Voodoo Summer (LeGarde Mysteries Book 11)

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  He rose and stretched. “Ja. You are probably right.”

  My grandfather called us over to the stove. “You kids ready to eat? I’ve got your plates ready over here.”

  My eyes grew large. I’d been hungry at four-thirty but didn’t want to say anything at the time because we’d barely made it for our shift with a minute to spare. “Heck yeah, Gramps.”

  My grandfather sat us down at the enamel-topped table. He served us each a steak, baked potato with a mountain of butter and sour cream, coleslaw, and baked beans. I poured A1 Steak Sauce all over my steak and inhaled the meal with great gusto, covering a burp when I was done. “What’s for dessert, Gra—?”

  Before I finished the sentence, Gramps slid a fresh-baked cherry pie onto the table. “Here you go, kids. Hot out of the oven. Enjoy.”

  ***

  At twelve-thirty the next day, we started down the dirt road at the top of the hill, heading for The Seven Whistles. Tall pines flanked either side of the road, stretching for miles into dense forest. It was cool on the curving narrow road edged with ferns and wildflowers. Elsbeth had dressed up, wearing white cutoff shorts with a frilly red and white polka-dotted blouse and a matching hair scarf that pulled her tumbling dark curls back from her face. She slipped along in fancy patent leather shoes that she never wore except to church. She looked beautiful, and I told her so.

  “Ja?” she said, doing a little dance for me. “You think so?”

  “You’re always pretty,” I said, meaning it. “But red’s your color.”

  “Why, thank you, Gus.” She slipped an arm through mine. “This will be fun, don’t you think, guys?”

  Siegfried looked nervous. He’d combed his hair before we set out, which was completely out of character. It was definitely Beatle-length now, and I had to admit he could have passed for a younger version of John, Paul, George, or Ringo if they’d been blond with startlingly blue eyes.

  “What did she say when you asked her about the doll yesterday?” he asked. “You never told us.”

  “Right, I forgot. She just laughed and admitted it was a voodoo doll. I didn’t get much more out of her.”

  In the distance, I spotted a colorful sign swinging in the light afternoon breeze. Seven actual whistles of various colors and sizes hung on chains from the wooden signboard. We were almost there.

  “Okay, guys. This is the place. I told her to meet us here.”

  “She’s not here yet.” Siegfried took my wrist and twisted it to glance at my watch. “We’re fifteen minutes early.”

  Elsbeth found a large boulder with plenty of room for three to sit abreast. We settled on it and shared a pack of Sig’s Teaberry gum.

  Elsbeth popped a piece in her mouth and mumbled, “Let’s play a guessing game while we wait.”

  “Okay. I’m thinking of an animal,” I said, jumping right into the game.

  Elsbeth grinned. “You always go first!”

  “That’s not a valid question, Elsbeth. It has to be a question.”

  She pouted, and then gave in. “Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

  I shook my head. “No. Sig’s turn.”

  Siegfried frowned. “Does it have paws?”

  “Yes. You get another question.”

  “Does it live around here?”

  I nodded. “Yes. You’re getting warmer.”

  “No fair!” Elsbeth said. “He’s getting too many questions.”

  “It is fair,” I said, smiling at her. “He keeps guessing right. Next question, Sig.”

  “Does it have a fluffy tail?”

  “Nope. Elsbeth?”

  She pursed her lips, looking around us as if the answer lay in the woods. “I know the answer.” She punched my arm and shouted, “It’s a mouse!”

  “Good job. You got it!

  A voice came from just down the road. “Mon Dieu! I was going to guess a bat. That would have been a tricky one.” Willy stood nearby with canted hips and a wide smile. I hadn’t even heard her approach us. “But do bats have paws or claws?”

  “Hey, Willy!” I waved to her and jumped to my feet, thinking back to two summers ago when my father had caught a bat in Wee Castle with my fishing net. I’d awoken to find it on the headboard of my bed, its little wings flapping on my cheek. When Dad had caught it, he’d let us take a look. “I think they have little claws,” I said. “Right, Sig?”

  Siegfried approached with a nervous smile. “Um. Ja. They have claws for sure.”

