Penny looked down at her overalls and wrinkled shirt, which still bore skid marks from her earlier encounter with the asphalt. “You think?”
“I think.”
“I’m not sure I have anything … festive.”
“Look,” Marie said. “Hard.”
“Okay,” Penny agreed with a sigh. “I’ll meet you there in, say, a half hour?”
“Why don’t you take a full hour to get ready?” Marie suggested. “Maybe even break out the lipstick.”
Penny frowned. “See you there.”
After retrieving her coat and waving to Guy, she slipped out the front door and turned right, out of habit. She had reached the sidewalk and stood face-to-face with the house in all of its pink misery before she realized what she’d done. Self-pity washed over her.
Some people were like rubber bands—willing to stretch but eager to snap back into place at the first opportunity.
It was a Freudian slip, she decided, to walk back to her former home just before she celebrated her divorce. Shaken, she abruptly turned and strode toward her apartment over the odorous doughnut store. She scanned the faces of the pedestrians trickling toward the downtown square, hoping no one who knew her had seen her gaffe.
Penny frowned—she had done a lot of things today she hoped no one had seen. And the day wasn’t even over yet.
6
A cup of celebration …
The three-block walk to Penny’s apartment was typically a quiet, meditative time of the day. But as she neared downtown, the murmur of drumming and chanting rode on the still air. The voodoo rituals were about to begin and would continue on the town square all evening and well into the night. The sharp scent of burning wood stung her nostrils, leading her gaze to the plume of lavender-colored smoke rising in the air, marking the site of a makeshift temple. Her bedroom window would give her a bird’s-eye view of the activity and, for once, a good reason to miss sleep.
She threaded her way through the crowds, which became heavier the closer she got to her apartment. Dusk was falling, and as the daylight faded, she could feel a spike in the energy. She was jostled by enthusiastic visitors who danced as they walked, flinging their arms and swaying their hips. Perfume, spices, and perspiration mingled for an erotic aroma. Yet as she rounded the corner, the sickening sugary smell of doughnuts managed to cut through every other odor.
Ugh—she was home.
Benny’s Beignet shop was overflowing with bodies, and across the square, Caskey’s bar was also enjoying a brisk business, as were the food and drink vendors set up around the perimeter of the square, selling sausage kabobs, crawfish etouffee, spicy pickles, hot peppers, and Creole coffee. In another area, booths draped in multicolored lights offered jewelry and vibrant clothing, voodoo dolls, and thousands of trinkets. Since she had left for work this morning, a covered shelter had been erected to house the voodoo rituals and readings, with a hole in the roof to allow smoke from the ceremonial fire to escape. The structure itself could barely be seen for the crush of bodies vying for a good viewing spot. The energy was contagious, and Penny’s pulse synched to the rhythm of the drums, her muscles jumping to the jingle of tambourines, flutes, and rattles.
The door leading to her apartment was next to the door of the beignet shop. She excused and pardoned herself through the crowd, working up a claustrophobic sweat by the time she unlocked the door and closed it behind her. A dim light overhead provided just enough illumination for her to get her bearings. The narrow, steep stairway in front of her disappeared into darkness. She felt for the light switch and flipped it, but the bulb on the landing above popped and fizzled futilely.
Penny groaned in frustration—it was the fifth lightbulb to burn out in a matter of weeks. When she’d complained to Elton, the landlord, he’d said something about a high-voltage pull running through the building, that she needed 130-volt bulbs instead of the standard 120-volt. Which wouldn’t be a problem if the local hardware store actually carried 130-volt bulbs.
The fine hair on the back of Penny’s neck prickled in dread as she slowly climbed the worn steps, which listed slightly to the left. She was being ridiculous, she knew, but since she had moved out of the house that she and Deke had shared, her childhood fear of the dark had returned. It was understandable, she assumed, since she was living alone for the first time in her life, but justification didn’t make her phobia any easier to deal with. The drone of the noisy crowd at her back didn’t help—in fact, it made her feel more isolated. If something happened, no one would hear her screams.
