16

During the drive to our destination, Attorney Canterelle gave me the short course on a woman by the name of Belle Sabatier, who had agreed to meet with us. He said she was the daughter of Minerva Sabatier, a woman who was on her way to becoming a modern “voodoo legend” in New Orleans folklore —that is, before “her untimely death.”

That information hit me hard. Like I had just been smacked in the face with a catfish. In response, I hit Morgan Canterelle with a torrent of questions, most of which he slyly avoided answering except for a few basics: that Belle was an “artist type,” she had been living for years up in Philadelphia, and she was Minerva’s sole heir. “When her mother passed away,” he explained, “she relocated here in order to settle the estate.”

“What are we hoping to get from this meeting?” I demanded.

“As a former courtroom champ-ion yo-self,” he shot back, “I am sure y’all know what a fishing expedition is.”

He pulled his car up in front of a historic-looking three-story mansion that had a curved porch on each floor, wrapped with railings made of delicate wrought-iron latticework. “Welcome to the Sabatier mansion,” he said, turning off the ignition.

As we walked up the brick path to the front door, he qualified that by adding, “In point of fact, the house technically belongs to the estate of Minerva Sabatier. But Belle, her daughter, is temporarily living here while she settles estate matters.”

We were shown inside by a butler who was decked out in a dinner jacket, and then taken through graceful arched entranceways, past a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves accessed by reading ladders. There were plenty of dark velvet drapes gathered by gold rope and tassels adorning the windows that reached to the top of the twelve-foot ceilings. It was like walking through a slightly creepy time warp.

The butler brought us to a smaller room where there was a fireplace and an ornate black marble surround, and above it, over the mantel, a big portrait. The subject of the painting was a beautiful woman, perhaps in her late fifties, with a light-cocoa complexion and dark, piercing eyes. Her ebony hair was streaked in a few places with silver. Her dress was unusual, a black robe with stars and constellations and a few painted skulls on it, with a hood that draped over her shoulders.

“The late Minerva Sabatier,” Canterelle murmured quietly with a kind of musical inflection, nodding to the painting as if there was something significant about her name. We were told by the butler to take our seats on the sofa adjacent to the fireplace.

Ten minutes later Belle Sabatier, a smartly dressed woman in her thirties, strolled in wearing a long black dress accented with flowers. My late wife, Courtney, had been a fashionista in her own right, and I had learned both by osmosis and by our checkbook to recognize the expensive brands. This one looked like Magda Butrym. Price tag probably north of fifteen hundred bucks. Apparently Belle was no longer the starving artist. Minerva’s estate must have been generous to her.

Belle shook hands with both of us and then sat down on the tufted chair across from us.

Her resemblance to her mother’s portrait was remarkable. Same cocoa-colored skin, dark eyes, and striking good looks. The only difference was age.

Canterelle thanked her for meeting us, then turned to me and explained that he had given Belle “some background data on who Trevor Black is.”

I would have preferred to have described my curriculum vitae to Belle myself, but I let that slide.

“I understand,” Belle said to me, “that you dabble in the world of dark arts.”

“Not really. My job is to hunt down the powers of demonic darkness.”

Belle stiffened in her chair. “So you’ve come here hoping to uncover things? Things in the dark?”

“Not me. God’s the one who does that.” Then I gave her a quote: “‘It is He who reveals the profound and hidden things; He knows what is in the darkness, and the light dwells with Him.’”

Canterelle said, “Mr. Black here is a man versed in the Good Book.”

“Second chapter of Daniel,” I added.

She took a moment to respond after that, letting her eyes sweep the room. Finally she said, “Mr. Black, Mr. Canterelle here says that you are assisting him in some very tragic cases. Young girls kidnapped. I am not sure how much help I can be. But if you have any questions, I can try to answer them.”

Considering Canterelle was the one who wanted this meeting in the first place, I was confused —why was she directing her comments to me? I had just one crucial matter on my mind, and it was about Heather, but before I could ask it, Canterelle jumped in.

