A flock of brown pelicans lifted skyward as the Argo motored past the barrier island. Eddie watched as they headed north to avoid the approaching storm. A hundred yards on the seaward side of the island, Jack killed the engine, drifted to a stop and dropped anchor. Eddie followed him out of the wheelhouse and down the ladder to the main deck.
Chief was waiting for them, the diving tanks resting against the hull and wetsuits draped over the railing. A dull gray sky had only grown dimmer as Chief and Eddie pulled on their wetsuits and readied their equipment. Jack was polishing the railing with an old rag.
“You’re not diving with us?” Eddie asked.
“Would if I could swim,” Jack said.
“In the Navy for thirty years and can’t swim. How’d you get away with that?”
“Wasn’t easy.”
“You wouldn’t be pulling my leg, would you?”
“Nope, can’t swim a lick.”
“Being out on the water doesn’t scare you?”
“Not anymore,” Jack said. “At least until someone reminds me.”
“Sorry about that,” Eddie said. “What would you do if our boat started sinking?”
“Take the rubber life raft, or else go down with the ship,” Jack said.
Chief had heard it all before and was shaking his head as he adjusted the air tank on his back.
“You ready?” he asked.
Eddie gave him the high sign. “Any special instructions?”
“Just follow me down,” Chief said.
Chief did a backward splash into the blue water of the Gulf, and Eddie followed him off the side of the boat. The anxiety he’d had about diving in the Gulf disappeared as he sank beneath the surface. Chief was below him, bubbles from his regulator rising upward as he tracked the anchor line to the bottom.
Visibility was good, though the water was a hazy shade of bluish-green, ambient light fading as they reached the bottom. Bits of metal and other debris lay on the sandy floor, green and red organisms growing on top moving like slow motion dancers in the current. A school of groupers swam between them. Not far away, Eddie saw something else.
A jumble of old cars and boat hulls lay strewn on the sandy surface. Eels and tiny fishes swam among the cracks and crevasses, and Eddie realized why the large school of groupers had congregated at that particular spot. The old vehicles formed an artificial reef on the floor of the Gulf, and all manner of fish and vegetation had taken advantage.
Chief swam past the maze of old wrecks after giving the man-made reef a cursory inspection. Enthralled by the plethora of life that had assembled around the old wrecks, Eddie gave it a closer look. When he saw a glint of light reflecting off something rocking in the gentle current, he was glad he did. Scooping it up, he placed it in the pouch attached to his wetsuit.
Chief was looking for something else and moved around the vehicles in ever-widening circles. A large shark swam past them as he turned back toward the anchor. When they reached the line, Chief grabbed it, pointed toward the surface and started up. They got a surprise when they reached the surface.
The frontal edge of a storm was upon them, heavy rain rippling the Gulf’s surface. Chief heaved his fins over the railing and started up the ladder to the deck of the Argo. Lightning lighted the dark sky, thunder sounding almost immediately as Eddie followed Chief up the ladder. Jack was in the wheelhouse and shouted to them as they hurried to remove their tanks.
“Get a move on and let’s get the hell out of here. This old tub’s too slow to outrun the storm, and we’re about to catch hell.”
Rain pummeled the deck as Chief and Eddie hurriedly stowed their gear and made for the ladder up to the wheelhouse. Waves were pouring over the deck, the old boat rocking as Chief reached the ladder. Missing a rung, he lost his footing, and his grip, and fell backward into Eddie’s arms. Blinded by the tumult and the wildly rocking boat, he didn’t see him coming.
Eddie tried to hold on and break his fall, but Chief was simply too big and too slippery. Even amid the fury of the storm, Eddie heard a crack when Chief hit the deck.
“You okay, Big Guy?” Eddie asked.
Chief struggled to get up. “I think I broke my arm,” he said.
Eddie grabbed him around the waist, wrestling him into a sitting position.
“You gotta help me,” Eddie said. “We need to get below before we get washed overboard.”
Eddie pulled the big man to his feet. This time, they avoided the ladder and made their way around the deck to the door leading into the main cabin. Chief grimaced as Eddie managed to lay him on the bunk. Jack had raised the anchor, turned the old boat around and was making toward shore.
Chief was looking unwell and holding his arm. Finding a butcher knife in the galley, Eddie sliced the sleeve of the wetsuit to reveal the injury. The wound was more than just a break, The bone had pierced the skin and blood was soaking Chief’s arm. Eddie found some rags, applied a tourniquet and compressed the wound as best he could to staunch the bleeding.
Chief nodded when Eddie asked, “Are you going to make it? Then hang tight a minute. I’ve got to tell Jack what happened.”
Rain pelted Eddie’s head as he exited the cabin door. He could barely keep his footing as he climbed the ladder to the wheelhouse. Bounding through the door, he forced it shut with some difficulty.
“What’s going on down there?” Jack said.
“Chief fell and broke his arm.”
“Bad?” Jack asked.
“Real bad. The bone splintered and punctured the skin. I got the bleeding stopped, but we need to get him to a doctor.”
“There’s a hospital about twenty miles up the road from the island. I’ll call for an ambulance. With a little luck, it’ll be waiting for us when we reach port.”
“Are we going to make it?” Eddie asked.
“Made in the shade,” Jack said. “We were safe once we passed through to the lee side of the barrier islands. Go take care of Chief.”
“He’s in a lot of pain,” Eddie said. “Got anything to help him?”
Jack tossed him a flask. “Give him some of this. Hell! Give it all to him.”
The rain continued falling in waves as Eddie exited the wheelhouse. At least the boat was no longer rocking nor waves crashing the deck. Chief hadn’t moved from the bunk where Eddie had left him.
“You okay?” Eddie asked.
Chief’s eyes were half closed, and he was chanting in some language Eddie didn’t understand. After loosening the tourniquet and checking the bandage to make sure the bleeding had stopped, he opened the flask and held it to Chief’s lips. After the initial sip, Chief quickly slurped the rest of it down.
“Thank you,” he said in a whispered voice.
“There’ll be an ambulance waiting when we reach the marina. Jack says it isn’t far to a hospital. You’ll be okay.”
The ambulance was waiting as they motored into the little harbor, docking with a precise thud. EMTs hurried aboard, removing Chief on a stretcher and taking him to the awaiting ambulance.
“I’m going with him,” Jack said.
Dressed in a rain slicker, Odette grabbed Eddie’s wrist.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Chief took a tumble and broke his arm.”
They watched as the ambulance raced away, its siren blaring.
“Come inside,” Odette said. “Let's get you warmed up and something to eat.
The building was dark. Odette had a flashlight and led the way. When they reached the restaurant, candles lighted the gloom.
“Where is everybody?” Eddie asked.
