Determined to make a fresh start, I’d sold or given away almost everything I owned when I left Ohio to move to Savannah. I brought only my clothes and a few treasured pans, utensils and cookbooks, and a jar of sourdough starter. I’d made it on a lark while working as the assistant manager at a bakery in downtown Akron, a position that involved a lot more office work than actual baking, not to mention a boss with substandard business ethics. The starter never leavened a single loaf of commercial bread for his uninspired establishment, but I had used it extensively at home to make breads and biscuits, pancakes and waffles.
Some modern recipes for sourdough starter begin with store-bought yeast. More traditional methods often involve the skins of grapes, which naturally harbor some lovely wild yeasts. I’d done all of that in pastry school, but for this starter I’d used the simplest method ever: mix some flour and water together, put it in a corner open to the air (but covered with a thin screen of cheesecloth), feed it more flour and water each day for five days, and see what happens. There are wild yeasts in the air all around us. They’re different according to location; the wild yeasts in San Francisco, for example, are particularly tasty, which is why sourdough bread from that region is so treasured.
The yeasts in Akron were pretty tasty, too—enough so that I tucked a jar of my homemade starter behind the driver’s seat of the Bug and brought it south. It immediately became a staple at the Honeybee, and every afternoon I mixed up a new batch of sticky sourdough—in much larger quantities now, of course—and folded it into pans to slow rise overnight in the refrigerator. Each morning the Honeybee filled with the heady scent of baking bread, in addition to the sweet and savory smells of our other creations.
Over time, of course, Savannah had altered the flavor, adding her native varieties of airborne yeast to the mix and making it her own. In some ways I felt as though the city—and the people whom I’d met in my new home—had affected me in much the same way, infusing me with local lore and customs and changing something deep down in the core of who I was.
As I scooped the smooth dough out of the industrial mixer into pans and added more water and flour to the starter for the next batch, the tangy aroma teased my nose and made my mouth water. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since the yogurt and granola Mungo and I had shared that morning; Declan didn’t generally tumble out of bed like I did at four a.m. My familiar, of course, had downed his second breakfast and lunch by now. I was more than due for some calories.
I sliced two pieces from one of the sourdough loaves baked that morning and slathered one with mashed avocado and the other with herbed cream cheese. Then I layered on Tasso ham, thinly sliced provolone, tomatoes, and fresh spinach. As Lucy came into the kitchen, I cut the sandwich in halves, put them on two plates, and handed her one.
She took it with a smile. “Mmm. Looks delish, honey. I’ll grab us some mango sweet tea to go with.”
Icy glasses of tea in hand, we settled in at a back counter in the kitchen, one of the few places in the open floor plan where the customers wouldn’t see us, and dove in.
“Have you talked to Cookie about the voodoo queen yet?” my aunt asked around a bite of bread.
I shook my head. “I’d like to do it in person.”
Lucy grinned. “Too easy for her to get away from you on the phone.”
I grimaced. “Something like that. But that means I’ll have to run by her condo tonight after work, and I’d rather not wait that long.”
“We can handle things here,” Lucy said. “It won’t be that busy, and Iris will be here until close.”
“I might take you up on that.”
“You should call Cookie’s office to see if she’s going to be there.” Lucy took a sip of tea. “It sounds like she’s out working with clients an awful lot.”
I nodded my agreement as a voice out front caught my attention. I stood quickly, wiping my mouth with a paper towel grabbed right off the roll. “Or I might not have to.” I hurried out to where Ben was helping someone at the register.
Not someone: Cookie herself, in a form-fitting white suit over a silk shell the same shade of green as her eyes. The small white flower tucked behind her ear added a festive note.
My uncle had placed something in a bag with the Honeybee logo on it and was starting to hand it to her. “Here you go. Hope Oscar enjoys—”
His eyes widened as she grabbed it out of his hand and thrust a bill at him. “Thanks. Must be going,” she said, and spun toward the door as if she couldn’t get away fast enough.
“Cookie!” I said.
She slowed, and I saw her shoulders slump.
She’s trying to avoid me.
Too bad.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” I asked.
Her eyes met mine. “Oscar wanted me to pick up one of your blue-cheese scones.”
Or you wouldn’t have come in at all.
“I need to drop it off at his lab and then meet with a possible buyer.” From what I understood, Oscar Sanchez tested samples from homes and businesses for an environmental safety laboratory. He’d found Cookie her current job in real estate through his connections at work.
“Please?” I asked.
“I’m already late.”
I just looked at her. She was a terrible liar.
Her eyes skittered away, and her mouth pulled back in a gesture of resignation. She slowly walked back toward the register. Ben looked between us without hiding his curiosity. No doubt he’d hightail it over to ask Lucy what was up as soon as he had a chance.
