by Logan, Kylie
That was the exact moment I realized I was wearing a yellow nightgown spotted with brightly colored polka dots.
“You didn’t . . .” I stammered. “You wouldn’t dare.”
A slow smile crossed his face and he stood up and sauntered over. “You don’t really think I’m that much of a freak, do you? Wait!” He put out a hand. “Don’t answer that. But just so you know . . .” He perched himself on the edge of the bed. “I talked to Stan and Stan talked to Adele Cruikshank.”
Adele was my next-door neighbor, and as nosy a woman as ever lived. I dropped my head in my hands. “And you and Stan had Adele come over here and get me dressed for bed. She’ll be talking about this from now until forever.”
“She’d be talking about it longer than that if we didn’t get her involved. She saw me carry you up the stairs and into the apartment on Monday night. If I hadn’t asked for her help, no doubt she would have filled in the blanks for herself. You can imagine the story.”
I could.
I did.
I turned away so Gabriel wouldn’t see my cheeks get pink, then cleared my throat and prayed I didn’t sound as breathless to him as I did to myself “What did you tell her?”
“That you had the flu, of course. Which is exactly what I told Stan, by the way. It seemed a better plan than explaining about the voodoo curse.”
The curse.
The memory of Monday evening’s events washed over me like a cold wave, and I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. It was all such a jumble! I remembered disjointed scenes: candles, colors, burning up. I remembered being afraid until I looked into Mambo Irma’s eyes and heard the drumming. The music was nothing like the unrelenting drumbeats that had haunted my dreams these past few weeks. This was more rhythmic, organic, like my heartbeat. Instead of causing my blood to boil, the sound gave me something to hang onto, something to concentrate on while Mambo Irma performed her ritual.
I shook out of the memory and this time when I spoke, I made sure to keep my eyes on Gabriel. I wanted to gauge his reaction. And his capacity for bullshit. “Do you think it really was a curse?” I asked him.
“I’ve seen stranger things.”
“Stranger things than vudon curses?”
“Yes.”
“And Mambo Irma?”
“I hope you’re not saying she’s a strange thing.” He leaned forward. “She’ll know if you talk about her,” he whispered. “And she won’t be happy.”
Startled, I sat back, and Gabriel laughed. “Only kidding,” he said. “Maybe. I wouldn’t put anything past her. Mambo Irma is a remarkable woman.”
“Then I didn’t dream the visit to her apartment? I didn’t dream her?”
“She’s as real as I am.”
“And how real are you, Gabriel?”
He considered this for a moment, and I actually thought he might answer. That is, until he smiled. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved.” I was, and hallelujah, my headache was gone. I swung my feet over the side of the bed. “I’ll make eggs.”
“Absolutely not.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “If Mambo Irma finds out you’ve been out of bed, she’ll have my head. And believe me, she will find out. Here.” There was a bottle of water on the table next to the bed, and he opened it and handed it to me. “She told me to make sure you drink plenty of water today.”
“And you always listen to Mambo Irma.”
“If I know what’s good for me.”
I took a few long sips, then breathed in deep and let the breath out slowly. I’d been feeling bad for so long, I’d forgotten what it was like to feel well. “Want to explain how you know her?”
“Mambo Irma?” Gabriel’s shrug was hardly noticeable. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and there was a shadow of dark beard on his chipped-from-granite jaw. “She’s a friend.”
“Who happens to know how to lift a vudon curse.”
“Technically, she knows how to lift a vudou curse, since she’s Haitian and that’s what they call the religion there. Good thing she’s ecumenical, eh? A full-service curse lifter.” He patted my knee. “I’ve got the coffeepot going and all the ingredients for a full English fry-up.” Before I could ask, he explained. “Bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms. And toast. All the things we civilized Brits eat early in the morning.”
“Is it early?” Because of the way the sun streamed in through the bedroom window, I couldn’t see the numbers on the clock radio. “I’ve got to get dressed and get into the shop. Who knows how much business I missed yesterday when I fell asleep in the back room.”
