“Stop that!” Elconia said sharply. “It ain’t gonna help nothing!”
She can’t stand the sound of tears. She thinks she might start crying herself and never stop.
The child wiped her face with her hands and stilled her tears. At that moment, Curtis walked into the room carrying two cups of coffee.
He handed one to Mona. “Thank you. This is my partner, Curtis Dubois. Do you mind if he sits in on our meeting?” Elconia shook her head. Curtis sat down in the high-backed cushioned chair beside Mona holding his cup, his arms resting on his knees.
They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Papa Twilight’s warning. The screaming child. It was a sign of things to come.
“Did you tell the Constables about this?” Mona asked.
For the first time Elconia’s voice rose, verging on hysteria. “The house is empty— not a stick of furniture in it! Ain’t nobody seen Ethel! The Constables— they say they investigating. But they can’t help me. Folks in town say you solve the cases nobody else can, cases that ain’t normal. Well, ain’t nothing normal about this!” Elconia held Mona’s gaze with her bloodshot eyes. “Will you take my case? Will you find my little girl?”
Mona fought back the tears that suddenly wanted to flow.
This woman’s pain was infectious. “Yes ma’am, but I can’t make any promises.”
“I know my baby’s alive. I can feel her. How much you charge?”
“Well, I—” Mona glanced at Curtis. “Just pay whatever you can,” she finished hurriedly. “We’ll settle up after I find Isis.” She knew it was wrong to give this woman hope, hope that might very well be false. But what else can I do? Besides, maybe she’s right. Maybe Isis is still alive.
Elconia reached into her drawstring purse, pulled out a small bundle tied with a handkerchief and put it on the coffee table. “That’s fifty coins. I can get more.”
“Fifty is fine. You said you knew what Ethel was. Tell me about her.”
“Folks say she killed her husband and went to the chain gang for it. She stays in an old house at the end of the block. She don’t have nothing to do with nobody. I shoulda gone to the mayor and made ‘em move her!”
Mona stood, lifted the scroll and pen from the table and handed it to Elconia.” Write down your name and address. Write down Ethel’s address too. What’s her last name?”
“Ketrell. Her last name is Ketrell.”
_______
Chapter 4: Deseo
Mona fitted a corset over her blouse and slipped on black form-fitting pants. Curtis dressed in a short sleeve shirt with sleeve-holders, knee-length trousers, long socks and brogans. Even though she’d called him her “partner” (which wasn’t official) she was surprised that Curtis had decided to go with her.
He’d always been so rigidly opposed to her using magic, to her paranormal detective work, to her being a sorceress. As if there was anything she could do about it. Any of it. She was born with magical abilities. Paranormal work was her life’s blood. She could not imagine doing, imagine being, anything
different.
It was dangerous, scary, exciting work. And she loved it. Yet, until the last few months, all he’d wanted to do was to change her into a pliable, ordinary woman. He’d never been interested in her cases unless they involved him. Then, a powerful sorcerer had put them both on his hit list, briefly possessing Curtis. Mona had placed a protective spell on him and later his partner, Harold.
She’d been just as shocked as they were to discover the side effects. Both men had developed preternatural strength and agility, gifts which emerged whenever they were attacked by paranormal enemies.
Now, Curtis was accompanying her to what was most certainly an ensorcelled crime scene without being asked. He finally came around. And all it took was a bloodthirsty sorcerer, an attack on his life, and a magic spell. Who knew it would be so easy?
Mona glanced over at Curtis; he was securing his musket on his weapons’ belt. She turned away to keep him from seeing the laughter trying to bubble from her mouth. She bit her lip to still her giggles, slipped her dagger into her sheath, and arranged her top hat on her head. Outside, she locked up while Curtis hunkered down and turned the crank on her steam-auto.
——
They parked on the edge of the community, in the lot facing the little homes, and traveled the rest of way on foot. The couple stood before the path gazing at Ethel’shouse. A huge oak tree stood before the path to her house. It was a small cottage with white peeling paint, covered with vines and overshadowed by branches. The cobblestone path was barely visible beneath the high grass. Except for one round patch of dead grass a few feet from where they stood. This, Mona was sure, was where Ethel had been standing the night she’d kidnapped Isis.
They walked down the cobblestones. As they reached the door, Mona was hit with a bout of nausea so intense she struggled to keep from vomiting. She adjusted her top hat; the chains wrapped around it had been magically treated to trap and diffuse malevolent sorcery. Curtis drew his musket. Mona twisted the knob and pushed the door open. They stepped into a dim room, bereft of furniture. Cobwebs clung to the walls.
