she died in the afternoon around the same time as her husband’s visit out there, the police aren’t ready to connect her murder with any late-night rituals.”

“But we have to be serious about that possibility,” Christy insisted.

“Right. Let’s go.”

He came abruptly to his feet, moving out into the aisle as the trolley slowed for one of its stops. Christy followed him as he headed for the exit.

“Where to?”

“Back to our cars.”

“And then?”

He didn’t reply. He was too busy making a path for them through a party of chattering tourists trying to board the trolley as they were leaving it. By the time she caught up with him, he had reached another trolley headed in the opposite direction.

“Lots of questions to be answered, grits,” he said as he hustled her aboard the car. “Yeah, I know. Don’t call you that. Look, don’t think of it as food. Think of it as all the courage I admire in you.”

Christy let that one pass. For now, anyway. “And just where are you taking us to get them answered?” she demanded again as she sank into one of the seats.

“Someplace that’s going to fascinate you,” he promised as he settled beside her. “Either that or scare you to death.”

Chapter Three

Christy had always believed she knew the city and its environs so well that she could qualify as a New Orleans cab driver. That was before Dallas McFarland took her into a neighborhood so alien to her she would have sworn they were no longer in New Orleans, maybe not even Louisiana.

The houses, packed shoulder to shoulder along the tangle of narrow streets, looked like something Charles Addams might have executed in one of his more sinister cartoons. And their occupants, eyeing the cream-colored convertible as it passed, wore expressions that were even less cheerful.

“You sure we’re not lost?” Christy demanded.

“Relax,” Dallas assured her, negotiating the maze with perfect confidence.

“Well, I think we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost.”

“Then why won’t you tell me where you’re taking me?”

“Don’t have to. We’re there.”

He pulled over to the curb, parking in front of a structure that seemed to be listing dangerously. Vines smothered its walls, climbing onto the mossy roof.

“It doesn’t look safe,” Christy decided. “Who lives here?”

“It isn’t a house, it’s a store,” he said, sliding out from behind the wheel. “And stop being so nervous. You’re a P.I., remember?”

“I’m not nervous. I’m just cautious, that’s all.” She exited the car from the passenger side and followed him up onto the porch. “What kind of store?”

“The kind that sells voodoo supplies.”

Which shouldn’t have surprised her. This was New Orleans, after all, and they were after answers. But Christy was still a bit uneasy as she followed him into the store. With good reason, too, she thought as she gazed around the dim interior.

The place was like a wizard’s cavern. Black candles burned on either end of a counter and shelves ranged along the walls were piled with dust-laden merchandise that didn’t bear thinking about. There was a strong aroma in the air that seemed to be a combination of incense, fried onions and an old graveyard. Definitely on the creepy side.

“Everything but a smoking cauldron,” Christy whispered.

Dallas chuckled. “She could probably produce one for you, providing the price was right.”

“Who?”

“The reigning queen of voodoo in New Orleans. This is her store.”

“Oh.” Christy looked around. They were alone in the shop. “Where is she?”

“Patience.”

“Maybe we should call out a hello, ding a bell or something to let her know she’s got customers.”

“She knows we’re here. Look,” he urged, “why don’t you have a look around while we’re waiting? You know you want to.”

Christy had to admit she was curious. She wandered along the shelves inspecting masks, the skull of a goat, ritual altars, dolls and various powders and charms. “This is fascinating.”

“All for the tourists,” he said, trailing after her. “I suspect the serious stuff is in a private room by invitation only.”

She leaned down, squinting at a label on a sealed jar. “What’s High John the Conqueror’s root?”

“How should I know?”

There were other jars, other labels. Stop Evil Floor Wash, Luck-in-a-Hurry Incense, Come To Me Oil, Mogo Love Drops, and something called Bendover that Christy preferred not to question. The instinct that promised to serve her well as a P.I. kicked in again without warning when she saw a jar marked Black Snake Root. The word black seemed to leap out at her.

“There’s something that’s just occurred to me,” she told Dallas. “What if Laura Hollister’s need for money had nothing to do with her expensive tastes? What if it was for something else?”

Dallas didn’t seem to find it at all odd that she should start discussing a subject that probably had little or no relation to the voodoo supplies she was examining. “You don’t mean voodoo, do you?”

“No, blackmail.” He was thoughtful for a second. “That’s a possibility. Definitely a possibility. We’ll need to look into that, too.”

There was approval in his voice. Christy would have been pleased by it, had she not become suddenly aware of the silence in the store. It was unnerving. “I don’t know about you, but I get the feeling there are eyes on me.”

“We are being watched,” he said calmly. “She just wants to be sure you’re okay.”

Christy refrained from shuddering as she peered at another label. “What on earth would you do with alligator teeth?”

“Bite your enemy?”

“Anyway,” she went on, “maybe Glenn will turn up a connection. I asked him to go through all of Laura’s personal effects as soon as possible and let us know what he finds.”

“Good thinking.”

This was twice within the same moment that he had complimented her. Did he mean it? Christy glanced at him, fearing he might be laughing at her again behind those compelling green eyes. No, she could see his praise was genuine, leaving her with a warm glow—a reaction that was definitely disturbing.