Voodoo or Die

by Stephanie Bond

  Instead, the man in the car behind her appeared to be fixated on his comb-over—and the infant car seat in the back took the edge off the sporty lines of his black car.

  She flipped on her turn signal, pulled into the driveway of the little bungalow she'd rented, and hit the remote control to open the garage door. The movers had left just enough space between the unpacked boxes for her to pull her Honda inside. Only after she'd parked carefully and the door was down behind her did she loosen her steely grip on the steering wheel.

  Steve Chasen's death was a grim reminder that no matter how far she ran, she couldn't escape the terrible randomness of violence and mortality.

  And apparently, she couldn't escape Zane Riley.

  With her mind going in all directions, she dragged herself from the car and entered the laundry room, flipping on lights as she walked from room to room in the small house, threading her way through stacked boxes to the only spacious room in the house, the master bedroom. It was there she already spent most of her time, in the little sitting area she'd made comfy with a tapestry chair, ottoman, and a small rolltop desk, where she sat when she brought home paperwork. She set down her briefcase, then stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  While the water warmed, she stripped off her dusty clothes and put them in a bag to take to the dry cleaner. She kept moving, wiping off her shoes and removing her simple jewelry, to keep her body occupied. But when she stepped under the warm water, she leaned her head back, let the water wash over her face, and gave in to the day's events—seeing Steve Chasen's body flying through the air and seeing Zane Riley walk back into her life.

  She had imagined what it would be like to see him again, but in her mind, it had always unfolded like a Hallmark movie—they would be reaching for the same postcard in a gift shop in Paris and their eyes would meet and he would instantly know who she was. All the yearning and heartache they'd each experienced since being ripped apart would evaporate. And they would live abroad, moving around to stay under the radar of the thugs who pursued her and her mother.

  It was a fantasy that she'd clung to in the dark of night when horrific visions haunted her, threatening to rob her sanity. She sighed, pursing her lips under the water to receive a kiss from the warm, gentle flow, imagining Zane's mouth upon hers, extracting a promise never to leave him again.

  Suddenly the water ran cold, shocking her out of her dream world, reminding her that being with Zane would always be a fantasy. When their eyes had met, he'd barely taken note of her, much less recognized her, a compliment to her handler's advice and her own years of practice.

  Truly, she thought as she stepped from the shower and toweled off, seeing Zane again had been the ultimate test, and she'd passed with flying colors.

  And while a small part of her felt proud of her success in making herself over so convincingly, a small part of her had been overjoyed when Zane had told her she reminded him of someone.

  She glanced at herself in the mirror. "Zane, it's me," she said, testing the words on her tongue. "Lorey."

  But she wasn't Lorey, at least not anymore, she conceded as she surveyed her reflection. Short, springy dark curls above a lean face, her skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, an unremarkable nose, and a slightly pointed chin. Green contact lenses covered her pale blue irises, and cosmetic dentistry had changed the look of her teeth so that even Lorey Lawson's dental records couldn't be tied to Gloria Dalton.

  She leaned her head forward and frowned at the reflection of the center part in her hair—her blond roots were starting to show. She'd need to dye them soon.

  It was only when she was nude and someone was very perceptive that her hair color was questionable. Her body hair was still as pale as the hair on her head had once been, betraying her as a natural blonde—she drew the line at dyeing her pubic hair. A female U.S. marshal had told her matter-of-factly simply to wax it off, but the advice had seemed ridiculous in absence of a physical relationship.

  She sank her teeth into her lower lip, noting that she no longer had the figure of a nubile sixteen-year-old. Kickboxing, yoga, and a high-protein diet had transformed her full curves into trim, toned muscle that Zane might not find as physically appealing. She ran her hand over her flat stomach and realized that she hadn't eaten anything all day—she should have, she thought ruefully, grabbed one of those chocolate bars from Steve's desk this morning when she'd had the chance.

  And she'd give anything for one of those carrot muffins that had gotten lost in the melee.

