Bayou My Love: A Novel Page 12

  I tossed the doll on the kitchen table and hobbled into Jack’s bathroom to fill the tub. After fishing a bottle of red wine out of the pantry, I limped into the study and searched the bookshelves for a book that had caught my attention earlier. I’d forgotten about it until the mojo bag appeared, then got sidetracked again before I could read it.

  Voodoo in New Orleans. I plucked the thin paperback from the shelf and took it with me, wincing each time I put weight on my ankle.

  I stripped and eased myself into the hot bath. The cuts from the thorns throbbed when the water touched them, and I took a long drink of wine to tamp down the pain. My ankle was already purple and swollen, and as I lay back in the tub, I muttered, “What else could possibly go wrong?”

  I knew as soon as the words echoed against the tile that I should have kept that thought to myself, because as soon as you tempt fate, it will absolutely come to bite you in the ass.

  ~~~~

  By the time I was halfway through the bottle, I’d skimmed the first three chapters of Voodoo in New Orleans. So far I’d learned basics about how one mixes up a gris-gris. It was a tiny object made to attract good fortune, love, money—the usual desires people had. The author discussed anecdotal evidence of these objects providing what the maker wanted, plus examples of how they’d been used to attract negative energy to a person. I skipped ahead to a chapter on voodoo dolls and cringed as I read some of the cases related to those—people had actually been prosecuted and jailed back in the day for creating dolls that brought havoc to their victims. There were cases of broken arms, poisoning, heart attacks and worse. I felt myself getting sucked into the lore and for a moment wondered just what the gris-gris and the doll in my yard could be bringing to me. I tallied up the little problems that had arisen this week—the roof, the mold, Miranda, Remy—but then shook the thoughts away.

  That was silly. Wasn’t it?

  It was the wine, I thought. It was late, I was exhausted, and the wine was making my brain too susceptible to folklore. I dropped the book onto the floor and sank deeper into the water. Jack was right. There couldn’t be anything to this voodoo business. There might have been something real about the practice back in its heyday, but now it was just a mystery that created allure for tourists.

  I’d just added more hot water to my bath when I heard a truck come up the drive. A door slammed, the headlights streamed into the window, and the truck went back down the road. For a second I froze, but then I heard a key in the lock and Jack’s footsteps in the hall.

  “Enza,” he called, “Are you up there?”

  “Down here,” I said, taking another drink from the bottle. It was nearly three-quarters empty now, and my ankle felt light and tingly, just like every other part of me.

  The door to the bedroom opened. “Enza?”

  “In here,” I said, sloshing a handful of bubbles toward my feet.

  “You’re working awfully late,” he said, and the door swung open.

  I shifted slightly, instinctively covering my breasts with my arm.

  “Jeez,” he said, averting his eyes. “I thought you were painting in here or something.”

  “Nope,” I said, relaxing again. “Off the clock.”

  He glanced in my direction, still not letting his eyes rest on me. It was cute, the way he was suddenly shy.

  “Why are you in my bathtub? Is something wrong with yours?”

  I giggled. “Why are you staring at the wall? It’s not like there’s anything in here you haven’t seen already.”

  “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

  I laughed. “My tub is upstairs.”

  He looked at me then, and saw the wine bottle and the paperback. “I see.”

  “Your dog crippled me and made it impossible for me to climb stairs.”

  “What?”

  I motioned at my purple ankle propped on the rim of the tub, and he cringed.

  “What happened?” he asked, kneeling at my side. He slid his fingers over the bone, and I winced.

  “Your dog happened. She stole my phone and went tearing through the swamp, so I of course had to chase her. I tripped and then whammo, busted ankle.”

  “Christ,” he said, sliding his fingers along my calf. “I’m sorry. She does have a bad habit of stealing things.”

  “You owe me a new phone.”

  He gently moved my ankle to the left, then to the right.

  “Ow! Easy!”

