At Risk (9 page)

She stopped short when she saw Rafe. “You were there last night.”

He nodded. “Eugenia hired my company to investigate the muggings.”

“Uh huh.
And now?”

“We’ll see,” he answered.

Eugenia jumped into the conversation. “Calista, I’m glad we caught you.”

“I was just on my way out,” the voodoo priestess answered.

Was that true, or had she made the sudden plans when she’d seen him and Eugenia?

“We’ll only keep you a minute,” he answered. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I had enough of that from the police last night,” she snapped, then seemed to make an effort to calm herself.

Rafe nodded.
“So did we. But it might be good if we touched bases.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d say the cops are focused on you and Eugenia, and the two of you should compare notes.”

Calista thought about that, then gave a small nod.

“What about the drummer?” Eugenia asked. “Cumberland said he was illegal.”

“He was subbing for my regular guy.”

“Could he have done something to Villars?” Rafe asked.

“I don’t think so.
He didn’t even know Villars. And if somebody hired him to get the man, we’re out of luck because he’s disappeared.”

“How do you know?”

“Justin—the other drummer—told me. He’s the one who recommended Lorenzo.”

“Lorenzo what?

“Dill, but he could have made that up.”

“Do you trust Justin?”

“Yes,” she snapped, and he had the feeling he’d stumbled into a topic she didn’t want to discuss. And not because it had anything to do with the case.

“Could he have tried to frame you for murder?”

“Say what?”

He held up the grocery bag he’d brought along, then turned it over and dramatically dropped the voodoo charm on the counter.
It was still in its inner plastic bag wrapping—to keep outside fingerprints from contaminating the evidence.

She stared at the charm.
“Where did you get that?”

“From Eugenia’s doormat, after we got back from the police station last night.”

“It’s not from me.”

“That was our assumption, but we were hoping you could tell us something about this thing.”

Rafe watched Calista carefully. She was upset.

“What’s your professional opinion of this?”

Calista picked up the bag by the top edge and turned it one way and then the other, looking at the lumpy object inside.

“This is bad . . .” she murmured, then raised her eyes to Eugenia.
“Whoever put it on the doorstep wished you ill. But it’s not skillfully made. The person didn’t know a lot about the voodoo religion.”

Or they were acting like they didn’t, Rafe thought.

“How would they know to make it?” he asked.

She gestured toward well-stocked shelves in the back room.
“There are books about making gris-gris.” She laughed. “Or you could probably get directions on the Internet.”

“Can I keep this?” Calista asked.

“Why?”

“I want to check out the ingredients.”

“We’ll need it back.”

“Of course.”

He cleared his throat. “I want to ask you a question.”

She raised her gaze to his.

“Eugenia says you came to her with the idea of doing Voodoo Night.”

“Yes.”

“How did you think of the idea?”

Her gaze turned inward. “Someone suggested it to me.”

“Who?”

“I do some ceremonies and demonstrations for interested groups.”

“Local groups?” Rafe asked.

“They are often local.
But sometimes there’s a convention in town that wants to show off our unique culture. Eugenia probably told you I was giving a talk at a plantation where she was providing the food.”

He nodded.

“Sometimes I speak to groups interested in New Orleans history. They usually want to hear about Marie Laveau, the famous nineteenth century Voodoo Queen. People still visit her tomb and ask for favors.”

Rafe caught the note of wistfulness in Calista’s voice.
Probably she wished she had the woman’s storied power and influence. Was that possible in today’s world? And what would she do to get it?

“Back to our current situation,” he said.
“You said you didn’t know who suggested Voodoo Night?”

“I’d done a ceremony at a hall you can rent for special occasions like weddings.
And I took some questions from the audience. Someone suggested that I find an upscale place to do ceremonies on a regular basis.”

Rafe kept his gaze on her.
“And who was that?”

“I don’t know.
I had asked audience members to write down their questions on three by five cards. It was on one of the cards.”

“Do you still have it?”

“No.”

“Do you remember who was in the audience?”

“Some of the same people who attended the service last night. Villars. Gertie DeLong and her sister Martha Wilson.”

Interesting, Rafe thought.
And was she telling them everything she knew? Or was she being evasive? About what, exactly?

“Did they explicitly suggest Chez Eugenia?”

“No. I thought of the restaurant later when Eugenia and I happened to be working the same event.” Calista picked up the charm, which was still in the bag, turning it in her hand. “I’ll put this away for now.”

