Hoodoo Woman (Roxie Mathis Book 3) (4 page)

Madame Roxella’s Hoodoo Supplies was growing slowly but steadily since I hung out my shingle on the internet. Mardi Gras had given me an uptick in orders. Now it was back to several things a week, mostly candles and mojo bags. The little red spell bags had been a specialty of mine for years. I made them for all sorts of purposes now. Love, gambling, general success and good luck. The ones for luck and love were the most popular.

Every once in a while I got an email asking for more personalized help. Somebody would want help that was tailored just for their needs, the kind of thing my teacher Rozella Kent used to set up altars for in her house to do sustained workings. A client might hire her for a spell to make a court case go their way. She’d set up everything needed and burn candles for however long she thought necessary, or however long the client was willing to pay. Such a traditional practice was something I’d always avoided but lately I’d been doing some things like that for locals. It wasn’t something I offered through my online store yet.

I spent the morning pouring wax into candle molds, four and six inch altar candles in a rainbow of colors. I could have ordered the things wholesale but I’d always enjoyed making my own. Each batch of color meant for a different purpose, it was satisfying work to weave intention into the wax, simple spells meant to connect with the need of the person who burned them. I had to call everything a curio item, of course, but they worked. Well, as much as a buyer believed they would. Half of magic was intention, half was energy, and half was believing in the efficacy of the working. Rozella had taught me that. I remembered being contrary and pointing out that was three halves. She’d rightly told me to hush and get back to work.

My workroom was set up in the large master bedroom of the trailer. I needed more room for my business than a place to sleep, so my bed was on the other end in the smaller space. Leaving the candles to cure, I cleaned up the big wooden work-table that had been a gift from Daniel when I started the business. Afterward I turned to the three small altars set up along the wall on the right side. One client had hired me to create a success spell as he started work on a new album. Another was a spell to help a client find a better job. The third was a love spell, something I was reluctant to work but the woman didn’t want to influence a particular man, she just wanted to bring love into her life. I used candles, herbs, and other items that corresponded with each intention and spent time at each altar every day for the duration of the working.

Sometimes Stack showed up to act his role of supernatural assistant, sometimes he didn’t. Today there was no sign of him. I didn’t worry about it, just got down to business. For each case I’d written a personalized spell. I spent about fifteen minutes on each rite, the air in the room humming with magic. Once I finished with the last one I swept the room, both literally and metaphysically, to ground any stray energy and leave the room fresh for the next time.

Next on my list of chores was some exciting laundry magic I called “making my own detergent.” I brought a bar of homemade soap grated into tiny crumbles, a couple of other ingredients, and a five-gallon bucket into the kitchen. The crumbled soap went into a saucepan full of water on the stove to melt. That took a while so I cleaned the counters while I waited. I was halfway through wiping down the space for the coffee pot and accoutrements when someone knocked on the door.

It was daylight so it wasn’t Daniel. I tensed, thinking it might be Blake. I lowered the temperature on the stove eye and went to the door with reluctance. Pausing with my hand on the knob, I squinted behind my glasses and took a peek into the auric field. A blend of yellows and oranges with a strong base of earthy green stood on the other side of the door. I knew that blend of colors and the man whose strong, generous heart created them.

I flung the door open. “Ray Travis! What are you doing here?” I beamed at him.

The big beefy deputy sheriff from my hometown filled the doorway with his outsized charm and still-boyish good looks. Light blue eyes crinkled along with the wide smile he gave me. “Hi, Roxie. May I come in?”

“Of course you can!” I ushered him inside. He hugged me, tighter than he should have considering how long it had been since we’d dated, but I didn’t care. He felt solid and secure and warm as a blanket in front of a fire on a winter’s night. I returned the hug, feeling on safe ground for the first time in I couldn’t remember when. The sensation shocked me. I pushed it away as I stepped out of his arms. “What brings you to Nashville?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been to Bass Pro Shop. I could use a new tackle box.” He removed a brown leather bomber jacket, revealing a dark green long-sleeve button-down shirt over a pair of jeans. The shirt was a hair too tight across his biceps, the jeans snug on his trim waist. Dark wavy hair fell across his forehead, threaded with a bit of gray. Being a cop was so ingrained in his personality that even in civilian clothes he seemed to be in uniform. I was sure he had his badge and personal handgun on him or in his car.

“Like you couldn’t get a tackle box at Lairds? Come on, Ray.” I took his jacket and waved for him to sit. “What gives?”

“Can’t I come see an old friend?”

Ray and I had dated before I left Blythe and moved to Nashville years ago. Last year a case took me home with great reluctance, for as short a time as physically possible. The trip involved visiting a cemetery so luckily the only person I ran into was the deputy sent to investigate a call about a suspicious vehicle at the church. Seeing my old boyfriend had been weird, especially having Blake there with me, but it had been good, too.

