by Eric Wilder
“You bet I can. What’d you make of them two scalawags back there?”
“Strange ducks,” Eddie said. “Seems like they have an agenda I can’t quite put my finger on.
Bertram reached in his jacket and pulled out an empty rum bottle. “Good observation, Mr. Ex-federal attorney. Take a look at this. Jack had thrown it in the trash.”
Eddie held it up to the dashboard lights. “An empty bottle of Dominican rum. So what?”
“Check out the date it was bottled.”
Eddie fumbled for the overhead light. “This can’t be right. It says 1929. That’s impossible.”
“Maybe not,” Bertram said. “I told you it was the best rum I ever tasted.”
“But that would make it almost ninety years old. What’s a bottle of any liquor that old worth?”
“A whole bunch of money,” Bertram said.
“Why do you think he didn’t tell us?”
“Maybe because he stole it,” Bertram said. “The bottle of rum he gave me had no label on it, though it’s the same shape as the one in your hand.”
“Jack doesn’t strike me as a thief,” Eddie said.
“Don’t mean he ain’t. Even with his government pension and working for Frankie Castellano, I doubt he makes money enough to serve thousand-dollar bottles of rum with his homemade oyster chowder.”
Eddie pondered the thought a moment. “If he stole it, then why did he take a chance serving it to people he just met?”
“Probably because he figured we wouldn’t know the difference. Or, maybe he wanted something from us and was trying to butter us up.”
“Like what?” Eddie asked.
“Don’t know. What I do know is that while I was in the kitchen, I had a look in the folder Chief brought with him.”
“Something important?”
“A packet of information put out by NOAA.”
“Such as?”
“Water depth, tide schedule, storm activity; pretty much anything you might ask for if you were interested in Oyster Island and the water around it.”
“What’s that all about?” Eddie asked.
“Something to do with the rum, I’m betting,” Bertram said.
Chapter 8
Mama Mulate was the most eccentric person I knew. She drove a fully restored, baby blue 1959 Bugeye Sprite. If she’d known how much it was worth, she’d probably go into shock. The drizzle of rain had continued throughout the day. Mama had raised the canvas top on the tiny car when she arrived to pick me up. Though only six-feet tall, I had to resort to contortionism when I crawled into the front seat.
“When are you going to trade in this pygmy and get an SUV?” I asked.
“Never,” she said. “I love Baby too much.”
“Baby doesn’t have an air conditioner,” I said. “She’s also too uncomfortable to drive in July and August.”
“Stop nagging, or I’ll let you walk to the Smoothie King Center,” she said.
“I’ll shut up.”
“Good,” she said, completing the short drive to the arena in silence.
Too cheap to pay for parking, Mama found a dark spot behind a trash dumpster about a block away from the arena.
“Glad I brought an umbrella,” I said.
“Bet I can give this ticket away at the door to someone that’s not so critical.”
I knew by Mama’s dirty look that I’d almost gone too far. “And deny me the chance to watch the Pels with the most beautiful woman in New Orleans?”
Though Mama said, “Shut the hell up,” she was smiling as she did so.
The atmosphere inside the arena was electric, the team slowly beginning to come together as a coherent unit, after a slow start to the season. Mama was as tall as I was. She had long, flowing hair, an athletic body and the bone structure of a Sports Illustrated model. Resplendent in her multi-colored African-print dress, every eye was on her as a friendly usher led us to our seats.
“This is wonderful,” I said. “I’ve never sat this close to the floor.”
“Me either,” Mama said. “I can almost reach out and touch those big, handsome men’s tushes.”
“Don’t get us kicked out. We’ll never get seats like this again.”
“I know. I’m in heaven.”
“Too bad the team traded Zee Ped,” I said. “This is the best squad I’ve seen in years. With him in the lineup, we could have gone deep in the playoffs. Without him. . .”
“Taj Davis is one good-looking man, though I think he’s on his last leg as a productive player,” Mama said.
“Is he playing tonight?” I asked.
“Word on the street is, he cut his foot. He’s not even sitting on the bench.”
“Doesn’t sound like a basketball injury. How did he cut it?”
“No idea,” she said. “Why don’t you be a sweetie and fetch Mama a beer and a pretzel?”
“Pretzel? You’ll spoil your appetite before we get to one of the most expensive restaurants in New Orleans.”
“I’ll take my chances,” she said.
By halftime, I’d returned through the throng of ardent fans, crowding the arena to the concession stand, twice and was starting to feel like Mama Mulate’s errand boy. The last quarter was close. She forgot about beer and pretzels and concentrated on cheering the team. New Orleans won in a double-overtime thriller, with a buzzer beater that sent the sold-out crowd into a frenzy. I glanced at the Rolex on the wrist of the man sitting next to me.
“It’s late. Let’s get the hell out of here before we get caught in the crush,” I said.
Twenty minutes later, Mama was fumbling for her keys in the darkness. We drove the short distance to the tall building overlooking the Big Muddy that housed the Riverfront Restaurant. Mama fussed with her hair and dress as we took the elevator to the top floor. The restaurant captain, wearing a white tuxedo coat and black pants, greeted us at the door.
