The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  Horses snorted, pawed the ground.

  Someone tossed gold coins from a carriage window. All the women ignored the sparkling gold in the dirt.

  There was a scream. Marie rushed forward. Another scream, muffled from inside the house. Marie stopped: two groups of revelers, from two centuries, were staring at her. Women in leather pants, high heels, and hair extensions. Women in ball gowns, satin slippers, their hair in French twists with flowers. She heard another scream.

  One of the ghosts touched her; Marie shivered.

  “He’s coming.”

  She saw Marie-Claire.

  “Run,” said another, and Marie turned her head to the left and saw the girl from the ambulance, her face woeful.

  “Run.”

  “Run, run, run . . .” a dissonant chorus. “Run,” screamed a girl with a hoop ring pierced through her eyebrow.

  A bouncer moved toward her.

  “Marie.” It was Reneaux, pulling her back behind the tree.

  The scene disappeared.

  “I saw them. I know I saw them.”

  “Who?”

  “The girls who were murdered. They were here, dressed like queens.”

  She pulled back, remembering who was holding her. “Let me go, Reneaux. Why should I trust you?”

  “Because I’m here.” He held her steady, his hands on her waist. “Not with DuLac.”

  “How’d you know where I’d be?”

  “Dog. He’s safe. In the car.”

  Marie slumped against his chest. “I’m ill, Reneaux. Seeing things.”

  “I know.” He stroked her hair. “DuLac drugged me.”

  “All of us. But you’re the most affected.”

  Willow threads made bars of shadows. With her fingers, she touched Reneaux’s lips, tracing their softness. She crossed her arms over her belly. A grinding, pulsating love song wafted from the house. There weren’t any screams. Only laughter. Lustful catcalls.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  She wanted some comfort, some tangible reality. How to explain that to Reneaux?

  “Hide.” Reneaux pressed her against the tree, his body covering hers, the two of them merging into wood.

  Two black town cars pulled up. Stragglers, outside the shack, dispersed or went inside. From the first car, three men stepped out. Tall, broad, announcing by their stance that they were bodyguards. Men packing weapons. Men who didn’t mind causing harm. Knives, fists, bricks. No matter.

  At the second car, the slim driver, subservient, hat in hand, opened the passenger door. Allez stepped out.

  Reneaux murmured, “Hush, Marie. Ma petite, keep still.”

  Allez looked straight at the tree. Marie didn’t breathe. Nor did Reneaux. The willow branches were like gauze curtains.

  Marie, looking through the weeping branches, swore the house was freshly white again . . . and Allez was dressed in no dark, conservative suit but in drawstring white pants, a white shirt, billowing about his collar and cuffs. He was the man inside the painting.

  Her body went rigid and Reneaux whispered, “Ssssh, ssssh,” and pressed his lips against her ear.

  Allez cocked his head. Marie felt he was looking straight at her. Powerful. Royal. Odd to think that—but there he was—a black man looking for all the world like he was a king. He smiled at Marie. She was sure of it.

  He shouted gaily, “Vite. Vite. Let’s go inside. See what riches are in store.”

  One of the guards laughed, then swallowed his laughter when Allez turned his head in his direction. Two guards moved first, fronting for their master, entering the shack without knocking. The chauffeur, shoulders rounded, lit a cigarette. The third guard walked the perimeter, alert for any danger.

  “We need to leave. I don’t want to confront Allez without backup.”

  They moved slowly. Step by step. Inch by inch.

  Marie had stepped backward through time. Space. She’d done that. Surely she could step quietly across dirt, cracked asphalt so she and Reneaux were neither seen nor heard.

  Their lives depended upon it.

  If nothing else, she knew that. Knew it as surely as . . .

  . . . she knew her mother’s spirit was still alive. Knew the murdered girls were linked to the past.

  * * *

  Kind Dog was waiting in the car. He didn’t bark—almost as if he knew the need for secrecy. He sniffed Marie, tried to lick her cheek. Reneaux put his Cadillac in neutral, relying on gravity to pull his car forward over gravel. Then, once he was on the street, he turned the engine over, gunned the gas, and set the headlights on high.

