by Anne Frasier
It was late. After closing time. The caretaker of Bonaventure Cemetery had unlocked the gate so Strata Luna could visit the graves in private.
Enrique nudged Flora with his elbow. "Come on," he whispered.
They turned and walked away from the woman cloaked in black.
In all the times Enrique had been coming to the cemetery with Strata Luna, he'd never witnessed anything weird—and didn't want to. The dead could stay dead as far as he was concerned. He once thought he'd seen someone return from the grave—and his heart had nearly popped through his chest. But then he discovered the person had never really been dead in the first place.
He hated the dead. But the undead ... ?
Whole different story.
Strata Luna was practically a mother to Flora. To Enrique, quite a bit more ...
He suspected Flora knew he sometimes joined Strata Luna in her bed. Not that the woman in black cared much for him. He doubted she'd ever really cared for any man except the root doctor, Jackson Sweet. No, Enrique was just performing a service.
He wasn't complaining.
Strata Luna thought he was somebody she could teach and mold. Thought she had him under her control, but she was mistaken. Nobody controlled Enrique Xavier.
There were things about him she didn't know. Things Flora didn't know. He had a life outside Black Tupelo and Strata Luna. A secret life.
"I'm cold," Flora whispered. "Mosquitoes are biting me."
Enrique rubbed her bare arm, causing friction. "You're the one who wanted to come," he reminded her.
Unlike Enrique, Flora was drawn to death. She liked to explore cemeteries, and she'd been on every single Savannah ghost tour more than once.
"Don't give me that shit, Enrique. You wanted me here."
He laughed—a little nervously.
It was true. He didn't like roaming around in the cemetery by himself while Strata Luna practiced her communion with the dead.
Flora tugged on his shirt. "Let's go see Gracie."
Darkness had fallen like a shroud, and her face was hardly more than a blur. He pivoted and walked in the opposite direction. "No way, man. I ain't gonna go see Gracie."
"Come on," she pleaded in a voice that always weakened him. "I want to see her."
Gracie was famous. She'd died over a hundred years ago, when she was six. There was a life-size statue of her somewhere. To the left? Right? He always got all turned around in Bonaventure.
A lot of people claimed to have seen little Gracie wandering around the cemetery, which was one of the reasons Enrique had asked Flora to come along. If he ran into Gracie, he didn't want to be alone.
"Don't talk about her," he whispered. "She'll hear and you'll draw her to us." And with Strata Luna over there, holding the door between this world and the next wide open, no telling who might show up.
Flora scampered away. "Gracie!" she called. "Oh, Gracie!"
Enrique ran and grabbed her, putting a hand over her mouth.
They'd known each other for years, and were like brother and sister. "Shut up!" he hissed against her cheek. Her hair smelled like flowers.
Flora pried his hand away. "Shhh. Listen," she said, laughter still in her voice. "Did you hear that?"
"What?"
"Something moving."
Enrique straightened in the thick darkness, his eyes and ears straining. Up high, against the sky, he could make out dark curtains of dangling Spanish moss. Lighter objects near the ground were tombstones and cemetery statues.
He hoped none were Gracie.
Damn Flora.
He heard a sound in the distance that made the hair on his scalp stand up and his heart begin to hammer.
Was that a little kid? Talking? Laughing?
That's what it had sounded like. A little kid.
Oh, man.
What was he doing here?
"Don't you two have any respect for the dead?" came Strata Luna's angry voice out of the darkness, no footsteps to announce her arrival. "Fighting and laughing and carrying on. You should be ashamed."
Guilty, they both fell as silent and sober as chastised children.
"Let's go back to the car," Strata Luna said. "And hope you haven't caused my calling-up-the-dead spell to go bad and curse us all."
Chapter 13
The morning after the visit to the morgue, Elise sat across from Major Hoffman's desk while Gould perched in a nearby chair.
"I could use more manpower," Elise said. She didn't want her request to imply that Gould wasn't holding up his end, but there were times she felt as if she were trying to solve the case on her own.
"Jordan Kemp's death could still be drug-related and self-induced," Hoffman said in her soft, Southern voice. "And so far, no connection has been made to Harrison. Until we have that connection, it's going to be hard to justify pulling people off other cases—but I'll see what I can do. At least temporarily."
"Thanks." Elise wasn't surprised. Dead prostitutes weren't a priority. Not the major's fault. It was just the way things worked.
"What about the other body that woke up in the morgue?" Major Hoffman used a spoon to scrape the last remnants of yogurt from a plastic container. Her nails were long and red; her makeup was flawless. "Samuel Winslow?"
Major Hoffman was a black woman in a position predominantly held by men. For years, the city government had ignored Savannah's crime problem. When Hoffman came along as head of Criminal Investigation, she immediately put foot patrols in downtown parks and tourist areas, creating a visual presence. She was also working on creative ways to address the racial tension within the city.
"The body was cremated, and there were no in-depth tests run after the initial autopsy," Elise said. "The lab work showed he was a heavy drug user, with large quantities of heroin in his bloodstream, along with a trace amount of morphine. At the time, it seemed to be a pretty straightforward misdiagnosed drug overdose."
