CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

Her misadventures on the river wrapped up, Finn drove home as carefully as a drunk, avoiding any possibility of further disaster. Something repulsively smelly clung to the seat of her pants with its last dying gasp. She held her breath.

She pulled into the narrow, shadowed spot beside her tiny house, then went inside and dropped her stuff inside the back door. She called out a hello to Debbie to say where she was headed, and walked over to Gert’s house.

Loud meowing drifted to her before she even got the key in the lock. She was late for their usual feeding time. Since cats were self-reliant and adaptable, and this bunch had plenty of playmates, Finn didn’t feel guilty about leaving them alone for long periods. Like all day. She did feel a twinge of guilt about serving dinner late.

Finn sidestepped several felines who wound their tails around her ankles when she stepped inside. She slipped off her shoes and bent down to pick up Scarlett to snuggle her warmth against her neck.

“Scarlett, you are a beauty,” she stated staring at her little round face and emerald green eyes.

Jake rubbed up against her leg purring. She patted him on the head and put Scarlett back on the floor.

“Okay, Drew’s still at the vet, who’s missing?” she counted heads as she headed toward the laundry room. With the upside-down watering devices empty, Finn knew it needed refilling as well as the cat food dishes.

Four cats followed her. She flipped on the light, reached into the pantry for the bag of food, still searching for the missing cat. Generally when she came over to feed them morning or night, they followed her around like baby ducklings.

As they ate, Finn studied them to see who was missing. After some deliberation, she saw it was Archie who was not quarterbacking his housemates.

She left to go find him. It felt like déjà vu all over again.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” she called feeling a little foolish but since no one but the other cats could hear her she kept on. She turned on lights as she wandered through the dining room with its cypress wood floor, Queen Anne table and Chippendale chairs, then into the cheery parlor checking on and beneath the Victorian sofa and behind the piano. She lifted the drapes and kept calling, “Kitty, kitty, time for dinner, Archie honey. Come and get it.”

She wandered into the entrance hall with its gorgeous leaded-glass double doors. Streetlight poured through pooling on the floor and reflecting off the dual mirrors on either side. She startled herself with how bad she looked. Her hair fell in a disarray of tangled curls around her head. A streak of dirt dusted one cheekbone and her face was as pale as her new boyfriend, the chef ghost. She didn’t need to check her backside. She could feel the dampness through the denim and smell...something awful.

She shook her head. No wonder Archie was a no-show. With her homeless street-person look, she’d probably scared him off. She trudged up the cypress stairs, past the stained-glass windows and stopped in the hall. Which direction? With six bedrooms, it could take her all night to check. She decided to go with the most logical and look in Gert’s first.

It was the prettiest room in the house. The walls were painted the faintest shade of turquoise, which in the light of day made the room look like the Caribbean. Underneath the three bay windows stood a charming brass and iron bed with a pure white chenille bedspread. Curled up on one of the pillows at the head of the bed lay Archie, sound asleep and purring with a deep resonance that Finn found surprising.

Finn walked past the fireplace and the loveseat and looked down at the sleeping cat.

When she reached out to pet him, his eyes flew open and he hissed at her, the fur along his back rising in a deeply defined ridge.

“Hey, now, Quarterback, is that any way to treat me? Haven’t you heard about not biting the hand that feeds you?” Archie stretched, got to his feet and hissed again. Finn backed away. “Okay, mister, you know where the kibble is.”

He jumped off the bed and strode out of the room, his tail twitching, his head high.

Finn shook her head and laughed. “I have such a way with the men.”

She went downstairs to clean out the litter boxes.

With that disgusting chore out of the way, she checked once more on the multitudes. Maggie and Jake were still eating, but the rest of the crew had left the laundry room. She went back through to the kitchen and found Archie laying on his side in front of the back door, not moving, no tail twitching, his breathing labored, his sides heaving. He didn’t even hiss when she bent down to take a closer look. He barely moved when she picked him up.

Deja vu all over again? She grabbed her car keys and made the mad dash to the vet’s office. Fifteen minutes later, she rushed inside and found the same woman, Karen Manning, at the front desk.

She smiled. “Drew is ready to be picked up. I didn’t even have to call you. Luckily this is our night to stay open late.” When she saw the cat cradled in Finn’s arms she jumped to her feet.

“Oh, boy. You’re having a time of it, aren’t you?”

Finn handed the cat over. “You could say that.”

