That Voodoo That You Do

by Ann Yost

  The water lost its heat, and she hefted herself out and into a fluffy towel. She didn’t examine whether her shiver was from the cool air on her wet skin or on the disappointment she refused to let herself feel.

  Luke was wrong. She did have some self-protective instincts, and they were screaming a dire warning in her ear. She wanted to run away again, but this time she wouldn’t do it. This time she’d stand her ground. She just hoped she didn’t have to stand that ground too long. Who had murdered Blanche and Letty? She’d focus all her efforts on the investigation. She’d forget that she’d fallen for the wrong man. Again.

  Luke wasn’t the wrong man, Jessie immediately corrected herself. He was a man too wounded to return her affection.

  Jessie gazed into the oval mirror over Blanche’s washstand. She looked the same—hazel eyes, untamed curls, a slightly irregular nose, lips that were a trifle too thin, and a chin that was a trifle too strong. She wasn’t the same though. She no longer lived on the surface of her emotions. Blanche’s green-eyed, bad seed of a foster son had opened her heart. Maybe she could return the favor, teach him that it was safe to love, safe to trust. She wrinkled her nose. She was jumping the gun by a mile. They’d just had a one-night stand. He wasn’t asking her for a life-changing relationship. He wasn’t asking her for a relationship at all.

  It was something she’d do well to remember.

  She dressed quickly in a butter-colored turtleneck with a pair of green corduroy overalls. She looked more like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm than Mighty Aphrodite. It was a good disguise. The cell phone interrupted her musings. It was Mabel Ruth. The witches had gathered at Bell, Book and Candle and they needed her.

  ****

  Luke sat alone at the breakfast table. There were a million things to think about, like the fact that Jessie probably wouldn’t like his drab, unfurnished D.C. apartment, and the probability they’d be fighting like cats and dogs by the time they moved there just like the last time. Doubts crept into his mind. He shoved them aside. He’d figure out the right time and he’d ask her to marry him but he was through tempting fate. He shrugged into his leather jacket and headed for the drugstore.

  There was no way he’d spend another night in this house without a box of condoms.

  Hattie Bexler’s eyebrows disappeared under her wispy gray bangs as she rang up his purchase and handed him the bag. “Thanks,” he said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He knew she’d be on that old rotary phone before he hit the street. She’d think it her duty to tell Blanche. He froze for an instant as pain pierced his heart.

  Not Blanche. Not on the phone. But wherever she was, Summerland or heaven, Blanche knew about the condoms and Jessie. He could almost hear her voice. “Just make it right, lad. Just make it right.”

  ****

  The sign was lettered in an old English font. Bell, Book and Candle occupied a narrow storefront on Main Street between Molly’s Bakery on the west and a narrow alley that separated it from the pharmacy.

  A bell heralded Jessie’s arrival as she stepped from the snowy sidewalk into the warm shop filled with hanging crystals, crocks of wands and brooms, shelves containing bottles of tinctures and herbs, racks of galaxy-studded clothing, and displays of silver necklaces, bracelets, and earrings.

  One side of the shop was reserved for locally made items sold on consignment: stacks of baby sweaters, carved animals, homemade quilts, and sweet grass baskets.

  “Jessie, is that you? The tea is ready, dear.” Mabel Ruth’s voice floated out from a back room.

  Jessie stepped behind the cash register and through a beaded curtain. Millicent and Maude sat at a cloth-covered table in a small, dark storeroom. Maude held up a slightly gnarled willow stick.

  “Francine found me a new wand. How do you like it?”

  Jessie imagined Maude dancing around the room, waving the willow branch and singing,

  “Bibbity, bobbity, boo.”

  “Very nice.”

  The bell on the door sounded, and Francine arrived. Jessie felt a quick guilt pang about the information in Blanche’s Book of Shadows. She told herself she’d find a way to help Francie and Zach, a way that wouldn’t involve Luke’s heart.

  “Jessie,” Francine said, “I don’t believe you’ve met Eleanor Prendergast.”

  Eleanor’s pale face went straight to Jessie’s soft heart. The woman didn’t deserve to have a philandering husband who very well might be a murderer, too.

