The Sea Turtle Spell

by Amanda Hartford

  The coroner's office had, as expected, been unable to identify the cause of John's death. Inside our house, there was no question: he had been killed by magic, and probably by a witch powerful enough to overlay that week's door spell with a dark incantation of their own.

  My grandmother Marie-Eglise was the matriarch but seldom participated in ritual magic these days. The ones usually entrusted with setting the door spell were my mother Hazel and her sister Daisy. When I was visiting New Orleans, they usually included me. Adam and Aaron, as far as I knew, had not yet been given the keys to the kingdom.

  Whispered conversations were taking place just out of earshot, and several times they stopped in mid-sentence as I rounded the corner. No one would think of confronting me directly, of course – they were much too genteel for that – but somebody in that house had killed John. I was the one closest to him. As John's widow, I was the most likely suspect.

  Had I been asked, I would've proclaimed my innocence to the heavens above. What on earth would my motive have been? My mourning was deep and my grief was real, and I was finding the suspicious glances and innuendo of my loving family to be too much to bear.

  My relatives were polite, solicitous, and entirely disconnected from my pain. I was living in the eye of a hurricane as the deadly storm swirled around me. I hunkered down inside my grief.

  Daisy and I huddled upstairs in her apartment most evenings, talking long into the night, turning the clues over and over. We decided to start by defining the facts at hand. "What do we know so far?" Daisy asked on the first night we met for tea and sleuthing.

  I described the condition of John's body. We both agreed that the signs pointed to magic. I noted the red rose in his lapel. Neither of us had seen him wearing it earlier in the day. So why had he taken the time to go out to the garden and pick it before he left the house for the evening? We couldn't come up with any plausible ideas.

  We moved on to John's phone. On the last day of his life, John went to the cemetery. John's Uber app told us so.

  John and my dad were close. You'd see them at family gatherings, off in a corner talking baseball or – as football season neared – their beloved Saints. The magic came down through my mother's side, and neither John nor my dad had really believed in magic until they met their wives. There's always a learning curve when someone from the ordinary world first encounters the craft. I think my dad helped John navigate through it.

  The stone that John placed at my father's grave was one that my dad himself had given him. I'd seen the pebble on John's nightstand that morning, so Daisy and I were pretty sure of the time frame. The small piece of turquoise had been carefully shaped into a teardrop by a Zuni craftsman. My parents purchased it on a trip to Arizona before I was born, and my father had carried it as a pocket talisman for most of his married life. My mother had bought it for Dad as a protective talisman to bind him between heaven and earth. I think Dad kept it mostly because it was pretty.

  John was perplexed when my dad passed the stone along to him on our wedding day. I explained its magical properties, which were, of course, useless to John. He was a brilliant sportswriter, but he was clueless as a mage. He kept the turquoise in his pocket to acknowledge his bond with my father: two ordinary men in extraordinary marriages, doing the best they could for the women they loved.

  I believed that John went to the cemetery to tell my father goodbye. He made up his mind that we were leaving New Orleans, starting over with new jobs in a new life in Arizona. John was getting ready to break the news to the family. He knew Hazel was not going to take this quietly, and as he had when my father was alive, John turned to him for emotional reinforcement.

  But the Uber record showed that John's trip to the cemetery was in the early afternoon. He was back at the house before supper. I could swear to it because we had spent a few minutes together before I headed off to the oyster bar to meet my friend. The cemetery trip was not the reason that John was outside the house at the time he was killed.

  So what prompted him to put down his book and his Guinness, and go down to the sidewalk to his death?

  I glanced again at John's cell phone. He had summoned another Uber around eight, this time to take him to the oyster bar. Why? I had invited him to join us, of course, but he’d declined since he didn’t know the colleague I was meeting. There were no secrets between John and me, and certainly no jealousy.

  He had clearly changed his mind, but John had never taken that Uber. I could see a no-show fee in the app. I guessed that, by the time the driver got there, John was already dead or at least unconscious in the alcove. Someone had wanted John to walk through the front door and – more to the point – try to come back in again. It was a set-up.