“Just for the record, you weren’t exactly asleep. You were in more of a stupor. You know, because of the spell that had been put on you. It was magnified by the doll. Do you know how it got hidden at the shop?”
I combed my fingers through my hair. “I can’t imagine.”
“And also for the record . . .” Gabriel got up and I hoped he was headed into the kitchen to get me a cup of coffee because the aroma floated into the bedroom and it smelled divine. “You didn’t miss any business yesterday at the shop.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because yesterday was Tuesday,” he said.
“And today is—”
“Wednesday. You’ve been asleep for more than twenty-four hours.”
I threw my hands in the air. “I don’t need the Button Box to close down because some crazy person put a crazy voodoo doll in my shop. What about—”
“Not to worry. Stan was there all day yesterday. He took care of everything.” Gabriel disappeared down the hallway and called back to me, “One egg? Or two?”
• • •
I don’t own a wicker tray with legs suitable for serving breakfast in bed, so don’t ask me where Gabriel got the one he brought into the room a few minutes later. He helped me sit up and fluffed the pillows behind me, unfolded a linen napkin and handed it to me, and pulled over the wingchair so he could put his own plate of English fry-up on the bed.
Either he was an excellent cook or I was just incredibly hungry. I finished my bacon, toast, eggs, and mushrooms in record time and started in on the tomato. It had been cut in half and broiled with a pat of butter on the top and it, too, was delicious.
I washed it all down with a second cup of coffee and leaned back against the pillows. “Thank you,” I said.
“You’re very welcome.” Gabriel whisked the tray away and set it on the floor, then stacked his empty plate on top of mine. “I’m all about helping out damsels in distress.”
“And you stayed here with me. All of yesterday?”
“I ran out for a bit. To get clean clothes and buy tomatoes and such.” (He pronounced it to-mah-toes and I decided right then and there that’s what made them taste so much better than regular old tomatoes.) “Adele was here when I wasn’t. And Stan came in for a bit last night. I had a hard time keeping him away until I reminded him that he needed his rest if he was going to run the shop today.”
“He’s a sweetheart.”
“He adores you.”
Adore.
Something about the word made me wonder if Nev had called, but I didn’t ask. Later, I’d check the missed calls on my phone. If he’d been looking for me, he’d be frantic by now. Of course, if he hadn’t . . .
A cloud blocked the sun for a moment and the bedroom was thrown into shadow.
“Cold?” I didn’t realize I’d shivered until Gabriel tugged the blanket over my shoulders. “You mustn’t try to do too much. Mambo Irma’s orders. She said it’s to be expected if, once in a while, you still feel . . . you know . . . weird.”
I had felt weird a moment earlier when I thought of Nev, but thank goodness, the sensation passed. The sun came out again and when it did, Gabriel got up and crossed the room. There was a black backpack on the floor in the corner and he unzipped it and took out a book with a blue cover. It was about the size of those Bibles that get tucked away in hotel rooms, and when he sat down, he set the book on his knees
.
“Mambo Irma said I had to keep you quiet and not get you excited. About anything.”
“She’s smart.”
“She’s as suspicious as hell and she doesn’t trust me as far as she could throw me. Though, come to think of it, she’s a skinny little thing but she’s plenty strong. She could probably give me a good toss.”
I glanced at the book. “OK, so I promise not to get too excited. About anything. But the fact that you warned me when you got out that book you’re holding tells me it’s something you think I’m going to get excited about.”
He lifted the book and for a moment, seemed to reconsider the wisdom of showing it to me. He gave up with a sigh and handed the book to me. “It’s Forbis Parmenter’s diary,” he said.
The book was already in my hands and it slipped onto the blankets. “Forbis’s diary?” I stared at the book, then lifted my head so I could give the same sort of bewildered look to Gabriel. “How did you get it?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I’m asking. How did you get it?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Actually, I do.”