“The squall knocked out the power, and the workmen all went home early. Lucky for us there are plenty of storm candles.”
“I’ve got to get out of this wetsuit,” Eddie said.
Odette handed him the flashlight. “Be careful going up the stairs. Good thing we have gas because I have a pot of gumbo simmering on the stove.”
Feeling safe and warm for the first time in many hours, Eddie returned dressed in chinos and monsoon sweater, the aroma of spicy gumbo easily leading him to the kitchen.
“Grab a chair at the table. I’ll get you a bowl,” Odette said.
Spotting him from her bed beside the stove, Mudbug came running. Eddie picked her up and put her in his lap.
“Did you miss me, girl?” he said.
Mudbug’s wagging tail told him she had. Odette was smiling when she placed a steaming bowl of gumbo and dish of rice on the table.
“She likes you,” she said.
“What’s not to like?”
Eddie’s long hair was still damp, and Odette began drying it with a bar rag.
“You’ll catch your death running around in this weather with wet hair,” she said. “Did you find what you were looking for out there?”
“You mean your Spanish treasure ship?”
“What else would I be talking about?” she said.
“All we found was a jumble of old wrecked cars and boats, though I now know where to go fishing.”
“Artificial reefs,” Odette said. “They’re all over the Gulf. Did Chief and Jack tell you what they were looking for?”
“No, but it wasn’t what we found. I didn’t have a chance to talk to Jack about it though I could tell Chief wasn’t a happy camper.”
“Will he be okay?”
“I think so. He was in lots of pain, so I gave him some of Jack’s rum. He’ll have more than just an aching arm when he wakes up tomorrow.”
When Odette finished cleaning the kitchen, she sat down with Eddie. Eddie had found a bottle of scotch in the bar and was having a drink. The storm had stalled over the island, rain pelting the window panes. It didn’t seem to matter as the scotch, along with the flickering candles, had begun lulling Eddie into a relaxing stupor.
“You okay?” Odette said, shaking his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Eddie said. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. This scotch and your wonderful gumbo have me more relaxed than I’d care to admit.”
“Why don’t you just go upstairs and get some sleep? Everyone’s gone home, and there’s nothing left to do here.”
“Stay with me tonight,” Eddie said. “The weather’s too wild out there to risk sleeping in the tent.”
“You’re my employer. Good employees don’t sleep with their bosses.”
“I know. I’ve been fighting the urge to ask you since you met us at the dock,” Eddie said.
“We just met last night. Though I may have worked in a strip joint, I’ve never been one to sleep around.”
“There’s a spare bedroom in my apartment. At least stay there for the night. I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep if I knew you and Mudbug were out in the storm.”
Odette grinned. “Sure you won’t come sneaking into my room during the night?”
“There’s a lock on the door,” he said. “You’d have to want to let me in.”
“What are we going to do, Eddie? You know I’m attracted to you. I want this job as restaurant manager more than I’ve wanted anything since I can remember. Please don’t spoil it for me.”
“I won’t,” he said. “I promise. Chief and Jack didn’t find what they were looking for. I found something quite interesting.”
“Spanish doubloon?”
“Wait here, and I’ll show you,” he said.
Eddie retraced his steps up the dark stairway to his apartment, returning with the pouch from his wetsuit. Opening it, he pulled out an ornate bottle of rum and set it on the table. Though the bottle was burnished by sand and the motion of currents, the seal was intact and still filled with dark rum, the same as the day it had been bottled.
“Where did you find this?” she asked.
“Among the wrecked cars in the man-made reef. I looked for more. This was the only one I found. It’s what you really came to the island for, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Chief said Jack was drunk and making a fool of himself when he pulled him out of the bar.”
“Jack was drunk. We were sitting together at the bar. He was trying to come on to me and hoping like hell I would respond.”
“Where was Chief?”
“Sitting alone, watching the dancers on stage. Jack was buying me drinks, and I was only half-listening. Until. . .”
“Until what?”
“He started talking about sunken treasure. I was laughing at him, telling him I’d heard the story before. He staggered out to his truck and returned with a bottle of rum just like the one you found today and gave it to me.”
“Did he say where he got it?”
“No, but he said it was worth its weight in gold, and there were lots more bottles on the island just like it. When Chief checked on him and realized how wasted he was, he carted him out of there.”
“My friend Bertram says it’s the best rum he’s ever tasted.”
“I took pictures of the bottle with my cell phone and researched it the next day at the Tulane library. It is from a distillery in the Dominican Republic and was bottled during Prohibition. I sold it to a pawn dealer for five-hundred bucks, and he told me an unopened bottle would be worth at least three-thousand dollars.”
“You drank the rum?” Eddie asked.
“It was only half full when Jack gave it to me. You had some of it last night.”
“No wonder it tasted so good. Did you figure out how it got here on the island?”
“This island was once a haven for rumrunners and a major entry point for illegal booze coming into Louisiana. I’m betting somewhere out there, a sunken rumrunner, still loaded with crates of Dominican rum, is waiting for us to salvage it.”
Madeline and I watched in surprise as Adela hugged the large raven to her breast, kissing its beak and ruffling the feathers of its head with her chin. Calpurnia reveled in the attention. If birds could smile, she would have been smiling.
“You two know each other?” Madeline said.
Adela’s face glowed with a satisfied smile. “Although I haven’t the foggiest idea how it’s possible, I feel as if we do. I’ve also enjoyed meeting you and visiting your shop and beautiful courtyard, though I’m not sure why Wyatt brought me here.”
Calpurnia climbed back onto Adela’s shoulder when she finally stopped caressing her. The bird continued rubbing her head against Adela’s neck and calling her Aisling.
Madeline took the tea tray and pointed to the door of the building where she lived.
“Wyatt is a man who rarely does anything without a purpose. He brought you here because we have important things to discuss. It is getting chilly out on the patio. Please come with me to the house.”
Calpurnia hopped on Adela’s hand when she placed it near her shoulder. When she lifted her hand, Calpurnia flew into the air and began circling her head.
“Aisling,” she said. “Aisling.”
Madeline took our cups, and we followed her into the living area. She led us into a room with a dinner table that overlooked the courtyard through a large window.
“Sit,” she said. “Now, I think Wyatt has something to tell me. Am I correct?”
“Something important I think you can help us with,” I said.
“Then speak. Perhaps we can make some sense of how my majestic raven seems to know this beautiful young woman.”
Madeline sipped her tea as I recounted last night’s visit to the thirteenth floor of Hotel Montalba and our meeting with the demon. Even though Adela kept making faces, Madeline seemed taken by the story. When I’d finished, I waited for her to comment. Adela spoke before she had a chance.
“It was just a dream,” Adela said. “None of Wyatt’s story ever really happened. It’s so preposterous I don’t understand why anyone who hears it can’t see through it.”