  Shivering against the chill in the air, she hurriedly pulled on sweatpants and a long-sleeve T-shirt. The hardwood was cold beneath her bare feet as she padded to the kitchen, but she hadn't yet found the box with her house shoes, or even her socks for that matter. The unpacked cartons taunted her; she dreaded opening them, trying to find new places for everything and deciding what to keep, what to toss.

  You could just leave everything packed, her mind whispered. Call a moving truck, disappear in the middle of the night again. No one will miss you, no one will care.

  No one would blame you if you left, Mona Black had said.

  Pushing aside the disturbing thoughts and decisions that faced her, Gloria opened the refrigerator to see if it would yield a passable dinner. Eggs, a portobello mushroom, and a half gallon of milk equaled a decent omelet and enough nutrition to make up for her abysmal diet today, which consisted of exactly three cups of coffee.

  She carried the omelet and a glass of milk to her bedroom, turned on the television for background noise, and settled into the comfy chair. After a couple of bites, she relinquished the plate to her ottoman, which doubled as a TV tray, and pulled her briefcase to her lap.

  Using her thumbs, she unlocked the closures and opened the briefcase until the hinges caught to prop it open. The voodoo doll lay on top, now dusty and a bit misshapen from having been trampled by the EMTs. But the pin was still imbedded in the doll's stomach, the macabre face punctuated with stitched X's for eyes to suggest death.

  She'd gotten only a glance at the voodoo doll that Penny Francisco had stuck with a pin before her ex-husband Deke had wound up stabbed to death, but the size and general appearance of the dolls seemed similar.

  Who had left the doll by her door? If the material was from Steve Chasen's jacket, how had the person gotten it? And had the doll somehow foreshadowed Steve Chasen's death?

  She frowned at her own thoughts, Zane's reaction to the voodoo doll branded into her brain. It was ludicrous to think that there was a connection... wasn't it? Who would want Steve Chasen dead—and why?

  She bit her lip, wondering how one disposed of a voodoo doll—it didn't seem right to simply toss it in the trash. She stood and looked around her bedroom for a safe place to stow the doll, and her gaze landed on her lingerie bureau. She slid open the top drawer, cheered, as always by the colorful contents. What she couldn't wear on the outside for fear of standing out in a crowd, she made up for underneath. Vivid silks, shiny satins, downy velvets, diaphanous chiffons—she had a lingerie collection to die for.

  That no man had ever seen.

  If ever there was a safe place, it was her lingerie bureau.

  She smirked and laid the voodoo doll inside on a pillow of filmy fabric, then returned to her briefcase. Her mind raced with unanswered questions about Steve Chasen as she picked up the client folders that she'd removed from his briefcase. The first one was labeled Ziggy Hines. She opened it, impressed by the first-glance detail of handwritten notes, phone transcripts and... photographs?

  Gloria frowned at the color candids taken from a digital camera, the date and time stamped in the corner. The photos were taken in sequence, showing a barrel-chested, dark-haired man that she recognized as Ziggy Hines, a famous chef of New Orleans, kissing a buxom girl who didn't appear to be old enough to have a drink in his restaurant.

  Gloria flipped back to the phone transcripts and realized the recorded conversation was between Ziggy and an unnamed person who threatened
to "reveal" his relationship to a certain underage woman unless Ziggy ponied up a thousand bucks.

  Gloria blinked—was the unnamed person in the conversation Steve Chasen? And had he been blackmailing Ziggy Hines?

  With her heart beating faster, she picked up the next file labeled Guy Bishop, the fellow who worked for Penny Francisco, she recalled. His folder held photos, too—of the X-rated variety. He and another man. Gloria closed the folder, feeling like a voyeur.

  Her eyes popped when she saw that the next folder was labeled Mona Black. But curiously, the folder was empty. And before she could give much thought to the implication, her attention was caught by the name on the last folder:

  Gloria Dalton.

  She gasped and dropped the other folders in her haste to open the one with her name on it. Inside, there was a single sheet of paper with a handwritten note: Contracted for info on L.L.