“We’re meeting someone,” Mama said.
“And whom might that person be?” the man asked.
“We weren’t told,” she said. “I’m Mama Mulate, and this is Wyatt Thomas.”
Gas lamps lighted the large, open room bordered on all sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the river was nothing less than spectacular. White tablecloths draped the tables, each lighted by a single candle. Mama pinched my elbow.
“Oh my God!” she said. “There are at least half-a-dozen celebrities in here. I think I’m in heaven.”
A man appeared, directing us to follow him before Mama could opine further about the restaurant’s clientele. Glass walls separated a private room from the main dining area. After opening the door for us, our usher departed. Mama caught her breath when she saw who was sitting at a regally-adorned table. A very tall man dressed in dark slacks and sportscoat, and a white silk shirt open to the waist, stood and smiled as he waited for us to join him.
“You must be Mama Mulate,” he said. “I’m Taj Davis.”
“I know who you are. I’ve been watching you play basketball since you came into the league.”
“Then you’re a basketball fan?”
“The biggest,” she said. “This is my business associate Wyatt Thomas. I brought him along because he’s the best investigator in New Orleans. He’s also a huge sports fan.”
“This is Adela Kowalski. Please join us,” Taj said.
Adela was a red-haired knockout, dressed in a little-bit-of-nothing, lime-green dress held in place by spaghetti-straps. I whistled to myself when I saw her. Mama sat beside Taj. I took the chair next to Adela as a waiter appeared to take our drink orders. Mama was soon nursing a very dry martini.
“Thanks for the front row seats to the game,” she said.
“Glad you enjoyed them,” Taj said. “I guess you’re wondering why you’re here.”
“Very curious,” Mama said.
“Take a look at this and tell me what you think,” he said.
Taj opened his silk shirt and showed Mama the veve on his chest. With
out hesitation, she moved closer, touching the symbol.
“Where did you get this?”
“No idea. It’s been there for as long as I can remember. Adela has an identical veve on her chest.”
Without asking, Adela lowered her low-cut top to reveal the veve between her bare breasts. After glancing around to see if anyone was looking, Mama drew closer to compare the two veves.
“They’re identical,” she said. “How long have you known about each other’s veves?”
“Adela and I met for the first time yesterday,” Taj said.
“Interesting,” Mama said. “You called the mark a veve. What else do you know about voodoo?”
“Almost nothing,” Taj said. “Adela and I met while on a tour of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. The groundskeeper told me what it is. He’s also the person that gave me your name.”
“I didn’t know the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 had a ground’s keeper.”
“His name is Sam. Sam said everyone in New Orleans knows something about voodoo.”
“While it’s true that everyone in New Orleans has heard about voodoo, few people know much about it,” Mama said.
“That’s what I’m finding out.”
Taj laughed when Mama asked, “Are you and Adela related?”
“You can see we’re not. A week ago, I didn’t even know Adela existed. Something prompted us to arrive in New Orleans at the same time, causing us to meet and realize our connection.”
“I see,” Mama said. “Why did you visit the cemetery?”
“Because of this,” Taj said, producing a voodoo doll. “Sam said it’s my effigy and that someone used it to put a voodoo spell on me.”
“Where did you get this?” Mama asked.
“My first night in town, I stayed in a room on the thirteenth floor of the Hotel Montalba. I fell asleep in the bathtub, cutting my foot on a broken wine bottle when I got out of the tub. A demon chased me out of the room. When the bellman found me, I had this in my hand.”
“Oh, my!” Mama said.
“I know,” Taj said. “It scared the hell out of me.”
“So what is it you need Wyatt and me to do for you?”
“Help us get to the bottom of this mystery. If I’m cursed, I need to find a way to break it. I don’t ever want to wake up again and face a demon.” Taj slid an envelope across the table. “As a retainer, there’s a cashier’s check for twenty-thousand dollars in the envelope. There’ll be more if you need it.”
Mama pushed the envelope back toward him. “That’s too much money.”
Taj gave it back to her. “You said you’re a sports fan. If so, then you know I have more millions than I can ever spend. Take the money. All I ask is for you to devote all your energy to helping us solve our mystery.”
“No problem for me,” Mama said. I’m on semester break.”
“My slate is clean,” I said.
“Then let’s enjoy drinks, dinner and this gorgeous view of the river,” Taj said. “We can discuss how you plan to proceed as the evening progresses.”
The cuisine at the Riverfront was as good as advertised, and then some. Despite what Taj had said about discussing the case during dinner, the subject never arose. What did arise was the mutual attraction between Mama and Taj. It became more apparent by the minute. I noticed, and so did Adela.
Adela, her long red hair draping to her shoulders, was quite the stunner. Admiring the view, Mama and Taj had walked to the window, Mama pointing to Algiers on the opposite side of the river. Adela glanced at my lemonade.
“You’re not drinking?” she asked.
“I’m a recovering alcoholic. Every now and then I fall off the wagon.”
“My dad was an alcoholic,” she said.
“Was?”
