Penny had read the story of voodoo dolls many times, but she scoured it again. The voodoo doll, to be effective, had to be made of something close to the subject—hair or clothing, for instance. And the person delivering the good or bad "pricks" with a pin had to believe in what they were doing: it was mind over matter, the sign explained. If the person believed deeply enough, then their wish would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Penny's heart thudded against her chest as a horrible thought seeped into her brain: Had she somehow caused Deke's death just by the bad vibes she had put out into the universe?
"You okay?" B.J. asked, breaking into her dark thoughts.
She startled and looked up at him, wondering how crazy he'd think she was if he knew the things going through her head.
She nodded and tried to shake the heebie-jeebies—hard to do in such an eerie place. They descended to the musty, moldy basement, where they listened to a tour guide talk, in macabre detail, about the chair of nails, the human stretching machine, and the contraption that prepared sausages mixed with ground glass, which were then fed to victims.
Dark stains on the floor suggested blood and other body fluids, but they were probably motor oil and mildew, Penny noted. A myriad of whips and chains hung on the walls, and headless mannequins modeled pain-inflicting clothing—spike-lined vests and garments of barbed wire, necklaces of knife blades and bracelets of wax that would have been set afire.
In the background, a sound track of human screams and other spooky noises played. The tourists shifted from foot to foot, and Penny, as always when she heard the stories, was awash with horror for the people who had been subjected to the sick minds of the masters of torture.
The tour guide led his group out of the room. "Let's go," she murmured to B.J., eager to end their tour. But when she looked back, B.J. was staring at one of the spiked whips on the wall.
"What's wrong?" she said, walking back to join him as she prayed he wasn't into S&M.
"Maybe nothing," he said quietly, then reached up to pull out a long, white-blond hair that was coiled around the end of one of the spikes. "And maybe everything."
Chapter Twenty-one
Store in a dark place...
PENNY’S BLOOD RAN COLD as she stared at the long, blond hair B.J. held. Imagining people being tortured was one thing, but seeing the proof of their existence and their suffering...that was another thing entirely. "D-Do you think the hair was left there recently?"
B.J. sighed. "It's hard to say—hair breaks down very slowly over time. It could be decades old...or left last week. A laboratory could probably date it to some extent by examining the follicle."
"Should we call the police?"
"Don't go jumping to conclusions," he murmured, then he held the twisted hair up to the light, his eyebrows knitted. "Let's see if your friend Hazel can explain why it would be here." He pulled a small plastic baggie out of his jacket pocket and gently placed the strand of hair inside. "Without raising any red flags."
She nodded, and they retraced their steps back to the first floor, although Penny couldn't bring herself to touch anything—not even the handrails. Suddenly every stain on the floor, every peculiar odor, every taped scream took on a new meaning. Chills ran over her skin, and she unconsciously moved closer to B.J. He seemed to sense her unease, because his hand hovered at her waist as they made their way back to the lobby.
Hazel was talking to a tall, slender man with sharp cheekbones and thinning hair, but she turned to smile at them when they approached. "All done?" she asked.
"Yes," Penny said, still shaken.
"Penny, have you met Dr. Troy Archambault?"
Penny extended her hand. "No, but I've heard a lot about you. I'm Penny Francisco. I live nearby."
A wary look came into the owner's eyes as he shook her hand. "I've also heard a lot about you, Ms. Francisco."
Penny swallowed. From the newspapers, no doubt.
"Penny didn't kill her ex-husband," Hazel piped up matter-of-factly. "It's all a big misunderstanding. This voodoo festival has everyone churned up."
Troy Archambault nodded amicably. "But the festival is good for the museum."
Penny turned to B.J. "This is a friend of mine., B.J. Beaumont. B.J., Dr. Archambault's family used to live in this house."
"Call me Troy," the man said and shook B.J.'s hand.
"These two are looking for a missing woman," Hazel said.
Troy's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? What makes you think she's here?"