Again, she followed the woman down the hallway and into the examination room. Doc Mac stood at the sink washing his hands. He turned at their entrance, his smile turning to a frown as he saw the cat in Karen’s hands.

“Gert is going to wonder about leaving her cats in my care next time.” Finn sat down in the same plastic chair as she had before.

“Oh, I doubt it. When she sees the cats fully recuperated she’ll thank you for taking such good care of them.” Karen handed Archie into Doc Mac’s hands. The cat gave a half-hearted hiss, his sides heaving and his eyes wide.

After an examination that Finn thought seemed much too short, he turned to Finn with a grin.

“What is it?” Finn whispered.

“Archie is going to be a mommy.”

Finn jumped to her feet. “No way. I thought Archie was a male.”

“Archie is and always has been a female. Gert’s little joke, I guess, naming her Archie. In a few hours, she is going to have a brood of kittens to mother.”

“Wow.” Finn didn’t know if she was more relieved or more flabbergasted. She idly wondered who had fathered them.

“So I should take him home?” She was no midwife.

Doc Mac smiled, then patted her shoulder. “You can take her home and she will manage fine on her own. Drew’s ready to go home as well.”

“What about Archie? What do I need to do?”

“Don’t you worry, hon,” Karen said. “Archie doesn’t need you at all. Find a nice dark, quiet spot and put down plenty of towels. She’ll do all the rest.”

“You’re going to be an aunt,” Doc Mac stated as he handed Archie to her. Karen got Drew and handed him to her.

With her hands full of cats, Finn said, “Wow. What am I going to say to Gert?”

“Mazel tov?” Karen suggested with a wry grin.

***

Later the next day Gert, tanned and rested, got back from her cruise. She stuck her blonde head in at Finn’s back door, minutes past the dinner hour, finding Finn and Debbie hard at work over a game of Scrabble at the kitchen table.

“You’ll never guess what happened while I was away,” Gert said, hands on hips. “Or maybe you already know.”

Debbie tilted her head. “What? Like did you get engaged or something?”

“No, silly. My Archie had five little kittens.”

“Archie?” Debbie questioned. “Isn’t that, like, a guy’s name?”

“Like, yeah, Gert,” Finn mimicked. “Like Archie Manning, quarterback extraordinaire? Did you know he was a she?”

“I’ve always known Archie was a female. I liked the name and I’m a Saints fan so I named her after one of their more famous players.”

“And they’re doing okay? The kittens? I mean, she was acting a little grumpy when I fed them last night but I figured he, she, was being a cat.”

“Oh, she’s fine. Doing the motherly thing.”

Finn took the moment to explain about Drew’s illness but Gert took it all in stride. With six cats, Finn guessed she spent a lot of time at the vet’s office. After all, they knew Gert by name.

Finn remembered what Gert said the last time she’d returned from her cruise. “When are you going on your date with your taxi driver?”

Gert gasped holding a hand to her red sequin-covered chest. “For a moment I flashed on Danny DeVito in the TV show Taxi. Yeesh. I’m not that bad off, am I?”

“I’ve seen that show!” Debbie’s face transformed from Scrabble concentration to joyful recollection. “That’s so funny, Aunt Gert. He’s, like, the meanest boss ever.”

“And short,” Gert added, then demonstrated by putting her hand shoulder high. She rolled her eyes sending Debbie into a fit of giggles.

“And bald,” Finn added, grinning.

“And grumpy,” Debbie managed between giggles.

“None of which describes my taxi driver,” Gert said, pulling up a chair and checking out the game board. “He’s tall dark, and handsome. I’m supposed to call him this week about our date. So who’s winning?”

“Finn,” Debbie groused. “She knows all these cool cooking words, like none I ever heard of.”

Debbie missed Finn’s shake of the head, her futile attempt to keep the secret of culinary school to herself.

“Like braise?” Apparently, Gert didn’t pick up on the acknowledgement as she stared at the board. She smiled at Finn as she studied it with no other apparent reason than to see what words they’d played. “And bake? That’s a big one.”

“No, bake was mine,” Debbie bragged.

Finn caught Gert up on the latest gossip she’d missed while she was away. All the adventures Finn and Debbie had survived. Even Gert was surprised.

***

Thank God, Chef Shane was teaching today because Cynthia was on the warpath.

It was bad enough Finn arrived late to class. When she entered the room and tiptoed in past him, he merely nodded. She heard the last phrase angrily tossed by Cynthia toward Eli as she stepped up to their workstation. “Try not to be stupid today.”

