Garden of Forbidden Secrets

by Eric Wilder

  “The real Baron Samedi?” Bertram asked.

  “Not someone possessed by the Baron. It was the real Baron Samedi, the person Taj had met who had given him my name.”

  “Isn’t it unusual to encounter an actual voodoo deity?” I asked.

  “It’s never happened to me before, and I’ve never heard of it ever happening to anyone else,” Mama said. “He appeared to us because Taj is somehow a person of interest to the powers that be in the realm of Vodoun. I asked him who had summoned Taj to New Orleans, and for what purpose?”

  “And?”

  “He said my answers lie in a courtyard garden in the French Quarter. A garden still cloaked in forbidden darkness. A garden known to a red-haired Irish witch named Aisling.”

  “Adela,” I said. “We need to talk to her about this.”

  Thunder rattled the windows as someone opened the door to Bertram’s bar and entered. It was Taj Davis.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” he said.

  Chapter 17

  Taj Davis reached the bar in three long strides. Grabbing my jacket by the neck, he lifted me off the bar stool. Before I could react, he punched me in the face. It was the last thing Taj remembered for awhile because Bertram tapped him on the back of his head with the weighted club he kept for security purposes under the bar.

  “Are you okay?” Mama asked as I massaged my jaw.

  Bertram handed me a bar rag to staunch the blood dripping down my chin.

  “I’ll live. I’m not so sure about our new client.”

  Taj was out cold on the floor. “You didn’t have to kill him, Bertram,” Mama said.

  “He ain’t dead,” the Cajun bartender said. “He might wish he was when he comes to.”

  “Should I call an ambulance?” Mama asked.

  “Why hell no,” Bertram said. “He’s taken worse hits than that playing basketball.”

  Bertram was correct. As we watched, Taj blinked his eyes and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Bertram’s club made a sharp cracking noise when he slapped it against the bar.

  “You need to get your ass out of here,” he said. “I don’t allow fighting in my bar. I also don’t like bullies, and I might just hit you again for general principles if you don’t hightail it.”

  Taj was still sitting on the floor. “Mama, you’re not going to let this man get away with this, are you?”

  Mama’s reaction was a surprise to the big basketball player. She reached into my jacket, pulled out the envelope containing the retainer and tossed it at him.

  “I thought you were a gentleman. You’re not. On top of it all, you’re a fool. Bertram told you to get the hell out of here. Take your money and go.”

  “That man tried to rape Adela,” Taj said, pointing an accusing finger at me.

  “No, he didn’t,” Mama said.

  “I know what Adela told me,” Taj said.

  “How long have you known that woman?” Mama asked.

  “Long enough,” Taj said.

  “Then you’re also an idiot,” Mama said. “I don’t work for idiots.”

  Bertram rapped the bar again with the weighted club. “Pick the envelope off the floor and then get the hell out of here before I call the police.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Taj said. “If you know something I don’t know then please let me in on it.”

  “You can’t come in here like a common street thug and start throwing punches,” Mama said. “I won’t tolerate it.”

  “You’re saying he didn’t rape Adela?”

  “You don’t deserve an answer,” Mama said. “Do like Bertram told you and go.”

  Taj got to his feet, brushed himself off and started for the door as he gave Bertram a glance.

  “I can’t believe you people. Doesn’t it matter to you that he drugged and raped Adela?”

  “You stop right there, Taj Davis,” Mama said. “Wyatt didn’t drug or rape anyone.”

  “Adela said he did.”

  “I can’t let you leave thinking that. You need to listen to Wyatt’s side of the story. Get back in here. Sit on this stool, keep your mouth shut, your hands to yourself and listen.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then forget about ever learning the truth, and accept the consequences of your actions.”

  “All right, but tell the crazy Cajun to put away his billy club.”

  Bertram returned the club to its spot beneath the bar. “I’m Bertram,” he said. “If your money’s good, I’ll even fix you a drink.”

