She pushed the emergency stop button. Turned.
Miracles had their limits. Just like medicine. There were schisms in logic. Unexplainable reasons for why one person survived while another died. Same treatment, different outcome. Same with spiritual gifts.
“I don’t know what to do.”
The ghost stretched out his hands, daring her to clasp them. His spirit wasn’t shrunken, deformed, just scrawny, his head tilted, his eyes questioning, pleading for help. As if to say: Who else but you?
She punched the button; the elevator lurched, rising upward.
Blood stirred memories. What it was, it hadn’t always been. It had been—where? Nowhere. It hadn’t been.
Now it was. In the water. In the air.
It had been called. By sound. It remembered sound. The call of drums.
JT’s blood had filled it. Fed it.
It knew as it was draining blood—warm, bitter, and sweet—the man was dying while it was becoming more alive.
THREE
CHARITY HOSPITAL
MONDAY, EARLY MORNING
Six AM. Shift over.
Marie unbuttoned her coat, slid off her stethoscope, grabbed her backpack, and padlocked her locker. She yelled ’bye to El and DuLac, hello to the incoming crew of nurses and residents. Within seconds, everyone would know the gossip. Believe the drained man was hexed.
Sully, the security guard, waved her over. His body overflowed the metal chair; his legs, turned out like a ballerina’s.
Sully was the sentinel between two worlds—outside versus inside, the sick and the sicker. A few years ago, she’d given a morphine high to his friend, dying of dozens of stab wounds. Sully thanked her by calling her “Almost Doctor.” His name for second-year residents. Even though she was first year. It had been then that she’d first been marked as apart—engendering jealousy, misperceptions, and downright hatefulness.
“Rough night?”
She looked at the elfin ghost, shifting its legs, its weightlessness.
“Yes.”
“You’ll make it.
“As a voodooienne or a doctor?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about the first.” Sully shifted his eyes downward, but not before she’d seen a flicker of fear.
“Sure.”
“Here.” He pulled a brown paper sack from under his folding chair. “Bones.” His blue-black lips spread into a smile.
“Kind Dog would like a Sunday walk.”
“I’ll be over. You think he’d like to go to Riverwalk?” Sully was asking in all seriousness.
Marie patted his puffy hand.
“With you, Kind Dog would be happy to go anywhere.”
Sully smiled, as if she’d told him Dog was a woman, flattered by his attention.
Gently, without knowing why, she stroked his cheek. Black silk. “How come you never go home?”
“I can sit here as well as there. Here, I’m useful.”
“’Night, Sully.”
The glass doors slid open. Sun smacked her eyes. Marie staggered, shading her face.
The ghost stumbled out from behind a trash bin.
She stopped. Head cocked, alert, studying the dead man with his tight crop of gray hair. “Were you hiding?”
Why would a ghost need to hide?
Musing, she started walking again. What was it Marie Laveau’s journal had said? “The unquiet dead—those without peace, those who’d died violently, those who needed to do penance, seek forgiveness . . . those who’d been uncharitable, corrupt, who couldn’t accept their dying . . . those who needed to send one last message—these souls moved restlessly between worlds.” Afterlife versus real life. Daylight, their souls were supposed to rest. Like mythic vampires. Yet unquiet souls felt no relief.
Marie passed a pharmacy and a drunk peeing on a lamppost.
“I should sing a song for you.”
The little man kept trailing her.
“I sing off-key, so it won’t be very good.”
He opened his mouth and a thin wail floated out.
“You can’t sing either.”
Marie crossed the street. She walked quickly, moving from Charity, the medical district, past buildings belonging to Tulane, then a downtrodden business district on the French Quarter’s edge. Stepping onto the ancient cobblestones of Rue Chartres, she broke into a run. Tourists staggered out of bars; a couple petted and kissed. Musicians, bleary eyed, carted instruments to a white van.
The ghost wasn’t beside her; instead, she saw snatches, glimpses of him inside shop windows, in the alleys between buildings, sitting on a loading dock. She even saw him, his arms wrapped around a tree. Once, swinging from a stoplight, blinking yellow. He was strangely companionable.
Marie kept running through the Quarter, sweat lacing her skin.
Church bells tolled.