  “Sorry.” He rubbed his fingers over the bruise. “Looks like a sprain. Nothing too serious, but you should stay off it a couple of days.” His eyes darkened as they came to rest on mine. “You know, stay in bed.”

  I felt a ripple of heat wash over me. “Thanks, Dr. Mayronne.”

  He leaned over the edge of the tub and kissed me on the lips, his tongue finding mine. “I’d climb in there with you if you weren’t wounded,” he said. Part of me wished he would, ankle be damned. This man could clearly heal me in a thousand different ways.

  “It’s a bit chilly in here,” I said. The water was barely warm now, and I felt goose bumps all over.

  “Then let me get you out and warm you up.” He pulled me to my feet and handed me a towel, turning his back as I dried off.

  “Hey,” I said, “who was that bringing you home?”

  “One of the guys from the station.”

  “Why?”

  He wrapped his big plaid bathrobe around me. “Someone slashed the tires on my truck today.”

  “Tires? Plural?”

  “Yep. All four.”

  “Oh my God. Maybe the doll was you!” My head spun a little as I stepped out of the tub into his arms. I should have had dinner before wine.

  “What?”

  “There was a voodoo doll in the yard today. I thought someone was trying to freak me out, but maybe it was meant for you.”

  He rolled his eyes, fighting back a grin. “Was there a pin stuck in its ankle?”

  “Very funny,” I said, looping my arm in his. “But you have to admit, things are a little weird around here.”

  He scoffed, leading me into his bedroom.

  “I’m serious! Think about it.”

  “I don’t have to. I’m sure Miranda was the one who slashed my tires, getting back at me after her little scene the other day.”

  “Maybe Miranda’s into voodoo. Maybe she’s trying to put a hex on you and me both. The tires, the house, the dog that is clearly possessed by a demon—it’s a lot of coincidental disaster.”

  “That’s crazy,” he said. “Your problem is a house that hasn’t had any major repairs in forty years. My problem is an obsessive ex. This is not voodoo, cher. This is the universe telling us to make better decisions.”

  “Doesn’t explain the dog,” I said.

  “You’ve been mixing wine and heavy reading. The only one putting a spell on me is you.”

  He tugged at my hair, wet from the bath, and kissed the spot just below my ear. I thought of the day before, the way he’d spread me out on the kitchen table, kissing me and stroking me until I’d come for him. I’d spent the day trying to push those thoughts aside, but all I wanted was for him to lay his chiseled body on mine and make me his again and again.

  So much for one time. So much for getting him out of my system.

  “Let’s get you to bed,” he said. “You can sleep in my room tonight. You know, because of the stairs.”

  I almost protested, mainly out of reflex. But then I thought of sleeping next to Jack, his arm draped over my hips, and quickly reconsidered.

  He helped me over to the bed, and I sat. “Can I get you pajamas or anything from upstairs? Frilly girl things?”

  “No,” I said. “Don’t need them.”

  He kissed me on the forehead and turned to leave.

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  “I’ll take the couch,” he said.

  “You’re leaving me in my hour of need?”

  He walked back over to the bed and stood in front of me. “If you w
ant me to stay, cher, just ask.”

  I slid my hand under his shirt, tracing the taut muscles there. “Stay.”

  When he slipped off his T-shirt, I saw the cut on his upper arm, the sutures. There were bruises on his shoulder, a bandage below his collarbone. “Oh my God.”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks.” He eased into the bed next to me.

  “What happened to you?” I felt like an idiot for complaining about a lost phone and a sprained ankle.

  He shrugged. “A big warehouse. Abandoned, thankfully. Lost cause, though. Burned up before we could save it.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “They think it was the arsonist again.”

  I slid my fingers along his arm, careful to dodge the wounds. It sickened me to think of Jack in these buildings with rotting floorboards and century-old beams. Ceilings and walls collapsed so easily, and things that were there one instant were gone in the next.

  “Do they have any leads?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” he said, irritated. “This is the sixth one. They should have caught this guy by now.”

  I curled myself against him as he told me the rest, falling asleep as he stroked my hair. I felt safe there, wrapped in his arms, but how long could it last?