“Actually . . .” He sat back. “You’ve been through a lot thanks to old Forbis. You were hexed, and it could have gotten very serious, indeed, if I hadn’t shown up when I did. You should know . . .” He crossed his arms over his chest. “The truth is a slippery thing, and not always something I deal in. But I’m going to tell you the truth because you deserve it with all you’ve been through. So here goes. The truth.” He pulled in a breath. “I left Chicago for a bit last week. I went down to Jekyll Island, to Forbis’s family home. That’s where I got the diary.”
“Richard Norquist says he had to have Forbis’s artwork delivered to his home in New York because there’s no one at Forbis’s home.”
Gabriel’s eyes sparkled. “Right. No one home. Thank goodness.”
It took a moment for what he was implying to sink in. “You mean you wanted to be down there when no one else was around? Did you . . . Gabriel, did you break into the house? Like you broke into Evangeline’s office? Are you telling me you stole the diary?”
He made a face. “Steal is such a nasty word. Let’s just say I appropriated the diary. In the name of the investigation.”
“Let’s just say that might make sense if you had anything to do with the investigation.”
“Let’s just say I do. Then again, if you’re not interested . . .” He whisked the book off my lap.
“You know I am.” I snatched it back from him and held on tight. “And something tells me you’ve already read through it.”
“Cover to cover.”
“And . . . ?”
“And most of it is utterly dull in the way only the diary of a man who believes his own PR can be dull. Forbis Parmenter thought he was going to be the next Andy Warhol.”
“And I can see how an arts journalist would find that fascinating. Except . . .” I flipped through the pages. They were covered with loopy handwriting that curlicued over the pages with no regard for lines or margins. “Except something tells me your interest goes deeper than simply writing an article about Forbis. And don’t tell me you’re hoping for a book contract,” I added. “Even if that’s part of the truth, that’s not all of it. If it was, you wouldn’t keep popping up in my investigation.” No matter what he was going to say, I knew I had to ask, “Did you kill Forbis?”
Gabriel threw back his head and laughed. “I’m a lover, not a fighter. How about you?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He leaned near enough for me to catch a whiff of the almond and ginger bath gel I kept in the shower. I’d bet anything he’d used my bottle of expensive shampoo, too, the one that contained Champagne grape-seed oil. “What I meant,” he crooned, “is are you a lover?”
What with the way my heart suddenly thumped out of control, it was almost like being vudon cursed again.
I smoothed a hand across the sheets. “I’m a lover of the truth. What is it in Forbis’s diary that you thought was so interesting?”
Maybe he was a better lover than a fighter, because he gave up without an argument. He reached over and flipped the book to the back pages. Someone (Forbis?) had cut up a folder and added a pocket there, and Gabriel pulled out two yellowed newspaper clippings from it.
Carefully, he unfolded them. “This one is about Forbis’s father, Beau Parmenter. He died back in 1947 when Forbis was still a young man. Cause of death?” Gabriel slid a finger over the article until he found the paragraph he was looking for. “According to the sheriff who investigated the elder Mr. Parmenter’s death, there were no signs of foul play.”
This didn’t seem so odd to me. “A heart attack? Some other disease?”
“That’s the easiest answer and exactly what I was thinking until I read further. ‘Sheriff Mason Grant speculated that Mr. Parmenter had been frightened to death.’”
“That’s not possible.” I took the article out of Gabriel’s hands and read it for myself. “Forbis’s father died of fright? And Forbis died of fright, too? That seems a little too coincidental, don’t you think?”
“You have no idea.” Gabriel unfolded another article, this one even more yellow and brittle than the first. “This one is about George Parmenter. Beau’s father.”
“Forbis’s grandfather.”
Gabriel nodded. “He was a prominent man in the area, and only forty-two when he died. Naturally, the news made the papers. Want to guess at the cause of death?”