She gripped the handrail all the way up, stumbling once on the landing before catching herself. The stink of burnt bulb hung in the musty air. She turned left and felt for the door to her apartment, fumbling for what seemed like an eternity to find the keyhole with her key. The landing was large enough and the air black enough that someone could be standing behind her and she wouldn’t even know it. Her skin crawled as perspiration gathered at the small of her back. At last, she turned the dead bolt and practically fell into her apartment, lunging for a light switch as she pushed the door closed behind her.
The light flickered but caught, illuminating her tiny dining room to the right and part of the kitchen behind it. She exhaled to relieve her pent-up tension and walked a few feet to her left, hitting another light switch to reveal the living room, which led into a bathroom straight ahead and into the bedroom around the corner. All five rooms could have fit into the master bedroom suite in the Victorian on Charm Street. The upside was that they’d been easy to furnish—one delivery from Furniture Galaxy and she’d been set: miniature dining table and chairs, two bar stools, sage green leather couch and butter yellow leather chair, side table, lamp number one, hooked area rug, television cabinet, television, queen-size bed, chest of drawers, and lamp number two.
She tried not to think about the luscious antiques that had stayed with the house, all of which she had handpicked, refurbishing many herself. On her way out the door, she had stolen a plant, a ficus tree sitting in the foyer that had thrived under her care. She couldn’t imagine Deke missing it; in hindsight, he hadn’t been particularly attached to anything in the house that was living.
The one thing that she most regretted leaving was a lovebirds tree ornament that Deke had given her the first Christmas they were together in college at Louisiana State University. He hadn’t been able to understand why she’d cried, and she’d been too embarrassed to confess that as a child she’d always longed for a twinkling Christmas tree with lots of ornaments. That kind of admission would have led to questions about her family that she hadn’t wanted to address. As far as Deke knew, she was an only child and both of her parents had died.
Which was partly true.
When she’d been gathering her clothes and personal effects, she had forgotten about the ornament, which she had kept wrapped in tissue paper in a chest in the attic. On some level she wanted the ornament as a reminder that she hadn’t imagined Deke’s love for her, but a stronger motivation was envisioning Sheena running across the ornament and having a belly laugh at Penny’s sentimentality. The thought of that woman—or Deke—tossing the ornament as if it meant nothing kept Penny awake at nights. Someday she would figure out a way to get it back without either one of them knowing. She was too ashamed to let anyone know the ornament still meant something to her.
Penny glanced around her little apartment, conceding that it wasn’t without its own charm: tall plaster ceilings, waist-high white bead board that ran throughout, worn, honey-colored wood floors that were always pleasingly warm because of the heat generated beneath her in the doughnut shop. And the windows—the windows were magnificent. Two in the living room, two in the bedroom, nearly floor to ceiling. The pair in the bedroom opened onto a Juliet balcony, encased by an intricate cast-iron railing.
If only she had a Romeo to gaze down upon, instead of a giant revolving square doughnut.
Penny shrugged out of her coat and dropped it onto the quilted coverlet on her
bed. For a few seconds, she stared at the coat with envy—she’d had a long, disturbing day, and she’d rather have curled up on her bed and listen to the crowd through an open window than attend this party that Marie had planned. She stretched high on her toes and exhaled noisily. She couldn’t back out now—it was nice of Marie to have planned it. And maybe the party would help her put some closure on her relationship with Deke.
First things first. She phoned her landlord and left another message about the lightbulbs. The plain yogurt and dried bananas she’d eaten for lunch were long gone, and Caskey’s would have few to no healthy choices on the menu, so she made a quick spinach and tofu salad and washed it down with mineral water and lemon. A long, hot shower would have felt great, but her water heater was on the fritz more often than not, so she settled for a long, lukewarm shower. Afterward, she took special care to smooth on scented lotion, dab almond oil on her pulse points, and make an attempt to tame her auburn curls with a round brush.
Frowning into the mirror, she studied her reflection, something she’d been doing more of lately, she acknowledged. She wasn’t about to accept blame for Deke’s sleeping around, but after being tossed aside as carelessly as she had been, she did have her moments of self-doubt.