  ~~~~

  In my dream, I was surrounded by red-orange flames in a house that was Vergie’s—but then was not. The rooms were the same, but their placement was all wrong. Frantic, I ran from room to room, trying to find the stairs, to find the way out. The dog was barking outside, but I couldn’t see a door or a window. Smoke filled my lungs and burned my chest. Flames lapped at my skin. I felt like I was catching fire myself, and Jack was nowhere to be found. I called and called for him, but there was only the dog, barking behind me, the sound growing softer in the distance. I crawled along the floor, holding my shirt over my nose. Beams creaked overhead, and the walls crackled and popped. Then the fire was everywhere. I was trapped in a room with no windows, and around me was nothing but orange light and dense smoke. When I looked down at my hands, I saw they were square and callused. The reason I couldn’t find Jack was because I was Jack.

  I sat up in the bed, gasping for air. The covers were crumpled at my feet, and my hair was wet and plastered to my face. Next to me, Jack was sleeping soundly, his breaths deep and even. I lay back down, trying not to wake him, trying to slow my own breaths. But my heart felt like it was being squeezed like a fist. This was no ordinary nightmare. Vergie would say this was the kind meant to send you a message.

  Chapter 10

  I was killing time until the roofers started. Because they were friends of Jack’s, they would be coming over tomorrow, on a Saturday—unheard of in these parts. I’d planned to work on the porch floor today, but since there would be carpenters both above and below in less than twenty-four hours, it was smarter to push that to later in the week. With my luck, they’d have to bust through the floorboards after I painted them, so I might as well put off doing anything until the dirtiest work was complete.

  My ankle was still sore, but I was able to walk without the shooting pains I’d felt earlier. Jack was on duty, so I was on my own. I had my morning coffee (not as good as what he made) and sat down to make a new timeline. The roof and mold problems would set me back a few days, but with some extra effort I could still meet my deadline.

  The end of week one, and things were moving fast with Jack and slow with the house. Frankly I’d have been happier if the reverse were true. Whatever was happening with Jack was fun—there was no denying that—but I couldn’t dwell on it too much. I liked him—more every day, it seemed—but I couldn’t see what would happen with him when the house was finished. I liked having plans, goals, prescribed outcomes. This thing with Jack had none of those, and it made me nervous. Would I just pack my things and leave him? Shake his hand, and thank him for his expertise?

  Once satisfied with my new calendar for repairs, I opened my laptop and did a little research while I ate my toast and eggs. A quick Internet search led me to several tourist-trap voodoo shops, but there was also a museum that had useful information online. I’d spooked myself last night, probably due to the wine and Voodoo in New Orleans. But part of me wondered: Was it so far-fetched that someone could want to do me harm? Or Jack? Remy hated him and probably had it in for me now too. Miranda was nutty enough to combine her stalking with something more serious. It was unlikely that either of them could actually channel the dark arts and torment us with magic, but they could certainly pose other threats. These are the things you heard about in the news—warning signs that escalated into physical violence. Was there reason to think these were more than pranks?

