Fugue Macabre: Ghost Dance (Fugue Macabre Trilogy Book 1)

by C. J. Parker

  “What? You think I been living here all these years and don’t know what goes on?” She faced Tabatha and smiled. Bertha’s love for Tabatha warmed the old woman’s gaze.

  “Your grandpa, he was a strong Voodoo Priest. But he wouldn’t do it just for fun.” Derek sat up straight and snapped his head around. Bertha clicked her tongue. “No. He used it for good.” She ran her gaze over Derek. “Now, Tabatha’s daddy, he could move things around with just thinking about it. Why, I think he could’ve moved this house if he took a mind to do so.” She kissed the top of Shane’s head.

  Tabatha took another sip of tea and swallowed. “You never told me any of this before, Bertha.”

  The cook shrugged. “That woman, Nyssa, she just a wanna be. Tries to do spells with her herbs, but she ain’t never gonna be nothing. She loved your grandpa though. Did you know that?”

  Tabatha sucked in a quick breath. “No.”

  “Yeah. Had it real bad for him. Thought the old man was gonna marry her. But he never got over Miss Ella.”

  Something in Bertha’s tone surged Derek’s cop instincts to life. “Do you believe he died of a heart attack?”

  “I don’t say nothing I can’t prove, Mr. Derek. All’s I say is it a mite funny that Mr. Dunnock and Mr. Raoul goes from being healthy to dead within nine months of each other and both of the same ailment.” She picked up her purse from the counter. “You girls get it straight between you. Ain’t none of you average. God gave you gifts. Use them the right way. I got to get home to Oscar. He’ll be waitin’ for his own dinner.”

  Tabatha stood and gave Bertha a hug. “There’s enough gumbo left for y’all. Take it home with you.”

  “You sure, baby girl? I didn’t buy the makings.”

  “It’s fine, Bertha. Just take the pot and all. You can return it tomorrow. And we need to talk salary.”

  The love in Tabatha’s eyes tore at Derek. Could she ever look at him like that? Did he really want her to? Derek shook his head. This is crazy thinking.

  Bertha waved her comment away. “Whatever child.” She lifted the gumbo from the stove top and turned, looking down into Rhonda’s upturned gaze. “Don’t try to deny what you are, girl. God’s gifts don’t come bad or evil. We make them good or bad with the way we use them.” She circled the table and kissed each one of them on their scalps. When she came to Derek she leaned to the side to make sure she didn’t hurt his head. “Sorry about that, son.” Bertha left without another word.

  Bobby touched the top of her head. “What was that all about?” Tabatha’s eyes took on a far away look. “When I was a kid, she told me her kisses left behind a protective seal on me.”

  “I don’t have any gift.” Rhonda welled up once again.

  “Oh, for the love of rain, will you stop being such a damn crybaby?” Bobbie rolled her eyes. “What are you ashamed of? Tabatha’s an animator. I’m a shapeshifter. What’s the big deal?”

  “Shapeshifter?” Derek heart skipped a beat. “Damn. I’ve died and gone to Fantasy Hell. What else exists in this world?”

  “Well,” Bobbie smiled slyly. “I know a werewolf or two.”

  Rhonda jumped from her chair. “Bobbie, that’s enough.”

  “Mamma,” Shane whimpered.

  “You’re gonna scare him with that crap. Stop it.” Rhonda picked Shane up out of the chair, hugging him close.

  Bobbie stood. “Wait, Rhonda.” She held up her left hand, forming the boy scouts pledge and placed her right hand over her heart. “Shane, do you know what the boy scouts are?”

  The boy’s lower lip quivered. “This is their sign that they’re telling the truth.” She leaned down to look Shane in the eyes. “If I lie to you while I have my hands like this, the Big Boy Scout in the sky will get me. Do you understand?”

  Again, he nodded.

  “I swear to you, Shane, I was kidding. I don’t know any werewolves. Okay?”

  He looked from Bobbie to his mother. “What’s that?”

  “Werewolves?” Rhonda’s eyebrows rose in an impossibly high arc. “Uh huh.”

  Rhonda’s eyes drifted to the left, then right. Truth or lie? “Remember the big bad wolf in Red Riding Hood?”

  He nodded, eyes wide.

  “That’s a werewolf.” Rhonda tickled Shane. “Just a made up story. Nothing more.”