"Someone remembered giving her directions to the museum during last year's festival," B.J. said, his voice casual.
"Last year?" Troy said, then gave a little laugh. "If she was here, she's probably long gone by now."
B.J. nodded slowly. "Probably. I was hoping Hazel might recall having seen her."
Penny cleared her throat. "Hazel...I saw a strand of hair tangled in one of the spiked whips downstairs—it kind of creeped me out."
Hazel sighed. "Tourists, what can I say? I find that and worse all the time when I clean—they're not supposed to take things down from the walls or mess with the exhibits, but they do anyway. No matter how much we try to keep an eye on them, someone will snag their clothes or hair." She reached beneath the counter and came up with a bag of adhesive bandages. "Sometimes they even hurt themselves."
"That's why the insurance on this place is so astronomical," Troy muttered. "We're going to have to raise the price of admission again after the first of the year."
"Interesting place, though," B.J. said. "Did you grow up here?"
Troy shook his head. "No, my father did. I was raised in New Orleans, where my dermatology practice is." He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which, I have to get back." He nodded to them both. "It was nice to meet you. I hope you find your friend."
Penny and B.J. murmured pleasantries to him and to Hazel. On the way out, they passed the souvenir shop, a cubbyhole off to the side of the entry way that Penny imagined might once have been an enormous coat closet for guests. It was crowded with tourists, many of them dressed in their festival garb. B.J. wandered inside, and Penny followed him, glancing over the array of novelty items, including plastic handcuffs, spongy spiked balls, and generic voodoo dolls stamped with various "target zones," much like a butcher would mark an animal for certain cuts of meat. The woman straightening shelves turned, and Penny blinked. "Diane...hello. I didn't realize you worked here."
Diane Davidson seemed surprised to see her too...and a little embarrassed. "It's only temporary."
"Of course," Penny murmured.
Diane fidgeted, reminding Penny of a small bird. "I heard about Deke...and...everything." She stopped and wet her lips. "You've always been nice to me...I know you couldn't do what people are saying. And I know how people in this town like to gossip."
"Thank you," Penny said warily, trying to picture the woman wielding one of the guns that B.J. said he'd seen in her house. "Diane, did you happen to bring the gag gift voodoo doll to my party?"
She shook her head. "I wouldn't have brought something like that anyway, but especially not considering the rumors going around about me."
Penny noticed white specks on the woman's wrists—paint?—and felt a surge of sympathy. "I actually came by to talk to you this morning."
Diane swallowed nervously. "To my house?"
Penny nodded. "I saw the graffiti. Did you report it to the police?"
Diane tucked a lock of drab brown hair behind her ear and shook her head. "No use. And it would only stir up more trouble." She looked past Penny and murmured, "Excuse me," then walked over to B.J., who was studying the labels of tiny brown jars on the counter that seemed to be so popular with the customers. "May I help you, sir?"
He held up two small bottles. "Both of these are labeled 'powdered bones.' What's the difference between the ones with the red caps and the ones with the white caps?"
"Just different suppliers." She smiled, then lowered her voice. "You do realize it's just limestone?"
; He nodded and returned her smile. "I'll take both of these—I think my niece and nephew will get a kick out of them." Then he added a pair of plastic handcuffs to his purchases, giving Penny a secret, sexy wink.
She flushed at his insinuation, and foolishly her mind conjured up an image of being handcuffed to her bed and B.J. doing wicked, wonderful things to her, his sensuous, curvy mouth on her skin, rendering her powerless as she strained against the plastic—
"Ready?" B.J. asked.
She jumped, then nodded and exhaled. "Sure." They walked out, and B.J. studied the immense door when they closed it behind them. "Looks old."
"I think it's original," she said, then told him the tale about the door being stained with the blood of the house's victims.
His grin was wry. "This town seems to thrive on the macabre."
"And New Orleans doesn't?"
"Touché."