  Her heart stood still in her chest. L.L., meaning Lorey Lawson? How could Steve Chasen possibly have known about her past? Did anyone else in Mojo know the dead man's secrets? And—she gulped air—if he had been moonlighting as a blackmailer, could his death have been more sinister than a simple accident?

  Gloria pivoted to stare at the lingerie bureau where she'd stored the voodoo doll dressed in the same cloth as Steve Chasen's coat, its stomach pierced with a long pin. Her heart jump-started with a jolt.

  She was no voodoo expert, but this was all starting to look suspiciously... related.

  Chapter 6

  After a sleepless night Gloria admitted, her speculation about the voodoo doll aside, the cryptic note in Steve Chasen's files about "L.L." could mean her cover was blown. She had no choice but to contact the U.S. marshal who was her handler. She used her cell phone to dial a message service, then punched in the five-digit code that connected her to George O'Connor's voice mail.

  "This is Gloria D.," she said as calmly as she could manage. "There's been a complication with my move. Please call me at your earliest convenience."

  She hung up and expelled a sigh—it was the first time in her second life that she'd had to make such a call. Before, the relocations had been triggered by her mother's paranoia, real or imagined, and twice by the marshals, whose mysterious "sources" had told them that Riaz was zeroing in on their whereabouts. She had no idea what to expect; meanwhile, she'd try to maintain a normal schedule and keep her eyes open for anything unusual.

  Such as the appearance of a voodoo doll.

  Or a car plowing through the window.

  Or the reappearance of an old flame.

  The thought of Zane made her groan inwardly. She'd spent the night wrapped around a pillow, reliving every second of their unexpected reunion, agonizing over the fact that he was so close. She could pick up the phone and tell him everything if she wanted... if she dared. Or she could manufacture an emergency and have him summoned to her home to explain everything in private—that she hadn't wanted to go, that he must have known as much from the brief, vague good-bye letter she'd left with George to give to Zane.

  She willed away the images of Zane; as incredible as it seemed, she had more important things to worry about for the time being. With her nerves singing, she dressed in a gray pantsuit, anticipating spending most of the day cleaning the interior of the office lobby and looking for more clues as to what Steve Chasen might or might not have known about her. She needed to get her hands on Steve's briefcase, which she'd handed to Zane—the idea of Zane, and possibly others, finding out about her identity in such a haphazard manner made her knees weak. And going through Steve's personal belongings in his home suddenly had taken on a new urgency.

  When Gloria stood, the room tilted. She held her breath, remaining perfectly still in an effort to circumvent the vertigo and an onset of a Meniere's attack.

  Please, not now, she prayed.

  She'd suffered from the disease since the age of fourteen, but luckily her bouts of vertigo, nausea and vomiting had been few and far between, and controllable with medication. Only a couple of times had the attacks been severe and enduring enough to force her to bed until the fluid in her inner ear corrected itself. But the memory of those incapacitating experiences had remained with her.

  When the room righted, she took a calming breath and walked slowly to her purse. She found the prescription bottle of Meclazine, discovering she was down to the last dose of her last refill. She'd have to go back to see Dr. Whiting and get a new prescription.

  Retrieving a glass of water from the kitchen with steady precision, she downed the pills while trying to keep her head as level as possible, then sat quietly to make sure the vertigo didn't return before she walked to her car. Being behind the wheel when an episode struck would be truly dangerous, and driving during an attack was impossible.

  One car through a storefront this week was enough.

  A few minutes later she was feeling better, and she made the short drive into town with no incident. On a whim, she drove past the Charmed Village Shopping Center, glancing at her boarded office front to make sure that all seemed quiet, then proceeded along Charm Street to Penny Francisco's health food store. She was craving female conversation and hoped to be able to ask a few discreet questions about Steve Chasen while she was there.

  The Charm Farm sat in the shadow of the looming Archambault mansion, former home of the Mojo Instruments of Death and Voodoo Museum. Penny, whose organic vegetable and herb garden extended to the mansion's property line, had been instrumental in uncovering the sadistic goings-on at the mansion. The spirited redhead herself was sweeping the stoop under the rounded burgundy awning that topped the front door. She waved at Gloria and met her at the car.