  Taj pulled up a stool next to Mama as morning light began peeking through the windows.

  “Glass of cabernet,” he said.

  Taj wouldn’t look me in the eyes as he sipped his wine. Before my story was half told, I had his full attention. When I concluded, he finished his wine and motioned Bertram for another.

  “Well?” Mama asked.

  “I owe you all an apology,” he said. “As much as I hate to admit it, Wyatt is telling the truth.”

  “You sure about that?” Bertram said.

  “I’m positive,” Taj said. “He was either in the same room on the thirteenth floor of the Hotel Montalba as I was, or else he’s a mind reader.”

  With my hand, I rotated my sore chin. “Wish you’d known that before throwing your punch,” I said,

  “I’m truly sorry. I don’t usually go around hitting people,” Taj said, pulling the envelope out of his coat pocket and pushing it across the bar toward Mama. “Please take back your retainer. I need you two even more than I realized.”

  “You sure about that?” she said.

  “As sure as I am about anything,” he said. Leaning over the bar, he extended his hand. “Bertram, I apologize for causing a disturbance in your fine establishment. I promise it won’t happen again. Wyatt, I’m so sorry about hitting you.”

  “Already forgotten,” I said. “Now that the air has cleared, we need to talk about Adela.”

  “Is she the answer to your questions or the root of your problem,” Mama said. “More importantly, what does she know about the Irish witch named Aisling that the demon and Baron Samedi both mentioned

  “Since Adela is claiming I raped her, I should probably bow out of this investigation,” I said.

  “Maybe I stretched the truth a bit,” Taj said. “Adela told me someone had spiked her drink and that’s why she wound up in bed with you. If she had any memory of the story you just told, she kept it to herself. Again, I’m so sorry for jumping to the wrong conclusion.”

  “Can you call Adela?” Mama said. “Ask her to join us?”

  “Now?” Taj asked.

  “The sooner we get a handle on this, the better,” she said.

  Taj punched in a number on his cell phone and was soon talking to Adela. After disconnecting, he said, “I’m starved. Think we have time to get some breakfast?”

  “Wyatt, take them to your booth in the back,” Bertram said. “I’ll cook something up and bring it to you before my customers start getting here.”

  There was an empty booth in a secluded corner of Bertram’s bar I used for meeting new clients. We grabbed our drinks and convened to the booth. Morning customers had begun pouring into the bar, and Bertram didn’t join us after bringing our breakfast on a tray. I was just finishing the last bite of my oyster and shrimp omelet when Adela arrived.

  “Smells wonderful,” she said. “Hope you saved some for me.”

  Bertram must have known she would be hungry and appeared shortly with more omelets and a fresh pot of Cajun coffee. Mama and I were full. Adela attacked hers with gusto. Taj had no problem eating what Mama and I didn’t want. Adela had slid into the booth next to me, not acting as if I had drugged or accosted her. Mama and Taj both noticed.

  “Why are you two staring at me?” she finally asked.

  “We just thought you might be upset with Wyatt after last night,” Mama said.

  Adela turned her head and glanced at me. “Why? What did he do?”

  “Taj s
aid you told him someone had spiked your drink,” Mama said.

  “My head felt like it was about to split when I awoke. I think it was the bottle of wine I ordered when we returned to the room. You know what they say: beer on whiskey, mighty risky.”

  “And Wyatt?” Mama said.

  Adela smiled and squeezed my thigh. “He was a doll. The thunder had me spooked, and I didn’t want to be alone. I may have coerced him a bit to stay with me and not leave. Hope you’re not mad at me,” she said, squeezing my thigh again.

  Bertram showed up with a tray of fresh drinks and a bloody mary for Adela.

  After sipping the concoction, she grinned and gave Bertram a wink. “This is wonderful,” she said.

  “Nothing cures a hangover better than one of Bertram’s bloody marys with my secret ingredient,” he said.