"By the way, that was Diane Davidson who waited on you. She said she didn't bring the voodoo doll to the party."
"That little mouse is the witch that has people stirred up enough to paint messages on her house in blood?"
"Don't forget, she's the one you said had an arsenal in her living room."
"Maybe she felt like she needed to protect herself." He shook his head. "Wow, when I drove into this town, it looked so innocent."
"Small towns aren't innocent," Penny said. "The people are just better at keeping secrets." She walked down the leaf-covered stone steps and pointed left. "That's where I ran into Deke."
B.J. craned his neck. "What's around back?"
"A three-car garage and a short driveway leading to a gate to drive on and off the property."
"But no customer parking?"
"Right."
B.J. seemed to make some mental notes, then they walked back to the pedestrian entrance in the front.
Penny glanced back at the Archambault mansion and thought she saw a flash in a high window, like before. She shuddered, wondering if it was just a tourist or if the people tortured there haunted its halls. Then she looked around and saw it was only the glare from a car coming down Hairpin Hill. She felt silly—she was letting the embellished stories of the tour guides get the better of her. "Are you going to the police with the hair you found?"
B.J. shook his head. "You heard Hazel—thousands of people go through the museum every year, and that hair could belong to any one of them."
"So you're not going to do anything with it?"
"I didn't say that. I only have to prove that it did or didn't belong to Jodi Reynolds. I'll call her grandmother to see if she has a hairbrush of Jodi's. If there's a DNA match, then I'll go to the police."
"How long will that take?"
"A few days at the earliest." Then he frowned.
She pressed her lips together, because she knew what he was thinking—wherever Jodi Reynolds was, she was probably dead...unfortunately, a few more days wasn't going to make a difference.
As they rounded the corner of Charm Street, she saw in the distance that a crowd had gathered in front of the pink Victorian, some of them taking pictures. A television news crew was doing a report. Penny glanced toward her store. "I think I'm going to make a run for it and hide out in my office for a while."
B.J. nodded. "Want to grab some dinner later?"
Penny studied the angles of his handsome face, his piercing dark eyes, the sexy set of his shoulders. She was becoming too attracted to this man, too...trusting. His proximity and helpful nature were messing with her ability to think logically...and on her own.
"I don't think so," she said slowly, hugging herself to resist the urge to touch him. "I need to straighten my apartment, and I need to get some rest."
He nodded. "Sure. How about we meet tomorrow?"
She hesitated. "My store is closed. I was planning to take in the festival, but I'm not sure—"
"I'll drop by around noon."
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, then sighed. "How about two o'clock?"
"I'll bring the doughnuts." Then he grinned and strode away.
Penny watched his retreating figure and groaned. She had no business forming an attachment to anybody right now, especially not to someone like B.J. Beaumont. She cut through The Charm Farm's backyard and walked alongside the building, eyeing the wild brushy field that was to have been her new garden. She had thought that by now, she would be arranging to have the field cleared and would be elbow deep in seed catalogs; that her most pressing problem would be whether to plant the beefsteak tomatoes or the heirloom variety.
Instead she had Deke's death on her hands and a dark-eyed Cajun on her mind.
At least business was good, she thought as she entered the store. She was going to have to pay for Gloria's services to date, and for B.J.'s. A sigh escaped her; if she was going to be arrested, her threat to pay him in vitamins might not be too far off the mark. She nodded to Guy when he looked up, then kept her head down as she walked toward her office.
"Is that her?" she heard someone whisper.
"I think so! It's the voodoo woman!" someone shouted, and a murmur ran through the customers.
Penny darted past Marie and into the office, closing the door behind her. She dropped into her desk chair and put her head in her hands. When would things get back to normal? A lump formed in her throat as tears welled behind her eyes. What would happen to her if she was arrested, if she was convicted? Was this her punishment for being so judgmental when someone else had been in a similar situation, for having no compassion when called upon to forgive?