Lovely. The girl was relentless, humorless and downright irritating. That was on a good day.

“What are we doing today?” Finn asked, donning her chef jacket.

Both Cynthia and Eli’s heads swiveled in Finn’s direction. They stared at her as if she were an alien with two heads. Cynthia sneered, baring small kibble-sized teeth.

Finn sneered right back. “Could you at least try to get along?”

“Why?”

“Don’t even bother, Finn,” Eli said, his voice resigned. “She’s gonna do what she’s gonna do. You can’t change a tiger’s stripes.”

“As if I’d want to change.” Cynthia cocked her head and looked off in the opposite direction.

Finn felt like the non-descript referee for the WWE. She reached beneath the worktable and pulled out a large stainless steel mixing bowl. “Let’s do the work and try not to talk.”

“Fine by me,” Eli said.

“Whatever,” Cynthia muttered.

They were supposed to make beignets from scratch, and then using three different cooking oils compare the differences. They combined yeast with warm water and measured out the sugar into a work bowl. Finn kept one eye on Cynthia as she mixed her ingredients. Stirring with her own wooden spoon, she followed Eli’s steady work and Cynthia’s frenetic movements. Finn couldn’t help noticing her eyes dilating with each ingredient she added to her bowl.

They measured and mixed in relative quiet, handing each other the next required ingredients—salt, egg and evaporated milk and actually working well together for a change albeit with Cynthia’s raised brows and haughty demeanor.

They added flour and shortening. Finn began to think everything might work out today when the kneading began. Both Cynthia and Eli concentrated on the simple enjoyable movement. If nothing else, it allowed Cynthia to work out her aggression.

After placing the ball in an oiled bowl to let rise and double in size, they moved to the classroom for a primer on the joys of Written Expression. Finn never imagined she’d have to learn grammatical structure when she signed up for culinary arts.

Later, they returned to the kitchen, rolled out the dough, cut it into diamond shapes and placed them on a baking sheet to rise again. They adjourned to the classroom one last time for a class on Public Speaking. Neither this class nor the last one thrilled Finn, but at least it was quiet. No students fell asleep because they were frothing with anticipation for the thrill of frying delightfully tasty doughnuts.

Everything was going along smoothly with Eli heating up canola oil, Cynthia cottonseed oil and Finn vegetable oil until Eli took a misstep. As he stood in front of the hot stove getting ready to place the dough into his pan of sizzling oil, Cynthia purposely elbowed him. The dough plopped on the floor with a nasty squishing sound.

He spun around, eyes flashing, anger apparent in his stiff posture. “What the hell did ya do that for?”

Cynthia grabbed the baking sheet out of his hands and set it aside.

Finn watched horrified, her own baking sheet in one hand and a towel in the other.

Cynthia dropped her first beignet into the oil from a height of several inches and chortled as it fell. Thick, roiling oil splashed onto the stove, the floor and the nearby countertop. The second one she dropped from a height of a foot. This time the oil splashed on her as well. Finn flinched and backed away. That had to hurt like hell. Cynthia didn’t so much as blink, her facial expression vacant, eyes a blank stare.

The oil splattered onto the adjacent burner where Finn had removed her own pan of sizzling oil in hopes of avoiding more destruction. Then it did what hot oil does when it strikes a hot surface. It burst into flames. Within minutes, a scorching conflagration rose up the metal vent and then poured out the edges.

Cynthia ignored the searing heat and devastation of the developing fire, and dropped her third beignet into the bubbling oil from a height of several feet.

Finn came to her senses and jerked the bowl out of Cynthia’s hands, then roughly pushed her away. Cynthia fell back against the workstation behind her. With wide eyes, she stared as the fire spread from the stove to the adjacent counter, heat and oily flames spewing upward, engulfing everything in its path.

Waving a small kitchen towel, Eli attempted to put out the advancing fire. Fanning the flames was more like it.

Then every boring safety class he’d ever sat through deserted his slow-moving brain. He picked up a pitcher of water and tossed it on the fire. Flames flashed and spread around them as if he’d doused them with gasoline. The blaze shot to the ceiling.

Finn rushed across the room and pulled the fire suppression handle. A blaring alarm sounded at the same time as cool chemical-smelling foam rained down on their heads.

Chef Shane hollered for everyone to get out. They couldn’t leave fast enough, scrambling over each other to pile through the door. Eli trailed the last of them.