“I don’t think so,” a man said from the doorway.

Chapter Eight

Everybody turned to see Detective Cumberland standing a few feet away looking pleased with himself.

“That thing is evidence, and it should be down at the station house in a secure location.”

Rafe managed not to curse aloud.
But he was pretty sure his face showed his annoyance.

Cumberland looked him up and down. “Did you have sense enough not to get your fingerprints on it?”

“Yeah. We put it into the plastic bag without touching it,” Rafe answered, making an effort to keep his voice even. “And I was going to bring it in, after Calista had a look at it.”

“That wasn’t your decision, and asking questions is my job, not yours.
So I’d appreciate it if you kept your nose out of my investigation.”

Rafe couldn’t stop himself from pointing out the obvious. “This thing was at Ms. Beaumont’s house last night—not in the restaurant.
Technically, it’s not part of your case.”

“We’re dealing with a voodoo ceremony, and you know damn well you should have informed me.”

Rafe wanted to argue that it had been pretty late when they’d found the charm. But he could see there was no use pissing off a police detective.

Cumberland focused on Rafe, and he couldn’t help feeling like a suspect in a mystery novel about to be confronted with a startling revelation.

“I dug a little into your background,” he said in a conversational tone. “Apparently your dad did odd jobs for the Beaumonts—when he was sober enough to know which end of a screwdriver to use.”

Rafe didn’t take the opportunity to protest that his father had stopped drinking years ago.

The detective’s gaze flicked back and forth between Rafe and Eugenia.

“So did the two of you know each other when you were growing up?
Did Gascon cart his little boy to work with him in the Beaumont mansion?” he asked.

“On occasion I came there to work with Dad,” Rafe answered.
“So what?”

“Cumberland shrugged.
I’m examining all the angles. You did a stint in the army, then joined Decorah Security?”

“Didn’t we cover that last night?”

“Not specifically. I don’t like smart-assed dicks poking their noses into my cases and withholding evidence. What is Decorah Security, anyway?”

“A detective agency, like you said.”

“But you specialize in weird cases.”

“What of it?”

“I have to wonder if you’re legit.”

Rafe pulled a business card, and pointed to one of the lines.
“This is our main number. You can call the owner, Frank Decorah, and talk to him if you have any questions about the agency. Or you can go to our Web site.”

“I already did that,” Cumberland said before turning to Eugenia.
“Is the voodoo angle why you hired him? Or was it for old times’ sake?”

“Neither.
It was because the police department wasn’t doing anything about the muggings near my restaurant.”

Cumberland’s eyes narrowed.
Obviously he didn’t like the answer. “Is that why he spent the night at your place? For protection?”

Beside him, Eugenia made a small sound. Rafe kept his gaze fixed on the detective.
“Yeah, for protection. And how is our relationship relevant?”

“Everything’s relevant in a murder.”

“Are you saying you got the coroner’s report—and Villars was murdered?”

“I don’t have to share that information with you.
But until we get information to the contrary, we’re treating it as a murder investigation.”

Before the confrontation could heat up any further, Rafe steered Eugenia out of the shop and down the sidewalk.
Both of them remained silent until they’d gotten back into the car.

“Why does that guy have to be so nasty?” she asked.

“Maybe he’s got some personal involvement we don’t know about,” he answered as he pulled away from the curb and drove slowly away. “Or maybe It’s what Pete said. He’s desperate to solve an important case.”

Eugenia sighed.
“I guess he came around to my apartment and got an earful from good old Ms. Houston.”

“Yeah.
I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”
She turned to him. “How are you reading Calista—after this morning’s discussion?”

“She’s got a personal relationship with the drummer named Justin.”

Her head jerked toward him. “How do you know?”

“I don’t know for sure, but my asking about him made her edgy.”

“What if they cooked up a murder together?”

“I suppose it’s possible, but she’d be playing a dangerous game.
What would be her motivation for going after Villars? She’s trying to build her career, and she doesn’t need to be tainted by suspicion of murder.”

Eugenia shook her head. “In some circles it would be a potent demonstration of her powers.”

“In front of a lot of witnesses,” Rafe pointed out.

“Do you have other people you want to question?”

“Yes. Everybody there. But I want to check something first.” He was already a few blocks from Calista’s shop. He started looking for a parking place. When he found one, he pulled to the curb.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking precautions.”