  Shane nodded and laughed, his hair falling into his joy-filled eyes. “I like that story.”

  Rhonda sighed. “Son, you need a haircut. Come on, it’s time for bed.” As soon as they were gone Derek stared at Bobbie. “Is it just a story?”

  Bobbie looked away. “Yeah.”

  Derek reached for his beer, letting all he’d seen and heard rummage for a sit-down place inside his thoughts. “Okay. And the shape shifting? Was that just a story, too?”

  “Nope.” Bobbie leaned against her chair, a slow grin lifting her lips.

  Derek raked his fingers through his hair, gasped and cursed under his breath. “I’m going to wake up tomorrow and all of this is going to be a result of the bump on the head. Not real. No way.”

  “Ah ha,” Tabatha shouted. “No wonder you weren’t overly freaked out when you walked in on me at the morgue. It’s not a big deal for you. What do you shift into?”

  “Oh hell.” He was almost afraid to ask. “What happened at the morgue?”

  Tabatha patted him on the arm. “I’ll tell you later. I promise.”

  He didn’t want to wait, but he thought it might be better to hear this one alone with Tabatha.

  “I can turn into a cobra, among other things.” Bobbie smiled at Derek. He almost let the statement slip by him, then jerked his head up and glared at Bobbie.

  She laughed. “Did I scare you?”

  Derek tightened his hands into fists at his sides. “You’re trying to tell me that was you?”

  “Believe what you want, big boy.”

  He growled. It was either that or slap handcuffs on Bobbie. “What the hell did you think I was going to do? I just wanted to talk to Tabatha. I needed her help.” He grumbled under his breath. The scary thing was he’d started to believe this nonsense. But he had seen Tabatha raise the dead. He had also seen a cobra in the middle of the cemetery. A cobra in New Orleans.

  “Wait.” Tabatha held her hand up in stop sign fashion. “You two have met before?”

  Bobbie laughed softly. “Sort of. The night you and Rhonda went to the cemetery, I followed you.”

  “Why?” Tabatha tilted her head to the side, her brow furrowed, her eyes narrowed. “Where have you been staying?”

  Derek leaned forward, elbows on table. “Good question. Bobbie, why did you follow them? Why didn’t you make yourself known?”

  “I’ve been staying in a hotel on Canal Street.” She turned her gaze toward Derek. “Someone had to watch out for them. They just walk in there like the whole world wouldn’t turn their heads at what they were about to do.”

  “How did you know what I was going to do?”

  “I saw you park your car by the cemetery and pull out a crate with a live chicken in it.” Bobbie raised her gaze to meet Tabatha’s. “What would you think?”

  Derek picked up the carafe from the center of the table and filled a cup with coffee. “So, you hadn’t seen Tabatha since leaving New York until she was at the cemetery?”

  “I was on my way to get a burger, and there she was. I was going to stop long enough to say hi, and then I saw the chicken. So I followed you in.” Bobbie shifted her gaze toward Tabatha and pointed at Derek. “On the way out, this big bruiser starts coming after you. So I delayed him.”

  Tabatha leaned into Bobbie’s personal space. “How did you delay him?”

  “I shifted.”

  “Don’t be coy, Bobbie.” Tabatha fell back against her chair. “Shifted how?”

  “Cobra, wasn’t it?” Bobbie tilted her head and smiled.

  All Derek wanted was a bottle of whiskey and a bed. He’d had enough for one night. “I need something stiffer than coffee or b
eer. Got any whiskey?” He pushed away from the table.

  Tabatha gestured with a nod to the highest cabinet by the back door. “Top shelf.” Derek reached for the cabinet Tabatha pointed toward. “Okay. Is that all you can shift to?” Her voice held a hint of sarcasm.

  “No. I can turn into a house cat, dog, or a panther. That’s my favorite.”

  “I’m not listening.” He partially filled one of the glasses he’d found beside the liqueur in the cabinet and tossed a shot of Jack Daniels down in one gulp. The whiskey burned a trail down to his gut.

  “Is that it?” This time Tabatha’s voice was breathy and her eyes had widened.

  “It’s all I’ve tried so far.” Bobbie shrugged. “Figured it was enough for what I needed to do.”

  Tabatha showed no hint of her thoughts. Rhonda returned to the kitchen drawing Derek’s attention. He poured another drink.