  "I was planning to visit you today—are you okay? I was in New Orleans all day yesterday and didn't hear the awful news about Steve until I got back last night."

  "I'm fine," Gloria said, emerging from her car. "How's Marie?"

  "Mysterious," Penny said with a frown. "I was under the impression she didn't like Steve Chasen, but she's really shaken up."

  "It was a terrible thing for her to witness. Did she happen to mention anything else... strange?"

  "You mean the voodoo doll?" Penny nodded, then jerked her thumb toward the door. "Marie's inside. Why don't we have a cup of tea?"

  "That sounds wonderful."

  On the way to the door, a commotion on the other side of the street in front of the pink house caught their attention. Sheena Linder, in all her busty, salon-tanned, white-blonde glory, was tottering after a younger blonde woman dressed more demurely who was striding away from the house, her body language agitated.

  "Wait, Sis, come back!" Sheena yelled. "I'll handle everything—it'll be all right, I promise!"

  Penny shook her head. "It's always something over there."

  "I'm surprised Mona Black still allows Deke's girlfriend to live there," Gloria murmured.

  "It's a strange relationship," Penny agreed. "But I try not to notice." She angled her head at the three-story Pepto-Bismol-hued Victorian that had once been her home and smiled. "It doesn't even look as pink as it used to."

  Gloria gave Penny credit for a good attitude after all the bad blood between her and her dead ex-husband's mistress. Of course, in a town as small as Mojo, it seemed a little ridiculous to maintain a feud with people one saw every day. Eventually, the desire for cordiality would override a grudge.

  Except possibly where Steve Chasen was concerned. If the contents of the files he maintained on Ziggy Hines, Mona Black and Guy Bishop were any indication, there were plenty of grudges to be had in this little town.

  A chime sounded as they walked through the door. Marie Gaston stood behind the smoothie counter, dipping her finger into an orange-colored concoction. She glanced up as they walked in and her eyes immediately clouded. "Good morning, Ms. Dalton."

  "Please... call me Lorey."

  The women squinted at her. "I didn't know you went by Lorey," Penny said.

  Horrified, she realized her gaffe and tried to cov
er it with a little laugh. "My tongue isn't working so well this morning—I meant 'Gloria' of course. How are you, Marie?"

  "Okay, I guess. Still a little shaken up. I keep expecting Steve to walk in, asking for his morning smoothie."

  Still reeling over the slip of her tongue, Gloria took a seat at the bar. "Did he come by every morning?"

  "No, but most mornings he did, even if it was only to harass Guy."

  Gloria's ears perked. "Harass?"

  Marie gave a dismissive wave. "More like tease, I guess. Steve was always making innuendos about Guy's sexuality, but Guy was a good sport about it."

  Gloria suspected the good-natured teasing had been Steve's sly reminder to Guy of the dirt he had on him.

  "What did Chief Riley think about the voodoo doll?" Marie asked.

  "Not much," Gloria admitted. "In fact, he dismissed it as a prank." Then as nonchalantly as she could manage, she asked, "Do either of you know if Steve had any enemies?"

  "Enemies?" Marie frowned. "Not that I knew of. No friends either, but no enemies."

  "He kept to himself," Penny added. "Deke thought highly of him as an employee... but then again, Deke didn't always exhibit the best judgment, a la Sheena Linder." She smiled. "How about chamomile tea?"

  "Chamomile sounds good," Gloria agreed, smothering a yawn.

  Penny scooped a diffuser into a pale green blend of leaves, then lowered it into a mug and added hot water from a stoneware teapot. "Are you thinking that someone left the voodoo doll for Steve?"

  "It's possible."

  "You mean, as some kind of warning?"

  Gloria shrugged. "That would make more sense than implying that the doll had something to do with the accident... wouldn't it?"

  Penny glanced at Marie. "Can you think of anyone Steve would have crossed?"

  Marie shook her head. "No one comes to mind."