Cookie stopped in front of me. “Let’s go in the office,” I suggested.
She sighed. “Sure. Okay.”
“Hi, Cookie!” Lucy greeted her from the sink where she was rinsing off our lunch dishes. Our friend raised her hand in greeting but didn’t say anything. My aunt and I exchanged glances, hers wishing me good luck. Iris, who had followed us in from where she had been tending the espresso counter, peered after us with frank interest.
I closed the door behind us. “Mungo, mind making some room for Cookie?” He stood on the club chair and stretched before jumping down to check his food dish. “I’ll get you some chicken salad in a few minutes.”
His forehead wrinkled, but he didn’t protest. Instead he watched us from beneath the chair with much the same expression Ben had shown. I moved the piece of sheepskin that served as his bed and gestured Cookie to the best seat in the house. She sat slowly, tugging at the hem of her skirt.
“I’m so sorry to have to bother you like this,” I began. “I know you don’t want anything to do with voodoo anymore.”
Her lips pressed together.
“But you’re the only person I know who understands it. I really and truly need your help.”
She frowned, looking down at the floor. “Oscar disapproves of voodoo, as well. When he was a child in the Dominican Republic, a neighbor hired a shady priestess to curse his older sister. Luckily, another priestess was able to avert the curse, but he knows how I feel. He wouldn’t like it if I were to become involved.”
Stunned, I sank into the swivel desk chair. “I’m sorry he had a bad experience when he was young. I am. But I’m surprised you won’t help me just because Oscar wouldn’t like it.”
She must have heard the disbelief in my voice, because her head jerked up, defiance in her eyes. “You know I’m more independent than that. Even though I’m married now, I am still my own woman.”
“Of course you are. You didn’t even change your last name.”
A grimace flashed across her face. “Oscar didn’t like that, either. He’s a very traditional man.” She held up a finger. “Do not think I’m cowed by that, however. It’s simply that we’re both learning about compromise as we . . . adjust . . . to being married.” She took a deep breath. “Oscar was married before, but it’s a very different situation for me.”
No kidding. Cookie had always been known for going through boyfriends and jobs every three or four months. When she’d returned from Europe with a different man in tow than the one she’d left with, none of the spellbook club had been surprised. But the ring on her finger had thrown us all for a loop. It hadn’t helped that Oscar had little interest in socializing with his new wife’s friends. He still felt like a stranger to us.
And perhaps a bit to Cookie, too, I realized. “Is everything okay between you two?” I asked.
“Yes! Of course. It’s just that I don’t wish to introduce difficulty into our relationship.”
I quirked an eyebrow. She sounded more stilted than usual. Stress?
“Also, my new job is very time-consuming,” she said. But she looked away as she said it, and I could see her resolve crumbling. “Plus, I’m redecorating our condominium,” she tried. “The former owners had terrible taste.”
“Please?” I asked again. “Just help me find someone else who might be able to answer my questions. That’s all I ask—a foot in the door of the voodoo community here in Savannah.”
Mungo stood and nudged at her leg, adding his encouragement.
She pressed a palm over her eyes. Mungo watched her intently, then sat back when she finally gave a fraction of a nod and said, “I can do that, I think.” Another nod. “Yes. I’ll contact someone I used to know to see if he would be willing to help.” Her hand dropped and met my eyes. “I cannot guarantee he will, however.”
“I appreciate anything you can do.”
She stood and smoothed her skirt. “I know. We are sisters, of a sort, Katie. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.”
I stood and hugged her. After a moment, she returned it. “Thank you,” I said. “When do you think you’ll know?”
Her eyes flared, and I realized how pushy I sounded.
I raised my palms to her. “It’s just that this feels so urgent, you know? With Dawn Taite in the hospital and Franklin Taite dead.”
She blanched. “Detective Taite is dead?”
“Oh! Oh, my God. No one told you? I assumed the spellbook grapevine . . . I mean . . . Oh!”
“Jaida told me the woman’s identity, and that she might be related to your detective.”
So I filled Cookie in on Quinn’s visit after half the spellbook club had left. “Feel free to tell Bianca and Jaida if you see them,” I finished. “I need all the help I can get with this one.”
“And it’s far more personal than I had believed,” Cookie said. “I’ll make a call right after I meet with my client, Katie. We’ll find this voodoo queen and the missing gris gris.”
* * *
Cookie was true to her word. An hour and a half later, the Honeybee phone rang. Ben picked it up, murmured something into the handset, and handed it to me with raised eyebrows and a knowing grin. I took it back to the office, where Mungo was snoozing on his sheepskin again. He cracked open an eye as I sat down at the desk, but it drifted shut a moment later.