  “We met at Miss Letty’s house,” Jessie said and wondered how she stayed warm in that thin, cloth coat.

  Eleanor flinched.

  “You look tired, dear,” Maude said to Eleanor. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No, thanks, Maude. I’m letting folks know Letty’s funeral is tonight at five. We hope you’ll be able to make it.”

  “Whoever heard of a funeral in the evening?” Millicent’s mutter was low, but Eleanor heard and interpreted it.

  “Interment will be in the morning,” she explained, “but we didn’t want to hold the services on Christmas Eve. There’s the pageant, you know.”

  “Francie has always put on a first-rate Christmas pageant,” Mabel Ruth told Jessie, “and for the past two years Eleanor has helped her.”

  “Immeasurably,” Francie said.

  “Perhaps we should cancel it this year,” Mabel Ruth said. “Neither of you look healthy.”

  Eleanor gazed at Francie’s pale face. “I don’t want you to exert yourself if you’re under the weather, but I can’t bear to disappoint the children, and what with one thing and another, I think the community needs the pageant this year more than ever.”

  “I agree,” Francie said, “and I’m fine.”

  Eleanor Prendergast left, and the older ladies moved to the back of the shop where a card table was covered with a white cloth.

  Jessie looked at Francine. “More Ouija Board?”

  “This time it’s tea leaves.”

  In spite of her smile, new lines were carved into Francie’s face, and there was a sadness in the chocolate-colored eyes.

  Guilt snaked around Jessie’s heart. She had to find a way to help Francie, and she had to find the murderer. On the latter point she needed more information. She looked at the cups Maude was placing on the table. Before she’d come to Mystic Hollow, she’d have viewed reading tea leaves as a parlor game. She’d changed. There were plenty of things in the universe she didn’t understand.

  And she now knew firsthand there was magic.

  They took their seats and Maude poured tea into their cups but before they could drink it the phone rang.

  Francine answered and then nodded at Mabel Ruth. “It’s for you. Hattie.”

  A few minutes later Mabel Ruth returned to the table, a grim expression on her wide face.

  “Forget the tea leaves,” she said. “We’re holding a hand fast instead.”

  Jessie blinked at her. “A hand fast? Isn’t that like a wedding?”

  “It’s exactly like a wedding, dear,” Maude said. “But why are we holding one?”

  Jessie felt Mabel Ruth’s eyes on her. What was going on?

  “Lucas and Jessie are getting married.” Her tone was flat and did not invite discussion.

  Maude clapped her hands. “Thank goodness. Blanche would be so happy.”

  Jessie’s eyes sought Francine. “What’s going on?”

  The redhead gave her a sympathetic smile. “I think the question is what went on last night. Luke must have given it away when he stopped at the drugstore.”

  Jessie remembered his concern about condoms. She closed her eyes and dropped her head.

  “Oh, no.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dennis Prendergast pulled a bottle of scotch out of his locked bottom drawer, splashed some into a shot glass, and threw it back. He was supposed to be preparing remarks for Letty’s service, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate. He needed something for his nerves. He couldn’t shake the unsettled fe
eling that had grown stronger and stronger in the past few days. His hands shook as he filled the glass again.

  The shrilling phone shredded his already tattered nerves, and a cold fist of fear closed around his heart. He gripped the arms of his chair while he listened to the terse message.

  “Things are getting too hot. Tomorrow’s the end of it, last delivery, last pay off. If you can’t get the old lady in the ground tonight, we’ll take shifts.”

  Shifts? Coffin-watching shifts? Who on earth would try to steal a peek into Letty Appleby’s coffin? He didn’t ask the question. There wasn’t any point.

  “We need special equipment when the ground’s hard like this. I can’t get it ’til morning.” On top of which it was bad form to hold an interment at night. Dennis didn’t say that, either. He stifled a groan. He was freaked enough without having to mount a ghostly vigil for Miss Letty.

  He hung up and downed another shot. He’d been a fool. He’d blown the money from Ellie’s dad on horses and women. Country parsons didn’t make much, especially not the ones who didn’t stay in one place. Mort had dangled an expensive carrot—a cool million—just to keep the church locked during the week, but after a while there were more favors and directions. Things got darker, and he got in deeper.