  “Haven’t we done this before?” Marie murmured.

  * * *

  Marie’s head lolled back on the seat. She felt herself, yet not herself. Something had surely happened. New Orleans had added another dimension to her. Or had it been there all along?

  “Why do you think he did it?”

  “DuLac? He’s a mixed-up soul. But I’m sure he thought he was helping.”

  She could see DuLac’s eyes, too bright and stunned. Hear his words, “You were there, Marie. You were there.” Where? Cathedral Square? A figure inside a painting?

  “What’d he give us?”

  “I don’t know. But he gave it to all of us to avert suspicion. Including himself. I decked him after you left.”

  Marie could see DuLac, lips bloodied, on the floor, muttering, “It helps the loas to come.”

  “What are loas?”

  “Where’d you hear that word from?”

  “DuLac. He’s murmuring it now.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “The light’s green.”

  The car lurched forward.

  Legba, remove the barrier so I may pass through.

  Remove the barrier so I may visit the loas.

  DuLac, sitting in a stupor, cradled his head in his hands.

  Marie watched the street gliding by—neon streaking color across the skyline, women dangling scarves from balconies, an old woman pushing an airport cart stuffed with lawn bags.

  There were strains of music, too—blues, zydeco, Preservation Hall jazz, rock, even disco. Nighttime in New Orleans was like nowhere else—its own season of darkness that wouldn’t stay dark (neon, candles, artificial gas lamps, strobe lights), a darkness that roared, releasing inhibitions. Thousands strolled, danced, stumbled and fell on ancient cobblestone; some clutched lovers, others, plastic cups of beer, some flicked cigarette ashes; others grabbed at their crotch. Men urinated on patches of grass. Prostitutes wet their tops, their nipples outlined, rigid in the night air. Above the bars were rooms with cheap curtains and silhouette figures touching, parting, then touching some more.

  Sin season. Lust. Greed. Gluttony. Sloth.

  * * *

  Funny, she realized she wasn’t angry any longer at DuLac. Anger—another sin. She felt depleted. Used up; her body starved. Calcium leeching from her bones, muscle breaking down, her womb’s eggs decomposing. Almost as if she could feel her body dying.

  But she’d seen something special. Felt special. Each day she’d been in New Orleans—she’d felt she’d been changing, experiencing unsettling dreams, talking ghosts, honeysuckle flowers triggering memories, and now this “sight”—“waking dreams”—she didn’t know what to call it. She only knew she could see beyond seeing.

  A car’s headlight whizzed by. A misty drizzle. Reneaux clicked on the windshield wipers. One swipe, there was modern New Orleans. Next swipe, there were shadow images. Horse-drawn carriages instead of cars. Slaves instead of equal citizens. Twenty-first century versus the nineteenth.

  “Are you okay, Marie? I mean, Doc. Doctor Levant.”

  She looked over at Reneaux’s profile. He was handsome, fit for an Egyptian coin.

  “Marie’s fine.”

  He looked away from the road. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He smiled and tapped the gas lightly. “I’ll have you home in no time.”

&nbs
p; * * *

  Kind Dog scratched a paw to get out.

  Reneaux opened the back door, turned off the headlights, then moved around the side of the car and opened the passenger door. He extended his hand. Marie didn’t move.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Someone’s up there.” She was staring into her lap, her heart racing, more fearful then she’d ever felt.

  “How do you know?”

  “Just do.”

  Reneaux touched his gun, looking up at the apartment windows. “It’s dark.”

  “Wait.”

  Moonlight filtered through the French doors.

  “Nothing, Marie. Nothing’s up there.”

  Kind Dog hopped back to the car, brushed against Reneaux. “He’s there.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Allez, I think.”

  “We just left him.”

  “There.”

  A shadow fell angular, elongated across the French doors. Someone was hiding, his back against the left wall.

  “There’s rumors that Allez, at any time, can be in more than one place.”

  “You believe that?”

  “You?”

  She looked up, blinking back tears, biting the inside of her cheek. She needed to be hard and harsh. “He’s waiting for me.”

  Reneaux whistled low.