Turning to Madeline, I said, “It does sound preposterous, even to me. Doesn’t matter because it was as real to me as this teacup I’m holding in my hand.”
“Lucid dreams often seem real,” Madeline said.
“When I told the story to Taj and Mama, Taj told me I’d described the room and the demon just as he had seen it. If it were a lucid dream then how was I able to describe the exact room that Taj stayed in his first night in New Orleans? He wasn’t dreaming and has a cut foot and bloody voodoo doll to prove it.”
“I didn’t say what you saw never happened. Perhaps you experienced the vision in a dream because of your special powers.”
“What powers?” Adela asked.
“Wyatt is a Traveler,” she said.
Madeline’s declaration caught Adela’s attention. “What’s a Traveler?”
“A person who has lived many lives in many ages, and can physically traverse time. What Wyatt saw was an excerpt from your own thoughts. I cannot explain how but perhaps you somehow entered his dream. What Wyatt saw was quite possibly something you had experienced.”
Adela gazed at me while sipping her tea as if she were seeing me for the first time.
“Impossible,” she said. “Nothing like that has ever happened to me.”
“That’s not the entire story,” I said. “Mama Mulate and Taj visited St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 last night on a hunch.”
“A hunch?” Madeline said.
“The voodoo deity Baron Samedi had appeared to Taj earlier as a cemetery keeper at St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. When he told the story to Mama, she was suspicious because she knew of no such keeper at the cemetery. Taj’s description of the man got her thinking something other than coincidence was involved.”
“So they went to see?”
“Baron Samedi is the keeper of souls and cemeteries. When they got to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, Mama summoned him, and he appeared. When she asked him about Taj’s meeting with the demon, Baron Samedi told her the answer lies in a French Quarter Garden. She quizzed him further though all he would tell her was to ask the Irish witch named Aisling. Calpurnia called her Aisling. I think Adela is Aisling, the Irish witch.”
Adela flashed a frown. “I’ve been called worse.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a witch, my dear,” Madeline said. “I am a witch myself, as was my mother and my grandmother. I assure you there is no shame in being a witch.”
“If I were a witch, don’t you think I’d know it?” Adela said.
“Maybe you do know it and are hiding your abilities from us. If what Wyatt says is true, you can levitate and fly. No mere human can do either.”
“Neither can I,” Adela said. “Wyatt was dreaming. I have no control over what he dreams. I’m not a witch, and I have no special powers.”
“That’s not what you told me,” I said. “I wasn’t asleep when you said you had special powers and had known it since you were a little girl. I was wide awake when you levitated off the floor and floated across the room.”
“I lied to you. The pot you smoked did have a hallucinogenic drug mixed with it,” Adela said. “You were drugged. I’m sorry, but you’re only describing what you think you saw and not what really happened.”
Madeline refilled my teacup. “You smoked marijuana?” she said.
“I confess I did,” I said. “Doesn’t matter because my thinking was clear.”
Adela was smiling and shaking her head. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall when you told your story to a judge. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t hold up in a court of law no matter how many stacks of Bibles you swore on.”
She was right. For a moment, I began to doubt what I was certain I had seen. It didn’t matter because Madeline didn’t give me a chance to defend myself.
“Maybe Adela just does not know she is a witch,” Madeline said.
“There’s something else I haven’t told you. Adela has a voodoo veve on her chest,” I said. “An identical veve to one on Taj’s chest. Though they had never met, Adela knew about Taj’s veve.”
Madeline glanced at me, and then back at Adela. “Is that true?”
Adela nodded. “Yes.”
“How does a girl from Michigan get a voodoo veve on her chest?”
“I have no recollection of where it came from,” Adela said. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”
“Is it a tattoo?” Madeline asked.
“See for yourself,” Adela said, pulling up her sweatshirt.
Like a doctor examining a wound, Madeline drew closer for a better look.
After a moment, she said, “This is no tattoo nor does it look like a birthmark. No two veves are ever exactly alike. How is it possible for two people to have identical veves on their chests? More importantly, how did you know about Taj’s veve?”
“Not by coincidence,” I said.
“That’s not so,” Adela said. “Taj’s shirt was open to his waist when I met him. I couldn’t help but see the marking.”
“All I know is Adela and Taj are inextricably connected. In my mind, the connection has something to do with the 13th floor of the Hotel Montalba.”
“What else?” Madeline asked.
“Mama confirms deities rarely appear to humans in their real form.”
“What do you mean by that?” Adela asked.
“They usually speak to humans through surrogates whose bodies they’ve possessed. The fact the actual Baron Samedi appeared to both Taj and Mama tells me whatever force of nature brought Taj to New Orleans is of prime importance to the Vodoun hierarchy.”
“Like I’ve said before, I know nothing about voodoo. The only voodoo I ever heard about before coming to New Orleans was in some sleazy exploitation movie,” Adela said.
“And your parents are Christians?” Madeline asked.
“Of course they are.”
“And you?”
Adela’s face reddened. “Except for weddings or funerals, I haven’t been inside a church since I was a teenager. That doesn’t make me a witch.”
“Nor does being religious preclude you from being a witch,” Madeline said. “I was a Catholic nun. I still believe the dogma though I assure you I am truly a witch.”
“Okay, say I am a witch. What are my motives for keeping that interesting bit of information secret?”
“If I knew, I would have the answer to your mystery. Calpurnia apparently knows you. She either knows you from the Quarter or perhaps another life.”
“This is my first trip to Louisiana,” Adela said. “You’re raven is beautiful and intelligent. It doesn’t matter because she mistook me for someone else.”
“I do not think so,” Madeline said.
“Maybe she knew Adela from the French Quarter courtyard Baron Samedi spoke of,” I said.
“You are both insane,” Adela said. “I’m from Michigan. My name is Adela Kowalski. I’m Polish, not Irish.”
“You are here for a reason,” Madeline said. “The veve on your chest is no coincidence. It is a voodoo veve. If Mama Mulate says she spoke last night with a voodoo deity, then I believe her. If you are a witch, why not just admit it. It makes no difference to Wyatt or me. We are only trying to help you.”
“I know nothing about the French Quarter,” Adela said. “If I’d lived here before, surely there would be things I’d remember.”
“There’s something else,” I said. “I haven’t mentioned it because it was very upsetting.”
Madeline glanced at Adela. “What could possibly upset Adela more than the things we’ve already discussed?”
“Trust me,” I said.
“You tell me now, or I’m going to have to embarrass myself in front of Madeline by yanking your hair out.”
“I don’t think you’ll like what I have to say,” I said.
“I’ll take my chances. Tell me.”
“When the demon blocked our departure from the bathroom, he was dragging the head of the woman in the bathtub by its long red hair. The head was lifeless its blue eyes rolled up in a death stare. It was your head. You were the murdered woman in the bathtub.”