“No!” Not no, I didn’t want to guess. No, I didn’t believe it. I leaned closer to Gabriel so I could read the article and saw that, as strange as it was, it was true. “‘Frightened so powerfully his heart gave out and he expired.’” I read the pertinent words with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “Three generations of Parmenters all frightened to death?”
“And who knows how many before.”
“But that’s just crazy!” I watched Gabriel carefully replace the articles. “Don’t you think it’s crazy?”
“I think . . .” He returned the diary to his backpack. “I think if you promise not to tell Mambo Irma, you could probably get up and take a shower and get dressed. There’s some really great shampoo in there,” he said, pointing to my bathroom. “Smells like it has Champagne grape-seed oil in it.”
Chapter Sixteen
It’s amazing what a long, hot shower and a two-hour nap can do for a recently vudon-hexed girl.
Refreshed, revived, and wearing khaki capris and a red T-shirt instead of my yellow nightgown, I was ready to take on the world.
All right, so not the world, exactly. But I sure felt ready to talk about the investigation again, and about the Parmenter family’s strange tradition of being frightened to death.
My resolve might have stayed firm if I hadn’t walk into the kitchen and been greeted by the incredible aroma of pizza.
Double pepperoni!
It was steaming and gooey with cheese and I didn’t wait for Gabriel to hand me a dish. I scooped a slice out of the box and dug in.
“You’re hungry. That’s good. But . . .” He had been leaning against the granite countertop and now he swung around to grab a bottle of water. “Don’t forget. Mambo Irma says—”
“Plenty of water. Yes, I promise.” I took the water out of his hands, but I didn’t bother opening the bottle until I wolfed down that piece of pizza and another one after. “I feel as if I haven’t eaten in weeks.”
“You’ll be back to your old self in no time at all.” He polished off a piece of mushroom, sausage, and green pepper, brushed his hands together, and tackled a piece of pepperoni.
Satisfied, at least for the moment, I took my bottle of water and sat down at the kitchen table. I waited until Gabriel came over and took the chair opposite from mine before I asked something I’d been thinking about in the shower as I let the Champagne grape-seed nourish my hair. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
&nb
sp; He was mid chew, so he held up a finger to tell me I’d have to wait for an answer. “You mean about saving your life?” he asked after he’d swallowed. “All in a day’s work.”
“But it’s not. Not really. Certainly not for a journalist who writes about art show openings. And did you save my life? I mean, I know I felt awful, but . . .” Blame it on the fog that had been clogging my brain for days. Though I knew I’d felt lousy and though I hadn’t forgotten the nightmares that plagued me, I’d never thought of the curse as really serious, really . . . deadly.
My stomach soured and I sat back in my chair.
Gabriel brushed a strand of mozzarella off his chin. “It’s over now,” he said. “So it’s best if you don’t think about it any longer.”
“Yeah, but—”
“It’s not going to happen again,” he assured me, though how he knew that I was wondering if another curse might be headed my way, I don’t know. “Mambo Irma, she made sure of that.”
“She’s that powerful.”
“She is.” He grabbed a bottle of water for himself. “And you’re lucky we went to her for help. Another mambo might know the right prayers and the words to the ceremony, but Mambo Irma said that trick against you—”
“Trick.” I’d heard the word before and remembered Mambo Irma using it back in her apartment. “What does that mean?”
“To trick someone is to use the left hand of vudon. You know, black magic.”
“And you know this, how?”
He pursed his lips. “I know a damned lot of useless information. What I’d like to know . . .” He leaned forward. “What I’d really like to figure out is who cursed you like that. You have a powerful enemy, Josie. Who do you suppose it is?”
“An enemy?” I lifted my hands, then let them drop. I’d wondered about this, too. “I’ve met other button dealers who weren’t happy because I outbid them at auction for buttons they wanted, but cursing me because of something like that seems a little extreme. I’ve helped put a couple of murderers behind bars, but none of them seem to be the type who would be into vudon. Then there’s—” I clamped my lips over the name that I’d almost let escape.