  “Très bien.” She winked at Siegfried and looped her arm through Elsbeth’s. “Bonjour, mon amie.”

  “Guten Tag.” Elsbeth said with a giggle.

  Siegfried and I fell in step behind the girls, who laughed and skipped toward the road leading to the camp office.

  The Seven Whistles property entrance was vast and imposing, not like a real Maine camp. Most camps were filled with gigantic pines and had sandy soil with roots all over. But this place had been clear-cut at the top of the hill leading to the log monstrosity that welcomed visitors. Grass that would never have grown in the pine-needle strewn grounds sprouted everywhere, the color of Easter basket grass.

  We entered the air-conditioned interior, wending our way among at least twenty guests who were buying newspapers, enjoying the oversized fireplace with a giant moose head mounted on the wall above it, or just lining up to sign up for lessons and classes. I noticed a spinning rack full of premade glossy post cards featuring The Seven Whistles from a million different angles. Most showed ladies in swimsuits lounging on the beach or men in fishing gear holding up huge strings of pickerel.

  Willy sneaked a handful of starlight peppermint mints out of the glass container on the lobby desk and started to dole them out to us. Before she could give me one, a shrill voice erupted behind us.

  “Wilhelmina DuPont. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Chapter 11

  A well-dressed girl looked down her stubby nose at us. Brassy blond hair hung perfectly on her shoulders, curled under in a pageboy style. “Well?” she demanded. “Now you’re stealing?” Her dark blue eyes flashed. “Is that what it’s come to?” Her accent reminded me of Willy’s, but it sounded more posh.

  Willy turned and dropped the candy back into the dish. “Sorry, Monique.”

  Monique strolled closer. “And who are these hooligans you’ve brought into our establishment?”

  Willy stammered, hanging her head. “They’re my new friends.”

  “From where?” she demanded.

  “Next door.”

  Elsbeth boldly stuck out her hand. “Hello. I’m Elsbeth. This is my twin brother, Siegfried. He’s a math genius. And this is our best friend, Gus. He’s thirteen. We’re twelve.” She pumped the surprised Monique’s arm up and down. “And how old are you?”

  Monique gasped in surprise. “Um. I’m thirteen-and-a-half.”

  “Neat,” Elsbeth said. “We’ve just met Willy and we love her. She’s a wonderful girl. Do you like the Beatles, too?”

  Monique took a step back. “I—I do.”

  “We should have a pajama party. Play all the Beatles songs. Eat popcorn. Do each other’s nails. What do you think?” Elsbeth gushed.

  Willy had recovered and pulled herself up to her full height. “I don’t think Monique does pajama parties, do you?” Her voice had cooled considerably, and she narrowed her eyes at the girl.

  Monique still seemed nonplussed. “I’m sure I can’t say. I’d have to check my schedule.”

  I snorted a laugh. “Check your schedule? It’s summer vacation.” I couldn’t help myself. The girl was so full of herself and had just treated Willy like she was some kind of bug.

  “I do classes daily,” the girl said imperiously. “I teach macramé and pottery.”

  “Impressive,” I said, not meaning it. “Must put a cramp in your free time though.”

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Not at all. It’s very…educational.”

  “I’d rather be out on the water in our boa
t,” I said bluntly, staring her down.

  Monique pointed to a tall young man striding in from the beach. “My brother Pierre is an award-winning water skier. Bet you guys can’t ski.”

  I shook my head. “Never tried it. Never wanted to,” I lied. I pretended disinterest. This girl was really making me mad.

  Willy took Siegfried’s hand and brought him forward. “The twins are from Germany. They escaped the Iron Curtain.”

  Now Monique’s interest piqued. Her eyes flickered back and forth between them. “You’re twins? You don’t even look alike.”

  “It’s called fraternal twins,” I said. “Haven’t you heard of that before?”

  She grimaced at me. “No. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

  Pierre sauntered over to us wearing fancy red, white, and blue swim trunks and an oversized white tee shirt. He looked to be about William’s age, maybe seventeen or eighteen.

  “Nobody invited me to the party,” he drawled in the same accent as his sister. “What’re you kids up to?” With a leer, he sidled up to Willy and fingered her ponytail. “How’s my favorite slave girl?”