“I called an old friend of my family’s,” Cookie said. “He is from Port-au-Prince, and came to America soon after my mother moved us here. They call him Poppa Jack.”
“Wonderful! And? Will he help us?”
“I don’t know yet.” Was that nervousness in her voice?
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“He wants to meet you. To . . . see you in person. Before he’s willing to talk to you at all about voodoo or any of its many manifestations.” She inhaled. “Poppa Jack will determine whether you’re worthy of his help after he sees you face-to-face.”
“Okay . . .” I drew the word out, trying not to feel slighted. After all, I didn’t know this Poppa Jack person, either, and I was the one asking for help. “When can I meet him?”
“I would normally pick Oscar up after work, but I can leave the car for him if you will drive.” Cookie, usually willing to rely on public transportation, now regularly borrowed her husband’s car for her job. They were shopping for a second vehicle but hadn’t found anything they liked yet.
“You mean now?” I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes after two.
“Right now. I’m on my way to Oscar’s laboratory.”
Lucy had already assured me I could leave. “That should be fine. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I hung up and untied my paisley chef’s apron. Mungo had come to his feet, wide awake, at the mention of my leaving. I leaned down and scratched behind his ears. “Sorry, buddy. I don’t know this voodoo friend of Cookie’s, and he might not be into dogs.”
Ar-arr-ar.
“Shh. I know, it’s a drag. But I can’t leave you in the car—it’s just too hot out. So hang out here, and maybe Lucy or Iris will bring you a treat.” I stepped back, eyeing his wee form. “Not that you need it after that chicken pecan salad.”
He snorted his disdain for effect, but then blinked up at me with worried eyes.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. “I’m just going to ask a few questions—if this Poppa Jack guy gives me the chance, that is. Cookie will be with me.”
He made a noise in the back of his throat, but allowed me to grab my tote bag and walk out of the office without further protest.
“Lucy,” I called.
She hurried back from the front of the bakery. “Katie? Is everything all right?”
“Cookie came through,” I said. “She wants me to meet a friend of her family’s. Can you handle things if I take off now?”
She glanced at the wall clock. “Sure. Iris and I can handle the prep for tomorrow. Right?”
Iris, chopping dried apricots, nodded. “Already started.”
“Thanks,” I said, rifling in my bag for my typically elusive car keys.
“Where are you going?” Iris asked.
“To see a man about something that’s lost,” I fudged.
She frowned.
Lucy waved me toward the door. “Go. Call me if you find out anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you before closing. Or if I don’t, come by and pick up Mungo at our place.”
“You’re the best.” I stooped to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Pshaw,” she said. I could see the quiet strength in the set of her shoulders and the compassion shining from her face. My aunt would do everything she could to help me—and Dawn Taite. That knowledge not only made me feel warm, but also bolstered my own resolve.
Franklin must have believed in me, or he wouldn’t have sent Dawn to find me. I’ll track down that gris gris, whatever it is. And I’ll figure out what happened to them both.
* * *
Cookie closed the passenger door, and the Bug filled with the sweet scent of gardenia. My nonna, who had died when I was nine years old, had always worn gardenia perfume. Now the scent usually indicated that she was nearby, and a few times she had even spoken to me. However, this time I was pretty sure it was just the flower in Cookie’s hair.
She saw me glance at it and removed it from behind her ear. “Here,” she said, putting it in the empty stem vase attached to the dash.
I started to protest, but thought better of it. Perhaps refusing her gift would be seen as an insult. So all I said was, “Thanks.”
The tiny smile that tugged at the corner of her lips told me I’d made the right call.
“Go toward Abercorn Street,” Cookie directed. “Then follow the extension. Poppa Jack lives on the Southside, on the other side of the Armstrong campus. Look for Windsor Road.”
I checked traffic and pulled away from the curb. As I drove, I debated how to ask Cookie about voodoo. Heck, I wondered what to ask her about voodoo.
“It’s not evil,” she said.
My eyes cut to her. “You’ve taken up mind reading now?”
“It’s not that difficult. You’re on another case, Katie. I understand that you’ve been called again, as a lightwitch or . . . I don’t know exactly. However, I do know, as a member of your coven, that it’s my duty to aid you.”
“Duty, huh? Sounds pretty . . .” I trailed off. I had been going to say grudging, but that was uncharitable. I knew I was asking a lot from her.
“Yet it’s the truth. And in this case I’m the only one of the spellbook club who can assist you. So I shall, as I am able.” Her speech pattern was becoming more formal, though her accent remained nearly undetectable. Like me, Cookie had the ability to use her Voice to infuse her words with power, but that wasn’t what was happening here. I had a feeling she was remembering an earlier time, a time she had put behind her—and now I’d forced her to think about it.