  Now he was in up to his neck. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. What he wouldn’t give to run away. He pictured himself lounging in a hammock, a well-stacked native girl leaning over him, trailing long, red fingernails down his naked chest, over his washboard stomach, and under his swim trunks. He groaned and pressed a hand over the hardening flesh.

  He’d sacrificed a lot for sex. Sometimes he wondered why. It wasn’t the only thing in the world. He massaged himself and groaned again.

  But it was far ahead of whatever was second.

  ****

  Luke walked out of the drugstore. On impulse, or maybe because he was stalling, he turned down Western Street and followed it to a tidy garage—Carl’s Automotive Repair.

  The boots protruding from underneath the ’79 Mustang were large, dusty, and familiar. The car was even more familiar. He and Zach had logged a lot of miles in that buggy. They’d felt up their girls for the first time in there, learned to soul kiss, and had even lost their virginity.

  The car ought to have its own shrine.

  “Hey,” he called out.

  Zach slid out from under the chassis. He got to his feet, grabbed a damp rag, and worked some of the oil off his hands.

  “You fixing the car for yourself?”

  “No. It’s Jake’s now.”

  Jake Reeves was Zach’s seventeen-year-old brother.

  “Doesn’t he use your truck when you’re overseas?”

  Zach’s squint kept Luke from reading his eyes.

  “I’m not going back.”

  The side door opened, and Jake appeared. His hair was darker than Zach’s, and he wore it long and loose. A gold hoop glittered in one ear, just the way Luke’s had a decade earlier. The teenager looked like a younger, more rebellious version of his dad while Zach had their mom’s blue eyes and dirt-brown hair.

  “Hey, Jake.”

  The teenager grunted. That was new. Back in the day Jake had been attached to Luke, Zach, and Bobby Ray like a stubborn barnacle.

  “He’s pissed about the truck,” Zach explained.

  “This old piece of junk isn’t cool,” the teenager said.

  Luke’s surprise wasn’t feigned. “This is a damn babe magnet. We had some mighty nice times in the old buggy.”

  Jake’s chin, ragged with fledgling whiskers, stuck out.

  “That where you did Crystal while my brother was humping Francie?”

  Zach’s fists clenched as Jake slammed the door and disappeared.

  “Hey,” Luke said, “calm down. He’s just a kid.”

  “A mouthy kid.”

  “Same thing. So you changed your mind?” Zach nodded.

  Luke let out a long, relieved breath. “Glad you came to your senses. I assume you’re marrying Francie.”

  Zach hauled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. “A baby needs a father.”

  “A baby? Francie’s pregnant?”

  Before Zach could answer, the door opened again. This time it was Karl Reeves. Zach’s dad, like Bobby Ray’s dad, had attended all the ball games. He was quiet but a devoted family man.

  “Mister Reeves,” Luke said.

  “It’s time for you to call me Karl. Good to see you.” He looked at Zach. “Tell your mom I’m going for parts. I’ll be back before the Appleby funeral.”

  “No problem.” Zach’s tone was polite.

  Karl, still agile, jumped into the pickup. He cranked the motor and backed out of the driveway.

  Luke studied Zach. There was something wrong. The Reeves were the all-American family. Where was all this tension coming from?

  “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

  Zach took a drag then held the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “Karl’s not my dad.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Judy was pregnant when she married him.”

  “Judy? You mean your mom?”

  Zach’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You asked.”

  Luke knew it was a testament to their old friendship that Zach had even answered the question. Luke waited.

  “She admitted it. Karl is Jake’s dad. Not mine.”

  Luke thought about the older man’s devotion to Zach. He’d offered to pay Zach’s college tuition even though he’d have preferred to have Zach stick around and help with the shop.

  “Who told you?”

  The arm holding the cigarette dropped, and Zach stared at the cement floor. Luke realized he hadn’t had to ask. He knew.

  “Bobby. How the hell did he know?”

  “He found out from his dad,” Zach said. He sounded as bitter as he looked. “My dad.”