Madeline’s hand went to her mouth. “Are you sure of that?”
“As sure as I can possibly be.”
My pronouncement failed to affect Adela. She was grinning as if I’d just told a joke.
“This is getting absolutely insane,” she said. “I’m obviously not dead. How could it have been me?”
“According to the bellman who talked with Taj, the murder in the hotel happened centuries before you were even born. Though it couldn’t have been you, I’m sure it was your doppelganger.”
“Or someone you are incarnate of,” Madeline said.
“What on earth would prompt me to return to the place where I was murdered?” Adela asked.
“Revenge,” I said.
“I think you are both jumping to absolutely absurd conclusions,” Adela said. “Any sane person would think you are both crazy.”
“That doesn’t explain how Calpurnia knows you, and you her?” I said.
“She’s just a bird,” Adela said.
“A bird that called you Aisling, the very same name the demon used when confronting us. The same name Baron Samedi used. You can’t just explain that away.”
“I truly have no idea,” Adela said.
“You were drawn to the city for a reason, or you would never have met Mr. Davis or learned you both have identical veves on your chests,” Madeline said. “I have a notion you lived in the French Quarter during another lifetime, as did Mr. Davis.”
“Yes,” I said. “Before we came here, Adela and I did some exploring of the French Quarter. She seemed familiar with Royal Street and even told me as much. Her curiosity took us for a long walk up the street. When we reached the 1100th block of Royal, she grew faint and almost passed out. I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance.”
“The Lalaurie Mansion,” Madeline said. “It is located in the 1100th block of Rue Royal.”
“Of course,” I said. “I should have put two and two together.”
“What is the significance of the Lalaurie Mansion?” Adela asked.
“It was a place of pure evil,” Madeline said. “A house of unspeakable horrors.”
Calpurnia was waiting for us when we returned to the courtyard. Landing on Adela’s shoulder, she continued acting as if she’d known her forever. Adela was all smiles when Madeline hugged her.
“I hope you find the answers you seek. If only Calpurnia could tell us. Alas, she can’t, and I am sorry I couldn’t help you myself.”
“Yes you did,” I said. “You’ve pointed us in the right direction.”
Adela’s mood darkened again as we exited to the French Quarter sidewalk. The sky had turned an angry shade of gray, though at least it had stopped raining.
“Now, where are you taking me?” Adela asked.
“You said you wanted a tour of the French Quarter. I’m giving you one.”
“I seriously doubt any tourists have visited Madeline’s courtyard.”
“Bet you’re right about that,” I said. “Where we’re going now is a neighborhood bar, on the edge of the French Quarter.”
“You thirsty?”
“There’s someone there who can tell us about the Lalaurie Mansion.”
“If it’s a tourist attraction, can’t you just research it on the Web?”
“My friends at the bar will know things about the mansion which aren’t common knowledge. Madam Toulouse used to work at the Notarial Archives.”
“What’s that?”
“A repository of knowledge. The city’s founding fathers kept precise records of everything from marriages, property sales, building permits, the sale of slaves, to you name it. There isn’t much about New Orleans Madam Toulouse doesn’t know. And if she doesn’t, her significant other Armand does.”
“Armand?”
“An art and rare book dealer, especially as they pertain to New Orleans. The rich, famous, and powerful, value his expertise. No two people know more about this old town than Armand and Madam Toulouse.”
“How much will you have to pay them?” Adela asked.
“They’re friends.”
“Must be, if they’re as knowledgeable as you say and you expect them to help us for nothing.”
“I’m taking them something they’ll value more than money. We have to make a stop at a liquor store.”
The little liquor store I was familiar with wasn’t far away, and the owner knew me from when I was a drunk. Adela browsed the racks of wine as I found what I was looking for.
“A bottle of scotch?” Adela said. “Sounds kind of chintzy to me.”
“This isn’t just any scotch,” I said. “It’s Armand’s favorite, rare and expensive. It’ll get us the answers we want.”
“If you say so,” she said. “How do you know they’ll be at the bar?”
“Because it’s their office. Where their clients go to find them.”
Adela glanced up at the cloudy sky. “Must be quite a bar.”
“Just the opposite,” I said. “It doesn’t even have a sign in front.”
“Then how does anyone know to go there?” Adela asked.
“People who matter all know where Allemands is located.”
There are many great bars in New Orleans, most of which tourists never hear about. Allemands is a hole-in-the-wall bar situated on the edge of the French Quarter. Adela gave me an as if look when we reached the door.
“You sure this place is safe?” she asked.
“Safest place in town,” I said, opening the door for her.
The bartender recognized me, saluting as we entered. The place reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The patrons sitting at the bar didn’t bother turning around. The place was dim, pool balls sounding as someone was breaking a rack. The couple we were looking for had a table of their own.
“Well, look here,” Armand said.
“Brought you a present,” I said, handing him the sack.
Armand beamed as he tore it open. He was from a different era, a quintessential beatnik if such a person still existed. His black hair had thinned even further since the last time I’d seen him. His cookie-duster mustache was also black, as were all his clothes. Even in December, he wore no socks with his sandals. His companion blew me a kiss.
Madam Toulouse’s red leather miniskirt showed off her long legs. Her bouffant hair pointed toward the ceiling. As usual, she was sucking a sugary drink through a long red straw. Armand was grinning as he admired the bottle of scotch.
“Eighteen-year-old single malt Laphroaig,” he said. “I ain’t drank this good since the last time you dropped by for a visit.”
“Adela, this is Madam Toulouse Joubert and Armand.”
Armand had stepped out of the booth and motioned for us to slide in beside them.
“Sit on this side of me, baby,” Madam Toulouse said to Adela. “I want to visit with both you and with Wyatt.”
With Madam Toulouse sandwiched between us, we waited while Armand walked over to the bar to speak with the bartender.
“I didn’t forget you,” I said, handing Madam Toulouse a package.
“Oh my God!” she said when she saw the piece of jewelry I’d brought her. “Is this what I think it is?”
“A diamond encrusted fleur de lis necklace worn by my mom when Dad was King of Rex.”
“I can’t take it,” Madam Toulouse said. “This piece of jewelry is priceless and needs to be in a museum.”
“Leave it to the New Orleans Museum of Art when you die,” I said. “Enjoy it until then. It’s been in my dresser drawer far too long, and there’s not a person on earth who will appreciate it as much as you.”
Madam Toulouse was beaming when Armand returned to the booth.
“Armand, you’re not going to believe what Wyatt gave me.”
The little man in black leaned across the table and took a long look at the necklace.
“I keep forgetting your old man was once King of Rex,” he said. “You know how much this piece is worth?”