  Finding out if one could really unleash voodoo on a gal to make her life fall apart or make a lover come back to her, well, that would be useful to know too. I went up to Vergie’s room and opened the nightstand. Inside were the gris-gris and the fabric doll with the pins, right where I’d stashed them. I shoved both into my pockets.

  ~~~~

  The French Quarter was just like I remembered it. Tourists scurried on every sidewalk, fanning themselves against the heat. The street musicians sang and strummed on the corners, chatting up people who gathered to listen to them as they wandered from one bar to the next. Every restaurant had its doors open, music pouring out with the air conditioning, luring people from the midday sun.

  To gather proper intel, I first went to the historical society, claiming I was doing research for a book. People are always intrigued by the prospect of contributing to historical research, and perhaps being thanked on the acknowledgements page, so they tend to be forthcoming with information. A woman who led the tour out at the old Number Seven cemetery had directed me toward a side street not far from the French Quarter.

  She got a serious look on her face and said, “Now, if you want to learn about the real thing, you need to go see Duchess.” She drew me a map and told me to mention her name so that the woman wouldn’t turn me away. “She’s got no patience for people seeking out love spells and souvenirs,” the woman said, her eyes narrowed. “She only talks about it with people who respect it as she does.”

  I’d spent a few hours in New Orleans when I’d returned for Vergie’s funeral, but it had been years since I’d truly walked down those streets. I found that most things hadn’t changed. The same apartment buildings were there, old Mardi Gras beads draped on the iron railings. The doors were painted different colors, and the names of some of the shops had changed, but the cornerstones remained. I turned onto Bourbon Street and into a crowd. All around me, people walked with hurricanes in plastic flutes almost as tall as they were, gawking into dimly-lit doorways. I glanced in one window and saw a flurry of pale skin and garters, the slim legs and high heels of a woman dancing on a tabletop.

  When I turned off Bourbon, the crowd thinned. Three more blocks and I was away from the tourist traps, by the Faubourg Marigny. I stopped to re-read the address I’d scribbled on a scrap of paper. The shop should be another block away, on a back street. You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a voodoo shop in this part of town, but most were for the tourists. They were filled with alligator feet, gris-gris packed with rose petals and thyme, and voodoo dolls that couldn’t conjure any more than a salt shaker could. The shops drew in curious travelers who wanted an “authentic” souvenir from a culture that seemed exotic and mysterious—and they’d made enough money to stay in business for decades. People never got tired of mystery.

  Vergie hadn’t been a stranger to voodoo either. She had taken me to see Marie Laveau’s tomb when I was a child. Back then I’d tried to make my own voodoo doll to get back at a neighborhood bully, but Vergie had stopped me quick as a hawk, telling me I was messing with something I didn’t understand. We’d wandered around the old cemetery where the Voodoo Queen was buried, and I’d been surprised by the makeshift shrine believers had erected in her honor—a collection of flowers, beads and bottles of colored liquids. There were small piles that looked like junk at firs
t, but once I got up close, I saw they were little works of art—layers of flowers, cards and candles, dolls made like effigies of real people who wanted help from the priestess. People left strange pieces of themselves, like garters and ties, watches and high-heeled shoes. And then there was the food. As a little girl, I couldn’t understand why people left glasses of wine and honey with wafers, but Vergie had explained that spirits get hungry too. The whole idea, she said, was to keep the spirit as content in death as she had been in life.

  As we stood in the cemetery that day, the sky a crisp blue overhead, Vergie told me that voodoo really had nothing to do with revenge and evil spirits. The tourists were getting a twisted story that sold a lot of souvenirs and tickets to the cemetery tour, but it wasn’t what the real religion was all about.

  “It’s important that you realize when you’re being had,” Vergie had said. “You have to be able to separate the truth from the lies.” After that, I quit making voodoo dolls to get back at girls who’d picked on me at school. It still seemed like there was some truth in the talk of vengeful spirits, though. Even at that age, I understood that for every ounce of good in the world, there was an ounce of bad.

  I stopped in front of a pale yellow building with green awnings. There was no sign out front, but it was the right number: 88 ½. A bell clanged above my head as I opened the door, and a gigantic orange cat stepped right in front of me, swishing his tail along the floor like a dust mop.

  The room was dark, filled with the smell of dried herbs and flowers. Shelves lined the walls from the floor to the ceiling, packed with relics that I paused to look at only briefly before a voice bellowed from the back of the shop.

  “We’re closed,” the deep female voice said. “Try the one on Bourbon. They got anything you want.”

  “Jacinda said you were the only one who could help me,” I said, trying to locate the voice.

  “Jacinda sent you?” A woman stepped out from behind a bookcase, wrapped in a bright blue and purple muumuu that seemed to glow in the dim light. Her skin was light brown, and she wobbled slightly when she walked. She was a stout woman; not fat, but simply well-built, like she could withstand any kind of storm.