Okay, make that hours of self-doubt. At thirty-two, her features were beginning to sharpen as youthful lipids left her skin. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror, she felt old; at other times, simply mature. Her face was unremarkable, although she’d always believed her green eyes were her best attribute. Deke seemed to prefer her smile, but she thought she showed too much gum.
“That’s when I know you’re really happy,” he’d said once. “When I see a lot of gum.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d shown a lot of gum.
With a sigh, she withdrew her dusty makeup case and poked around for any products that weren’t dried up. A dusting of powder would have to suffice as foundation. Too late, she remembered why she didn’t use the powder more often—it contained skin “brighteners,” which sounded scientific but were, in effect, ground-up glitter so difficult to remove, it practically had to wear off a person’s skin. She lucked out and found an unopened wand of mascara and a pinkish lipstick that did double-duty as blush. Then she gave up while she was ahead.
With much trepidation, she opened the door of her closet, Marie’s not so subtle suggestion to dress up ringing in her mind.
“Festive, festive, festive,” she murmured, flipping through jeans, corduroys, chinos, painter’s pants, overalls, jumpers, and sweaters. In a near panic, she reached into the back of her closet, and her hand closed over a forgotten dress, one she’d purchased at a local boutique when she’d first detected Deke’s restlessness. She withdrew it and held it in front of her, the tags dangling. The sleeveless emerald green wrap dress was fitted through the bodice, tied at the waist, then fell to a long, swishy skirt edged with a thick row of embroidered gold trim. The lustrous fabric was finely cut and flattering to her lean figure. She had paid more for it and a pair of gold wedge-heel sandals than any ensemble since her wedding gown, but she hadn’t gotten the chance to wear it and had been too embarrassed to return it … afterward.
She removed the tags, then slid into the dress and stepped into the shoes, turning this way and that way in the mirror, remembering Deke’s reference to her “bony ass.” She looked, she decided, as good as she was ever going to look. She added dangly earrings and a few ethnic bracelets, tied a yellow shawl around her shoulders, and dropped essentials into an appliquéd canvas shoulder bag, including a flashlight so she wouldn’t have to climb the stairs in the dark again.
At the last minute, she glanced in the mirror and panicked at her made-over reflection. Did she look as if she was trying too hard?
Then she winced. Trying too hard to do what? To forget about Deke? Wasn’t that the plan?
She walked to the window and looked out across the people milling in the square—couples holding hands, friends arm in arm, children running wild. The main crowd still gravitated around the shelter, where the dancing had grown more frenzied. Small groups of dancers had erupted on all sides, and everyone seemed to be getting into the spirit of the festival. From her vantage point, she scanned the crowd for anyone familiar and spotted Marie’s blue hair as the young woman hurried in the direction of the bar.
Penny smiled wryly—time to stop stalling and go celebrate her failed marriage.
She started to turn away from the window when she noticed a tall, muscular man standing next to a streetlight, casually inspecting the crowd. Something about him struck her as familiar… .
The man who had visited Sheena!
She took an involuntary half step back from the window, then peeked around to see if Sheena was lurking about. If she was, she wasn’t making herself known … or maybe the man was waiting for her.
Penny picked up her purse, her chest bursting with curiosity. She left the light over the dining room table burning and prayed it would last until she got home. The new shoes made getting down the dark stairs precarious, especially when she had to use one hand to hold the flashlight. When she opened the door onto the street, the noise blasted her. The volume had increased twofold since she had gone inside. Night had fallen, but the square was awash with pink and yellow light. The lamp under which the mystery man had been standing illuminated emptiness. Penny glanced around but didn’t see him anywhere.
A child ran by and Penny jumped back, laughing, to avoid being plowed by a train of shrieking children holding sparklers high. She worked her way through the crowd, past the trinket vendors. She fingered glass bead necklaces and velvet charm pouches and smiled over jars of crushed “bones” like the ones on sale at the souvenir shop at the voodoo museum. (Close scrutiny of the label revealed the contents as “rock bones,” or in layman’s terms, crushed limestone.) Jars of “spider legs,” “poison frog skin,” and “fish eyes” were equally bogus but were being snapped up anyway.