  Tabatha took the glass from him and poured the brown liquid down the drain. “I let you get away with one. Not good with a bump on your head. I need you to stay awake for a couple more hours.”

  Derek opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. She was right. He needed to keep a clear head and stay awake. God knows his brain wasn’t functioning the way it should. He believed this shit. Shapeshifters, firestarters and necromancers, oh my.

  Tabatha shifted her gaze to Bobbie, then to Rhonda. "Derek's Angels."

  He snorted. “More like Derek’s Devils.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning Tabatha made her way down the stairs and out the front door to pick up the Times~Picayune from the porch, unfolding the newspaper as she reentered the house and closed the door. On the front page, photographs of three teenagers stared back at her. She gasped and sat hard on a nearby chair.

  “What’s wrong?” Rhonda stood in the hallway entrance to the living room. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oops. Well, maybe that’s not a good description, considering what you see and do.”

  Tabatha slowly lifted her gaze away from the newspaper. “This kid. The one in the middle.” She tapped her index finger on the photograph.

  Rhonda walked across the room to stand at Tabatha’s side. “What about him?”

  “Oh, God, I think this is the kid—” The sound of heavy footfalls on the porch pulled Tabatha’s attention away from the photograph to who was coming to their door.

  A knock at the door eased Tabatha’s concern. Bad guys didn’t knock. “Who is it?” Rhonda peeked through the drapes.

  “It’s me. Derek. Open up. I need to show you something.”

  Rhonda walked over and flipped the lock. He strode in with purpose in every step and the newspaper in his hand. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a shower—hair still damp, and smelling good enough to eat with a spoon. She wouldn’t want to waste a morsel.

  Tabatha held up the newspaper before he could show them his copy. “I saw.”

  Derek propped his fists on his hips. “I thought you didn’t see their faces.”

  “He was shooting at me, Derek. Of course I saw his face.” A dull ache formed in the middle of her stomach. They had been alive. Now they were dead. Maybe because of her.

  He paused, staring at her. “Wait. You’re saying one of those boys shot at us yesterday?”

  “This guy.” She tapped his face with her finger once again. “He’s the one. What are you talking about?”

  He glanced at the photo then ran his fingers through his hair, causing it to spike. She longed to run her hand over his hair to smooth it into its usual neat placement. “These are the men in the car that raced out of the driveway—the men who tried to break into your house.”

  “Who are they?” Rhonda looked closer at the photograph. “Why are they in the newspaper? What happened to them?”

  “They’re dead.” Daniel Ross, David Miller, Brian Smith. Miller is the only one with a rap sheet, and the one you pointed out as the shooter.” Derek paced the short distance in front of them. “The others are clean. Ross is the nephew of an Orleans Parish street cop. Smith was the stepson of John Phelps.”

  “Oh, hell.” Tabatha moaned. This is all they needed. Phelps would blame them for the boy’s death. She feared the preverbal shit was about to hit the fan.

  “They were found in a car parked by the French Market. All were shot in the head, except Smith. They found him in the trunk of the car, hands duct taped behind his back and his tongue cut out. Coroner thinks the kid drowned in his own blood. Looks like a professional hit.”

  “Why cut out his tongue?” Rhonda crinkled her face in disgust.

  Derek sat on the edge of the fireplace. “The kid either lied to someone he shouldn’t have or ratted someone out, is my guess.”

  Or knew those buried with no tongue can’t snitch. Tabatha laid her head in her hands.

  “Phelps isn’t going to be very happy about this.” Tabatha tossed the paper aside. “Maybe he’ll turn his attention to this and leave us alone long enough to make our move.”

  “Don’t count on it.” Derek pursed his lips for a moment, his brow furrowing. “I have a feeling Phelps did this job himself. I wonder if he knows the ‘what doesn’t go in the grave can’t come out’ rule.”

  Tabatha dropped her gaze. “Could be. No tongue, no information.” “He’d kill his own son?” Rhonda shook her head. “I can’t fathom such a thing. I’d die myself to save my son.”

  “Stepson,” Tabatha reminded her. “Why would he kill him, Derek? What could he have done that was so bad?”

  “He got caught.” He stood from the fireplace and paced again. “We saw them.”

  “Brian surely didn’t tell Phelps that.” Tabatha raised her head and looked Derek in the eyes. “He couldn’t have been that stupid.”

