Frankie pulled over at Denny’s on South Second for him to run in and grab a jolt of Mississippi Mud Coffee. Then she parked in front of Earnestine and Hazel’s, around the corner from the crime scene. Billy could see Red’s body already laid out on a gurney, encased in a white vinyl body bag.
While Frankie typed her report on the computer console, he drank coffee and tried to get his wits about him. He rolled down his window for some air. A prosperous-looking young couple, people from the new homes built on the bluff, waved as they walked past.
This part of town had been a different scene in the forties. Earnestine and Hazel’s was a skinning joint back then with prostitutes working the warren of rooms over the bar. A variety of fools walked across the street from the train station, looking for a drink and some quick action from the ladies, only to regain consciousness with a knot on the back of their heads and their wallets emptied. A few blocks north, Beale Street had been home to gamblers, showgirls, street preachers, river men, blues players up from the Mississippi cotton fields, medicine men, voodoo priests, and housemaids. There was no more creative, stimulating, or dangerous fifteen square blocks in the country.
Billy noted the sun lighting up the peeled blue trim on the windows of E and H—the bar’s nighttime potency having given way to exhaustion. What’s enticing in the nighttime can look like hell in the morning. Daylight changes the nature of things.
He downed the last of his coffee and turned his attention to Frankie, who was speaking to him between rapid-fire keystrokes.
“Dispatch is pushing for this report on Davis. Dunsford isn’t going to let me back on the scene, but he can’t kick you out. Behind the bench you’ll find a pile of plastic bottles. I dropped a small gray bag there, a conjure bag, used to transport ebbos.” She glanced at him. “That means charms or spells. I’d say we’re dealing with Santería.”
She threw out ebbos as if she were comfortable with the word. Red had done the same. Billy knew almost nothing about the religion. Apparently Frankie did.
She read the text on the screen, tapped a key, and turned to him with the same earnest expression he’d had when he was a patrol cop.
“There’s not much Santería activity in Memphis,” he said. “The big evangelical churches rule the city.”
“You’d be surprised by what’s going on behind closed doors. I tried to explain the significance of the bag to Dunsford. He cut me off, told me it was trash and to throw it away. I couldn’t let him toss evidence, so I squirreled it away behind the bench.”
“I’m guessing there’s a voodoo potion in the bag.”
“Technically, it’s not voodoo. The stuff looks like it came out of a vacuum cleaner bag: ground eggshell, pulverized coal, bits of a wasp nest, rock salt, guinea pepper. You knock it down in a blender then blow the dust into the face of the person you want to do away with.” She flattened her palm and blew air in his direction. “Poof. You’re dead.”
“From eggshells?”
“In a believer’s mind, it’s a bona fide death curse. It could stop a person’s heart.”
“Did any of that devil dust show up on Red?”
“His jacket and face looked dusty when I checked him over. Then I found the bag, but before I could compare the two, Dunsford showed up.”
Billy crumpled up his coffee cup. “I’m not saying you don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can’t believe a savvy guy like Red is into that crap.”
“He’s wearing a necklace of green and yellow beads. That’s a Santerían collar. I found rooster feathers, a red bandanna, and a red apple in his pocket—all elements of a charm meant to counteract a curse.”
“No room for coincidence here?”
“Nope,” she said with certainty.
“You don’t believe in this stuff, do you?”
She made a face. “You know a lot about the Delta blues. That doesn’t make you a sharecropper with a guitar. I saw evidence of Santería at a number of Key West crime scenes. This appears to be death by natural causes, but it’s a mistake to take Santería off the table.”
“Let’s be clear. You got me out of bed to verify your theory that a voodoo curse killed Red Davis.”
“Santería isn’t voodoo, but yes, I’d like to hear your opinion.”
He almost laughed at her cockiness. “You should take the promotions exam. You’d fit right in with the squad.”
“I took it a month ago. Scored ninety-eight percent. Three candidates are up for two positions in the investigative squads. I’m going to land one of them.”
Her score impressed him, but her attitude put him off. “Look. Most times, a heart attack is just a heart attack. I haven’t heard how you’re going to connect Red’s death to this bag of dust.”
“Just take a look at his face.” She handed him a pair of latex gloves. “I have to sign off my shift. Give me a call when you’re done.”