Case of the Ragin' Cajun Page 5

  “Bill? Griff? Guys, you need to see this.”

  “Is it in there?” I repeated, growing more curious by the second. “What is it? Can you tell?”

  The woman gingerly reached into the heart of the plant and pulled out something the size of her hand. She held it up for all to see.

  It was a voodoo doll, complete with several pins stuck in various places.

  THREE

  “Tell me it’s just a child’s toy,” I said, addressing the lady tech. “It’s just a fluke, isn’t it? You can’t possibly tell me that doll is the real thing.”

  The woman shrugged. Holding the doll between her thumb and forefinger, she studied it for a few moments before dropping it into an empty evidence bag, but not before I managed to snap a picture of it.

  “Whether it is, or isn’t, we’re not going to take any chances. We’ll see if we can recover any DNA from the doll. Was there anything else?”

  I looked down at the dogs. Was there?

  “Is there anything else you want us to look at in here, guys?”

  “You’re talking to your dogs as though they can understand you,” the woman said to me, wearing a puzzled frown.

  “It’d take too long to explain,” I chuckled. “Let’s just say both Sherlock and Watson are way more observant than I’ll ever be.”

  “Does anyone else want to get some lunch?” Vance casually asked.

  Jillian, Tori, and I all turned, with the same expression on our faces.

  “What?” Vance sputtered, growing defensive. “Isn’t anyone else hungry? I haven’t had anything since breakfast, and certainly don’t want to get anything here.”

  “People were poisoned,” Tori reminded him. “We don’t know if they’re going to survive.”

  I snapped my fingers. “And someone might’ve been run through with … with …”

  “A large jousting pole?” Vance dryly asked. “Voodoo is just a load of malarkey.”

  I shook my head. “It really isn’t. It’s a legitimate religion, practiced by an estimated sixty million people.”

  “You made that up,” Vance accused.

  “I really didn’t,” I admitted. “I looked it up once I saw the voodoo doll.”

  “Sixty million?” Jillian repeated. “I did not know that.”

  “Neither did I,” Tori added.

  I raised a hand. “I’ll willingly join the club. I never would have dreamed there were so many people who practice voodoo on a daily basis. Makes you wonder just how authentic it is, doesn’t it?”

  Vance hooked a thumb back in the direction of the food court. “You’re wondering if the person who died back there was also jabbed through the heart? I think that would be the mother of all coincidences.”

  My arms were folded across my chest. “You said someone died back there. What if … what if there was a teeny, tiny puncture wound on the chest? Would that not suggest …?”

  “I did see blood on the guy’s chest,” Vance confirmed. “But, that doesn’t mean he died because some doll was stuck with a couple of pins. Tell you what. If it turns out that …”

  “Really?” Tori interrupted. “You’re making another wager with Zack? Don’t you recall what happened last time?”

  Tori was referring to the mother of all Kodak moments, when—as a result of losing a wager about a missing Egyptian pendant—Vance had agreed to don a Peter Pan outfit, complete with matching tights, and take a tap dancing class. That particular video still rakes in hundreds of new views daily on the Internet.

  “Yeah, all right, maybe not,” Vance conceded. “All I’m trying to say is that we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  Ten minutes later, we were walking along Royal Street. Granted, Bourbon Street was much more popular, but then again, that was also why we weren’t taking it. There had to be at least four times as many people milling about as there were on Royal. Plus, Jillian had found a nice little café with an outdoor pet-friendly patio there, called Café Beignet. My fiancée had sold me on the restaurant the moment she had read me the definition of beignet: a French donut.

  As we approached the front entrance of the restaurant, we stopped just outside the front doors and inspected the menus, which were set into a display on the wall.

  “Oooh, this looks good, Zachary. I’ll bet that mushroom omelet is fantastic. What about you? Do you see anything you like?”

  “Quite a few,” I said, nodding. “This ham and cheese omelet looks good, as does the French toast, the Belgian waffle, or maybe …”

  “Guys?” Vance interrupted. “It’s lunchtime.”