Across from them, and to their right, were more empty rooms. Out of the corner of his eye, Curtis glimpsed a shadow moving past a doorway. He swallowed, feeling the etchings beneath his shirt—the same etchings Mona had drawn for protection—grow hot.
He, they, were under attack. Mona was gazing into the same room. “Let’s take this one first.”
“Alright.”
They stepped inside. The room was thick with cobwebs. There was no furniture, except for one tall mirror The glass made Mona especially uneasy. Mirrors were known conduits to the spirit world.
“Look at that!” Curtis exclaimed.
She cried out and grabbed his arm. There was no reflection in the mirror. And then two images appeared, clearly visible through the dust. Curtis and Mona stood side by side.
With their backs turned.
Curtis drew his breath in sharply. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” The etchings beneath his shirt shimmered even more brightly with golden light.
They ran from the room. The chamber across from them had fallen into utter darkness. A separate reality or perhaps the truest reality of the house. A small brown girl winked into sight, her mouth opened in a soundless cry, before she was engulfed by the shadows.
“RUN!”
Grasping one another’s hands they searched for the door. Voices spoke from each room, doubling over each other. Foolish woman ... foolish man. We know you. We know you!
Mona took her fear, swallowed it and screamed, “You cannot hold us! AS BEFORE!” Her words echoed inside the house and hit the walls with a thud.
The door returned. The couple sprinted for it. Outside, Mona and Curtis kept running until they’d cleared the cobblestone path.
——
As soon as Mona’s door shut behind them, they tore into each other, lips pressed together in hot greedy kisses, tongues dancing. Her tophat fell to the floor, as they touched and stroked each other with near desperation ... until Curtis lifted her from the floor, grasping her buttocks, her long legs wrapped about his waist, and carried her to the great soft brass bed.
Their clothes were ripped away ... Mona frantically peeling off her pants, Curtis pulling off his shoes ... his shirt, clawing at the buttons of his trousers ... Mona unlacing her corset ...
She looked up into his brown-skinned face, clutching his shoulders, her legs wrapped about him. He gazed down into her ebony face, pounding her, her hips lifting up to meet his thrusts ... later with her back to him, Curtis clutched her waist, Mona’s face down in a pillow, calling out his name, until shadows crept across the night-sky. Only after the terror and adrenaline-rush fled did they collapse, sweaty limbs curled in embrace.
And for a time they slept.
_____
“You wanna get outta the house?” Curtis asked. “Let’s get something to eat.”
Mona smil
ed lazily. “You sure you can walk?”
He laughed softly. “If you can.”
“What time is it?”
“I dunno,” Curtis said, rising from the bed. “We oughta be able to find something open.”
They dressed and strolled out into the warm evening. They passed horse and buggy cabs, and steam-autos, folks chatting near the streetlights, enjoying the warm night. Two blocks down, they stopped at a little resturant, Ma Petite, that sold West Indian and Creole food. They stood under the awning to order: Mona, Legim with crab, Curtis, Poul Ak Nwa, and beer for them both.
The couple chose a table from among the half dozen copper-lined tables fronting Ma Petite and sat down across from each other. A waiter wearing a white apron brought their food and drinks over.
Curtis spread his napkin on his lap. “I’m gonna head back tomorrow.”
Speechless Mona stared at him, her appetite gone. Curtis had always found it difficult to cope with the preternatural, with things that so often happened when he was with her. Deep inside, she wasn’t even surprised.
But it still hurt like hell.
Curtis read the pain on her face. He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m not running, cheri.” He smiled wryly. “Tell you the truth, I’m getting used all this supernatural stuff. I might even learn to like it.”
Took you long enough.
“I need to scare up some cases. I can’t keep living off you and my folks.”
“You barely been here a week.”
“I need to work. Being a detective, it’s what I do. And I’m good at it.” His eyes probed hers. “I know you understand.”
“Yeah, I do.” Her pain had fled. She could breathe again. “We still on for this weekend?”
“Send me a post, and I’ll meet your train. You gonna be alright?”
Mona squeezed his hand. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not,” Curtis hesitated, “you’re not going back into that house again, are you?”
She grinned. “Hell no.”
Curtis returned her smile. “Bon.”
A song rose in the air. It came from the next street over, the sound of two men singing a romantic call and response in Creole to the tune of guitar strings. The couple fell silent, listening and enjoying the spicy food.