"Understandable given the circumstances."
"One other thing." Elise pulled a photo from her bag and slid it across the desk. "This artwork was on the body of Jordan Kemp."
Major Hoffman examined the photo, then passed it back. "Black Tupelo."
"Right."
"Did the first prostitute have this kind of marking?"
"No. And no sign that it may have been removed."
"I've scheduled a press conference for an hour from now. Is this Black Tupelo information something we want released yet? What do you think, Detective Gould? You've been awfully quiet."
He shifted in his chair. "At this point, I think we should keep it to ourselves until we have more to go on."
"I agree. What else do you have on your agenda?"
"We're paying a surprise visit to Black Tupelo," Elise said.
"Good luck if you're hoping to speak to Strata Luna. She has little tolerance for the police."
Elise had never met Strata Luna, but like everyone else in Savannah, she was intrigued by her. "I'm hoping to persuade her." She never gave much thought to her own past, but this was a time it might come in handy.
"I'm guessing it will take a court order," Major Hoffman said.
"Which wouldn't make her any more willing to help us."
"Do it your way. In any event, it won't hurt to approach her softly," the major said. "I would also suggest you investigate a rumor I heard of a zombie with a Black Tupelo logo."
*
"You're going to have to fill me in," Gould said as Elise executed a left turn. "Who exactly is Strata Luna?"
They were in a police car, heading for the riverfront and Black Tupelo.
"You've probably driven by her house. A mansion set back off the street in the Victorian District. It used to be a morgue."
"Morgue?" He groaned. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Strata Luna rarely goes anywhere but Black Tupelo. And when she does leave her house, it's in the backseat of a car with her face hidden by a veil."
"Why the veil? Is she homely? Or just eccentric?"
"And that would be ... ?"
"Strata Luna's mother was a Gullah priestess, and Strata Luna grew up in a world of powerful women who could wield a strange control over men. Her mother died of a consumptive curse put upon her by a jealous neighbor. Strata Luna and her two younger sisters participated in the secret ritual of sanctified communion where they tasted of their mother's heart, and burned and inhaled her soul."
"Oh, for chrissake."
"I'm just relating the myth. You're to decide if it's truth or fiction. Anyway, the girls were unskilled, but they possessed their mother's beauty and charisma. They began selling their bodies to men who didn't quibble about the exorbitant price. By the time Strata Luna was in her twenties, her sisters had married and Strata Luna was running her own prostitution business. She didn't believe in borrowing money, but she eventually saved enough to purchase a warehouse near the river."
"Black Tupelo."
"She refuses to have her photo taken. It's said that in cases where the photographer uses high-speed film, a dark image can be seen just beyond her shoulder. Some claim it's the devil, but others say it's the soul of her mother looking for her heart, her spirit trapped between two worlds."
Gould shook his head. "What bullshit."
"Shut up, listen, and learn. As I said, Strata Luna had two children, both girls. Both died tragically. The first child drowned in a garden fountain on her mother's property when she was maybe eight or nine."
"Jesus," he said, suddenly sounding truly upset by her story.
"The second committed suicide about four years ago. Found hanged in a shanty on St. Helena Island. She was an adult by that time. Around twenty-seven or twenty-eight, if I remember correctly. After her death, Strata Luna began to constantly dress in mourning attire."
A block from the Savannah River, in an area surrounded by brick warehouses, Elise pulled to a curb. She shut off the engine and paused with her hand on the door. "One of the big stories is that Strata Luna's mother taught her the secret art of zombie making, and it's rumored that her prostitutes are all zombies she's created."
Gould laughed.
They stepped from the car.
"You laugh now," Elise said. "But if you live around here long enough, something will eventually happen to at least make you wonder. . . and make you respect the power the mind can have over the body."
"I'm not trying to diminish what you're saying. I've witnessed mass hysteria, but you can't expect me to accept everything you've just told me as fact."
She smiled a little grimly. "Of course not."
They traversed a cobblestone alley until they reached a narrow metal door that looked like a back service entrance. In the center of the door was a discreet Black Tupelo logo.
"Been seeing that a little too often lately," Gould mumbled under his breath.
"I have the feeling we're going to be seeing it a lot more."
There was no handle. Only a keyhole, a doorbell, and a tiny window covered with heavy screen.
Gould rang the doorbell.
"Attempts have been made to close this place down, but it's hard to get somebody on a prostitution charge," Elise said. "You basically have to catch them in the act." She also suspected that a lot of officers didn't want to mess with Strata Luna—they were afraid of what she might do to them and their families.
As in a tiny confessional, an inner door on the window slid open. "Yeah?" came a male voice.
Elise and Gould pulled out their badges and held them high while Elise made introductions.
"You wanna come in?" the voice said. It was Hispanic. Young. Bouncy. "Sure, you can come in. Have a drink. Listen to the jukebox."
The door swung open.
Elise stepped inside, going from full sunlight to a darkness that left her disoriented while her pupils adjusted. Gould bumped up against her from behind.