Cynthia stood before the stove as if in a hypnotic trance, admiring her work. Finn dragged her toward the door. She seemed to realize what she’d done and ran screaming from the room.

Finn shivered, soaked and desperate not to inhale the toxic fumes. She took a last look around the smoke-filled room. She didn’t want to leave until she was certain everyone was out.

Chef Shane took her arm and escorted her from the room, out into the hall, and down the stairs. They passed several firemen, bulky in their fire gear and hauling hoses, coming up.

“Oil fire,” Chef Shane yelled as they passed.

The class, as well as Chef Shane and Finn, dashed through the front door and out the building. Finn leaned against it and took several deep, clear, oxygen-filled breaths, ignoring her wet clothes and the smell of chemicals clinging to her every pore.

Chef Shane stood beside her, bent over, hands on knees pulling in deep draughts of fresh air himself.

Finn asked. “Are you okay?”

He straightened, his face pale. “I should be asking the same thing of you. You might not know it but you saved lives today by pulling that fire alarm.”

“I was way late in stopping Cynthia. She seemed hell-bent on burning down the place.”

He shrugged. “Unfortunately, I didn’t see her. You were the one I saw in front of the building fire. So did another student, Jim Harwell. He told me you started the fire.”

At her astonished look, he nodded.

“You pulled the fire alarm. And you were the one standing in front of the fire before that.”

Finn goggled at him. “Trying to put it out. Eli saw it.”

“Perhaps you were only trying to help, but we have rules. Rather strict rules. Not burning down the school is at the top of the list.”

“But I didn’t.” She rubbed the back of her neck.

“There will be a hearing later on that you’ll be required to attend where you can defend your actions.”

“A tribunal of all the chef instructors?” Finn asked, already knowing she had one black checkmark against her with Chef Westrom.

“Yes, and the Director of Education.” He patted the soaked shoulder of her chef coat, then winced and wiped the flat of his hand against his thigh. “Even with a good word from me and Eli’s testimony, I think you’ll be reprimanded.”

“I was afraid of that.” She dropped her head and closed her eyes.

“I’ll do my best to make you the victim here, even the hero, but you’ll probably be suspended regardless. You can always re-apply next semester. If it’s any consolation, Cynthia and Eli will be suspended as well.”

Little consolation for doing the right thing and ending up with nothing. She felt her dreams going up in smoke right along with the building. “Thank you.”

“You’ve been an outstanding student, Finn. Someday you’ll look back on this day and laugh.”

At her doubtful expression, he smiled. “You will. And some day after that you’ll be a chef, a wonderfully brilliant chef.”

“Thank you.” This time she meant it but it seemed a long way off.

 

Finn talked to the school administrators, the fire marshal, the police, the EMTs and every other possible person who had an interest. After all that, there was only one place left to go.

The place where every red-blooded woman went when she needed a lift. No, not the mall. That was for teenagers. No, not a bar, although a stiff drink didn’t sound half-bad. No, she went to her hairdresser. M.F.’s Hair to Dye For.

Gert was the one who had put Finn onto Mary Frances O’Shea. Since then, they’d been great friends. M.F. was the only person able to tame Finn’s flyaway red curls. She also knew all the gossip and dirt on everybody in town. She knew what the local radio personalities and journalists were up to, as well as the mayor, the governor and both senators.

You could count on M.F. to keep on talking and not ask any questions. Finn often wondered how she coaxed information out of everyone but she managed. The whole of New Orleans loved her for it.

Finn had no idea how old the woman was. She and Gert shared plastic surgeons. She always looked great. No wrinkles, no sagging chin-line, obviously no gray hair among the black. She wore the latest styles, even if they were a little young for her, and she never commented on Finn’s less than sartorial attire.

Although she’d scuttled the white jacket and hat after her fire fiasco, underneath she still wore her pink tour tee and denim shorts. They looked lovely with her chef clogs, which she’d forgotten to change out of. Oh, well. She still needed a haircut and, more importantly, a shampoo.

She parked in the lot behind the shop located on Decatur between a Chinese restaurant and a head shop.

M.F. took one look at Finn when she walked in the door and gasped, her scissor-holding hand stalled in mid-air. “What the holy hell happened to you?”

“I helped start a fire, and then put it out. Long story.”

“My Lord above. You smell like...what do you smell like? Are you okay?”

“I will be once I get this hair washed.”

A lady sitting in a chair by the window reading a magazine took one appalled look at Finn. “I’m next, hon, but you need M.F.’s tender loving care more than I do. I’ll peruse the latest People. And see what Brad and Angelina are up to.”