She swallowed past the lump. A good, hard cry was in her future, but she had to hold it together here. With a mighty inhale, she turned her attention to her desk, sifting through phone messages and mail. Liz called. She had forgotten to give Liz her new cell number. The New Orleans Post wants an interview. Liz called again. WNNO wants an interview. WOLA wants an interview.
The mail consisted of bills, seed catalogs, and advertisements. Sheena's Forever Sun tanning salon was having a Voodoo Festival special—Get Fried for Only $9.95. Penny rolled her eyes, but it made her thoughts turn to Sheena and the scenario that she and B.J. had talked through at the diner. Had the woman killed Deke out of anger, then tried to pin the murder on Penny? If so, then Sheena would have had to already have killed Deke when Penny saw her at Caskey's. She replayed the scene in her head, recalling Sheena's brief outfit and snakeskin bag. She hadn't seemed out of sorts or nervous at all. Was it possible for someone to kill another person and be unaffected?
Yes...hadn't she seen proof of that in her own family?
She let the flyer fall from her fingers into the trash, wondering what kind of a dysfunctional childhood Sheena might have endured that would have made her so cold-blooded if indeed she had killed Deke. It didn't make her any more likable, but it would explain her flamboyance and her compulsion to sue anyone she felt had wronged her.
The murmur of a headache began to stir in Penny's temples, and her stomach gurgled. She was hungry, but nothing sounded appetizing. She just needed a lift...
Her gaze dropped to the locked desk drawer, and her heart gave a glad little jump. Didn't she deserve to indulge? What was she waiting for? If being accused of a voodoo murder didn't warrant an emotional emergency, then what did?
She moistened her lips and fished the key out of the top drawer, then inserted it into the lock.
A knock sounded on the door, and she exhaled. '"Who is it?"
"It's me," Guy said.
Penny returned the key to the top drawer and sighed. "Come in."
He opened the door and slid inside, then closed it behind him. His face creased in worry, he held up an energy bar and a glass of juice and said, "Marie thought you might need some nourishment."
She smiled gratefully and reached for the food. "Thank you."
"How are you holding up?"
She bit into the energy bar and shrugged. "Okay, I guess. I'm not really sure how I'm supposed to be after...everything that's happened."
"Marie told you the police were here this morning?"
Penny nodded. "When I called her earlier. And I've already been back to the station today to answer more questions."
He winced. "Marie feels really bad for telling them some things."
"It's okay," she said. "I have nothing to hide."
He exhaled, looking relieved.
Good grief—did he also think she'd killed Deke?
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "I called Goddard's Funeral Home to get arrangements for Deke."
Her heart stuttered. It still didn't seem possible that yesterday morning, Deke had been alive and now he was lying across town in an embalming tray. She closed her eyes briefly as a wave of nausea hit her.
"I didn't know if...I mean you might not want to go—"
"Of course I want to go," she murmured. "Thank you, Guy, for calling." Penny looked at the paper.
Deke Black funeral Monday 2:00 p.m. graveside service afterward.
She stuffed the paper into her pocket and lifted the glass of yellow juice to her mouth for a deep drink. It tasted good; she hadn't realized how dehydrated she was. "How are things here?"
"Busy, as you saw."
"But is anyone buying anything?"
"Oh yeah, we've had a record sales day, in fact."
Penny massaged the back of her neck. "Well, I guess there's something to be happy about."
He shifted nervously. "Do the police know who did it yet?"
"If they know, they aren't telling me."
He suddenly leaned over to hug her. "I'm just so sorry you got dragged into the middle of this."
She nodded against his neck. "Thank you."
He pulled back. "You look exhausted."
"Probably because I only got about two hours of sleep last night."
"Want to stay at my place tonight? I'll take the couch."
She smiled at him fondly. "Thank you, but I need to get my place put back together."
Guy looked puzzled.
"From the police search," she explained wryly, taking another bite out of the bar.
Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries) Page 46