“I don’t want to know,” I said. “I would never sell any of Mom’s jewelry. I’m just so happy one of my very best friends in the world can enjoy and appreciate it.”
The bartender, a man named Jake, arrived with a pitcher of lemonade for me, a bottle of champagne and three glasses. Despite the weather, Jake’s shirt was sleeveless, probably to show off the multiple tattoos decorating his brawny shoulders. After placing the champagne and lemonade on the table, he removed the cigarette resting on his ear and lit it.
“We’re celebrating and may need more than one bottle, my man,” Armand said.
“You got it,” Jake said. “Just give me the high sign.”
Before leaving the table, Jake made a production of opening the champagne and then filling the glasses. Armand lifted his glass in a toast.
“Good friends and drink,” he said.
After a couple of glasses of champagne, Adela’s mood began to lighten. She was laughing and kibitzing with Madam Toulouse as more customers entered Allemands.
“Where are you from?” Madam Toulouse asked. “Your accent isn’t one I recognize.”
“Michigan. My ex-boyfriend and I decided to visit over semester break.”
“And where is he?” Madam Toulouse asked.
“He ditched me,” Adela said.
Madam Toulouse touched her hand. “Dear, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I wasn’t in town for even a single day before strange things began happening.”
“Such as?”
“I have a mark on my chest. It’s been there for as long as I can remember. My boyfriend and I were taking a tour of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. The only other person on the tour, though I didn’t know it at the time, was a pro basketball player.”
“Who was that?” Armand asked.
“Are you a basketball fan?” Adela asked.
“You kidding me?” he said. “Only bigger fan in town is Madam Toulouse.”
“We’ve had season tickets for ten years now,” Madam Toulouse said. “Tell us who it was?”
“Taj Davis. Heard of him?”
“No way! Every fan in town is wondering why the team traded Zee Ped for him. He’s good but he ain’t Zee Ped good.”
“We think we know the reason,” I said.
“Then tell us,” Armand said.
They both looked amazed when I said, “Voodoo.”
“You’re making this up,” Madam Toulouse said.
“Taj’s shirt was open to his waist when I met him. Probably to show off his chiseled pecs and the gold chains he wears around his neck,” Adela said. “I couldn’t help but see he had a mark on his chest. It was just like the one on my chest.”
“What kind of mark are you talking about?” Madam Toulouse asked.
Adela glanced around the dark bar to see if anyone was looking and then raised her sweatshirt to show Armand and Madam Toulouse the mark between her breasts.”
Armand leaned closer for a better look. “Damn!” he said. “That’s a voodoo veve. Where the hell did you get it?”
“Born with it,” Adela said.
“Impossible,” Madam Toulouse said, touching the symbol.
“Is it a tattoo?” Armand asked.
Madam Toulouse shook her head. “More like a birthmark.”
“It’s too damned detailed to be a birthmark,” Armand said. “Surely, someone put it there.”
“The mark on Taj’s chest is larger, though identical to mine. We decided it was too much of a coincidence for us to have met in the way we did without something very powerful having caused it.”
“Something like voodoo,” I said. “That’s how Mama Mulate and I got involved.”
“It’s a voodoo veve,” Armand said. “It’s not very detailed, and I’m wondering if the person who drew it was an amateur and not a mambo or houngan.”
“Are you saying it’s not an authentic voodoo veve?” I said.
“It’s a veve, all right. A Baron Samedi veve. Each deity has a specific symbol though all are slightly different depending on the person drawing it. This one doesn’t have all the flourishes a mambo might have used.”
“Would it still work?” I asked.
“Don’t see why not,” he said.
“Interesting,” I said. “That puts a strange little twist to things.”
“How did you and Taj hear about Mama and Wyatt?” Madam Toulouse asked.
“A man who Taj met at the cemetery told him about Mama Mulate,” Adela said.
“And Taj Davis, the professional basketball player, was taking a tour of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 when you met him? Why the hell was he doing that?” Armand asked.
“He was staying at Hotel Montalba when a demon accosted him. He ended up with a cut foot and a bloody voodoo doll in his hand when he ran out into the hall,” I said.
“This story gets stranger by the minute,” Madam Toulouse said.
“Taj thought so too. He booked a tour of the cemetery at a voodoo shop because he was trying to make sense of the demon and the voodoo doll,” Adela said.
“I know this is hard to believe, but the man he met at the cemetery was apparently Baron Samedi,” I said.
“Unlikely,” Armand said. “Voodoo deities never appear to mortals except through possession.”
“Mama and Taj visited the cemetery last night. Mama summoned Samedi, and he appeared. Mama is convinced it was the actual voodoo deity and not someone possessed by him.”
Adela was grinning. “What are you smiling at?” Madam Toulouse asked.
“Even though I have this mark on my chest, I still can’t believe it has anything to do with voodoo, and people around here actually believe in it,” she said.
“It’s real in the Big Easy,” Armand said. “I promise you.”
“How do you know? Have you ever attended a voodoo ceremony?” Adela asked.
“There ain’t much me and the Madam here haven’t done or seen here in New Orleans,” Armand said. “It’s what we do.”
“In this town, knowledge is power and power is money. You don’t have one without the other, and there’s always a price to pay for both,” Madam Toulouse said.
“And the price is knowledge,” Armand said. “Powerful people in this town pay big bucks for it.”
Flashing me a look of exasperation, Adela reached for her handbag. Seeing her reaction, Madam Toulouse realized Adela had misinterpreted their boasts.
“He didn’t mean you and Wyatt,” Madam Toulouse said.
“Wyatt is family,” Armand said. “Can’t put a price on that.”
Madam Toulouse’s shoulders were wider than many of the linebackers playing for the Saints. She was smiling when she wrapped her arms around us.
“You’re family now. Tell us how we can help you.”
Cold air filled the room when customers entered. The rain had returned, wetting the floor before the door had closed. Armand signaled Jake to bring us another bottle of champagne.
“Lots has happened since Taj hired Mama and me to help solve the mystery of the bloody voodoo doll,” I said. We met Taj and Adela at the Riverfront last night. After dinner, Mama and Taj went to a jazz club, and I took Adela back to her hotel. That’s when things began getting crazy.”
Jake interrupted my story when he arrived with a fresh bottle of champagne. Adela’s smile had disappeared.
“We’re waiting,” Madam Toulouse said.
Adela squirmed, slugging her champagne. “Before Wyatt starts, let me say his story is ridiculous. He was dreaming. The only part of his fairy-tale that’s real is when he drinks wine and smokes marijuana.”
As if on cue, Armand produced a joint, lit it, took a puff and then passed it to Adela. The recognizable odor of marijuana began wafting through the smoky little bar.
“Nothing goes better with champagne than a good toke,” Armand said.