Street sweepers brushed away blood, dirt, rum-soaked paper cups. The aftermath of the nightly party. The sun was burning off the day’s mist. And Marie felt elation, running in the shadows of buildings, the handiwork of ghosts long past. Delicate iron filigree. White lattice trim, pink shutters. Hidden courtyards where old women lounged, where young women met lovers. Fountains decorated with birds, cupids, griffins, and gargoyles, or the Virgin Mary. New Orleans, rising out of the swamp, steeped in the corrupt race-mixing, religion-blending, slave-and-caste system of the 1700s.
The ancient mixed with the modern. Past, present, or future, depending upon how you viewed it, existed simultaneously. The only city like it in America.
She dodged a silver-painted tin man who’d played statue for tourists all night, now dragging himself home. A tarot card diviner was setting up her stool and table; a chess shark was counting money fleeced from tourists. Transvestites and wobbly-kneed prostitutes headed for Mass then, afterward, the Café du Monde for café au lait, beignets, and gossip.
Puzzle it out, she told herself. Puzzle it out. If she could see the elfin man, maybe, one day, she’d see Reneaux. Or her mother’s spirit. Both murder victims. Unquiet spirits.
Voodoo taught that with great ill, came great good. With hate, love. Despair, hope. There was always hope. Affirmation.
She began to sing: “This old man, he played one. He played knick-knack, paddy-wack on my drum. With a knick-knack, paddy-wack, give the dog a bone. This old man came rolling home.”
She sang, not caring that hungover, red-eyed tourists stared.
New Orleans residents never minded music in any form—gospel shouts, Cajun stomps, blues clapping, Preservation Hall jazz, a washbucket shuffle, it didn’t matter.
Marie slowed her run and began skipping like a child.
By the time she sang, “ . . . he played seven. He played knick-knack, paddy-wack in heaven. With a knick-knack, paddy-wack, give the dog a bone . . . ,” Marie had rolled herself home. To her apartment where she tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy for Marie-Claire.
Before turning her key, she looked down the narrow stairwell. She couldn’t see anyone. Spirits weren’t allowed inside. She turned the key, then stopped, looking down the stairwell again.
Crooked shadows ran deep across the steps. At the bottom of the stairs, a narrow tunnel led to an enclosed, too-private courtyard where anything could happen. Where no one could see. No one could hear.
Cross Antiques, on the first floor, hadn’t opened. Upstairs, it was just her, the baby, and Kind Dog; and Louise asleep on the couch.
She drew herself tall. Someone was there. Probably a drunk.
The ghost—paddy-wack man—emerged from the shadows. He touched his fingers to his brow and bowed.
She was touched. Moved by his gentility. Had he ever been a patient in the ER? Maybe she’d cauterized his missing finger, wrapped his hand carefully in linen?
Looking spent, frail enough for a sea breeze to blow away, he sat, his back to her, on the bottom step.
She knew he’d wait while she slept.
Just a little rest. Breakfast for Marie-Claire. Day care. A pr
ayer to Agwé. Damballah. Then, solve the crime. Or at least try.
She stepped into her apartment and felt relief. Home. No better place.
“Louise, I’m here.”
Louise yawned. Ridges from the couch marked her face. “You don’t need me tonight? What is it, Monday?”
“Yes. It’s my night off.”
“Good. That child needs her mother.”
Marie winced. Of all people, she’d expected Louise to understand. She’d raised her children. Worked every day. Sometimes two jobs. Marie needed to support her child, too.
Besides, Marie enjoyed her work. It was important for Marie-Claire to know that.
Kind Dog licked her hand.
“See you, Louise.” Marie slipped off her shoes, took Louise’s place on the couch. Kind Dog lay on her feet. She was exhausted. Maybe she’d get a few hours sleep before Marie-Claire hollered for breakfast.
She heard chimes. Fighting her way up from deep sleep, she thought she was dreaming. Chimes again. Then a pounding, rattling, at the door.
Kind Dog, barking, leaped off the coach.
“Doc? Dr. Laveau?”
Marie-Claire started crying.
“It’s me. Detective Parks. You all right?” He banged on the door frame. “Answer. Else I’m coming in.”
