Throughout the year, she spoke of her love. She spoke of their time together, and then…
He asked her to marry him.
It was at the harvest festival; all had gathered together again, celebrating with rich platters of food, with prayers that made the people one. They even gathered together to create scarecrows.
Danni felt her stomach clench as she read on.
Each year, they saw to it scarecrows were set in the fields. Three for each farmer. It had not been an Acadian tradition, but it had been brought by the English or American settlers. That was because, hundreds of years before, in a small town in Northern Britain, a famine had caused many in the village there to starve. A pagan priestess had decreed the land was angry, and asked for the cycle to come anew, birth, life, and death. Sacrifices were demanded. Human sacrifices. So, two men and one woman had been chosen, and they had been tied to poles, their throats slashed, and the land had been fed. The next year the harvest was rich, but in memory, every year three scarecrows were set in each field and they were especially fashioned for the harvest festival, warding off hunger, evil spirits, and any further need for blood.
Christianity had come to Europe; but for certain small communities, the need for three scarecrows to honor the harvest remained.
“No human sacrifices here,” she murmured. “At least…not as far as Yvette knew?”
She carried the diary to the desk, noting there weren’t many more pages. As she sat, she wondered if this was the Yvette supposedly murdered by the woman who would have been her mother-in-law.
And was that why her story soon stopped?
She thought it might have been.
Yvette went on to write, “So tonight! Beneath the harvest moon, Percival told me we were betrothed, and he did not care what anyone said or thought—we would go away. We would build our lives far from this place where it did not matter what a man or a woman’s birth might be. I love him so much. He is passionate. He is kind and merciful to those around him, and he has no patience with those who would be French or English. He provides work for the Italians and Spanish who are also coming this way. He is the best man. I love him more than life itself.”
More than life itself.
That was Yvette’s final entry.
***
“There’s an historic house right on the line where the City of New Orleans meets Metairie,” Larue said. “It’s called the MacDonald Mansion, after the old soldier who built it there soon after the Revolutionary War. Guess he was a Scot who had taken part in some of the rebellions back home. After the war, he just decided to stay in the new country. Anyway, at the time, he had a lot of acreage and so he had a family cemetery built on the property with a little chapel. There were a few mausoleums built, and there are a few in-ground graves as well. Nothing special or fancy, but about twenty years ago, the family opened the house—a lot of history there, of course. General Beauregard took it over for some of his men during the Civil War, so you have a few Civil War burials and interments there as well. Anyway…only one family member is living there now, a young Fiona MacDonald, and she’s up in the attic. The house has an alarm system, but no security cameras. Last night, I was called out because there had been two homicides, and…”
“Two people, sliced up, displayed as scarecrows—and a third man already dead?” Quinn asked.
Larue nodded gravely. “The woman was a tourist—she’d only been in the city a week. Her name was Belinda Cardigan. The man was a local—Leon Grissom, a drunk, but apparently well liked by those around him, friends who tried to get him help all the time. He had some bruises—as if he might have been picked for the honor because he tried to help Miss Cardigan.”
“And the corpse?” Quinn asked.
“Kenneth Brown, a man interred in his family tomb just last week. The killer was careful not to disturb the tomb from the outside. Inside, the broken concrete is everywhere. Anyway, now, it makes less sense than ever. It’s harvest time—not a big deal in NOLA like Halloween and Christmas, though it might be out here in the country. There’s got to be some whacky, really sick thing dredged out of the past. Scarecrows! Go figure. Ritual…something,” Larue said, shaking his head. “I just want to know how the hell it’s something that happened out here—and back in New Orleans!”
“I wish you would have called me last night. It would have helped if I had been there at the first scene.”
“I wanted you and Danni to have a vacation. A free vacation.” He sighed. “Father Ryan called me, Billie called me, Natasha called me…we all agreed you needed your vacation, and as of last night, nothing suggested it was going to be…”
“Going to be?” Quinn pressed.
Larue sighed. “I was going to say ‘weird.’ But there’s no way out of these being very weird cases. Weird cases that border on…weirder stuff!” Larue said. “Here’s the thing—it’s all Louisiana, southern Louisiana, to be precise. French, Acadian influence. But NOLA is like a little United Nations. When you get out into the rural areas and the bayou region, it’s different. People think of themselves as different. So, what could cause this kind of murder right in NOLA—and then out here?”
“What might the victims have in common?” Quinn murmured.
“The two already-dead men couldn’t have had anything in common—I don’t think. And Allison Caldwell was a big-shot business woman, attractive, but—from all accounts—something of a witch. My female victim back in NOLA, Belinda Cardigan, was apparently well-liked. She was on her way through the city, she told the manager at her bed and breakfast inn. She paid right away, she smiled, and told her just how wonderful she found the city to be. Nice, friendly—and she was a nurse. Hardly a high-powered business woman. There’s no way to find similarities on the newly dead men since we still don’t have an identity on the murdered man at Ally’s side,” Larue paused, shaking his head. He closed his eyes.
Quinn was glad he was the one doing the driving as they headed to the parish morgue.