  “Thank you so much, Bertram. What is your secret ingredient?”

  Bertram returned her wink. “If I told you it wouldn’t be a secret, now would it?”

  “Guess you met Bertram already,” I said after our Cajun bartender had left the table.

  “He introduced himself when I came in. Asked me what I was drinking and showed me where you were. He’s a doll.”

  “Bertram knows no strangers,” I said.

  “Why is everyone looking at me?” Adela asked as she sipped her bloody mary.

  “Wyatt told us a story when I got here,” Taj said. “It got my attention.”

  Adela glanced around the table. “What story?”

  “Wyatt, would you mind telling it one more time?” Mama asked.

  Adela sat mesmerized as I told the story for the third time that morning.

  “Well?” Taj asked when I’d finished.

  “Well, what?” Adela said.

  “You were a major participant in the story,” Mama said. “We were hoping you might shed some light on the room, the demon and the murdered woman.”

  Adela laughed. “Apparently, Wyatt was more screwed up than I was. He was either dreaming or having a nightmare,” she said.

  “A nightmare you were no part of?” Mama said.

  “Of course not. Surely you don’t believe anything about his absolutely wild-ass tale is true, do you?”

  “Don’t know,” Taj said. “Is it?”

  “I have no clue what the three of you have been smoking. I’d like to have a puff.”

  “I don’t think it was a dream,” I said.

  “What else could it be?” she asked.

  “I’ve had lucid dreams before that I’ve remembered parts of, though nothing like last night. I remember every vivid detail. I was cold. When I touched, you were real, and I’ll never forget the stench of the demon.”

  “The same foul odor I smelled when the demon confronted me,” Taj said. “I know I wasn’t dreaming and Wyatt described the room perfectly. How would he have known if he hadn’t been there?”

  Adela looked at Mama. “There must be a reason. Do you know?”

  “Wyatt is a sensitive, so it’s possible I guess,” Mama said.

  “What’s a sensitive?” Taj asked.

  “A person with special insight and who can see things that others can’t. It’s possible Wyatt became so enthralled with your story, he got into your mind, and his dream is no more than a case of transference.”

  “We’re not talking transference here,” I said. “What I saw was through my own eyes, not Taj’s.”

  “What you saw, or thought you saw has nothing to do with me,” Adela said. “I saw no demon or headless woman. I certainly can’t levitate, much less fly. I can understand Wyatt being confused by a vivid dream. I don’t understand why you and Mama are taking his story seriously.”

  “Because Mama and I also had a strange experience last night,” Taj said. “Have you ever heard of a voodoo deity named Baron Samedi?”

  “I know almost nothing about voodoo,” Adela said. “What happened?”

  “I think that’s a story best left for another time,” Mama said. “I need to discuss something with Wyatt. Do you two mind waiting here without us while we have a few moments alone at the bar?”

  “Fine with me,” Adela said. “At least if you ask Bertram to bring me another bloody mary.”

  “Consider it done,” Mama said.

  I followed Mama to the bar where she ordered the bloody mary for Adela.

  “What?” I said.

  “Either Adela has no memory of your experience, or else she’s lying through her teeth. There’s also a third explanation.”

  “Which is?”

  “You were hallucinating on some psychodelic drug.”

  “Then how would I have been able to describe the room in such detail?”

  “Transference, as I said in the booth.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We need to find out. You need to find out,” Mama said.

  “And how do you suggest I do that?”

  “Take her to see Madeline. If anyone can tell if Adela is a witch, it will be another witch.”

  “Great idea,” I said.

  “I think you should do this alone,” Mama said. “Taj and I would just get in the way.”

  “How will you explain this to Taj?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said.

  When we returned to the booth, Taj was nibbling on the crumbs left on his breakfast plate, and Adela was drinking her bloody mary. I slid in beside her while Mama remained standing.