  Kind Dog perked his ears, leaped into the car. Reneaux quietly shut the side doors. Then he slid into the driver’s seat, released the brake and clutch, and gently, ever so gently, turned on the engine.

  * * *

  Reneaux’s apartment was north of the Quarter. Closer to Pontchartrain Park. His three-story building surrounded a courtyard in disrepair. Ferns were overly abundant. A fountain gurgled over cracked tile. Griffins hung above the arches, their beady eyes watching the courtyard’s four corners. A metal staircase was burnished red with rust.

  “I live on the top floor.” Reneaux scooped up Kind Dog, and Marie, holding on to the rail, followed them. At the top of the stairs, she looked down.

  “Do you see them?”

  “Who?”

  “The funny men.” They were standing solemnly, waving their white-gloved hands.

  Reneaux crossed himself.

  “What’s that for?”

  “I don’t see anything, but you do. Spirits?”

  “You mean devils?”

  “Don’t know. Do you?”

  “No.” She shook her head, peering over the banister. “Just strange men in hat and tails.”

  “The Death gods. The Guédé.”

  “Evil?”

  “DuLac wouldn’t say so.”

  Kind Dog barked.

  The tallest spirit-man lifted his hat. The three disappeared.

  “I need a drink.”

  “Haven’t you had enough mind-altering substances for one night?”

  Marie thought for a second. “No.”

  * * *

  “My home. Small. Not fancy.”

  It looked like a man’s home. A studio with dishes in the sink. Voodoo Daddy beer bottles on the table. The floor.

  A yellow bug light dangled over a beanbag chair. There was a sofa with a leopard throw rug. A stereo, and CD cases, that towered from the floor to the ceiling.

  “Sit. Relax.” Reneaux was emptying ashtrays, putting clinking bottles in his recycle bin. Picking up stray underwear and shoes. In the far corner, near the French doors and courtyard-view balcony, was a bed—not quite a double, but larger than a twin.

  Marie stretched out on the sofa. “When will the drug wear off?”

  “‘Two hours at most,’ DuLac said.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Four. Nearly five. You still seeing things?”

  Marie didn’t answer. Kind Dog climbed onto the sofa, curled against her abdomen, laid his head and paws across her thighs.

  Marie felt comforted. She squeezed her eyes tight. Inside Reneaux’s apartment, she felt relief. No ghosts, haints. Loas, as Reneaux called them.

  No honeysuckle here. Only a musk scent. Maybe a bit of mold. She opened her eyes. A philodendron was dying in the corner. Sheet music was strewn across the bed. A sax rested on the pillow. On the coffee table were art and literary works. Harlem Renaissance books. Novels by Hurston. Poetry by Hughes. Even the collected works of Dunbar.

  “Here.”

  She took the scotch. (She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t remember Jacques.)

  “Ssssh.” Reneaux patted her hand. She started crying. Kind Dog licked her cheek. (Damn. Double damn.)

  “You can have the bed, you know.”

  “I’m not ready to sleep.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  Reneaux bent, took off her flat, rubber-soled white shoes. He massaged her toes.

  Her foot curled. “I’m ticklish.”

  “I was hoping you were.” He laid his jacket over her, pressed the glass to her mouth. “Drink.”

  He walked across the room, lifted and cradled his sax, blew a soft stream of air. A soothing A, then C, then A again . . . and then, a tune spun itself out, hovering on the ceiling, notes that seemed to verge on a cry. There was something between the notes, the rests, the lines, which she couldn’t quite hear.

  She sipped the whiskey, letting herself relax. Her hand stroked Kind Dog’s fur; her chin rested on her chest.

  * * *

  She could feel the sun, healing strips of light. She didn’t want to open her eyes. She just wanted to lie where she was, the dog curled up at her feet, Reneaux’s jacket a comfortable weight on her chest. She could hear a steamboat’s boom and churn, smell the sluggish Mississippi and naval oil.

  She felt hungover. Mouth dry; eyes dry; skin taut. She must’ve fallen asleep on the couch. Last thing Reneaux had said was, “Let the music soothe you,” and it had.