“I think there are still several weeks left that might be considered ‘harvest time,’” Larue said. “If this is some crazy ritual killer…”
“That’s possible,” Quinn said. “But…”
“But, what? The young crime scene investigator said there was a legend about a witchy woman going crazy and killing people because of a talisman. Weird, that she killed everyone and then herself. Impossible, as we noted, to string your own dead body up on a pole. So, if the legend is anywhere near true, someone else was involved. Punishment for someone not-so-nice? Sure, kill a woman who is torturing those around her, one way or another. I mean—that’s motive. But, digging up corpses? This really makes no sense at all, but since I know you and Danni, if you think there is a talisman…well, we can dig up every damned bone in the place if you think it’s necessary!”
“Legends.” Quinn glanced at Larue, then back to the road. “Yes, there could be some kind of talisman or object involved, and whether its power is real or imagined and expected, it doesn’t really matter if someone wants to use it to commit murder. Thing is, I can’t help it. I don’t think these murders were random.”
“What could the connection be? Just the crazy killer!” Larue said. “He doesn’t seem to be choosing a type. Belinda Cardigan was a pretty, well-liked blond. Ally Caldwell had hair that was almost black, and she was known to be hell on wheels. I’m thinking both victims were handy; they happened to be where the killer needed them when he needed them.”
Quinn shrugged and glanced at Larue. “One way or the other, we have to get a handle on this—quickly. As you said, there are weeks left in the harvest season. And, my God, do we ever have more venues for such a display in Louisiana, more cities, all with cemeteries, graveyards and churchyards, hundreds of them in the state—and beyond. Many old and decaying—”
“Just waiting for a few scarecrows for some harvest decoration!” Larue said glumly. “Quinn, I’m thinking I need to get back home. I’ve seen this now—”
“I nee
d to get to New Orleans, too. There—and back,” Quinn said. “I definitely need to be back here as soon as possible. There’s about to be a harvest ball and…”
“And?”
“I have a very bad feeling about it. A very, very bad feeling,” Quinn said.
He had a feeling it wasn’t going to happen that day—night was already falling.
Night…
Darkness.
All conducive to another kill.
Chapter 5
“I don’t know what we’re going to do—I just don’t know what we’re going to do,” Larry Blythe, Colleen’s business manager said.
He wasn’t in tears, but definitely seemed on the verge. He was nervously running his fingers up and down his coffee cup as he sat with Danni in the little café toward the entry to the lodge. She was trying to ask him questions. He was, she thought, a naturally nervous little man. Not really little—she was fairly tall, about five-ten, and it seemed he was smaller than she was. Not that other men weren’t sometimes, but he was also thin, wore thin-framed glasses, and simply had a nervous look about him.
She set a hand on his, trying to calm, or assure him.
“You just don’t understand,” he said. “I mean, Ally…she had brains, you know. Yes, yes, you’ll hear people say she was a bitch, but not really—it was just her way. Her mind was always working, you know? She could come up with facts and figures like no one else—and when Colleen wanted something believed in, Ally could put that vision together for her. Colleen, she…well, if it weren’t for me and Ally, she’d still be dreaming her dreams, because her heart is huge—but her head for finances is almost non-existent!” He stopped speaking long enough to shake his head and stare at her, frowning. “You’re not a cop. I heard you’re an artist who owns a shop on Royal Street in New Orleans. The Charmed Puppy, or something like that.”
“Cheshire Cat,” Danni said, “and—”
“Colleen wanted to buy a lot of your art for this place,” he said. He shook his head again, and then his eyes widened. “Oh, you’re married to a cop, that big guy!”
“We aren’t married, and Quinn isn’t a cop. He is a private investigator.”
“Oh. oh,” he said, looking at her as if it should have explained her questions, but it just didn’t really.
“I do a lot of research and interviewing for Quinn.”
“And,” he said, his voice sounding strangled, “you’re going to find out what happened to our Ally!” He moved closer to her. “It’s a rite—or voodoo. These people out here—they’re very strange. I’ve heard they’re different. They’re not like people in cities. They’re voodoo people who raise the devil or something like that.”
“Mr. Blythe, I have friends in the city who practice voodoo, and please believe me, they’re very good people who would never hurt anyone,” Danni said.
“Right. Sure.”
He didn’t believe her.
“So, not voodoo. Another weird cult. Pagans or Satanists. They did it. They killed our Ally.”
“Larry, right now, we don’t know who killed Ally—and that’s why we need everyone’s help.”
“Help. Yes, of course, I’ll help you. I wish I could help you. That’s just it—Ally was always working. The rest of us, we headed out here—from NOLA—together. We were all here in the afternoon, getting ready for last night’s mixer. But no, Ally had to check on some future gig she wanted to talk to us about once she got here, and now…she’s ruined everything!” he finished in a whisper.
Danni arched her brows, surprised by his words. “Larry, I hardly think she was murdered, slashed horribly, on purpose.”