“You’re scaring the baby,” she shouted, opening the door.
“I’m sorry.”
Dog was growling. Let him growl.
“I thought you didn’t need me.”
“There’s been another murder. Blood drained.”
“Hush, Dog.” She stepped back, letting Parks in. “Let me get the baby.”
Dog swept past her, sniffing Detective Parks like a hound.
She held a wide-eyed Marie-Claire on her hip. “You like dogs?”
“Cats.”
“Well, Dog likes you.”
It was true. Dog was sitting beside Parks, his body even with Parks’s knee, his tongue licking Parks’s hand. Parks patted the furry head.
Marie-Claire puckered her face and let out a wail.
“Is she hungry?”
“I think so.” She feathered Marie-Claire’s face with kisses, until her cry became giggles.
She walked back toward the kitchen. Parks followed her. Marie-Claire, peeking over Marie’s shoulder, watched him. Kind Dog trailed, last.
Marie poured instant oatmeal into a bowl, added milk, then put it in the microwave.
“What’s her name?”
“Marie-Claire.”
“Pretty baby.”
“Not a baby,” Marie-Claire chimed.
“She speaks.”
“Especially when she warms up to you. Do you have children?”
“Not married.”
“Neither am I.” He didn’t flinch, lift an eyebrow in disapproval, or tighten his mouth. She had to give him credit. “You want my help?”
“Yes, please. I was out of line before.”
“You’re lying again, Detective. It’s my life, and even, sometimes, I don’t believe all the weird stuff.”
“Okay. I admit it. I’m desperate. A good cop doesn’t close doors.”
“Here.” Marie handed him Marie-Claire. She took out the oatmeal, sprinkled cinnamon on it, and added cold milk. She poured orange juice into a ‘Little Kitty’ cup. Kind Dog chewed his bone.
“Put her in the high chair. She’s messy when she eats.”
“Hi,” said Marie-Claire. “Hi.”
“Hi,” answered Parks, awkwardly sliding her in the high chair.
“Eat your oatmeal.”
“O’meal.” Marie-Claire banged her spoon.
Parks straightened his tie.
“You’re not around children much.”
“No. Or dogs.” He looked down at Kind Dog.
Dog raised his head.
Marie-Claire squealed, “Dog. Kind Dog.” She let oatmeal slip from her spoon to the floor. Kind Dog lapped it up.
Marie slid into a chair. “Tell me the details.”
Detective Parks flipped open his notepad. Frowned at his scrawl. “This one’s a musician. His name’s Rudy. Rudy ‘Sweet Lips’ Johnston.
“Found backstage. Dozens of people must’ve passed him. Time of death still unknown. Pending autopsy. My guess is that it was between two and four AM. Special recording set, Live at Preservation Hall.
“After the break, Rudy went missing. Some thought he’d gone to the bathroom. Others, that he was sneaking a drink. The sound mixer found him. In the shadows. Pressed against the back wall.” Parks looked up.
Marie concentrated on Marie-Claire. The tug and release of her lips. The oatmeal smudge above her mouth.
“Rudy was like the body at the hospital.”
“You mean paddy-wack man? That’s what I call him.”
Parks flipped another page. “His name was JT. Jean Toulouse DuVaille. Haitian. Didn’t report for work this morning. Got a tip.”
“Both men drained of blood? No major wounds? Punctures on the wrist?”
“Like a snake’s.”
Marie frowned. Then she stilled, her head cocked. Marie-Claire turned, looking past the doorway into the living room. Kind Dog hustled up, raced to the front door, barking.
Marie grabbed the salt, heading for the front door. Kind Dog growled.
“He’s here,” said Marie, opening the door.
“Who?”
“Rudy. Go. Go away,” she shouted at the ghost on the landing. She poured salt on the threshold, hollering: “JT. He has to stay with you. JT.”
“Can I help?” Parks positioned himself in front of the high chair.
“Stay with Marie-Claire. Dog!” Marie ordered. “Marie-Claire.”
Kind Dog raced back to the kitchen. Parks gathered Marie-Claire in his arms, patting her back, bouncing her as she cried.
Marie stared at the ghost at the bottom of the stairs. Darker than JT, he had the heavy chest of a horn player.