  Siegfried reacted before I could. He leaned forward and practically growled. “Hey. That is a horrible thing to say. You should apologize to Willy.”

  “Don’t get all bent out of shape, kid.” Pierre croaked a laugh. “I was just kidding.”

  I bristled. “I don’t think Martin Luther King would think it was very funny.”

  Pierre turned to me as if he’d just noticed me. “Who?”

  Exasperated, I sighed. “Never mind. Guys, let’s get out of here.”

  Willy led us away from the two annoying siblings, heading down to a cluster of small cabins at the bottom of the property. We followed, jabbering about the awful LaFontaine family the whole way there.

  Willy pointed to the closest cabin. “That’s us. Come in, I’d like you to meet my aunt.”

  We tromped up the porch into the little cabin. In the front, a tiny parlor was arranged with a couch, two armchairs, a few tall lamps, and a round table where a pile of laundry sat, neat and folded. In the back, I spotted a bedroom with three narrow cots set up against the walls. A door to the right made me think it could hide a bathroom, since we’d heard all the cabins had indoor plumbing in this place. It wasn’t fancy, though, and it was obvious they’d saved the big money for the paying guests, not for the workers.

  A broad-faced woman came out from the back, beaming. Her hair was covered with a scarf and she wore a white uniform that stretched tightly over her ample figure. “Allo, darling. Who do we have here?” She shuffled forward in fuzzy pink slippers, work-roughened hand outstretched.

  Willy brightened. “Aunt Carmen, these are my new friends. They’re from Loon Harbor, you know the camp just down there?” She pointed out the window. With great care, she introduced us to her aunt.

  “Allo! I’m so happy to see some leetle ones your age who will be around this summer. That’ll get you away from that demon-child, Monique, n’est-ce pas?”

  Willy forced a laugh. “Oui, Auntie.”

  A tall gangly boy came in the front door. “Auntie, they need you up in Suite 14. Somebody’s sayin’ you didn’t clean the sink just right.”

  Carmen rolled her eyes. “Oh, mon Dieu. I don’t know how I will survive this summer.” She sat down heavily, changed into white nurse shoes, and glanced at the kids. “Children, meet my nephew, Bosco. His real name is Bartholemew, but we’s always called him Bosco.”

  We all said hello, introducing ourselves.

  “Pleased to meet you, Bosco,” Elsbeth said, last of all. “Do you work here, too?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m a camp boy.”

  I nodded as if I understood. “It’s a hard job.”

  He laughed. “It is. But how would you know that?”

  “My friend William—our neighbor at home—comes up every summer with his folks and works that job for my grandparents. We’re right next door,” I said, jerking a thumb in the direction.

  He seemed to pause for a moment, quieting. “Oh. I see.”

  Willy prodded him in the ribs, watching her aunt slowly move out the door and up the hill. “Do you think we could invite them to the campfire tonight?”

  Elsbeth’s eyes lit up. “Ooo. A campfire?”

  Bosco frowned. “I don’t know. We never have white folks at those.”

  Siegfried looked offended. “White folks?”

  “Well, I don’t mean nothin’ by it. Just mean you might not get it. It’s Bayou Country stuff. Songs you wouldn’t know. Rituals. Nothing like you know.”

  “I’m a Methodist,” I said evenly. “We have rituals and songs and stuff. But we don’t keep colored people out of our church.”

  “Oh, come on,” Willy begged. “Let them come.”

  Bosco walked to the door. “Only if their folks say it’s okay. I don’t wanna get in trouble for messing with the little white kids.”

  Siegfried and I exchanged a confused look. Neither one of us had ever been referred to by our color.

  I spoke up. “Let me ask my parents about it,” I said. “What time do you start, and where is it held?”

  Willy pointed down to a small cove on the beach. It was away from the main beach and private. “Down there. Starts at seven.”

  My bedtime was nine now that I was thirteen and it was summer. And the twins usually were allowed to hang out with me until then most nights, unless their mother was having another bad spell. I figured we might be able to watch for a little while, even if we couldn’t stay for the whole thing.