“Amen to that,” Madam Toulouse said.
A puff of pot lifted Adela’s mood. When Madam Toulouse attempted to pass the joint to me, I waved it off.
“Can’t hold your pot, Cowboy?” Armand asked.
“I had too much last night,” I said. “And yes, I drank some wine. Adela confessed to having powers she has possessed since she was old enough to know about them.”
“Powers?” Madam Toulouse said.
“Adela can move objects with her mind, cause them to levitate. She can levitate. I saw her do it.”
The gaze of Madam Toulouse and Armand’s eyes turned to Adela.
“That’s bullshit!” Adela said. “Wyatt was drunk and stoned and trying to get me into bed. When he did, he passed out and had a dream induced by pot and wine.”
“Adela can also fly,” I said. “She flew us to the same room where Taj saw the demon his first night in the city. We saw the demon, and something else.”
“Like what,” Armand said.
“The headless body of the woman in the bathtub.”
“Bullshit!” Adela said.
“The demon was dragging a woman’s head by its long, red hair. Adela’s head.”
“Damn, Cowboy! What you had was more than pot and wine. Sounds like an acid trip to me.”
“Exactly,” Adela said. “Nothing he’s telling you is real.”
“The specter spoke to us,” I said.
“What did it say?” Madam Toulouse asked.
It said, “I will have you, Aisling.”
“Who the hell is Aisling?” Armand said.
“Adela is Aisling,” I said.
“Whoa, Cowboy. You’re confusing me.”
“Then let me explain. Adela and I visited Madeline Romanov before coming here. Her raven Calpurnia repeatedly called her Aisling. That’s not all. Baron Samedi told Mama Mulate a red-haired witch named Aisling can lead us to the French Quarter courtyard where our answers to this mystery lie. Whether she knows it or not, Adela is Aisling.”
“Wyatt was high on LSD,” Adela said. “The only part of his story that holds water is the color of my hair. Madeline’s raven called me Aisling, but the demon and the voodoo deity in the cemetery are nothing more than drunken fantasies.”
“I’ve never known Mama Mulate to tell a lie,” Madam Toulouse said.
“Neither have I,” Armand said. “How do you explain her meeting with Baron Samedi?”
By now, Adela’s arms were folded tightly around her chest. “My name is Adela and not Aisling. I’m Polish and not Irish. I have no magical powers, and I’m certainly not a witch.”
“Before our visit to Madeline’s, we walked down Royal Street,” I said. “When we passed the Lalaurie Mansion, Adela almost fainted. People have past lives. I believe Adela is the Irish witch Aisling, and the courtyard we are looking for is at the Lalaurie Mansion.”
“Madeline’s raven called you Aisling?” Madam Toulouse asked.
“Though Madeline’s bird is adorable, it didn’t live here centuries ago, and neither did I,” Adela said.
“You seem a bit too sure about that,” Madam Toulouse said.
“You think I’m lying?” Adela said. “You people believe in voodoo, magic, and reincarnation and seem amazed I don’t agree with you.”
“Suspend your disbelief for a moment,” I said. “You certainly can’t explain where your voodoo veve came from, or why Taj has an identical one on his chest.”
“What you’re suggesting is crazy,” Adela said.
“Is it? I don’t think you’re lying. I think your memories of a past life are just repressed.”
A clap of thunder sounded outside the bar. The front door opened slightly, wind and rain blowing through the crack. Jake was shaking his head as he brought us yet another bottle of champagne.
“Tell us how we can help,” Madam Toulouse said.
“Two things,” I said. “The unsolved murder that occurred years ago at the Hotel Montalba, and details about the atrocities that happened at the Lalaurie Mansion.”
“Both events are real,” Armand said.
“The murder in Room 1313 actually occurred?”
“Yes,” Madam Toulouse said. “The murder took place in 1834, the very same year the Lalaurie Mansion burned.”
“You know about it?” I asked.
Madam Toulouse nodded. “No one knows more about the murder in Room 1313 than I do, though I haven’t thought about it in years.”
The large woman became introspective, sipping her champagne and then giving Armand a pensive look. Armand reacted immediately, relighting the joint and handing it to her.
“Š'il te plait ne pleure pas mon amour,” he said.
“I’m okay,” she said.
“The murder must have profoundly affected you,” I said.
“More than I care to elaborate,” she said.
“Is it too painful for you to continue?” I asked.
“The murder in the hotel has nothing to do with me, though it mirrors something that happened to my family.”
Madam Toulouse seemed comforted when both Adela and Armand took her hands.
“Sorry, Cowboy,” Armand said. “Talk of this murder has upset Madam Toulouse. I’ve got to cut this short.”
“No, Armand,” Madam Toulouse said. “I’ve carried this with me far too long and now’s as good a time as any to get it off of my chest.”
“You sure?” he said.
“I’m sure.”
Though I had no clue why a murder that had happened more than one-hundred-eighty years ago should affect Madam Toulouse so profoundly, I waited for her to tell the story. Armand asked me to trade places with him. With Madam Toulouse between them, he and Adela clutched her hands as she began telling us about the murder at the Hotel Montalba.
“I came across old newspaper clippings when I worked at the Archives. To say the details of the killing caught my attention would be an understatement. I became obsessed with it, absorbing every scintilla of information I could find about the case.
“A chambermaid found the body of the deceased when she arrived to clean the room. The distraught woman went screaming into the hallway. Police found the nude body of a headless woman in the bathtub, the water red with blood and cold to the touch. The woman’s head was never found.”
“Did they identify the victim?” I asked.
“It was long before the discovery of DNA. It was the body of a female, her identity never determined.”
“Who occupied the room?” I asked.
“Someone using a false name, though it doesn’t matter because the clerk recognized the man and identified him to the police.”
“Who was it?” I asked.
“Dr. Leonard Louis Nicolas Lalaurie, Delphine Lalaurie’s third husband,” Madam Toulouse said.
“Was the desk clerk sure about that?” I asked.
“Most likely,” Armand said. “Rich folks in those days were local celebrities.”
“Why in hell wasn’t he charged with the murder?” I asked.
“Because the Lalaurie Mansion burned that very night,” Madam Toulouse said. “Dr. Lalaurie disappeared, along with Madam Lalaurie, after the fire.”
“Quite a coincidence,” I said. “Are the murder and the fire connected?”
“They have to be,” Madam Toulouse said.
“Who started the fire at the Lalaurie Mansion?” I asked.
“Some say the cook, though no one knows for sure,” Armand said.
“What’s the story on Dr. Lalaurie?” I asked.
“Madam Lalaurie’s third husband and much younger than she was,” Madam Toulouse said. “They had a son out of wedlock and got married shortly after.”
“Why was he attracted to an older woman?”