Rudy, hands crossed over his heart, looked at her yearningly.
“I’ll help. I promise. Stay in the courtyard. You’ll be revenged.”
She slammed the door. Slumped against it. Damn. She looked into the kitchen. Dog was quiet. Standing, ears, eyes alert. Tail tall. Parks held Marie-Claire. A tight, protective embrace.
“Graveyard dust works better,” she murmured, walking toward them.
“Police work isn’t about vengeance,” said Parks softly.
“Neither is voodoo. But these spirits—JT and Rudy—are.” She held out her hands for Marie-Claire. “Day care. Shall we go see Miz Lola?”
“Lola. Lola.”
“That’s right, baby.” She smiled. “Parks. Dog’s leash is in the closet. I’ll get Marie-Claire dressed.”
Dog knew “leash”; he pawed the closet door.
“I don’t understand.”
“You might be a good detective. But you need common sense.”
“Potty,” said Marie-Claire, emphatic.
“Take Dog to do his business. When you come back, we’ll take Marie-Claire to day care.”
“Then Preservation Hall?”
“Right,” she drawled, teasing. “Smart cop.” Then she called over her shoulder, “Don’t let JT and Rudy touch you.”
“How am I supposed to know they’re there?”
“Dog,” she shouted over her shoulder. “He’ll bark.” Then cooed, “Who’s my baby? My oh, so pretty baby?”
“Me,” piped, Marie-Claire.
FOUR
PRESERVATION HALL, FRENCH QUARTER
MONDAY MORNING
Preservation Hall was spare inside. Hard to believe any music magic was made here. Dark floor, dark chairs. A stage only a foot high, unimposing. Yet this was where some of the greatest jazz legends played, where audiences were charmed, seduced by New Orleans’s unique sounds.
Dim inside, the hall had its own time—atmospheric, like a cave reverberating with memories of songs played a day ago, a year ago, decade and decades ago.
Musici
ans, comfortable with calloused fingers, lips, and unfiltered cigarettes, were staggering about the hall, some nodding off, some in a stupor of straight gin—clear like water so patrons wouldn’t notice—some antsy, tap-tapping feet, hands, like they needed a fix. Maybe they did. Cops, gathering evidence, stumbling over each other, were a deterrent. The musicians nodded at Detective Parks. Their lids were half-lowered, covering their bloodshot, dilated eyes.
A man stepped forward. A front-office man, in cheap polyester, concerned, but frightened, too. “We need to open tonight. Y’all need to get on with it. Let the musicians go. They need sleep. We have a show.”
“Sure,” said Parks, then promptly ignored him. “Roach,” he hollered.
“Back here.”
Parks and Marie moved stage left, stepping over electric cords, around amplifiers, into an alcove.
“Isn’t much to go on,” said Roach. “Just a backstage cavern. We dusted a wide area. Floor, walls, props.”
Tarp covered the body. A big man. Much bigger than JT.
Marie stood over the body, reluctant to look down. On her left, Parks’s blue eyes were fixed on her, on her right, Roach.
Roach cleared his throat. “Course, there’s the official exam. Autopsy to come. Seems same manner of death.” Brow furrowed. “But the manner of death is impossible. Punctures or not. Even his dick is spent, sucked dry.”
“That’s enough, Roach.”
Roach blinked behind spectacles. “In my day, the young weren’t so prudish.”
“You are a roach,” said Parks, disgusted.
Marie touched the wall. Frayed, chipped paint. Smoke stains. When she squinted, she thought she saw letters. Some kind of calligraphy? No, an image. Agwé’s sign? Also, another mark, drying, a still-damp brown-red. Shaped like two Vs. Valleys. Open-ended triangles.
She dropped her hand.
“They call me Roach ’cause I once collected a corpse covered in them.”
“Nobody else would touch it.”
“It’s my job,” Roach said, scowling. “William. Bill. My momma called me Bill.” His voice slipped into a New Orleans drawl.
She turned her back on Parks. “I understand, Bill. Sometimes folks don’t appreciate professionalism. There’re squeamish doctors, just like cops.” The red-mop man smiled, gold glinting in the back of his mouth. “I’ll see if transport is here.”
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 4