  “Oh.” My gaze dropped several inches to look at the lunch offerings. “Well, we have some good-looking sandwiches. The Royal Croissant looks good. I think I’ll order that. Jillian? What about you? I think you’d like … what are the dogs doing? Sherlock? This stuff isn’t for you, pal.”

  “What’s he doing?” Vance asked, as he leaned around me to look at the corgis.

  I pointed at the menu. “If I didn’t know any better, then I’d say he wants to order something, too.”

  Both Sherlock and Watson had reared up on their hind legs, with their front legs resting on the wall, in an effort to get closer to the menus. My curiosity finally won me over. I stooped to pick up Sherlock and I held him next to the menus.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this. There. You see, Sherlock? There’s nothing here but a simple, boring menu. It’s nothing a corgi would like.”

  “Awwwwooooooo,” Sherlock argued, uttering a low howl.

  “There must be something on the menu that he wants us to notice,” Jillian decided.

  “We’re not working a case,” I reminded her.

  Jillian shrugged. “Tell that to them.”

  “Fine. There. I took a picture of the menu. Will that appease Your Royal Highnesses?”

  Both dogs immediately settled down. Shaking my head, my phone was returned to my pocket, and I waited outside while Jillian and Tori headed inside to see about getting a table. Once we were comfortably sitting outside on Café Beignet’s patio, Jillian held up her glass of lemonade and smiled at the three of us.

  “Here’s to New Orleans, and to Zachary, for making this all possible.”

  I held up my glass of soda and nodded at Vance. “Here’s to Vance for suggesting one helluva idea.”

  Tori, knowing full well that Vance should be the next to raise his glass and offer his thanks, presumably to me, elbowed him in the gut and held her lemonade up, expectantly. My friend sighed, reached for his own lemonade, and held it up.

  “All right, fine. Here’s to Zack, for being a good writer and a better friend. Thanks for including us.”

  I clinked my glass against his. “You’re welcome, amigo. And, for the record, that sounded painful. Was it?”

  Vance laughed. “You have no idea.”

  “So, who has never had a beignet before?” Jillian eagerly asked, after a waitress appeared and set down the tray of donut appetizers.

  I raised a hand. “I don’t recall ever eating these things before.”

  Jillian pushed my hand down. “You had some at Disneyland with me last year. Granted, they were shaped like Mickey Mouse, but they were just as tasty. Still don’t remember? You ordered the pumpkin-flavored one.”

  Ah, now it clicked, and I’m sure my face lit up.

  “Oh, I remember that pumpkin donut thing. You’re right. It was very good.”

  “Have either of you guys ever been to Café Du Monde?” Tori asked. “I hear their beignets are really good, too.”

  I was shaking my head no, but I stopped when I saw Jillian nodding.

  “These are better,” Jillian was saying. “The beignets at Café Du Monde are smaller and crispier. These ones are much larger, and as a result, they’re softer.”

  The waitress stopped by to top off our (nearly) empty glasses. A pitcher of lemonade was produced, and promptly left on the table after three of the glasses were filled. Mine was the only odd one out, since it had soda i
n it. But, before I could say anything, a second glass of soda appeared next to my empty one. Smiling my thanks, I noticed the small leather pouch swinging from the waitress’ neck.

  It looked homemade to me. The pouch was about the size of a silver dollar. It was made of a dark leather, with a lighter color cord forming the pouch. A mixture of small red and green beads were sewn onto the center of the pouch, creating a geometric design. The waitress caught me staring and gently clasped the pouch in her hand.

  “Do you like it? I made it myself.”

  Both corgis were watching the waitress intently.

  “I do. If you made that, then you did a great job.”

  “It’s my own version of a gris-gris. It’s my good luck charm. You can find them for sale just about everywhere around here.”

  I held up a hand. “Okay, what did you call that thing? A gris-gris?”

  “It’s an amulet,” the waitress explained. “It protects the wearer from evil.”