Armand laughed. “Hot sex and rampant sadism, maybe?”
“Dr. and Madam Lalaurie disappeared the night of the fire and never resurfaced here in New Orleans.”
“Do you remember anything in the records about a girl from Ireland?” I asked.
“No, though it wouldn’t surprise me. Madam Lalaurie was Irish,” Madam Toulouse said.
“You have to be kidding,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Delphine’s maiden name was Macarty, her grandfather born in Ireland. They had the name shortened from MacCarthy. It was common for rich families to have indentured servants from Europe.”
Armand chimed in. “Her family was connected, her uncle the governor of Spanish-American provinces in Louisiana and Florida. One of her cousins was the Mayor of New Orleans.”
“Some say the reported abuse and torture never occurred,” I said.
“It happened. Slaves rescued from the fire had been horribly abused, and some tortured,” Madam Toulouse said. “Abuse and torture had long been rumored. When actual proof arose, a mob formed, demanding justice.”
“The slaves all survived the fire?”
“Miraculously, though a few passed away shortly after that.”
“Baron Samedi said the answers to our questions lie in a French Quarter garden. Though I’ve never been inside the Lalaurie Mansion, it doesn’t look as though it has a courtyard.”
“The present house isn’t where the torture occurred,” Armand said. “Madam Lalaurie acquired the original house from Edmond Soniat Dufossat. That house burned in the fire. It’s likely little of the original structure survived.”
“The appearance of the original house was similar to the Soniat House on Chartres. That house exists to this day, and it definitely has a courtyard,” Madam Toulouse said.
“The so-called house of horror you see today didn’t even exist when Madam Lalaurie owned it. The present Lalaurie Mansion wasn’t built until several years after the fire,” Armand said.
“What else suggests torture occurred at the original house?” I asked.
“The Lalaurie Mansion was large. The Lalauries hosted many lavish parties. Even so, the couple had more slaves than they needed to serve a house even as large as theirs. Some say many slaves spent time at the house. Graves were found in the courtyard, and bodies in the well on the property,” Armand said.
“While all of the Lalaurie’s slaves were abused, not all were tortured,” Madam Toulouse said. “For at least half of the slaves, torture was their only purpose.”
“Was torture common in 1834?” I asked.
“Abuse was common though torture was rare,” Madam Toulouse said.
“Why was that?” I said.
“Code Noir,” Armand said. “A comprehensive law governing the rights of slaves. Slave owners could chain and beat their slaves. It was illegal to mutilate or kill them.”
“Slaves were valuable assets, and most owners tended to treat them well to protect their value. Intercourse was encouraged and families discouraged,” Madam Toulouse said.
“What kept the slaves from rebelling if they had the Lalaurie’s outnumbered twelve or more to one?” I said.
“Whips, chains, intimidation, and one mean-as-hell enforcer,” Madam Toulouse said.
“They had an enforcer?” I said.
“The Lalauries owned a large black man straight from Africa who had been captured far away from the usual slave trade. He had no tribal ties to the other slaves and capitulated to Madam Lalaurie’s whims because it curried him special treatment from her.”
“How big was he?” I asked.
“Tall enough to play in the NBA,” Armand said.
Suddenly interested, Adela asked, “What was his name?”
“Strange though it may seem, his name was Taj,” Madam Toulouse said.
Mama was feeling guilty after spending the day, looking at upscale condominiums with Taj. Enthralled by the tall, handsome woman, Taj didn’t immediately notice her frown. It finally became too apparent to overlook.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I’m such a heel,” she said. “I berated poor Wyatt this morning for being unprofessional. I’ve had so much fun helping you shop for a condo, and I’ve done nothing at all on your case. I’m the one who should be tongue-lashed.”
“It’s okay. I don’t know what I’d have done without your help.”
“It’s not okay,” she said. “You hired Wyatt and me for a specific reason. I’ve become enamored with you. I’ve shirked my duty.”
“I’m not complaining,” he said. “You aren’t the only one who’s become enamored.”
“It’s affecting my judgment,” she said. “We can’t let our feelings go any further.”
“Too late for that,” Taj said.
“Then I’m going to give your money back.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Let’s go to the hotel and talk about it. After we work things out, I’ll take you to the most expensive restaurant in town. You’re a woman who needs to be wined and dined.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a simple person. Let’s go to my house. I’ll fix you the best meal you’ve ever eaten. It’s been forever since I was home and my cats will be missing me.”
“You have cats?” Taj said.
“You don’t like cats?
“Didn’t say that,” he said. “Just that I’ve never been around them much.”
“No dog or cat when you were growing up?”
“A turtle is all,” Taj said.
Mama grinned. “You’re not allergic are you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“If you are, I have a potion that will fix it,” she said.
“You sure?” he said.
“Positive. Let’s catch a cab.”
Taj saluted and followed the handsome woman to the curb. Mama lived in an old neighborhood near the river. It worried Taj when he saw the car on blocks in the front yard of the house across the street.
“We’re not going to get mugged, are we?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, Baby,” she said. “I’ll protect you.”
Neat and freshly painted, Mama’s house stood out as the nicest home on the block. Despite December’s lower temperatures, her front porch pansies were still blooming. Ferns hanging from the rafters swayed in a chill breeze as she fumbled for her keys in the darkness.
“Be it ever so humble. . .” Mama said as she unlocked the door and held it open.
Within seconds, three cats, meowing as their claws scraped across the bare wood floor, came running around the corner. The tailless cat in the lead jumped straight into Mama’s awaiting arms.
“Oh, my gorgeous babies! Did you miss your mama?”
Taj had never particularly liked cats. Seeing the reaction between Mama and her three pets, he decided not to mention it. Mama led the three felines into the little kitchen of her Creole cottage, opened a can of cat food, and fed the hungry beggars. Taj watched, his arms tightly folded across his chest.
“My three babies Bushy, Cliffy, and Ninja. You don’t like cats, do you?” she said.
Taj was quick to react, a smile replacing his solemn expression and his arms dropping to his sides.
“I’ve never been around cats. I know I’m going to like yours.”
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“Because I like everything about you.”
“Good answer,” she said. “If you didn’t like my babies, I’d have to call a cab and send you back to your hotel room alone.”
“Please don’t do that,” he said.
Taj felt the warmth exuding from the cozy little house, and the welcoming though faint odor of herbal incense in the air. He glanced around, taking it all in.
“I love your house,” he said, changing the subject.
“Creole cottage,” Mama said. “I’ve done my best to restore it to the way it looked when it was built more than a century ago. I’ll admit I’ve added a few things a bit more modern.”
One of Mama’s additions was obvious. She’d converted an entire wall into a built-in bookcase. From the number of books in the bookcase, Taj could see she was an avid reader.
“Nice,” he said.
