Private Investigations

The situation threatened to turn awkward. Christy was saved from that by a sudden rattle of the beaded curtain hanging from the doorway behind the counter. She turned to see a stately African-American woman emerge from the back regions of the store, a smile of welcome on her handsome face.

The voodoo queen would have made Brenda Bornowski green with envy. She was a riot of color in a scarlet turban, a boldly printed caftan and heavy rings that covered the long fingers of both hands. Christy was impressed.

The voice that issued a delighted, “Sugar!” as she swept toward them was strong and deep. “What a wicked coquin you are to neglect us all these weeks! But I forgive you.”

She expressed that forgiveness by wrapping Dallas in a lusty embrace. Christy groaned. Not another one! Wasn’t there any female in this town immune to this brash devil?

Pecking Dallas on both cheeks, the voodoo queen released him with a quick apology. “I’m sorry you had to wait. I was in the back with a client.”

Casting a spell? Christy wondered as the woman turned to her, luminous dark eyes registering her curiosity.

“Who have you brought with you?”

“This is Christy Hawke,” Dallas explained. “We’re working together on a case. Christy, I have the honor, the very great honor, of introducing you to Camille Leveau, a direct descendant of the famous Marie Leveau.”

No one lived in New Orleans for any length of time without knowing that Marie Leveau had been a celebrated nineteenth century voodoo queen. Christy was no exception. She also knew that Camille Leveau wasn’t the first voodoo practitioner to claim descent from Marie. There were even those who had boasted they were the reincarnation of the voodoo queen. How authentic was Camille’s own assertion was anyone’s guess. And as the glint in Dallas’s eyes when they met Christy’s gaze told her, what did it really matter?

All dignity now, Camille extended her hand. Christy took it, murmuring her pleasure as the beaded curtain parted again and Dallas swiftly rounded the counter to pump the hand of the new arrival, an elderly man with skin like seamed mahogany, who moved with the aid of a cane.

“Chester! I haven’t seen you since that night at Preservation Hall,” he said, referring to the French Quarter’s famed jazz center, “when you had all of us cheering.”

“Oh, I can still blow a mean horn all right, when my daughter here lets me.”

Christy gazed at Dallas as he and Chester exchanged pleasant memories. She realized that these people were comfortable with him, obviously fond of him. It was understandable because this was an unexpected Dallas McFarland, one she hadn’t discovered until now. Gone were the arrogance and the cynicism. In their place were gentleness and kindness as he listened patiently to the old man. Christy found herself liking what she was seeing, and that worried her.

There must have been a softness in her expression that the voodoo queen observed and mistook for longing, because as the two men went on reminiscing, Camille drew her aside.

“You want him, huh?” she whispered. “And why not? He is one exciting man, that one. Those shoulders alone are—”

“Hey, hold on! You’ve got it all wrong!”

Ignoring Christy’s objection, the voodoo queen went on earnestly. “I can make it possible, chérie. I can give you a potion that will not only put him in your bed, it will have him performing with great power.”

“No, really I, uh—”

“And if the strength of the potion is right,” she promised, “he will be your love slave for as long as you desire.”

“No,” Christy choked. “See, this is strictly a business arrangement with McFarland and me, nothing else, and, um…well, anyway, thank you, but, no. Definitely no.”

Camille lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.

Dallas couldn’t possibly have overheard them, but Christy could swear he knew exactly what they’d been talking about. One of those expressive eyebrows lifted suggestively as he cast a look in her direction that, if not exactly lewd, was positively hot with meaning. She could feel her face flaming. The worst of it was, when their eyes met she experienced something that was more than just embarrassment. She didn’t care to define it.

Christy was relieved when Chester excused himself and they were able to address the matter that had brought them there.

“We need information, Camille,” Dallas appealed. “Whatever you can tell us.”

He went on to explain Laura Hollister’s death, how they had been hired to clear her husband of her murder and the possible voodoo connection with the case. Camille listened without comment, her face betraying no emotion. She was silent when Dallas finished.

“Anything?” he implored.

The voodoo queen slid her gaze in Christy’s direction, commanding softly, “This small bunch of dried plant material he says you saw in the attic out there at Resurrection where she died—describe it, please.”

Christy did to the best of her ability.

Camille nodded wisely. “A gris-gris.”

“What is a gris-gris?”

“A charm. Sometimes they are meant to keep away evil, sometimes they are meant to cause evil. Without seeing or touching this one, I can’t know which.”

“What else can you tell us?” Dallas urged.

“Nothing.”

“There must be something.”

“Only this. There is good voodoo and there is bad voodoo. Me, I practice the good. I am a conjure doctor. People come to me to have curses removed that were laid on them or to buy my cures for bad habits. I help people, I don’t hurt them. You understand this?” She seemed anxious for them to believe that she performed only beneficial services.

“We understand,” Dallas said smoothly. “Now tell us about the other voodoo, Camille. The kind that’s evil. It’s here in New Orleans, isn’t it?”

“I tell you, I know nothing about it.”

She’s lying, Christy thought. She does know something, but she’s afraid to talk about it. That was apparent in the way Camille held herself rigidly and in the way her mouth had tightened so stubbornly. Now why would a voodoo queen, with all her power, fear another form of voodoo?

Christy tried herself to reach the woman. “Would you tell us this then?” she probed gently. “Did Laura Hollister ever come to you?”

“Why should she?”

“Maybe just to buy supplies. Or maybe she needed your help. Maybe she was involved in something she was desperate to get out of.”

Camille shook her head. “Your Laura Hollister was never a visitor to my store.”

“But you do know something, don’t you, Camille?” Dallas persisted. “There isn’t much that goes on in this city that you don’t know about. Come on, why won’t you tell us?”

Camille turned her head, staring at him for a long, indecisive moment. Then, her voice solemn and low, she reluctantly admitted, “I hear things, yes. Things about a dark voodoo that I despise. A destructive voodoo. But it is dangerous to talk about these people and their activities. This I won’t do. I know little enough anyway.”

“Isn’t there anything useful you can give us?”

She considered his request. “If you want to know more, you must go to the old St. Louis cemetery. Use your eyes and if you look hard enough, you may see for yourself.”

“But which St. Louis cemetery?” Christy pressed her. “There are three of them, aren’t there?”

“It doesn’t matter which. Just be careful. The old cemeteries are no longer safe.” She held up her hand as Dallas started to object. “No, sugar, I have nothing more to say, not even for you.”

The voodoo queen conducted them to the front door. When Dallas tried to pay her for her service, she refused. “I don’t want to be paid for something I want no part of. But, wait.”

Leaving Dallas at the door, she drew Christy back into the store. Reaching under the counter, she produced a small, simple red cloth doll and placed it in Christy’s hand. “A gift,” she murmured. “No charge.”