Canterelle turned to me. “The families I represent need answers about the fate of their loved ones. And they demand that those responsible be brought to justice.” He nodded in Belle’s direction. “Now Mr. Trevor Black here won’t be timid, I am sure, in asking any questions he has.”

No response from Belle. Just a smile. Things were getting stranger. Why were we having this meeting? In my prior life as a trial lawyer, I recalled a few instances like that, where the conversation seemed cloaked and obtuse. They usually involved lawyers who didn’t want to disclose exactly who they represented. Or what side they were on.

Before hitting Belle with information about the mysterious bayou where I hoped to locate Heather, I decided to smoke her out a bit.

“I’ve heard about your mother’s well-known connection to the voodoo community. You being her daughter, perhaps you can shed light on some things.”

“Things,” she asked, “such as what, exactly?”

“Let’s start with whether you know of any involvement of voodoo in the terrible crimes we’re talking about. Or any connection between voodoo followers down here and the death of a federal attorney up in Washington by the name of Jason Forester? Or the murder of Mr. Paul Pullmen, a lawyer from the Department of Justice, killed right here in New Orleans? Both dead under circumstances that implicate voodoo.”

“Are you accusing my mother in some way?” she blew back, clearly offended. “Or me?”

Canterelle leaned forward, trying to smooth the waters. “Now, Miss Sabatier, none of this is to suggest, in any way, any besmirching of the memory of your late mother.”

Belle shifted in her chair. “Mr. Black, I’m not sure how much you actually know about the ancient practices,” she said. “But I would warn you to exercise caution before you slander the good name of my mother.”

I pushed the discussion further. “Then why don’t you tell us what you know about voodoo? Educate us.”

“I am not a practitioner,” she said. “I never have been.”

“But your mother obviously was,” I said.

“Voodoo is not a hereditary disease, Mr. Black. Daughters don’t catch it from their mothers.”

“Maybe not, but it’s a big deal in these parts,” I said. “I’ve heard politicians and judges coming up for election have paid good money to voodoo priests and priestesses to influence the result. Like Marie Laveau, for instance, the voodoo mambo who has a museum named after her. Even more relevant, voodoo includes blood sacrifice. And pertinent to my mission, it embraces spirit possession.”

“You’re talking ancient history,” Belle replied, forcing a smile. “Marie Laveau died in 1881. Nowadays, modern voodoo is more concerned with living a happy life. Influencing attitudes in a positive way through communication with helpful spirits.”

“Helpful spirits?” I said. “That’s funny. The occult spirits I’ve tangoed with have always been so dangerously unhelpful.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “because you have offended the bokors —black magic practitioners. Maybe you should find a different pastime.”

I saw the paradox. “There’s something strange here, Miss Sabatier. For someone who is ‘not a practitioner’ and never has been, you seem to know a lot about the subject.”

Belle’s eyes flashed, and she pursed her lips.

Canterelle tried to cool her down. “Now, Miss Sabatier, my friend Mr. Black comes on a little strong. He does not understand the courtesies we extend to each other here in New Orleans. Let me just ask you to contact me if you have any information that can help us.”

I still had questions of my own, and I was going to get them answered.

“How exactly did your mother die?”

She went wide-eyed. “That’s an odd question.”

“Odd or not, I’d like to know.”

She glanced at Canterelle before answering. “If you have to know, the death certificate said she went into anaphylactic shock. A severe reaction from a food allergy.”

Then my million-dollar question. “Have you ever heard of Bayou Bon Coeur?”

“I have,” she said, cocking her head. She studied me for a moment. “It has always been considered a place of mystery and shadows.”

“Explain that.”

She shifted in her chair. “I’m referring to the Cajun meaning of the words bon coeur.”

“And that is what?”

“In the voodoo culture, Mr. Black, it means ‘those who can cast spells.’”

More reasons to be uneasy about Heather.

My last question was the most important one. “Do you know where that bayou is located?”

She took a moment. Then, “No, Mr. Black. I’m afraid I do not.” Rising, she excused herself and told us the butler would show us out.