  Silence hung heavily in the air-conditioned room. Tabatha’s heart ached for the boys in the photograph. So young. She tried to visualize David Miller the way he had been that day. His face had been a torment of emotions—fright, anger, and reluctant determination. “The only reason I’m not dead is because he didn’t want to shoot me.”

  Derek stopped in his tracks. “Why do you think that?”

  “His eyes. Miller didn’t want to do it.” She leaned forward, resting her face in her hands again. The kid was dead because she wasn’t. Plain and simple. She took a deep breath and raised her head. “You said he had a rap sheet. For what?”

  Derek spread his hand out and shrugged. “Simple assault and battery, misdemeanor theft, didn’t like to pay to gas up his car. Big jump from petty theft to murder.”

  “Breakfast,” Bertha yelled from the kitchen. “Come on, French toast ain’t good cold. You, too, young man. I heard you in there.”

  He rose and started toward the kitchen. Tabatha stopped, resting a hand on Derek’s chest and Rhonda’s shoulder. “Not a word to Bertha about this. I don’t want her worrying any more than she already is. Understood?”

  “What about Bobbie? She’s really not mixed up in this, yet.”

  “We’re a team, Derek.” Tabatha dropped her hands to her sides. “She needs to be told.”

  He nodded and sniffed at the air. “Yeah, you’re right. But can it wait until after breakfast? I’m starved.”

  In spite of the dark situation they were in, Tabatha smiled. “Yeah. We can wait. Starving ourselves won’t bring those kids back.”

  Tabatha walked behind Rhonda into the kitchen and sat at the table. Derek brought up the rear slapping the newspaper on his thigh. Bobbie already sat at the table glancing through a magazine until Bertha yanked it out of her hand and tossed it aside. “Not at the table, child.”

  “Morning, Bobbie.” Tabatha glanced around at the spread of food on the table.

  “Morning.”

  Tabatha noted Bertha filling a tray at the counter. “Where you going with that?”

  “Takin’ it to your mother.”

  Tabatha’s throat tightened and her cheeks burned. “Bull. Let me have
that. This has gone far enough.” Tabatha pushed her chair back and took the tray from Bertha.

  Tabatha knocked on Carla’s bedroom door and waited for permission to enter.

  “Come in, Bertha, and be quick about it. I told you I wanted breakfast at seven not seven-thirty.” The snotty voice slipped through the doorway with a cold wash of superiority.

  The queen of the manor, is that what Momma thinks she is? Time to straighten out that little mistaken idea. “Well, Mother.” Her mother spun around, her hand grasping her throat. “If you want breakfast at seven, then I suggest you get your prim little fanny to the kitchen and fix it. This will be the last meal brought to you. Bertha is not your personal servant.” Tabatha sat the tray roughly on the bed. “Enjoy.” She turned and walked away, slamming the door behind her.

  Her mother’s screaming followed her all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen. By the look on the faces of the others, Tabatha guessed they’d heard the tantrum, too. “Sit back, ladies and gentleman, I think the show is about to begin.” She kicked at the trashcan to her right and muttered a word she hoped none of the others heard. “Who the hell does she think she is?”

  “Lordy, baby girl, I bet she’s spitting fire.” Bertha stared at her. “Looks like you are, too.”

  Tabatha’s face heated with her own anger. “I’m sorry you overheard that.”

  The room fell silent when her mother stormed into the kitchen, slung the tray across the room, which hit the wall with a crash, and clattered to the floor. French toast, syrup, orange juice, and coffee flew in all directions. Coffee splattered Tabatha’s jeans. A few chunks of French toast skittered across the table and landed on Derek’s shirt. “I will not eat this. Bertha, fix me a decent breakfast.” Her mother lifted her nose in the air and turned to leave.

  “Oh, no you don’t. This is going to end right here, right now. Pick it up, Mother.” Tabatha’s voice was a low growl of fury that warned of danger.

  Carla laughed, but it held no humor.

  The tray rose from the floor, tore through the air and landed against the wall with the clang of metal and a violent spray of plaster.

  “Pick. It. Up.” Tabatha no longer cared who saw what she was capable of. The pressure inside her head threatened to blow the top off of her skull. How had she let herself get so angry she let her power spew out so forcefully? What would Derek think of her now? Fuck. She hated that word, but fuck, fuck, fuck. She fought tears. She’d lost Derek for sure now. He’d not want to live with a shrew who could toss the kitchen knives about with just a thought.