The place smelled like fermented beer and cigarette smoke. A jukebox in the corner played blues.
"Come in. Have a seat. Look." The young man made a sweep of his arm to the wall behind the bar. "Our liquor license. It's up-to-date. That's what we do here. Sell liquor. And food. Like to see a menu? It's a little early, but I can fire up the grill."
Elise was thinking something to eat might be a good idea. Give them a chance to talk to the young man.
"No, thanks," Gould said.
Her eyes were adjusting to the dark.
Wooden booths lined the wall opposite the bar. In the far booth sat two women, talking, drinking, smoking.
"Maybe something to drink," Elise said. "Nothing with alcohol. We're on duty."
"Sweet tea? We've got the best sweet tea in the city."
Elise slid onto a barstool. "That sounds great."
"I'll have the same." Gould took the stool beside her.
"Flora!" the young man shouted to one of the women in the back. "Sweet teas ... for the detectives."
While waiting for their tea, Elise pulled out five-by-sevens of the two male prostitutes, the photos enlarged mug shots she'd found on file. "Have you seen either of these men?"
The young man picked up the photos and carried them to the light above the cash register. A few seconds later he returned. "No." His voice was neutral.
"Sure?"
"Positive. Are they in trouble?" the young man asked.
"They're both dead."
"Both?" he asked, appearing surprised for the first time.
"Both."
"That's too bad." He frowned and shook his head. "Way too bad."
The tea arrived. A lovely olive-skinned woman with long, dark, auburn-tinged hair served Elise's drink. The woman was placing the second drink in front of Gould when her hand froze.
An attraction to Gould?
A split second later, she was moving again, setting the glass on the wooden bar.
Elise was never one to pass up an opportunity. "Have you seen either of these men?" She slid the photos across the bar.
The woman gave them a cursory glance, then shook her head. "No. Never." She had a slightly Hispanic accent. "Is that all you need?" The question was for both of them, but the woman was staring at Gould.
"Where's your rest room?" he asked, sounding a little panicky.
The bartender pointed and Gould disappeared.
"I'm Enrique," the young man told Elise. "Enrique Xavier. If you need anything, just call me."
Elise fiddled with her napkin. "Enrique, I wondered if it would be possible to talk to Strata Luna."
"Strata Luna don't talk to nobody."
"I've heard that, but in light of these two possible homicides ... I thought she might be able to help us."
He shook his head. "No way, man."
"Why don't you ask her?"
"She'll say no."
"I'll take that chance."
He shrugged, picked up a nearby phone, and punched in a number.
"There's a lady here. A detective," he said into the receiver.
Elise handed him her card.
He grabbed it. "Detective Sandburg. Wants to know if she can talk. Just for a few minutes." He lit a cigarette, picking tobacco off his tongue. "Yeah, that's what I told her. Sorry to bother you."
Elise leaned in Enrique's direction. It was time to play the conjurer card. "Tell her I'm Jackson Sweet's daughter."
Enrique hesitated, then passed on the information. Elise watched his expression change and knew she'd won. Five minutes later, the arrangements had been made.
*
Bent over the sink, David Gould tossed the wet paper towel into the trash. Eyes closed, he backed up until he hit the solid brick wall. His heart hammered like a son of a bitch. There was a weird humming in his head.
The girl from the other night. He couldn't remember much, but he was sure it was her.
Jesus.
What had he done? What was he doing? This was so screwed u
p. He used to be professional. He used to be a good agent. What—
"What the hell is going on?" came an angry whispered demand.
He opened his eyes to see the girl, Flora, standing three feet away.
"You're a detective? A fucking detective? Is this some kind of setup?"
"Listen. My being here today is just a weird coincidence. And the other night—I've never done anything like that before. I'm not sure how it happened."
She jammed a finger into his chest and glared at him. "There is no such thing as a coincidence. And you're a cop!"
"I don't even know if I want to be in law enforcement anymore." God. He was admitting things to this woman he hadn't even admitted to himself.
"Oh, I get it," Flora said. "You're going through a midlife crisis."
"No, just your everyday crisis."
"Do you know how common it is for men to turn to prostitutes when they've hit the bottom of a downward spiral? For them to seek the company of strangers? To want to be held in the arms of a woman they don't even know? What do you think that's all about?"
"If Freud were here, I'm sure he could clear things right up."
A knock sounded on the door. "Gould?" came Elise's voice. "You okay in there?"
Flora let out a smirk and opened her mouth to reply.
In one swift motion, David pulled her against him, a hand pressed to her face.
"Fine," he shouted. "Be right out."
Elise's footsteps faded. He released the girl. Her lipstick was smeared. She wasn't mad anymore. "You weren't setting me up?" she asked with a coy smile.
Was she was going to try to blackmail him? He could see the headlines now: Yankee Cop and Black Tupelo Hooker. "This is just between you and me. Nobody else." He wiped a finger across the lipstick smear, trying to fix it, realized what he was doing, and stopped.
"How about if I come by your apartment tonight?" Her smile was bigger now.
"Don't trouble yourself."
"Not in a professional way. I think you need a friend."