There was no help for that, but the least I could do was get to the point and not make her linger in the painful past.
“So, voodoo isn’t black magic,” I prompted. From what the others had said, Cookie’s tendency to practice a slightly darker magic than the rest of us was rooted in her voodoo background.
She surprised me with a laugh. “It is black. It’s white. It’s purple and green and red. You and the others always talk about gray magic, as if the only colors of magic can be found on some continuum between white and black. But magic is bigger, wider, deeper than that.”
I nodded and flicked on my right-hand turn signal. “That makes sense.”
“The spellbook club believes it’s dark magic to try to bend anyone to your will. Even love spells are forbidden—though I do know you and your aunt open the way for such things in some of your kitchen spells.”
Like the vanilla in Mrs. Standish’s éclairs, which had opened the way for her to meet Skipper Dean. “True. But that’s not the same as tricking—or forcing—someone into falling in love with you.”
“Exactly. In voodoo that would not be considered evil, however. The very definitions of good, evil, dark, light—all are different,” she said.
“Really?” On one hand, stepping outside the box of good and evil was enticing. On the other, it felt vaguely dangerous. “What about the Rule of Three?” I referred to the part of the Wiccan Rede that stated that anything you did would come back to you threefold—good or bad. It was kind of like the Golden Rule on steroids, and the members of the spellbook club all tried to adhere to it whenever possible.
Cookie took a deep breath. “I personally believe in the Rule, of course, but it’s not a part of voodoo tradition. This is really simplifying things, but you don’t have the time to learn everything there is to know about voodoo. There’s not even one voodoo to learn about. There is voodoo from Louisiana, and vodou from Haiti.” She spelled each of the versions. “Vodou is the national religion in Haiti, a deep part of the culture originating with the slaves that rebelled there. Did you know Haiti was the first country where the slaves overcame their oppressors and freed themselves?”
I nodded, fascinated.
“And there’s vodun, which originated in West Africa and holds the seeds of Haitian vodou. Each, er, branch may revere different spirits—the loa—but they all believe in and respect the spirits of ancestors. Then there are regional variations of hoodoo, which is more of a folk practice. There is a Gullah-based version here in the Low Country.”
“Okay,” I said. It was starting to sound pretty complicated. “So, what kind of voodoo queen are we looking for?”
She shrugged. “She could belong to any of the sects. There are also hybrid belief systems that have developed over time. Not to mention charlatans in it for the money.”
“But none of the flavors of voodoo are evil, per se,” I said, thinking out loud. “Why does voodoo have such a bad reputation, then?”
“Well, there are certainly those who practice left-handed magic, who seek to harm, and who will take money from those who wish to harm others. You could think of them as witch doctors. They can be very dangerous. Very powerful.”
A shiver ran down my back, and I turned the air-conditioning down a notch.
Cookie gave me a skeptical look but continued. “Then there are those practitioners who are like you.”
“Like me?”
“You’re a hedgewitch. They’re root doctors. The grune hexe. They use the power of plants and intention much as you do. Many are healers. You could think of them as medicine men and women.”
“I like that.” My father was nearly full-blooded Shawnee and descended from a long line of shamans and medicine men. Though hedgewitchery ran in my mother’s family, much of my gift for magic came from him.
“I thought you might. So you see, there can be evil in voodoo as there can be in witchcraft or any other magic,” Cookie said. “At times it’s a kind of tug-of-war. A man hires a witch doctor to curse his neighbor—like what happened to Oscar’s sister. The neighbor learns of this and hires a medicine man—or woman—who is more powerful to protect him. He might also hire another witch doctor to curse the first man. And then the first man might hire a more powerful witch doctor to re-curse his neighbor.”
“Sounds complex.”
“On the contrary, it’s very simple. Good or evil, the one with the most power wins.”
We rode in silence for a minute. As I watched for the sign for Windsor Road, I let what she’d said sink in. People brought their own intentions into any kind of sorcery, including voodoo. The fact that there was a great deal of power there, and that people are not always the best stewards of power, upped the ante.
“My father,” she began.
My breath caught in my throat. I hadn’t been going to ask her about him, as it wasn’t any of my business, and Cookie was a fairly private person. Still, I wanted to know.
“He was a priest,” she said. “A hougan. He had an enemy who was very strong.” She licked her lips. “Stronger than he was.”
And my father lost. The unsaid words hung in the air between us.
I reached over and squeezed her arm. A quick glance at her face revealed eyes shiny with tears. I returned my attention to the road. “I’m so sorry, Cookie.”
Her chin dipped. “As am I. This man we are going to see was a friend of his in Port-au-Prince.”
I pushed my foot down on the accelerator.