At Risk (11 page)

“It’s in the Garden District.” He drove up St. Charles, away from the French Quarter to the part of town that had been settled by the English. In the French Quarter, the houses were cheek to jowl, sometimes with courtyards between them like at Eugenia’s restaurant. In the Garden District, the property around each house was more extensive, with elaborately tended green space.

“Only a few blocks from your old house,” he said as he turned onto Halaconia Street.”

“Right. I didn’t know. Shouldn’t we call ahead to let her know we’re coming?”

“Actually, no.
it’s better to take her by surprise.”

“Why?”

“So she doesn’t have time to make up a story.”

“You think she would?”

“It depends on if she’s got something to hide.” He looked toward Eugenia momentarily. “I think our best approach is to put the emphasis on Villars, not her.”

They parked in the driveway of Gertie’s rambling Victorian house.
The driveway led back to a detached garage much like the garage where Rafe and Eugenia had spent so many happy hours, and he felt his stomach clench. Was she thinking about
that
, he wondered as he cut her a quick glance. Maybe, because she turned quickly up the walk that led to the house.

It was one of the New Orleans painted ladies where the siding was one color and the trim was done up in several complementing or contrasting shades.
In this case, the siding was a light mauve, and the trim was in deeper mauve, brown and green, although the paint job was beginning to fade a bit.

When they rang the bell, it took almost a minute for them to hear any sign of movement inside.

“Just a minute,” a voice called.

Finally a wrinkled hand pulled a lace curtain away from the glass at the sidelight. When she saw who it was, Gertie opened the door. Her hair was dyed much too dark, giving her face a pasty appearance.

“Why Eugenia, dear, what are you doing here?”

“We were hoping to get some information about Martin Villars,” Rafe said.

“Oh, that poor man.”

“Can we come in?”

The old woman’s hands fluttered. “Where are my manners? Come out to the garden room. Would you like a glass of iced tea?”

Rafe was about to decline when Eugenia said, “We’d love some.”

He realized that was probably a smart move. Letting Ms. DeLong serve them refreshments would relax her and make the interview go more smoothly.

They walked to the back of the house, through a kitchen that looked like it had been renovated in the nineties, and from there to a room that spanned the back of the house.
It had apparently been converted from a back porch, the screens replaced by a bank of windows that looked out over a huge yard. Wicker chairs and tables were arranged to take advantage of the garden view—which was a bit wilder than Rafe might have expected. Apparently Gertie wasn’t having the garden service as often as she really needed.

“Just have a seat, and I’ll be right back,” Gertie murmured as she bustled away.

Rafe crossed to the nearest window and looked out at the yard, then settled into one of the wicker chairs next to Eugenia.

From digging into her finances, he knew that Gertie was well off, but either she was trying to save money, or she simply didn’t believe in pouring a lot of cash into her property.

She returned in a few minutes carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea, glasses and a plate of cookies.

“Let me,” he said, springing up to take the tray from her and set it on the coffee table.

Their hostess gestured toward the tea and cookies. “Please take some.”

Rafe did.
They were a well-known upscale brand, giving a hint at Gertie’s spending priorities.

She pulled one of the chairs around to face them.

“Do the police know yet what happened to poor Martin?”

“We haven’t heard anything,” Eugenia said after taking a sip of tea. “This is good.”

“Praise from the famous Eugenia Beaumont is praise indeed.”

“I’m not famous,” Eugenia protested.

“You will be. And not for the wrong reasons. Your food is outstanding. And a nice mix of the innovative and the classic.”

“I didn’t know you were a discerning food critic,” Rafe said.

The older woman flushed. “My late husband was very choosy about restaurant meals. He gave me an appreciation for top-notch cuisine.”

“Thank you,” Eugenia said.

“Did you happen to see what Mr. Villars was doing before he went down?” Rafe asked.

She looked abashed. “Sorry. I was watching the voodoo priestess.”

“I think most of us were,” Eugenia agreed.

“Then all hell broke loose, as they say,” the older woman murmured

Eugenia nodded.

“How long have you been going to Voodoo Night?” Rafe asked.

“Off and on since it started,” the older woman said.

“How did you hear about it?” he asked.

“I had gone to a meeting where Calista was giving a demonstration. Then I got a postcard telling me that she was going to be having regular ceremonies at Eugenia’s restaurant.”

Rafe nodded.
“Was Martin Villars at that other demonstration?”

“I don’t think so. There was a large audience.”
She thought for a moment, “but I think Holly, his wife, was there.”

“Why are so many upper- and middle-class white people interested in voodoo, do you think?” Rafe asked.

“I can’t answer for everyone else, but I find it fascinating. It’s so different from our Western tradition. More tied to nature. You know it was brought over by African slaves?”

“Yes.”

“And the New Orleans version is different from the Haitian.”

“How?” Rafe asked.

“The slaves who were brought here were more likely to be kept in family groups than was the custom farther east. That cemented a stronger African community, which meant their culture and spirituality stayed vibrant.”

Rafe nodded.

“And of course gris-gris was more important in the New Orleans version of the religions than the Haitian. It started with amulets for protection—and to poison enemies.”

“Poison.
Interesting.”

“And this is where the voodoo doll tradition comes from.”

“You know a lot about it,” Rafe said.

“If I’m interested in a subject, I do research.”

“On the Web?”