“Thank you,” Finn said, taking the spot next to her. When she saw her wrinkle her nose she moved to the far end seat.

“I’m almost finished here, Finn.”

Finn leaned back and closed her eyes. The next thing she knew M.F. sat beside her shaking her shoulder. Finn opened her eyes. M.F. stared at her with compassion in her sparkling hazel eyes. “I’m ready for you now.”

Finn blinked the sleep from her eyes. The woman who offered her spot to Finn was looking at her over the edge of the magazine and quite obviously not reading. Otherwise, they were alone.

Finn got to her feet and followed M.F. to the back of the room where a row of sinks lined the salmon-colored wall. “How long was I out?”

“Only about twenty minutes.” She pushed Finn into a chair and turned on the water. “You looked exhausted.”

Finn leaned her head back. “It has been one hell of a few days.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Probably.”

“With the law?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I expect you’ll see it on the news.”

“Oh, hon, you close your eyes, lay your head back and I’ll get this awful guck out of your hair. Then we’ll see if we can tame those beautiful strawberry locks of yours while you tell me everything.”

“Concentrate on the guck, M.F. The curls are hopeless.”

“Not in my hands, they’re not. I’m the best. I work miracles every day.”

“You can try.”

Finn left an hour later looking better, certainly smelling better, but not feeling much better.

As she sat in M.F.’s chair, the dreadful truth set in. She was a twenty-five-year-old woman with a dead-end job, a half-dead car and a dead ghost for a friend. Of course, all ghosts were dead. She had no boyfriend and no prospects on the horizon. Furthermore, if she couldn’t get back to school for six months her dreams lay shattered and broken at her feet. She’d have to move to Mississippi or Alabama to find a school to take her if this one didn’t accept her back.

***

Jack was nothing if not persistent. He was going to find Simon La Fontaine’s brother, Peter, if it killed him. The man had been at work at his job at the French Market selling fruits and veggies on the day before his brother died and at the time, he seemed fine to his fellow employees. His boss said he was reliable, likeable, if a bit odd and superstitious. He never missed a day of work.

He hadn’t shown up at the market the next day nor had he called on the day his brother disappeared. Nor any day since.

He interviewed all the employees, then Jack widened his search to the cheap motels in the Faubourg-Marigny neighborhood, in particular the Bywater section, a stone’s throw down river from the French Quarter and his workplace. The area was a haven to musicians and artists and a place where a person could easily disappear.

Armed with his badge and a photograph of Peter La Fontaine, it took Jack only four stops at four motels to locate him.

The motel was a grungy two-story nineteenth century brick building with what looked like castle turrets on the roof. Long gone was any semblance of ambience. He suspected it now rented on an hourly basis if one so chose. La Fontaine was in a back room on the second story. The room looked out over a dark alley and was plenty private.

Jack chatted up the young, red-faced, stammering boy-manager, and learned La Fontaine only left his room to pick up fast food. He refused to let anyone in to clean up. He had allowed another woman in, who in the boy’s own words, “dressed like a maid but was no way scrubbing out the toilet or changing the sheets”.

Jack agreed. A “maid” who knocked on his door was more likely a stupid euphemism for a local prostitute. Jack didn’t care one way or the other, as long as he could talk to the man. The manager went on to tell him he figured Peter was a fugitive from the law. He wasn’t surprised when Jack showed up. When Jack asked him why he hadn’t called earlier, he merely shrugged.

Jack crossed the threadbare carpet in the dingy, moldy-smelling lobby and took the steps two at a time to the second story. He strode down the musty, dark hall and before knocking on the chipped, vermilion-painted door to Number Eleven, he unsnapped his shoulder holster and palmed his weapon. He pulled back his jacket to leave his right arm free. He knocked and stepped aside. “Peter La Fontaine? NOPD. I’d like to talk to you.”

From inside the room came the muffled reply, “I ain’t done nothin’.”

“You’re not in trouble, sir. I’d like a word.”

“Got nothin’ to say.”

“Wouldn’t you like to take care of your brother’s remains? I know you know he’s dead.”

“Cursed, he was.”

Huh? Jack scratched his head. “Open up, Pete. Let’s talk.”

“It’s Peter.”

“Peter, then. I’d like a word.”

Surprisingly, the door opened. Jack shifted back another step to study the man. He held up his hands to show Jack he was unarmed. He looked terrible—bleak sunken eyes, unshaven, faded green t-shirt stained with food, gray sweat pants torn and droopy.