“Do you read?” she asked.
“The sports page,” he said.
“No problem. I like you anyway.”
“And I’m thankful for that,” he said.
“Brr !” Mama said. “It’s a little chilly in here.” After adding wood to the pot-bellied stove in the corner of the kitchen, she made a production of lighting it. “It’ll be warm in a few minutes.”
“I didn’t notice a chill,” he said. “Guess I’m still used to the weather in Cleveland.”
“Then let me take your coat,” she said. “Grab that chair, and I’ll get dinner started.”
Not realizing how tired he was, Taj collapsed in the comfortable recliner. Connected to the kitchen, the living area was part of Mama’s open floor plan.
“Love this chair,” he said. “Never seen one quite this big.”
“I must have had you in mind when I purchased it,” she said. “Relax, I’ll be a while.”
Taj needed no convincing. He’d dozed off, his feet extended in the recliner when Mama returned from her bedroom dressed in a sexy turquoise-colored caftan. The creaking of the old wood floor beneath Mama’s feet aroused him from his nap.
“I flat passed out,” he said
“Neither of us got much sleep last night.”
“That’s a fact,” he said. “I’m hoping we don’t get much tonight, either.”
“Oh ho!” she said. “This isn’t Cleveland, and we do things differently here. You may not like me anymore after a few days. I don’t know about you, but I intend to proceed carefully into this relationship.”
“New Orleans is starting to grow on me. I don’t believe I’ll have a problem with either you or this beautiful and mysterious city.”
Mama opened a bottle of wine and put a glass on the table beside the chair.
“Have some wine and continue with your nap,” she said. “It’ll be an hour or so before dinner is ready. I want you rested for later on tonight. Just in case I don’t toss your ass out first.”
Taj grinned and took a drink of Mama’s wine before raising the handle on the recliner to prop up his feet.
“Why would you do that?” he asked.
“I don’t see a ring on your finger. That doesn’t mean you aren’t married. Are you?”
“Never had the pleasure,” he said.
“Steady girlfriend?”
“Been a while since I had a steady girlfriend,” he said. “I’ve been completely single for quite some time now.”
“Do you meet lots of chippies on your road trips?”
“Maybe when I was younger,” he said. “Now, I mostly have a good steak, a bottle of wine and then turn in early. What about you? You’re the best-looking woman in New Orleans. Surely you have men knocking down your door.”
“I wish,” she said.
“What about Wyatt?”
“We’re business associates,” she said. “We’ve somehow managed to keep it that way. Go back to your nap. I have work to do in the kitchen.”
Taj closed his eyes, falling fast asleep. He awoke to a wonderful aroma he didn’t recognize that was wafting through the room. All three of Mama’s cats were asleep and curled up on his large chest.
“They like you,” she said. “I’ve never seen them take to a stranger as they have to you.”
“What smells so good?” he asked.
“Tournedos Marchand de Vin,” she said. “My version of one of Antoine’s favorites. Hope you like steak done Creole style.”
“I didn’t know they did Creole-style steak here,” Taj said.
“Get used to it. When it comes to good food, there’s no better place in the world than New Orleans. You’re going to love it here.”
“You don’t need to twist my arm,” he said. “And my little nap did the trick. I haven’t felt this alert in years.”
“Maybe because I added a little magic to your wine,” she said.
“It’s not going to get me in trouble with the NBA if I have to take a piss test, will it?”
“One-hundred-percent safe and totally herbal,” she said.
“What if I like the results?”
“Then don’t play around on Mama Mulate,” she said. “I’m the only one who knows the formula.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
Mama served dinner on a table lighted only by candles in a silver candelabrum. Taj had never tasted such a combination, the steak served with Creole cornbread, baked Acadian cushaw, and broccoli pie. Afterward, he was almost in tears.
“I have never eaten a finer meal,” he said. “Home cooked, or otherwise.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Mama said. “I don’t cook this way every night.”
“You kidding? I’m lucky to have experienced it once in a lifetime. What now?”
“Let’s turn on some music. I’ll join you in the recliner.”
Mama put a Trombone Shorty album on her outdated stereo and then sat on Taj’s lap. Barely a moment passed before they began acting like horny teens in the backseat of an old beater. Mama was the first to open her eyes.
“You can’t be comfortable in your street clothes. There’s a robe in the bathroom that may fit you,” she said. “Try it on for size.”
“Just the robe?”
“You won’t need anything else,” Mama said
“Does this mean I’m staying the night?” he asked.
“I’m leaning in that direction,” Mama said. “Grab the robe, and we’ll talk about it.”
Though the robe was a bit too small, neither Taj nor Mama noticed as they returned to the recliner. Flickering light from the candles in the kitchen revealed the veve on Taj’s chest when she brushed the robe open with the back of her hand.
“What’s the matter?” Taj asked. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Not at all. I’m looking at the veve and once again starting to feel guilty.”
“It’s okay. All that business can wait until tomorrow.”
“Maybe not,” Mama said. “We haven’t heard from Wyatt and Adela all day.”
“Call them if it’ll make you feel better,” Taj said.
Mama Mulate extracted herself from Taj’s lap and returned to the kitchen table. After checking her phone for missed calls, she dialed Wyatt’s cell phone.
“Now I am worried,” Mama said. “The call went straight to Wyatt’s voicemail.”
Taj joined her at the kitchen table. “I’ll call Adela.” After a moment, he said, “Straight to voicemail.”
“I’m wondering what this means,” Mama said.
“Maybe they went to the movie and turned off their phones.”
“Wyatt doesn’t go to movies.”
“They’re adults and have taken care of themselves for years. They’re fine.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Mama said.
Mama poured coffee from the pot warming on the stove. Opening Taj’s robe again, she rubbed the veve on his chest.
“Why don’t we go back to the chair?” he said.
“Not right now,” she said. “There’s something about your veve. I should have noticed it before now.”
“What about it?”
“It’s a Baron Samedi veve. While all veves are different depending on the person drawing it, this one is simpler.”
“What does it mean?” Taj said.
“Don’t know,” Mama said. “Maybe the person who drew it wasn’t a practitioner of Vodoun. Maybe it was just put there by a tattoo artist who had no appreciation of what the veve is supposed to mean.”
“Let’s worry about it tomorrow,” Taj said. “Your comfortable chair is calling my name.”
“You’re right,” Mama said. “The answers we seek will probably be forthcoming when we’ve had time to sleep on it.”
“That might be the day after tomorrow,” Taj said.
“I think you’re boasting,” Mama said. “I’m a college professor and believe in proof, not boasts.”
“Then prepare yourself, lovely woman. There’s nothing I relish more than a friendly challenge.”
Mama and Taj barely had time for a kiss when a knock on the door interrupted their ardor.