She smiled.
“I do use the Web, but I prefer the old-fashioned way—books.”

“Did you get some from Calista Lacoste’s shop.”

“Why, yes. She had an excellent selection.”

“Did you ever try to make a voodoo charm?”

“Gertie laughed. “I wouldn’t go
quite
that far.”

Rafe leaned toward her. “I also wanted to ask you about Villars’ investment club.”

She looked startled. “How do you know about that?”

“I was checking into his background.
He lost a lot of members’ money when the stock market went down.”

Her face hardened.
“At the time, I was angry about that. Then I decided that he didn’t control the market, and it wasn’t exactly his fault. On the other hand, I never trusted him again with financial matters.”

“That sounds wise,” Eugenia said.

“Would anybody in the club have been angry enough to take revenge?” Rafe asked.

“Oh my, I don’t think so,” Gertie answered, but it was hard to be sure if she was telling the truth or only wishing it was true.

They talked for a few more minutes, before Rafe asked, “Is there anything else you want to tell us?”

Gertie thought for a moment, “Did the priestess get her knife back?”

Rafe’s head swung to her. “What do you mean?”

“I saw it on the floor.
Then I think someone kicked it under the radiator in the scuffle.”

“I don’t know,” Rafe said.
“But we’ll certainly check. Thanks for the tip.”

He wanted to rush back to the restaurant immediately, but he wasn’t simply going to get up and dash out. Finally he said, “Thanks for your help.”

When they got up, he forced himself to keep his pace slow. But apparently he hadn’t fooled Eugenia about his intentions. As soon as they were outside, she said, “You want that knife.”

“Yeah.”

“Why is it important?” she asked as they climbed into the car. “It wasn’t used against Villars.”

“Before the ceremony started, I picked it up—and got one of my visions.”

“I saw that. But you didn’t say much about it—besides that it had happened.”

“At the time, I thought it might be a distraction that I didn’t need.
Now I think it could be important.”

“And you want to go back to the vision and see what you can discover now?”

“Yes.”

“All right. But isn’t the restaurant a crime scene?”

“Yeah, but you’ll go in the back way and see if the knife is where Gertie said it went.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to watch out for the cops—and your nosy neighbor.” He stopped and started again. “Unless you don’t want to risk going in there.”

“I’ll do it.
To get the knife and to see what kind of mess is in there.”

They returned to the restaurant, and Rafe pulled up in the parking space out back.

“If you find it, wrap it in a napkin and bring it out.”

“Okay,” Eugenia answered, glancing back at Rafe, who climbed out of the car and leaned against the fender, watching the alley.
Now that she was here and saw the crime-scene tape again, she didn’t much like breaking the law, but she knew Rafe was right. The knife could be a clue. It was also evidence that Cumberland would want, the same way he’d wanted the gris-gris. But they knew that Villars hadn’t been stabbed, so the knife could only be marginally useful to the cops. On the other hand, it could give Rafe a lot of information. She hoped.

She looked back at him, then unlocked the kitchen door and ducked under the tape so she could step inside.
When she closed the door, the room was dark inside, but she knew she couldn’t turn on the lights. Instead she waited for her eyes to adjust, then winced when she took in the scene.

The room was the way she had left it.
She and her sous-chef, David, had partially cleaned up after the dinner, but she hadn’t gotten a chance to finish the job because she’d been busy with her guests. And David and her dishwasher had been herded out with everyone else.

She was always prompt with clean up.
Now she stood for a moment with her hands on her hips, staring at the mess of day-old, dirty pots and pans, plus some dishes that had come back from the dining room. Stifling the urge to start putting things into the sink, she tiptoed through the kitchen, conscious of the way her footsteps echoed on the tile floor. Her breath caught when she saw the real mess, which was in the dining room. Nobody had touched the place except the crime-scene techs, who had left a disaster. Some tables and chairs were overturned, scattering food and pieces of broken plates onto the floor. Other plates of day-old food still sat on tables.

And Calista’s equipment was still in the restaurant, including the drums that the men had been using and the women’s tambourines.
She’d have to arrange to get those back to her when it was all right to come in here.

Eugenia wrinkled her nose as she wove her way through the wreckage.
The knife had started on the table with the other voodoo paraphernalia, like the candles and the skull. But Calista had picked it up. And Gertie said it had gone under the radiator.

Eugenia got down on her hands and knees, reached under the radiator, and felt nothing.
Was Gertie wrong?

She crawled along on all fours, still searching blindly for the knife. When a piece of broken plate nicked her hand, she made a strangled sound, then involuntarily looked up to make sure nobody had heard her.

Pulling out her hand, she looked at the small drop of blood she’d drawn and wiped it away on the leg of her jeans.

Moving more cautiously, she kept looking for the knife.
Just when she was about to give up, she finally found it wedged against the baseboard. After pulling it out, she held it up to the light, examining the ornate handle. It was the knife she remembered from the night before.

After wrapping it in the napkin, she started for the back door.

She stopped in her tracks when she heard Rafe talking to someone. Of all the people it could have been, it turned out to be detective Cumberland.

“What are you doing here?” the detective said.

“Eugenia’s apartment is upstairs. That’s not a crime scene, is it?” Rafe said, pitching his voice loud enough to make sure she would hear it from inside.

“No.
But it would be a crime to go inside the restaurant. She could tamper with evidence in there. Where is she?”