The booth selling voodoo dolls was the busiest by far. Factory-stamped “stick it to your boss” fabric dolls were prevalent, as were cartoonish “love” and “revenge” dolls of ambiguous sex and miniature novelty dolls in bright hues. High in the rafters of the tent, however, she spied more authentic versions of the dolls, some of them grotesque, made from black cloth or wax, wrapped in scraps of fabric. The woman running the booth saw her studying the dolls and made a move to get one down for her, but Penny waved her off.
She made her way toward Caskey’s, marveling over the intensity of the atmosphere. She had experienced the festival every year that she’d lived in Mojo, but she’d never seen so many people, so much energy. It had the feeling of Mardi Gras without the beads and the nudity. The strong aroma of incense and cloves cleared her sinuses and stung her eyes. The air throbbed with the beat of the three drummers of the batri playing for the ceremony, and the ground vibrated with the force of pounding feet.
As she walked past the shelter, she noticed wooden cages of white chickens lined up. Their frantic squawking added to the din, as if they knew their fate. The priests and priestesses had met animal control halfway by agreeing to kill the birds humanely in their sacrificial ritual, and only at a time when children most likely would be home in bed.
Penny shivered and pulled her shawl higher on her bare shoulders as she wound through the crowd waiting at Caskey’s. Marie was smart to have reserved a room for the party. Penny only hoped that enough people showed up. When she finally made it to the hostess stand, she shouted to be heard above the noise, and the young girl directed her to the party room. On the way past the bar, Penny did a double take; the mystery man sat alone, nursing a long-neck beer.
Still dressed in the brown leather coat and clothes she’d seen him in this morning, he was as long-limbed as he had appeared from a distance, and broad-shouldered, but slouching in a “screw everyone” posture. His black gaze latched onto her in puzzled recognition, then darted to her cleavage. Penny realized with a flush that she looke
d radically different than when he’d stopped to ask for directions. She quickly averted her gaze and hurried toward her destination.
But poor Deke—even with the hair transplant, he didn’t stand a chance against the guy.
She grinned and was pretty sure she was showing gum.
Suddenly she felt like celebrating. She found the room and smiled at the sign reading Congratulations on Your Divorce, Penny! She rapped on the door that was ajar before sticking her head inside the nearly empty room. Rollicking zydeco music blared from a boom box in the corner. “Is this the divorce party?”
Marie turned, and her eyes widened. “Wow, Penny, you look …” She squinted. “Your skin is all glittery.”
Penny smirked. “You said festive.”
“You look awesome, boss, really.”
Penny thanked her, then laughed as she walked into the room festooned in streamers and balloons. “The decorations are awesome, too,” she said, picking up a noisemaker and giving it a spin. “But it looks like this is going to be one dead divorce party.”
“Then maybe we should go,” said a voice behind her.
Penny turned, and at the sight of the two women standing in the doorway, she let out a happy cry and broke into a run.
7
Toss in some unexpected spice …
“Liz, Wendy … what are you doing here?”
“We came to liven up this dead party,” Liz said with a laugh.
Penny embraced the women one at a time, then angled her head at Marie. “You set this up.”
Marie looked pleased with herself. “So I snooped in your address book.”
“Marie called me,” Liz said, “then I called Wendy.”
Penny pulled her two friends forward, glad that her employee had made the call that she herself had been too embarrassed to make. “Marie, meet my two best friends from college—Liz Brockwell and Wendy Metzger.”
Still tingling with shock and pleasure, Penny observed the sleek women as they shook hands with Marie and said hello. They were just as attractive as when they’d all met at Louisiana State University—maybe more so. Liz was a vivacious blond, twice divorced, who lived in New Orleans and ran a chain of chiropractic clinics. She had always been the personality of the trio, as well as the fashion plate—and still was, as evidenced by her Dana Buchman tweed jacket over Decca jeans and the Judith Leiber bag—things that Penny recognized from the Saks ads in the Post.
In Deep Voodoo Page 6