  “If we can, we’ll be here. It’s actually just a short walk from Wee Castle. See?” I pointed into the woods. “You can just make out the roof of our cabin from here.”

  Bosco left and Willy offered us a seat. “Anybody want to play cards?” she asked.

  We fell into an easy camaraderie for an hour, until it came close to our dinner shift. At four o’clock, we said goodbye and followed a trail from the main beach to the cove, and then ran along the narrow trail that came up behind Wee Castle.

  With a wave, I climbed the stairs to wash up for my shift. “See you guys in a few minutes.”

  Elsbeth and Siegfried ran like gazelles over the rooted pathway to their cabin, laughing with excitement. “See you,” they said in unison.

  Chapter 12

  Sometimes I am not as honest as I should be. It makes me feel ashamed, especially when my parents are so good to me. But there are just some things a boy can’t resist, and a voodoo campfire is on the top of that list.

  After dinner that evening, I rounded up the twins with a few vague words to my parents as I ran out the door that we’d be “hanging around the living room” and “maybe fishing.”

  After playing a few hands of cards in the living room and casting our lines for a half hour on the Wee Castle dock, Siegfried, Elsbeth, and I dropped all pretenses and hopped onto the lake trail leading to the cove. Stealthily, we trotted along the dirt path, leaping over pine tree roots and ducking under low-hanging branches. It wasn’t dark yet at ten minutes ‘til eight, and in the distance the copper sun hissed into the silhouette of a black horizon.

  We heard the music and smelled the wood smoke before we saw anything. Around the last bend, we stopped and crouched side-by-side behind a clump of tall blueberry bushes. The ceremony was already in full swing, even though we were early.

  About two dozen colored folks gathered around a blazing bonfire that roared at least eight feet high, sending sparks shooting toward the dark overhanging evergreen branches of the tall pines lining the shore. Some played drums, issuing an earthy, vibrant beat that somehow made me feel guilty just listening to it. Others shook dried gourd rattles that seemed to be made from natural materials, painted bright purple and red with shiny beads lining their handles.

  A lone man stood by the water, a flute to his lips. A haunting melody came from the instrument. The music made me feel like crying.

  Six women with colorful
outfits and white bandanas danced around the fire, singing in an unfamiliar language and shrieking with arms outstretched every so often, shocking me to complete silence. I almost stopped breathing.

  I spotted Willy sitting cross-legged beside Bosco at the edge of the fire, tossing branches onto the flames every so often. She seemed quiet and dejected, and I wondered if it was the bad treatment she received earlier at the hands of Monique and Pierre that made her so somber. It still made my blood boil to see how nasty that blonde rich girl was to her, and I wanted to kill Pierre for daring to be such a jerk. How could he call her a slave? In this day and age of freedom marches and civil rights? I shuddered, remembering his haughty attitude.

  Several bottles were making the rounds, being passed from person to person. I recognized the shape as whiskey bottles. It was when I noticed this that I stopped Elsbeth from waving to Willy. I held down her arm.

  She frowned at me. “What?” she hissed. “I just want to see Willy.”

  “Wait. Maybe we’d better just watch tonight.”

  Siegfried had also noticed the liquor and quickly quieted Elsbeth’s protests. “Ja, Elsbeth. Bitte, listen to Gus for this one time. He is right.”

  Out of the woods emerged an older woman, even older than Willy’s Aunt Carmen. She sported long, straggly white hair, wild eyes, and colorful beads that dangled over her full chest. She shouted something to the group of people, walked to the side of the fire, and waited for the group to settle at her feet.

  With a few more shouted words I didn’t recognize, she beckoned to Willy, who stood almost as if hypnotized with the voodoo doll in her hands.

  The old woman waved her hands over Willy’s head and body, chanting low burbling phrases. Willy swayed. The woman grabbed her arms to steady her.

  The singing began to escalate as the whole group joined in, rising fast to an ear-splitting crescendo. Half-shrieks and half-music, the intonation moved in time to the drums that now beat out a steady, increasing rhythm. Faster and faster. Louder and louder. Stranger and stranger. I felt myself swaying in the darkening night and grabbed onto Sig to stop myself from falling.