_____
Chapter 5: Epiphany
Clearwater was a small, mixed-race town, the residents living side-by-side. Yet there were shops (holdovers from a bygone age) where black and brown residents, gay and lesbian too, knew they weren’t welcome. Where, if shopkeepers took the coins, they did so grudgingly, and with a sour expression. Downtown was a semicircle of haberdasheries with horse-drawn cabs and steam-autos parked here and there. The Constabulary Station was built in the center.
After Mona drove Curtis to the train station, she headed downtown for the Clearwater Constabulary. She parked her steam-auto on the cobblestones in front of the building, got out, hunkered down and shut the engine off. Mona climbed the steps of the Station and walked through the double doors. On her left, the intake lieutenant, a young white man with freckles, sat at a desk with a typewriter with copper-lined keys, a wooden base, and an oil lamp. Behind him, stood a tall clock. On her right was the Chief detective’s office. The hallway facing her led to the file and the common rooms. In the very back of the station were jail cells and below it, the city morgue.
She smiled at the intake lieutenant. “Hey, Marvin.”
“How’s it going, Mona?”
“Alright, is Chief Gonzales here?”
“Yeah, go on in.”
Mona worked with the Constabulary, both here and in Monterrey, to solve some of their more unusual cases, cases that, more likely than not, were the result of supernatural phenomena. Or attacks. Both precincts knew her as a shrewd young woman, perhaps a trifle odd, with a nose for sniffing out ghosts, demons, and the like. In short, anything that went bump in the day or night. Things Constables preferred not to talk about. They pretended they didn’t exist. Even if they’d had a brush with the supernatural themselves.
Mona walked to the office and knocked on the door.
“Come in ...”
Carlos Gonzales, a Latina man in his early forties with hazel eyes, sat at a wooden desk. He greeted her with a smile. “Hey Mona, Que Pasa?
“Hey Chief, how you doing?”
“Estoy bien, and you?”
“I got a new case, and I sure could use your help.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to take a look at Ethel Ketrell’s file, if that’s alright?”
Carlos’ smile vanished. “Elconia Stamps hired you?”
“Yesterday.”
“Sure thing.”
He rose and Mona followed him out the door and down the hallway to a roomy chamber. Inside, the walls were lined with waist-length bureaus, a ladder led to the shelves of books above them. Three wooden tables with oil lamps and three cushioned chairs centered the room. Two smaller tables with world globes were pushed against the wall, under shaded windows.
Chief Gonzales pulled out the first drawer labeled, Open Investigations, thumbed through it and handed her a sheath of scrolls. “This case is strange,” he said, shaking his head, “extraño. Half a dozen witnesses saw Ethel grab Isis and lift her in midair. Then they just vanished: poof! ‘Course it was at night, and all the witnesses were kids, but well, weird things happen in Clearwater. I guess I don’t have to tell you that. You think you can find her?”
I saw Isis. I think she might be trapped inside Ethel’s house. But, of course, she couldn’t say this to him. “I’m gonna do my best. I appreciate your help.”
His hazel eyes gazing into her brown ones were sincere, almost helpless. “If anybody can find her, you can.”
Mona blinked back the tears that wanted to fall. I’m getting too close to this case. I’m gonna have to toughen up if I wanna get through this. “Thanks,” she managed, “that means a lot to me.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
She sat down at a table and began to read the file on Ethel and her deceased husband, Clark. There was no mention of infidelity or financial problems. But one night, Ethel had attacked him with a butcher knife while he slept. The coroner had recorded a total of twenty stab wounds. It was a horrific crime that spoke of passion and rage.
Why’d she do it? And why’d the judge give her only five years? Mona saw it then. The detail she’d almost missed.
He used to beat her.
____
Chapter 6: Laconia’s Story
Mona stopped off at Small’s Bakery for pastries, a little Downtown shop decorated with a painting of a chef on the window, and an awning with sugarplums, then drove to Bourbon Street. She arrived at her godmother’s, Laconia Fisk’s, house and parked her steam-auto in front of Mrs. Fisk’s cottage, a one-story domicile in a cluster of other little cottages. To the left, and adjacent to the house, stood a garden of melons, tomatoes, collards, peppers and other foliage. Laconia had convinced her neighbors to chip in to buy the one-acre plot. Now the garden supplied the small community with fruits and vegetables.
She’d also started tutoring her neighbors’ children in reading and math. She refused to accept any payment for her services, making her even more beloved by her community.
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