  "I can't believe that the family thinks I would have done that to John," I said quietly. I was determined not to start crying again.

  "They watch TV detective stuff, just like everybody else. It's always the spouse that did it."

  "But I..." I started to protest.

  "Oh, my love, I know you didn't," Daisy said, patting my hand. She sipped her tea and motioned for me to do the same. "Actually, I'm more likely to look at Aaron."

  That didn't make sense. "But why? What would he have to gain? He's already in line to inherit everything."

  "But he has to wait for a couple of generations to die off before that happens. Maybe he's in a hurry."

  The thought gave me chills.

  Chapter Four

  Adam was out the next morning, leading a pirate-themed foot tour through the Quarter. Just before lunch, I heard the front door open and close, and I waited for him at the top of the stairs. It was time we had a talk.

  "Ahoy, matey!" he said with a grin and tipped his cheesy pirate hat to me.

  "Ahoy, yourself. How was your tour?"

  "Almost $200 in tips," Aaron said. He looked concerned. "How are you doing?"

  Aaron, Adam and I had grown up together in this house, and I considered him to be my brother. That made what I was about to ask him even more unthinkable.

  "I need to know what really happened, Aaron."

  He nodded. "I know. It's awful. I just keep replaying the whole thing in my mind. Seeing him lying there..."

  I cut him off. "Aaron, why did you come running down the stairs like that?"

  He looked confused. "Because you screamed."

  I didn't remember doing so, but I guessed it was possible. "Did you open the door, or did it open for you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Did the door recognize you? Because it certainly didn't recognize John."

  His expression changed from sympathy to wariness. "Are you accusing me of something?"

  We locked eyes. I was the one who broke away. "I'm not accusing anyone of anything. I just need to know what happened. Did you open the door?"

  Aaron backed down a little. He was thinking about it. "I'm not really sure. Everything was moving so fast."

  "Here's the problem," I said. "Someone tampered with that password. The door didn't recognize John. It killed him just before you came downstairs. So, one of two things is true. Either you were able to open the door because you knew the new password – or the door recognized you and opened for you because the spell that killed John was exclusive to him."

  "Or, the door recognized me because I was the one that had tampered with it. Isn't that what you're saying?"

  "I'm not saying anything. I'm asking."

  "And I'm not saying anything else – especially to you." He brushed past me and let himself into his apartment, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter Five

  My grandmother Marie-Eglise ruled our family with a velvet glove, buttoned properly over her iron fist. She was strong and independent in a time when women were expected to stay in the background: a lady of old Louisiana, but absolutely not a Southern belle. Fiddle-de-dee never passed her lips, but she was certainly capable of some very creative curses.

  The Flournoy women always anchored the family, and
after a while, the men in the community got used to the idea of negotiating a land deal or buying a horse directly from her. As she got older, she became even less patient with what society might expect. In a man, her personality would've been called direct or assertive. In a woman – well, they called her something much less savory. She wore it as a badge of honor.

  She was our rock and our anchor. And then she was gone.

  ♦

  My grandmother was alone in her sitting room when she died. My mother was the one who found her.

  As she got older, Marie-Eglise fell into the habit of slipping into her quarters in late afternoon to treat herself to a cup of Daisy's herbal tea, liberally spiked with some of Aaron's custom bourbon, of course. She said it helped with the pain in her joints, but we all suspected that the buzz just helped her sleep. My mother made sure that the best bone china tea set was placed precisely in the center of the pie-crust table, next to the carved oak rocking chair that Marie-Eglise favored.

  On that afternoon, my mother fetched in the tea set precisely at four. The way we constructed the timeline for the police was this:

  Marie-Eglise had given a few readings for close friends that afternoon, but she left the shop at ten minutes to three, according to her custom.