  Reneaux was shuffling in the small kitchen, trying not to clang but clanging pots anyway, humming the sax melody to “God Bless the Child,” then, crooning softly, “Your momma may have, your papa may have . . .” before diving back into a hum, blowing air between his lips in high, thin strips.

  Lying on her couch bed, Marie could almost imagine her mother in the kitchen, singing like Reneaux, but her mother’s songs were always mournful. Even when she was singing “good news” songs about heaven, paradise, and Jesus rising, there was melancholy.

  Eyes still closed, Marie wished she were elsewhere. But where? Wherever she went, she’d still have to admit she could see spirits, ghosts. In dreams. Wide awake.

  Reneaux pressed down the toaster spring. She smelled bread and could almost see stacks of toast glistening with strawberry jam.

  Like once upon a time.

  Where’d that come from?

  A man had visited their apartment. Mother had let him sleep on the couch. She’d tried to stay awake, her ear pressed to the door, trying to hear the grown-ups speak. When she woke, she was tucked in bed and the man was whistling in the kitchen, making breakfast. For days, he cooked for her and her mother. Did chores. Took out trash. Cleaned. Stuffed shelves and refrigerator with food. Helped wash her doll’s hair. Took her for rides perched high on his shoulders.

  Then, he left. No explanation. No goodbye. For months afterward, she’d tormented her mother. “Where’s Pa? Where’s my papa?” She kept asking, as selfish as only a child could be.

  Her mother spent weeks in bed. Like she’d given up—failed to see any need to take care of herself or her daughter now that the man wasn’t there. Only when food, laundry gave out did her mother rise, swearing, “Never again.”

  She swore, making the sign of the cross, “I’ll take care. Of my baby and me.”

  Not quite. Marie often took care of her—reminding her mother to dress warmly; eat. Even sleep when her mother would’ve tossed and cried all night. But her mother did go back to work, faithfully, scrubbing floors, ironing shirts, and dusting another family’s portraits.

  * * *

/>   Later, at seven and eight, whenever she was angry with her mother, she’d ask, “Where’s my papa?” Her mother grimaced. The argument ended and whatever it was she wanted, she got. An extra sweet. A new ribbon for her hair. Pennies for a comic. But she despised the things she won. Feeling sorry, she’d pick flowers—dandelions sticking up through concrete, marigolds pushing through slats, or, if she was lucky, a rose, peeping above a fence. Her mother would kiss her and together, they’d play pick-up sticks—no mention of their fight. No mention of men—a man—in their life.

  That’s how it was. Just mother and child.

  “Keep your head low.” “Don’t talk to strangers.” Don’t trust neighbors; don’t make friends. Just her and her Maman. Yes. She’d called her that. When she was young. When they were alone. Creole had been her first language.

  Why hadn’t she remembered that?

  “Speak Creole and the bogeyman will come.”

  When she forgot English and said, “Fatiguée”; “J’desire lait,” her mother would pinch her and she’d cry.

  “Hush. Don’t I take care of you? Don’t I love you enough?”

  She realized her mother had done the best she could.

  As a child, she didn’t understand why her mother was mean sometimes. Abrupt. Crying sad.

  She’d only understood that to ask questions was to admit her mother lied, told tales, hid truths. Or, maybe, her mother was hiding from herself? It’d had nothing to do with Marie. The child. Everything to do with a broken woman. A single mother on her own.

  * * *

  Marie opened her eyes. Reneaux was standing over her.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure?”

  Reneaux’s sympathy made her feel perverse. “How’d your brother die?”

  Reneaux was still.

  “I’m sorry. Bad habit. I think if I hurt you, I’ll stop hurting.”

  Reneaux dropped to his knees. His hands covered Marie’s; his face just inches from hers. Kind Dog turned his head, watching the two of them intent upon each other.

  “Drugs—”

  “No, don’t tell me.”

  “I haven’t spoken of it for fifteen years.”

  “Then don’t. Not now. Madame wanted you to tell me. Means it’s gonna hurt, doesn’t it?” Marie caressed his ear, touched the crucifix dangling from his lobe. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”