“Want some coffee?” I started making some without waiting for an answer. Ray never turned down a cup of coffee.

“Please, ma’am.” Instead of sitting on the couch he joined me in the kitchen. Tall and well-built, he took up a lot of room in the small space. Years ago I’d found him a calming presence. As the tension in my shoulders eased I realized that still held. He pointed at the pot on the stove. “What’s that, some special brew?”

Some things had changed. Whereas once his voice would have held a teasing note, now there was curiosity. I said, “Yeah, it’s called laundry detergent.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Gone hippie, huh?”

“Nah, it’s just cheaper and I know what goes in it.” I winked. “Witches are big do-it-yourselfers.”

“I remember.” He leaned against the opposite counter, one big hand resting on the side of the sink. “How’s your business doing? The website looks good.”

I’d mentioned it to him in a Christmas card, never expecting him to actually look at it. “Not bad. Mardi Gras was good. It takes a while, you know.”

Ray took a folded slip of paper from his shirt pocket and held it out. “Think you could make me a candle or two? The place always smelled good when I burned those homemade candles of yours.”

I took the paper, glancing at the list. Two vanilla bean candles - what I used to make for him because he liked the scent so much. The white sage house blessing kit was a surprise. “I have some of this in stock now but I’d have to mail you the candles.”

He gave me the smile that used to melt all my good sense. “Or you could take a trip out to Blythe and bring them to me.”

“You know I don’t go home.” I stirred the detergent then retrieved a pitcher to transfer water to the bucket.

“You did last year. Why not visit again? Stay a little longer this time.”

I focused on mixing everything into the bucket, wanting to get it done and have a cup of coffee myself. After working non-stop all morning, much of it magical work, I was tired and in need of a break. “What would I do there? Catch up with all the people who thought it was so clever that witch rhymes with bitch?”

He didn’t answer. Really, what could he say? He did offer to help, so I let him dump water in the bucket while I poured and stirred ingredients. Then he carried the heavy container to the laundry room for me while I made our coffee. We sat at the tiny breakfast nook to drink and talk.

“You planning on rebuilding?” He knew I’d lost my house in the flood.

I sighed. “If I can ever get the money. I got a FEMA check but the insurance dicked me over.”

“What about a loan?”

I didn’t want to talk about my finances. “I’m trying to save as much as I can.”

With forced casualness he said, “You still with that shady fella?”

Just as casually I answered, “He’s out of town for a while.”

“Everything okay?”

I didn’t answer, which was answer enough. He wasn’t here to talk about my love life or my business, though. “Why are you really here, Ray?”

He took a drink of coffee then looked away and rubbed his jaw. I remembered that move. Something was up and he was making a decision. After a moment he met my eyes. “There’s something going on back home.”

“What is it?”

Now he was all cop. “Britney Parker, twenty-four, found face down in the water down by the landing.” He meant Blythe Landing, the marina and state park on Kentucky Lake about a fifteen-minute drive from downtown Blythe. “Her blood alcohol level was twice the legal limit and there was marijuana in her system. Empty beer bottles in her car, half a joint and a dime bag. The coroner ruled it accidental before I could do much in the way of investigating. He’s friends with her family.”

“Her family? She one of
the
Parkers?”

He nodded once, rubbing his jaw again. Something about this made him nervous and that wasn’t like him.

I said, “I always thought those people were like something out of those Faulkner books I read the Cliff’s Notes to in high school.” A rich, powerful, small-town clan, I’d done my best to avoid them as much as my mother had done her best to curry favor with them.

Ray took a long swallow of coffee in a manner that suggested he wished it were laced with something stronger. “I think she was murdered.”

“Why?”

“Because her ghost wrote the word
murdered
on my refrigerator with a can of whipped cream.”

Taken aback, I raised my eyebrows. “Well, don’t that beat all?”

Growing up in Blythe, I never had any interest in who was rich and powerful or who was poor and powerless. We were middle class. I was never popular in school but it never bothered me either. I had too much else on my mind, like learning how to control my burgeoning ability to see into the auric field. Everything changed when magic entered my life, then changed again when I met my mentor Rozella. I won’t pretend I didn’t have typical teenager moments but a lot of that kind of stuff went over my head as I concentrated on learning spells, energy work, and not getting caught with white sage under the bed and it being mistaken for something else by my clueless parents.