“When he died of a heart attack, he wasn’t even fifty.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Dad gave me all the love I needed. He just couldn’t control his drinking.”
“I can relate.”
“Taj seems infatuated with Ms. Mulate.”
“She’s doing nothing to rebuff his infatuation,” I said. “She likes tall, good-looking athletes and it doesn’t hurt anything that he’s wealthy.”
“Are you married?” she asked.
“No, are you?”
My question brought a smile to her pretty face. “I don’t think I’m marriage material.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “I know the feeling.”
“Taj and I didn’t know Ms. Mulate was bringing someone with her. What is it you do?”
“Solve mysteries,” I said. “The tougher, the better.”
“What’s your background?”
Though I was taken aback by Adela’s directness, I tried not to let on.
“I was a lawyer in another life. Political maneuvering is rampant in the Big Easy. I was disbarred and decided not to fight it. My strong suit is research, and I know lots of influential people. I’ve managed to support myself by doing investigations.”
“You’re good-looking enough to be a movie star. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Only people trying to set me up. What’s your angle?” I asked.
“It’s Taj who is paying you. I’m just trying to make sure he gets his money’s worth. What’s your plan?”
“See if we can develop a common thread for what’s happening here.”
“Do you believe in magic?”
“Real magic and not just illusion?”
Adela sipped her wine without answering my question. Heavy rain had begun hammering the windows. A foghorn sounded from a towboat on the river. Mama and Taj were in their own little world, neither of them paying attention to either us or the weather.
“My parents always said I have a sixth sense. Maybe they were right. I think you also do. What’s your feeling about me?” Adela asked.
“You look more Irish than Polish. Adela is an Irish name, not Polish.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you were Irish in another lifetime,” I said.
“You believe in past lives?” she asked. “What’s that have to do with New Orleans?”
“New Orleans has had a large Irish population for more than a century. One of our neighborhoods is called the Irish Channel.”
“So you think I was Irish and living in New Orleans during a past life?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Though it doesn’t pay to jump to conclusions, it’s something to check out.”
“When do you start?” she asked.
“The moment Taj gave Mama the retainer,” I said.
Sipping her wine, she crossed her legs and glanced at the window as lightning lit the dining area.
“I thought we were just getting to know each other better. I didn’t realize you were deposing me.”
“Sorry if it appears that way,” I said. “I sometimes have a hard time forgetting I’m not a lawyer anymore. Forgive me?”
For the first time since I’d met her, Adela’s features softened. When she took my hand, I realized what a physical attraction I had for her. It was a definite no-no between an employer and an employee. Not seeming to care, her lips drew within six inches of my own.
“You like me, don’t you?”
I tried not to wince at her pointed, though correct remark.
“Very unprofessional of me,” I said. “Maybe I should bow out of this case and let Mama handle it alone.”
“Don’t do that,” she said. “We can work together on this.”
“Not if you don’t stop staring at me with your hypnotic eyes,” I said.
Adela loosened her grip. “I think I could become attached to you.”
Chapter 9
Before I could respond to Adela’s titillating remark, Mama and Taj returned to the table. Neither took a seat and Taj motioned for the check.
“Taj knows nothing about New Orleans’ nightlife,” Mama said. “I’m going to give him an introduction. He’s a music fan, and I’m ta
king him to my favorite venue for jazz. Can you take Adela to her room at the Hotel Montalba?”
“Sure,” I said.
Mama tossed me the keys to her car. “And will you take care of Baby for me? Taj is too big to fit into the front seat. We’re taking a cab.”
“You trust me with your car?” I asked.
“You put one little scratch on Baby, and you’ll be comparing voodoo spells with Taj. Don’t wait up,” she added as they headed for the door.
“Guess we’ve been deserted,” I said. “Ready to return to your room?”
“Not really. At least you and I discussed the case.”
“Trust me, Mama’s all over this. She’ll have a plan before morning.”
“Looks as if she has other things on her mind.”
“So does Taj,” I said. “Did you catch the smile on his face?”
“We probably won’t see them before noon tomorrow.”
“I promise, Mama will know all about your problem long before noon.”
“If you say so,” Adela said.
The rain continued as we huddled beneath my umbrella during the short walk to Mama’s car. Adela gave my arm an extra squeeze when we reached it.
“This is it,” I said. “It’s not locked.”
“I’ve never seen a car like this,” she said. “What kind is it?”
“Austin Healey made it. It’s a Bugeye Sprite, a British sports car.”
“What year was it made?”
“Long before you were born.”
“I love it,” she said. “Can I drive?”
I handed her the keys. “Why not? I’m sure you’re a better driver than I am.”
Once behind the wheel, Adela was like a kid in a candy shop, revving the little engine and spinning the tires in the puddles of water that had formed on the cobblestone streets. The car’s tiny wipers barely kept the windshield clean as she tooled down the dark thoroughfare. It wasn’t far to Jackson Square, Adela reacting when she saw it.
“What’s that big building?” she asked.
“St. Louis Cathedral, the most photographed structure in town. The park behind the iron fence is Jackson Square. That’s Andy atop the horse.”
“I want to touch it. Can we stop?”