  I nodded. “Good to know.” After the waitress moved off, I leaned forward. Anticipating I wanted to share something, but only with the three of them, Vance, Tori, and Jillian leaned forward, too. “Let me ask you guys something. That voodoo doll the dogs found? Do you think it has anything to do with that … that … you know what? I don’t remember what it was called. Jillian? That voodoo symbol thingamajig? What was it called?”

  “A veve.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Right. A veve. It’s clearly symbolic, and since we found that doll, I can’t stop thinking about how much I really don’t know about anything and everything voodoo. And that good luck charm the waitress was wearing? Would anyone like to wager on whether or not it has some type of a voodoo connection?”

  Jillian pointed northeast. “If you’re interested, Zachary, Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo is about two blocks that way.”

  “House of Voodoo?” I slowly repeated. “Seriously?”

  Tori was nodding. “Oh, yeah, it’s world famous.”

  I looked at Vance, who shrugged. It would appear the good detective knew just as much about Marie Laveau as I did. Mistaking my silence as reluctance, Jillian pulled up the store’s website and showed it to me on her phone. What I saw had my eyebrows jumping straight up.

  This store was jam packed full of some of the strangest things I had ever laid eyes on. A bright, colorful assortment of masks was hanging on one wall. On another, I could see what looked like a selection of various shrunken heads. Then, unsurprisingly since this was New Orleans after all, I saw rows and rows of beaded necklaces. Racks of clothing, emblazoned with the store logo and the Marie Laveau name in every creepy font imaginable hung on pegs on the opposite wall. Pamphlets, books, and brochures were situated near the cashier. And, I should mention that, everywhere I looked, I could see strange scribbles, designs, and pictographs. Jillian told me later that they were, in fact, more examples of veves.

  Long rectangular glass display cases ran the length of the store on the left, and in them? Tiny figurines, multi-sided die, flashy trinkets, bits of jewelry, and decks of Tarot cards. That was just one of the display cases I could see. In an adjacent case, I saw all manner of dolls, complete with convenient packs of assorted pins to accompany them. For the record, the picture was too small to tell if the voodoo doll we had found had been sold from this store.

  Incredible. The more I looked, the more I felt a headache brewing. Then again, I think that was because the store was so bizarre, and there were so many things to look at, that my eyes kept jumping around, as if I couldn’t decide what I should be focusing my attention on. But, with that being said, I was nodding my head long before Jillian suggested we should stop by. I don’t care if that place gave me the mother of all migraines. I wanted to go.

  Tori pulled up the same website on her phone so she could show Vance.

  “What do you think?” Vance asked me, after he had silently studied the phone for nearly five minutes. “Do you think this place is legit, or do you think it just caters to tourists?”

  “Probably a bit of both,” I decided. “We just have to hope there’s someone there who knows what they’re talking about.”

  Twenty minutes later, we were walking along Royal Street, chatting about the events of the day, when the dogs pulled me to a stop. Conversations died off as the four of us watched Sherlock and Watson—in unison—sniff the air. Making sure I wasn’t being watched, I did the same.

  “Are they H?” Jillian softly asked.

  I checked the time on my phone. “They’ve got a few hours, so they should be good. Although, in their defense, whatever that is sure smells good.”

  Jillian delicately sniffed the air.

  “Smells like some type of soup. Based on the ingredients I can smell, I can most certainly recommend you don’t try it, Zachary.”

  “It doesn’t smell too bad,” I admitted.

  “I can smell spinach, artichokes, and lima beans.”

  “You can smell all of that? Good thing we already had lunch. Ah. Look, they must be smelling this place, the Crawfish Shack.”

  The four of us hesitated as we passed a small wooden shack with its front doors wide open. Well, it certainly looked as though it lived up to its name.

  “If they’re hambre,” Vance quietly said, as though my dogs could understand Spanish and could figure out someone had just said hungry, “then why didn’t they react to the last two restaurants we passed? Why show any interest in this one?”

  I looked at the restaurant. This one, according to the sign, specialized in crawfish. I looked at Vance and shrugged. Tugging the leashes, we returned to the sidewalk, anxious to be on our way. At least, that’s what I tried to do. Both leashes became taut as I realized neither dog had budged an inch.