He climbed out and walked around the vehicle, checking under the bumpers and along the sides.
When his fingers encountered something that shouldn’t be there, he cursed under his breath and got back into the car.

Eugenia studied his expression.
“What is it?”

“Somebody put a tracking device on the car.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone wants to know where we’re going.”

“Who?”

“Cumberland would be a good bet.”

“Is that legal?”

“No, but I don’t think that would stop him.
You might wonder how he showed up at Calista’s shop right after we did.”

“Did you take it off?” she asked anxiously.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve got a better idea.”

He drove back to the parking space in back of the restaurant.
Then he got out of the car, found the device again and removed it—placing it at the entrance to the patio.

“It’s going to look like we came back here and stayed,” he said.

“That’s clever.”

He answered with a shrug.

“What are we doing instead?” she asked as he climbed back into the car.

He wanted to tell her she should go inside and relax, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable with that.
Not when someone had been sneaking around in the alley the night before.

“You had a patron die a few months ago, didn’t you?”

“Uh, yes. I feel like you have a whole case file on me.”

“Actually, I do.”

She sucked in a breath. “I don’t much like that.”

“If I’m going to take a job, I want as much background as possible.
The woman who died was named Wilma Saxon. What can you tell me about her?”

“She was a friend of Gertie DeLong and Martha Wilson.”

“Who started coming to the meetings first?”

“I think they showed up around the same time, but I wasn’t exactly keeping a scorecard.”

“Did she and Villars know each other?”

“I think so, but I wasn’t poking into the backgrounds of my customers.
There wasn’t any reason to do it.”

He looked toward the crime-scene tape blocking the restaurant’s kitchen door. “That was true—before the crawfish etouffee hit the fan yesterday. Now we want to know as much as possible.
Did they pay with credit cards?”

“Some did.
Some didn’t.”

“And you didn’t take the roll each time.”

“That’s right.” She leaned back against the headrest, closed her eyes and thought back over previous Voodoo Nights. “I think the Villars might have been there once or twice before.”

“Okay.”

She sat up straighter and looked at him, then away.

“You had kind of a rough morning,” he murmured.

“So did you.”

“I’m used to being hassled by the local police departments.”

“Why?”

“It’s not just Cumberland.
Some cops resent private detectives dabbling in their cases.”

“You’re not dabbling.”

“If not, from his point of view, then I’m interfering.” When she started to speak, he rushed ahead. “You don’t have to keep defending me. I’m putting it in his terms.”

She kept her eyes on him, and he couldn’t pull his own gaze away from her.

Eight years ago, she’d hurt him badly, and it had taken a long time to get over it. Maybe he never had, since he hadn’t married. But seeing her again had brought back more of the good feelings than the bad ones. For a long time after she’d broken off with him, he’d told himself that rich Miss Beaumont had only been playing with the son of the handyman. And as soon as he’d gone away, she’d forgotten all about him.

He’d resented her for that.
But the resentment had evaporated long ago. Looking back, he’d been enchanted with her, but he hadn’t understood her. Or maybe back then she’d been waiting to find out who she really was. Now he could see what she’d become. She wasn’t trading on her family name to get ahead in the restaurant business. And she was working damn hard to make it. She’d even thought of a creative way to bring more people to her restaurant—although that hadn’t worked out so well.

Coming back to New Orleans and seeing her had generated powerful emotions.
He wanted very badly to kiss her again. Which he knew was a stupid move. But just to prove he could do it without going up in smoke, he bent and brushed his lips to hers.

It was like tossing a match into dry tinder. Heat flared, burning through his resolve.

Or perhaps it was her response that caught and held him. She didn’t resist or pull away. She leaned in, making it clear that she’d been thinking there was unfinished business between them.

Was she trying to test her own reaction to him. He didn’t want to examine her motives.
He just wanted to be with her in the moment.

He gathered her to him, deepening the kiss, angling his head to drink in everything he could from this woman he had wanted for what seemed like centuries.

She moved closer, her arms creeping around his neck as she kissed him with the same intensity. He’d told himself the car was a safe place to kiss her. Not like her apartment where they had too much privacy. Now he couldn’t stop an image of pulling her into his lap so that he could make love with her.

He fought a war with himself, then finally lifted his head, staring into her eyes as they both struggled to drag in full breaths.

“Come inside.”

His body and his emotions urged him to say yes.
Instead he managed to say, “No.”