“I loved him, my brother,” he muttered, choking back tears. “He deserved better than some crazy woman cursing him like dat.”

“You’re right. Can I come in?”

He gestured for Jack to enter and stepped aside. The thin brown drapes were drawn. The room was as dark as the inside of a cave and as cool. The temperature couldn’t have been much above fifty-five. Why so cold? He should have brought Cordry along. He knew how to deal with crazy.

“Peter. Can I call you Peter?”

The man shuffled back inside, pulling the door shut and locking them both inside.

Jack jerked the drapes open, exposing the dusty, shabby room to the bright light of day.

“Hey, whatcha doin’? I like de dark.”

And de cold, Jack thought about adding but refrained from doing so. “The dark makes me nervous. You understand how it is.”

“Yeah, but she could see me, dat devil woman.”

“What woman would that be?” Jack pulled out a chair from the perfunctory desk piled high with fast food wrappers and soda containers, the straws jutting out the tops like a line of toy soldiers, and sat down.

Peter rested on the side of the bed, his large hands dangling between his knees, his head bowed. Dressed as he was, he looked more like a deranged homeless person than a conscientious employee and loving brother. Jack had checked out the apartment they shared. The brothers lived a Spartan existence but the place was neat and clean. The forty-two inch television and comfortable couch spoke of people who spent a lot of time there.

“Dat woman,” he said, his chin trembling. “Dat woman what kilt Simon.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Peter, but he wasn’t killed by any woman.”

He lifted his head. “What you say?”

“I’m saying a strong man probably killed Simon. One who could lift him. Do you know if Simon was trying his blackmail schemes again?”

He rolled his head back and forth on his neck, then closed his eyes. When he opened them, he stared at Jack with an aggrieved expression. “Damn him. Ah tole him when he gets back from Angola, ‘You stay on de straight and narrow. Don’t you be blackmailing no body.’ Hear me?”

“And did he?”

He shook his head in an exaggerated manner. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know. I s’pose not. What ‘bout dat voodoo women den?”

Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“You know.” He stood up and paced a few feet away, then gave Jack the once-over. “Dat redhead woman, the voodoo priestess.” He made the sign of the cross and paced back to sit on the rumpled bed again.

Finn? Did he think Finn was a voodoo priestess? It was laughable. Finn looked like the girl next door. Finn was the girl next door.

“She put de bad juju on Simon. I saw her with mine own eyes.”

“Was she conscious at the time?” Jack was doing everything in his control not to laugh in the man’s face.

“She was in some kind of spell. Her dominant hand was pointed right at Simon like de conjurer she be.” He demonstrated by pointing his index finger at Jack. “I tell you, she was fixing de tricks on him.”

Jack swallowed his laughter. When he interviewed him, Peter’s boss told him the man was superstitious. Jack figured he avoided black cats and kept a rabbit’s foot in his pocket. He hadn’t counted on this full-on Hoodoo stuff.

Peter stared a moment at Jack, then squinted at him. “You in it, too?”

“No. No. I avoid those people.” Except the few times he’d been with Marie. She hadn’t put a spell on him unless he counted the times she kept him in bed long after he should have been gone.

“She not only kilt Simon, she put de hex on me.”

“How’s that?” Jack waited expectantly, hating to hear the ridiculous answer.

“I gone de im-po-tent.”

“Huh? Important?”

“I can’t get it up no mo’.”

Jack choked. “That is a problem.”

“You know dey put de saltpeter in decoctions.”

“I hate to burst your bubble but if you can’t get it up it’s your own problem. The redhead is a tour guide in the Quarter. She’s harmless.”

Peter shook his head. “But in her satchel, I saw. She carries de bag of tricks.”

“She carries a backpack full of a lot of nutty things, but a voodoo priestess she’s not.” At his look of full-on horror, Jack continued, “I promise you. We think we know who killed your brother. No magic involved. It was a twenty-two to the back of the head that did him in.”

He still looked doubtful. He sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at Jack. “No question?”

“None, whatsoever. As to your other little problem, I’d say that’s probably stress induced. Now what can you tell me about your brother on the day he died?”

The poor man calmed down long enough to relay everything he knew, which wasn’t much. When they finished, he asked, “Can I go home now. Go back to work?”

“We don’t have anyone in custody yet but it’s only a matter of time. You’re safe.”

The man gave him a heartfelt hug. It took everything he had not to pull away.