  Luke believed him. Bobby could be a jackass and he wasn’t wedded to the truth but he’d always known how to stick it to someone. But he’d been Zach’s friend. He’d have had no reason to lay this on him unless it was true.

  “Bobby was a jackass for telling you.”

  “He was also my half-brother.”

  And Zach felt guilty because he’d lived while Bobby died.

  “This have anything to do with you and Francine?”

  Zach’s face was impassive. He blew out a long breath. “No.”

  “It does.” Luke’s sixth sense told him he was right. “You feel betrayed by the Reeves and Russells, and you’ve let that poison seep into your relationship with Francine. She’s different, man. She loves you.”

  “Shit. She wasn’t even gonna tell me about the baby. I intercepted a phone call from the hospital.”

  “You can’t blame her for that. You’ve been pretty unapproachable.”

  Zach’s eyes lifted. His gaze was unfocused, as if he were looking into a dark abyss.

  “Don’t do this, man. I mean, marry her, but don’t spend the rest of your life together making her pay. This is what you’ve always wanted.”

  He saw Zach’s fingers curl into fists crushing the cigarette, but his voice was defeated. “Yeah. Be careful what you wish for.”

  Minutes later Luke headed for Bell, Book and Candle. He figured Francie could use a shoulder. He opened the door with too much force and knocked the little bell onto the floor. He picked it up to find five women eyeing him speculatively.

  Damn Hattie Bexler anyway.

  “Just in time,” Millicent said.

  Maude swept the room with her wand, and he noticed a makeshift altar in the center of the store. Mabel Ruth and Millicent were knotting a thick rope.

  “Are we having a hanging?”

  “A hand fast,” Mabel Ruth said. “You are getting engaged to Jessie.” He looked at the elf.

  “I can’t seem to talk any sense into them.”

  Her golden eyes looked confused, and her hair tumbled in every direction. Sh
e looked cute as hell. The ruddy cheeks and swollen lips were his work. He felt a strange mixture of shame and pride.

  And inevitability.

  “You look like you’ve just plowed the back forty.”

  She grinned. “Just call me Daisy Mae Duke.”

  “Soon to be Daisy Mae Duke Tanner,” Francine murmured. She sent Luke a wry glance. “Guess this is the season for shotgun weddings.”

  “We’re not getting married,” Jessie assured Luke in an overly loud voice. “No way. I mean I’m not even dressed for it.”

  “Nothing wrong with plain clothes,” Maude said, cheerfully.

  “Anyway,” Millicent added, “it’s time to pay the piper.”

  Jessie looked helplessly at Luke. “They heard about the condoms.”

  “I figured.”

  “It doesn’t matter why people get married,” said Mabel Ruth, a lifelong spinster, “that’s only the beginning. You two will be happy together, and it would please Blanche to no end.”

  Now. It would please Blanche now that he’d defiled her great-niece.

  He wondered at himself. He’d known that if he bought the condoms at her store, Hattie would jump to the conclusion he’d slept with Jessie and that she’d make sure Mabel Ruth was informed. Had he done it on purpose? Did he want to be married to Jessie Maynard? Was it because she was related to Blanche?

  “Blanche always thought you and Jessie would suit, Lucas,” Mabel Ruth said. “It’s not just about last night.”

  Luke felt blindsided. Was it true? Had Blanche wanted him to marry Jessie Maynard? What about his marriage to Crystal? He knew Blanche had felt reservations about the union, and they’d turned out to be on the money. She had to have known though, that he’d never been serious about anyone but the amethyst-eyed beauty. A niggling suspicion raised the hairs on the back of his head.

  Had Blanche engineered this meeting with Jessie? Had she thought her great-niece could take the place of his ex-wife? He reminded himself it didn’t matter.

  He knew his duty.

  ****

  Jessie thought about life’s little ironies while she and the others ate the “wedding” brownies Maude brought over from Molly’s. A few days ago after she’d broken an engagement, she’d vowed to stay away from marriage. Then she met Luke and fell in love—real love. She should have rejoiced at a proposal from him, but she was, once again, fighting her way out of another convenient marriage.