“Oh, God!” he said stricken. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded at all! I meant, her being murdered…I mean, for Ally of course. It’s heart-breaking. But this is also huge for Colleen. I mean, first of all, she had Trent Anderson here. That meant so much. I mean the idea is you could have chatted online, and then seen one another face to face here, in a safe place. Or, you could come to one of Colleen’s lodges, see someone, and then chat them up online. I mean, she’s right. Even if you’re perfect for each other on a piece of paper, it doesn’t mean the chemistry will mix or that you’ll even like each other!”
“Yes, of course,” Danni murmured. “I understand all of that, but I’m trying very hard to discover—did anyone know anything about the car that picked Ally up to bring her out here?”
He shook his head. “You had to have known Ally. She was as independent as a curse! She’d snap at you if you tried to help. She did things as she wanted. She and I were both the business end of things—along with Albert Bennett. Albert always arranged for security—on the computer, and when we’re setting things up for an event like this.” He brightened suddenly. “Maybe Albert knows something—he and Ally…”
“He and Ally…what?” Danni pursued.
“It’s not my place,” Larry said.
“Please, Larry, Ally is dead. Anything you can say…”
He shook his head. “It’s over all ready. She was found in the cemetery. Up on a pole like a scarecrow with another man and a…corpse! And another murder right before—in New Orleans! This has to be some kind of a crazy cult killing. Me talking about my co-workers isn’t going to help anything.”
“Larry, please—it honestly could help.”
He sighed, looking around nervously. Danni knew she had to go and see Colleen again and help in any way she could, but she was trying to speak with Colleen’s top people first.
She’d already seen Tracy Willard—in the cemetery. She needed to speak with Albert Bennett, but perhaps it was important to hear what Larry had to say about him, first.
“I don’t really know anything,” he said, “but sometimes, when I’d see them together, I’d think there was something going on between them. I think…” he paused awkwardly. Then without her prompting, he continued in a rush, “Ally was strange in many ways. She was always moving forward—she’d hitched her wagon to a star, she believed, and she was going to push it all the way, become rich herself. Ally didn’t need to be famous—just rich. I think sex might have been like breathing to her—something necessary now and then…and Albert is a good-looking guy.”
“What did Colleen think?”
“Colleen only sees the good in people. She’s oblivious.” He sighed deeply again. “I might be wrong. Tracy liked to flirt with Albert, too.”
“Was Ally jealous?”
“God, no. Like I said. Sex was just a physical function, needed now and then. Then again, when I’d see Tracy with some of our clients, I’d think there was something going on there, too.”
Danni stayed quiet. She believed Tracy had been doing more than flirting with Trent Anderson.
“Thank you, Larry.”
“But, you see what I mean? Office dynamics could have had nothing to do with this. Perryville is certainly a weird little town, and I’d bet this is some kind of crazy thing out of New Orleans. Scarecrows tend to be more in the countryside, but crazy—that’s New Orleans.” He was talking about her city. Yes, it could be crazy, but there were so many beautiful and wonderful things about the city, too, she couldn’t help but take offense at his tone.
“Trust me,” she murmured. “Crazy can be anywhere.”
He didn’t seem to hear her; he was looking toward the counter.
“Oh, there’s Albert, if you want to talk to him—I can go get him. Oh, you won’t say I said anything, will you?”
Danni looked to the counter. Albert Bennett was ordering coffee, offering the young girl behind the counter a flashing white smile.
He was a big man, and an arresting one. She could easily see how he might have charmed both Ally and Tracy Willard.
“I’m fine; I’ll ask him if we might talk,” Danni said. She didn’t want to question him with Larry Blythe present. She wanted to hear what he had to say for himself.
“Well, good, I have work to do—we’re checking in with all our clients, trying to assure them Ally g
ot caught in a mess that has nothing to do with the weekend. Of course, we’re all broken-heartened, but as sad as the situation is, they don’t need to leave. We’ll be going on as we planned.”
After Larry took his leave, Danni walked to the counter. Albert Bennett, handsome in a perfectly tailored suit, looked at her and offered her a smile. “Danni! How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I didn’t know Ally. This must be devastating for you, though.”
“A non-fat latte, Mr. Bennett,” the girl behind the counter said. She studied Danni, and looked like she was trying to decide if Danni was someone in authority or if she might be competition for the man’s attention.
Whichever, she turned away.
“Albert, would you sit down with me for a minute?” she asked.
He looked at her somewhat surprised, but said, “My pleasure. Certainly.”
Apparently, he thought she was flirting—even though he had seen her with Quinn.
“I have a number of duties to attend to—complicated by events, but,” he told her, and winked, “I always have a few minutes for a beautiful woman, especially one who is an old friend of the boss!” He pulled out a chair for her at one of the café tables, adding, “I’d rather thought you were with Mr. Very Tall and Muscled last night—Flynn…Finn…can’t recall exactly, but he had the look of a cop or maybe FBI.”
“Neither, and his name is Quinn. He’s a private investigator, and yes, we’re together,” Danni said.
He had taken his seat, but the look on his face then denoted that he didn’t know why. He was clearly wasting his time.
“Mr. Bennett,” she said, getting right to it, “I’d like to ask you about Allison Caldwell, Ally.”
He looked surprised—and then guarded.
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