Even though I lived in my own bubble of weirdness much of the time, I still knew who the Parkers were. Several generations ago they started building their wealth in the lumber business, augmented by bootlegging according to local legend. Through the decades they diversified into real estate and construction. A few members of the clan branched out into other lucrative areas such as acting as a fishing guide - the wacky drunk uncle of the generation older than me - serial marriage to doctors, lawyers, and the like - any number of women in the family - and a few wild cards reputed to be dealers of one kind of drug or another. Upscale dealers with country club memberships thanks to their last name, but drug dealers nonetheless. The streak of wildness and defiance that had led the family into the moonshine business could not be tamed with any number of well-bred marriages or pretense to high society.

From what Ray was telling me it sounded like Britney Parker got plenty of the old DNA.

He said, “If the case hadn’t been closed before it was even really open, I’d been interviewing no telling how many men about their relationships with her.”

I grimaced, as much at the hint of disapproval in his tone as the implications. “So she liked to date, so what?”

Ray gave me a look. “Don’t be like that. That’s not what I’m getting at. But she dated older men.”

“Did she, now? Well, then. We all know what’s going on with older men and younger women.” I had been nineteen when Ray and I started seeing each other, while he was just shy of thirty.

He pressed his lips together, brows lowered, a pinched, impatient look in his eyes, as if he couldn’t decide whether to be upset or wave whatever was bothering him away, annoyance in his blue eyes. I used to call that his grumpy teddy bear expression. I suppressed a laugh with a sip of coffee.

“That’s different,” he said. “I’m not old enough to be your daddy. And I wasn’t married, either.” He wagged a finger at me. “And you were legal when we dated.”

“Last time I checked twenty-four was legal.”

“She wasn’t when she first started drinking and carousing. I drove her home more than once, drunk or high or both. They should have sent the girl to rehab.”

“Why didn’t they?” I’d often wondered how Ray felt about the parts of his job that butted up against certain unpleasant realities, like families too rich and connected for the law to touch them. At nineteen it wasn’t something I’d had the nerve to ask, though.

It was his turn to grimace. “You know how those people are. They’d rather deny there’s a problem so they ignore it. Or tell themselves if they sent her or Mackie off to rehab, then people would talk. Hell, people talk about them being drunks.”

Mackenzie Parker, useless middle son of the current patriarch, which would make him Britney’s uncle, was a fishing guide and all around raconteur. About ten years older than Ray if I recalled correctly. He’d hit on me once, good-natured about it when I shot him down. He’d laughed and mumbled something about having better luck if he’d been wearing a uniform. That had been my first clue my secret thing with Ray wasn’t so secret after all.

I pushed away old memories and said, “So she dated older men, married men. Think one of them could have killed her? Maybe been jealous or maybe they wanted more and she didn’t? Or vice versa?”

“None of them will talk to me and with it declared an accident, I don’t have the authority to make anybody answer any questions. Not her boyfriends, those bitchy little girls she called friends, or her damn family. I can’t do anything.” Frustration deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth. Like the touch of gray in his hair, those lines showed his age but didn’t do a thing to detract from his handsomeness.

I pushed my glasses up, blinking away the dark earthy green that spilled from his aura. “Tell me about seeing her ghost.”

He leaned heavily on his forearms resting on the table, fingers restless on the coffee cup. “It was night. Getting on toward time for bed. I was hungry, so I fixed a piece of the pie somebody gave me.”

The faint blush on his cheeks was too much temptation. “Somebody gave you a pie? Homemade?”

His chin jerked, challenge sending a few ripples through his aura. “Strawberry.”

“Your fondness for strawberry pie is legendary.
Somebody
must want you bad.”

“Believe it or not, I’m still considered quite the catch back home. Women offer me pie all the time.”

“I just bet they do.” I tamped down my amusement and did my best to ignore the faint twinge of jealousy. “Go on.”

“So I take my slice of pie and a cup of coffee to the living room and then I realize I forgot the whipped cream. I’d left it setting out but forgot to put any on the pie. I take the plate back into the kitchen and there she is, right in front of the fridge. I can see clear through some of her, like she’s made of smudged glass. The can is in the air and she’s writing on my fridge with it. Then she turns around and I get a real good look at her. There’s no doubt in my mind who she is. She steps to the side and looks at the fridge, like she wants to point out what she wrote. It says
murdered
in big white letters. Then she looks at me again. I’m trying to make my brain work and say something but before I can get it in gear, the can hits the floor and she’s gone.”

I considered everything he said for a long moment. If Ray said he saw a ghost I believed him. When we first got involved he hadn’t believed in anything remotely supernatural. It took seeing some of what I could do to convince him I wasn’t just flaky, that magic was real. When I saw him last year he’d said things that implied he’d become more open-minded over the years, but I knew that didn’t mean he’d fall for any trick or lie.

“The heat was on?”