  “Guys? Come on. We’re headed that way.”

  Sherlock looked at me and tilted his head, as though I had just made a strange noise. Jillian pointed at a nearby sign.

  “Look, Zachary. It’s their menu. Do you see anything that stands out?”

  I checked the restaurant’s offerings. I would definitely not be eating here. Crawfish cakes, crawfish burger, raw crawfish, crawfish stuffed salad, crawfish soup, and even crawfish gumbo. Blech.

  “Just a whole lot of crawfish dishes I never knew existed. Really, guys? Are you telling me you want to try their crawfish?”

  There’s nothing quite like when your dogs look at you and you know they think you’re the stupidest thing on two legs. In this case, Sherlock was staring at me with a look on his face which said, Really?

  Sighing, I pulled out my cell and snapped a few shots, being sure to include the name of the place, the building, and then the menu. Even before I could ask, both corgis were on their feet and eager to resume their walk.

  Dogs.

  Ten minutes later, we found the voodoo place, and oh what a place it was. Once again, my eyes darted from wall to wall, from counter to floor, from floor to ceiling. Every available square inch of surface space had something on it. In fact, most had two somethings.

  “My, my, what ’ave we ’ere?” a chipper woman in her late thirties asked, once we stepped foot into Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo. She was tastefully dressed in a violet blouse and black slacks, and had her long brown hair pulled up and away from her face. “You not from around ’ere, are you?”

  There was an accent on the woman’s voice, only I couldn’t place it. No, scratch that. It wasn’t how she was speaking, since I could understand her completely, but the way she was saying the words. After a few moments, it came to me. I know what she’s doing. She was leaving some letters out, but even after omitting parts of the sentence, I could still follow along.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, as I approached the counter. “And you’re right. We are not from around here. In fact, the four of us are from Oregon.”

  “Or’gon?” the woman repeated, grinning. “What you doin’ all the way out ’ere?”

  “Zachary is a writer,” Jillian explained. “We were at a book signin
g when things became, uh, a little crazy.”

  “Is that where the police ’eaded? Saw cop cars tear up the street a few ’ours ago.”

  “That was it,” Jillian confirmed. She held out a hand. “I’m Jillian Cooper. I love your shop.”

  The woman took my fiancée’s hand and smiled. “Brittany Macarty. You can call me Britt.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Britt,” Jillian returned. “This is my fiancé, Zachary. Over there are our good friends, Vance and Tori Samuelson. And finally, before I forget, down there are Sherlock and Watson.”

  Brittany raised up on her tiptoes to look over the counter. When she spotted the corgis, she grinned. “Thought I ’eard dog collars. Hello down there.”

  Sherlock and Watson craned their necks to look up at the friendly clerk.

  “Thanks for allowing them in here,” I said. “Not many places are dog friendly.”

  “No food served here,” Britt told us. “Clean up after them, then there no problem ’ere.”

  I pulled up the picture of the voodoo doll Sherlock found on my phone. I held it up in a questioning manner.

  “Can you tell us anything about this?”

  Britt took my phone and studied the picture.

  “Well, each doll is different. You expecting rules? Nope. No rules. Dolls ’ave different functions.”

  Vance and Tori wandered close. Brittany began counting off her fingers.

  “First, we ’ave love. Ninety-percent of all dolls be asking for ’elp with love.”

  “Like, I want this person to fall in love with me?” Vance asked.

  “You’d think that, but no,” Brittany said, shaking her head. “Most common be the return of a lover.”

  “You learn something new every day,” I whispered to Jillian, who promptly shushed me.

  “Second most popular?” Brittany said, looking at the four of us. “Keeping faithful.”

  “What about the pins?” I asked. “If you say most dolls are used for love, then why do we always find these things skewered with long pins?”

  Britt shook her head with disgust. “American television and movies always mess up the facts. A pin on a doll doesn’t mean someone wants you dead. It means something attached to the doll.”