  “Taj, you wanted me to show you some expensive condos. Let’s go now. Wyatt can escort Adela back to the hotel.”

  Taj started to say something when he noticed Mama’s same stern expression as when he’d punched me.

  “Will you be okay?” he asked Adela before heading to the bar to clear the tab with Bertram.

  “Of course I will. Wyatt tried to show me Jackson Square last night. It was raining so hard we both got drenched long before we saw anything. I want to see all of New Orleans, and he’ll make the perfect tour guide.”

  “Good,” Mama said. “Have fun.”

  Chapter 18

  Tourists and regulars had begun filling Bertram’s bar as we finished the last of our drinks. Bertram stopped us before we reached the front door.

  “Mighty happy to meet you, Miss Adela,” he said.

  Adela hugged him. “The pleasure is all mine.”

  “Hope Taj’s theatrics this morning didn’t upset you too much,” I said.

  “You kidding? He picked up the whole tab and give me a hundred dollar tip. He’s my new best customer,” Bertram said.

  “Glad to hear it. Adela and I are going on a foot tour of the Quarter.”

  “Watch your step with that one, Miss Adela,” he said as we walked out the door.

  The rain had moved north leaving the streets and sidewalks wet and the sky a dismal shade of gray. The morning gloom did nothing to negate Adela’s smile as she pulled her coat up around her neck.

  “Cold?” I asked.

  “Feels like springtime compared to the weather they’re having in Michigan. Hope you didn’t mind me volunteering you to take me on a sightseeing trip.”

  “Nothing I’d rather do,” I said. “Jackson Square is just up the street. Looks as if we may even get a break from the rain.”

  After days of persistent stormy weather, the Quarter was abuzz with tourists on both sides of the old street. Adela was looking in the other direction.

  “This neighborhood seems so familiar to me. Were you really serious about the story you told us?”

  “It seemed so real, I’m having trouble not believing it actually happened.”

  “You were dreaming,” Adela said.

  “Then why did we wake up naked in bed?”

  Adela laughed. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “I’m serious. If what I told you was only a dream then why don’t I remember getting naked and into bed with you? How did I get drunk or drugged?”

  “Because part of your story actually happened. I ordered a bottle
of wine while you were in the bathroom. You wouldn’t drink any until I offered you a puff of pot.”

  “Was there something in the pot other than marijuana?”

  “Just Mary Jane is all,” she said. “You got a little frisky and passed out soon as we got in bed. I let you sleep. I can’t control your dreams.”

  “How do you explain to me knowing what the room with the demon looked like?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “What street is this?”

  “Chartres Street.”

  “What’s the next street over?”

  “Royal.”

  “Let’s go to Royal,” she said.

  “If we do, we’ll miss Jackson Square.”

  “There’ll be time for Jackson Square later. I want to see what’s on Royal Street.”

  “Shops, bistros, art galleries and street musicians,” I said. “Everything that exemplifies the French Quarter.”

  “Then that’s where I want to go,” she said.

  “I’m right behind you,” I said.

  More tourists, browsing shop windows and strolling along the sidewalks, occupied Royal Street when we reached it. As if greeting an old friend, Adela drew a deep breath.

  “I love the narrow streets and wrought iron balconies,” she said. “So many different colors: yellows, pale blues and three different shades of beige. The colors are all different and even on this gloomy day they bring the old buildings to life.”

  “And you can always count on the green shutters.”

  “They tie the buildings together. Is this French architecture?”

  “More like a mixture of French and Spanish. People around here just call it Creole.”

  “I like this street. Do you mind if we follow it for a while?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  We passed a young man, a guitar in his arms, sitting on the sidewalk beside his open guitar case. A small black dog lay beside him on an old throw rug. Adela tossed a handful of dollar bills into the case and blew the young man a kiss. After passing Pirate’s Alley, we took a moment to check out the artwork of a street artist who had hung his paintings on the fence surrounding the back of St. Louis Cathedral.