  My mother carried in the tea set and placed it on the pie-crust table at 4:05. She remembered glancing at the mantel clock because Marie-Eglise was very strict about her routine. She found Marie-Eglise slumped in her rocking chair, limp but still warm.

  Hazel knew something was wrong the second she entered the room. Marie-Eglise was not given to falling asleep in her chair. In fact, she was known for her ramrod straight posture. My mother yelled for Aaron, who came at a run.

  The same young, earnest paramedics who came for John showed up for Marie-Eglise. My mother said that the worst part of that whole afternoon was having to watch the paramedics try to revive her.

  Marie-Eglise, always so dignified and so contained in her person, would have been horrified to see them pull her from her chair onto the floor and start working on her. Hazel said it was surreal to hear their cross talk while their radios and medical transmitters blared, breaking the dignity and silence of the sitting room while the ambulance lights strobed through the lace curtains. My mother said she couldn't keep her eyes off the tea set; the linen cloth was still in place over the plate of scones.

  The paramedics were earnest and skilled, but there was nothing they could do. Marie-Eglise had passed.

  Later, Aaron wouldn't talk about that morning, but my mother said that the moment Marie-Eglise died was unremarkable. The paramedics were diligently working on her, and then they weren't. Hazel said it was a bit of a shock that this death was just business as usual for them. They were solicitous and polite but unaffected. For my mother and Aaron, that made it all the harder. Marie-Eglise had always been there, for all of us. How could she suddenly be gone?

  Neither my mother nor Aaron spoke as the paramedics removed the body. Nobody cried; there would be time for that later. They were still trapped in that moment of death, unable to do anything for Marie-Eglise or for themselves. What finally snapped Hazel out of it were the practical questions from the paramedics. Whether the patient was alive or dead, they had paperwork to do.

  "How old was she?" the younger-looking of the paramedics asked as his partner made notations on an iPad.

  Aaron and my mother exchanged glances. "It depends on who you ask," my mother said.

  Aaron suppressed an inappropriate snicker. "She admitted to 85."

  My mother shook her head and managed to smile. "She lied about it. She's closer to 95." Her face fell. "Was."

  It was not the time to continue the conversation. The family must be gathered, a funeral planned, the circle closed again.

  In a single smooth move, the paramedics eased Marie-Eglise onto a gurney. The taller one secured straps around her motionless body, while the other one secured their equipment box next to her. Nobody made a sound as they wheeled her from the room.

  That’s when I came home.

  Your mind works in strange ways in such moments. We were all in shock, so there was no wailing, no sobs yet. I remember thinking it was obscene that the gurney didn't even squeak. There was no sound to mark Marie-Eglise's passing, only the lingering scent of her lavender sachets.

  ♦

  The funeral for Marie-Eglise Flournoy was the event of the season.

  Our first problem was to find a venue big enough for all her friends and admirers. Marie-Eglise was known in both the magical and ordinary communities, and friends would be coming from all over the world to celebrate her life. Our family's witchy heritage is one of the worst kept secrets in New Orleans, so we expected that there would also be a fair number of the curious. We heard a rumor that TMZ was sending somebody.

  Daisy made discreet inquiries about burying her out of St. Louis Cathedral around the corner, where Marie-Eglise had attended services ever since the family moved to New Orleans after the hurricane of '47. Our family had been Protestants back in France, but they embraced secular Catholicism as protective coloration when they came to Louisiana and had a long history of generous donations to the cathedral.

  Not all Roman Catholic churches will entertain the notion of burying a witch, but the voodoo queen Marie Laveau is already out back there in Saint Louis Cemetery, so we figured it couldn't hurt to ask. The priest was cool; Daisy said she thought he was a little bit flattered that he'd been asked. He offered a beautiful side chapel for our use.

  Daisy decorated the chapel with flowers from our back garden, charmed to be especially fragrant for the day. Marie-Eglise had ordered that no one wear black – she hated the double cliché of that color standing for both witchcraft and mourning – so the chapel was bursting with pastels and bright tropical colors. Hazel had dug out her Victorian mourning jewelry, including a particularly creepy brooch woven from the hair of one of the great-great-grandmothers. Daisy wore a straw hat decorated with pink lilies and a long chiffon scarf.