Ray nodded, bringing the coffee to his lips. “Yeah but it was cold when I went back to the kitchen. Stayed that way the short time the ghost was there.” He took a drink then grimaced. The coffee must have gotten cold.

“Could you see your breath?”

“Yes.” He withdrew his cellphone from a belt holster. “I took some pictures of the fridge.”

The tips of our fingers touched as he passed the phone. White whipped cream letters stood out on the black refrigerator. Next was a shot of the can on the floor. I thumbed a button, expecting to see more of the incident but instead got a fish. Smiling, I handed the phone back.

“Still fish, huh?”

“Of course. How else am I going to drink beer and relax?” He replaced the phone. “So what do you think?”

“Even without the pictures, I believe you. I don’t know what to tell you about getting the case reopened. If the Parkers want it closed, that’s it.” I left my seat and headed for the work room. “I can give you the white sage and a simple house blessing spell to keep her from coming back.”

Ray followed. “I appreciate it but what about the rest of the town?”

I stopped at the doorway of the work room to face him. “What do you mean?”

“How do I stop her from haunting the rest of the town? Because that’s what she’s doing, Roxie.”

I searched his face for the joke, the punch line, something to indicate he was kidding. All I found was dead seriousness.

Because when a ghost is haunting an entire town, what other kind of serious would it be but dead?

Before I had a chance to say anything Ray spoke. “There’s been sightings of her in places she frequented all over town. My fridge isn’t the only place where she’s left graffiti. She left the same message on the bathroom mirror of one of her boyfriends while he was in the shower. Another had it scrawled on the hood of his truck with motor oil while he was underneath it about to change the oil. One of that group of girls she was friends with admits to seeing her ghost. I suspect there’s more than one. The electricity in the Parker house has been crazy but every contractor that’s been out there swears there’s nothing wrong with the wiring. Same with the pipes. Then there was an incident at the high school.”

“What happened?”

“It was during a basketball game. The place got cold, like the heat quit working. The lights flickered several times then started flashing. The PA system went off, then all of a sudden it started blaring a Pink song.”

“A Pink song?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or what.

“
Don’t Let Me Get Me
. One friend of hers willing to talk to me said it was her favorite song.”

“So it was probably someone else that knew her pulling a prank.”

Ray hustled to the leather jacket I’d left draped over the arm of the couch, searching an inside pocket. He returned to my side with a small clear plastic evidence bag. “This was smeared all over the PA equipment. You know better than I what this is.”

With reluctance I took the bag. A black residue was smeared inside. A single look with my auric vision told me it was ectoplasm. A ghost strong enough to leave behind this much of the stuff was plenty powerful.

“You said there was a woman who might be a practitioner.”

“She’s not. Just a Wiccan who reads tarot cards. I tried talking to her about Haschall and I think I scared her so I backed off.”

Haschall was the ghost I’d sent back to the tiny spot he’d been haunting until the chaotic energy of the flood allowed him to break the wards holding him prisoner. If there was no local practitioner to refresh those wards on a regular basis I’d either have to find someone or do it myself. The thought of having to go back and do it myself didn’t thrill me.

“What do you want from me, Ray?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

“Come home, babe. Help me solve this poor girl’s murder so her ghost will rest. I think that’s the only thing that will stop the haunting.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the doorframe. “You know what you’re asking me to do?”

He came closer, close enough I could feel his breath on my face. “I do. I know it’s a lot. She needs help and I can’t do it on my own.”

“Why are you so invested in this?”

“Because she came to me first. Near as I can tell, I’m the first person who saw her ghost. Because she was a sweet kid who deserved better. Because she…she.” His jaw tightened.

“What?”

“Sometimes she reminded me of you. Everybody thought she messed around with witchcraft for play, another thing to piss off her family. But I think it was real and I think she was at least a little like you. A real witch, not just someone into new age stuff or religion or what have you.”

My stomach clenched, nerves pouring acid through my body. “Why do you think that?”

“I was able to get into her apartment before the investigation got shut down. There was some stuff there, reminded me of the stuff you used to have around. Plus once or twice she said some things, made a couple pointed comments about me having a thing for witches when she tried to flirt with me. I didn’t think much of it at the time.”

I moved to enter the work room, too much going on in my head to put it all into words. Or any of it, really. He stopped me with a gentle hand on my arm. “Honey, I need your help. Britney Parker needs your help. Please come home.”

I wanted to say no. With every fiber of my being, I wanted to say no and send him on his way. I didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to investigate a murder or deal with the victim’s ghost, didn’t want to deal with all the ghosts of my own I’d run away from. But I couldn’t say no to Ray Travis.

“I don’t have enough sage to bless the whole damned town. Just have to pack what I’ve got and make do.”

He nodded once, blue eyes shining with gratitude and something I didn’t want to examine too closely.