  After the brief service, Aaron and Adam escorted Daisy and my mother back up the aisle, as if they were leaving a wedding. Marie-Eglise had specifically banned us from having a formal ceremony at the crypt. Her casket stayed in the chapel; Aaron and my mother would take care of the internment privately, later in the day. Our instructions were to start the party on the church steps.

  Marie-Eglise wanted a joyous jazz funeral in the old style, and she wanted all of Vieux Carré, from daytripping tourists to the Old Guard, to be able to join in. For once, the weather cooperated and we emerged into bright sunshine and a huge crowd.

  My mother is a classical music snob, but Marie-Eglise loved her some Louisiana roots music. Over the years, my grandmother had quietly been a generous supporter of one of the local krewes, and they returned the favor by serenading her with Cajun songs and Zydeco on her birthday each year as she beamed from the upstairs gallery. We found their brass band waiting respectfully at the curb.

  My mother, bless her heart, managed not to wince when a trumpet riffed, followed by a tuba. The band kicked off Carnival Time and the party took wing.

  When we reached the corner at Royal Street I hung back, watching the mourners dancing in the second line. The crowd merged with the mourners as they emerged from the chapel. My mother walked in dignity behind the band. Daisy pulled the sash from her hat and waved it in the air as she swayed to the music. The parade was short, only around the corner and down the block, but Marie-Eglise got herself a street party that went on until sundown. Last I saw them, Aaron and Daisy were waltzing in the middle of the street to Jolie Blonde.

  Marie-Eglise's pink satin casket rests in the family mausoleum at Saint Louis Cemetery, but her body is not there. You have to understand about New Orleans burial tradition. The water table in our city is only inches under the soil in some places, a fact that contributed to the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. Ever since the city's founding, we have buried our dead in raised tombs that stand in rows li
ke a city of small marble cottages. Saint Louis Cemetery is one of the largest and oldest cemeteries in the city, and our family is fortunate that the deed to our mausoleum came with the house on Royal Street.

  Most Americans think of burial as forever. In New Orleans, not so much. Our cemeteries are crowded places because of that whole water table thing. The Flournoy mausoleum is one of the larger ones, but it only contains space for six caskets, in three rows of two. Each niche is sealed with brick and mortar and then faced with a square marble plaque bearing the names of the family members who have rested there, along with their birth and death years.

  The mausoleum is more like a hotel than an eternal home: when someone new checks in, someone else has to check out. Their casket is discreetly removed, and the body is cremated and moved to the big communal urns on either side of the door to make space for the latest arrival. The minimum stay, following ancient tradition in similar European and Middle East cemeteries, is a year and a day, but our family is small. Some ancestors have rested in their coffins for decades before their ashes are mingled with those of their ancestors.

  In Marie-Eglise's case, it was even more temporary. Daisy and I were told, after the fact, that Hazel had requested that the funeral home cremate Marie-Eglise's body as soon as the coroner returned it. My mother was sure that this was not a natural death, and that meant that the murderer might still be looking to acquire Marie-Eglise's property and power. Grave robbing is a time-honored profession even in non-magical families. We were horrified at first, but she was right, of course. So, while the second line for Marie-Eglise's funeral danced past the house on Royal Street, our grandmother was already ensconced on the parlor mantel in her favorite teapot.

  ♦

  It wasn't until my mother and Daisy were choosing Marie-Eglise's burial clothes that they realized that her tortoiseshell comb was missing.

  I had never seen Marie-Eglise without that comb. It was the first thing she put on in the morning, standing in her dressing gown in front of her mirror; it was the last thing she took off at night. She kept it on a starched crocheted doily on the bureau next to her bed so she could see it if she awoke during the night. It gave her comfort.