Voodoo or Die Read online

  She groaned into the empty room, acknowledging the futility of wanting Zane in light of her bizarre situation. Hanging on to memories and fantasizing about a life she could never return to was insanity. She pulled the scarf away from her face and stared at it, reeling over the power it held over her. She had to accept reality and move on, no matter how painful it seemed in the short term. She jumped to her feet, scarf in hand, and marched to the laundry room to rummage in a cabinet of items the previous tenant had left.

  Before she could lose her nerve, Gloria emptied a metal trash can, tossed the scarf inside, doused it with paint thinner, and dropped a match on top.

  Chapter 17

  The sense of liberation that Gloria expected to feel by ridding herself of a tangible connection to Zane was overridden by a sense of panic as the green scarf crackled and began to dissolve into charred bits, sending an alarming amount of green-gray smoke into the air. She cried out and covered her nose at the foul stench—too late she realized that the yarn wasn't synthetic, and the resulting odor smelled as if she'd set fire to a yak.

  Fumbling with the faucet in the utility sink, she cupped her hands to collect the icy flow and hurled it on the smoldering scarf. After a sizzle and a pop, more smoke billowed out, and the fire alarm in the next room went off, sending an ear-piercing siren wailing through the house.

  Gloria grimaced and yanked open the door to the garage, fanning it back and forth to dispel the air as she coughed and her eyes watered. She considered crying, but when she realized how ridiculous her life was, she began to laugh—no one's life could be this screwed up.

  Finally the piercing sound of the smoke alarm stopped. She disposed of the soggy, sad remains of the scarf and was seized by the wholly unreasonable feeling she'd just destroyed whatever she and Zane had meant to each other. Gloria slid down the wall and sat on the floor, peering up through the hazy air with tears in her eyes. Steve Chasen was dead and she was being blackmailed and the one man who could help her was the only man she couldn't afford to get close to.

  What now? Run? Stay? Lie?

  Her mind raced, clouded with indecision. There were too many unpleasant options. She choked back a sob, yearning for a clear-cut choice that would lead her toward some semblance of a normal life.

  Was a normal life even possible for her anymore? She had once thought so, when she'd moved through the paces of getting an education and throwing herself into family law. But despite her outward appearance as an involved, productive citizen, she had kept everyone around her at arm's length, rejecting the friendships of women and men who had tried to get to know her.

  What had Jules Lamborne said? You can't hide here, missy.

  Yet she had to hide somewhere. And would she ever truly be able to have a life, to find peace, to extend herself to other people when she was in a constant state of paranoia?

  She sighed and touched her finger to her forehead, feeling wet ooze—the hair dye, my God, how long had she left it on?

  Would this day ever end?

  She ran back to the shower, stripped, and stepped in, rinsing her hair vigorously until the water ran clear. By then the hot water heater had emptied, so she simply stood under the cold blast of water, shivering, hoping it would cool her desire for Zane, which seemed to be burning out of control, and sober her to the choices she was going to have to make within the next twenty-four hours.

  When the coldness had seeped to her bones, she turned off the water, toweled dry, and changed the bandage on her hand. The eight stitches were black and angry against her skin—there would be a scar for sure.

  Something that would forever tie her to Mojo, even if she left. Another episode in her life that she would have to try to camouflage so no one would be able to link her to Gloria Dalton the attorney who had cut her hand on a piece of flying glass.

  She dressed in soft jeans and a brown turtleneck, thinking how she'd much rather be wearing pink, or maybe a bright blue. Maybe the next place she lived she'd try something new, like a shaved head and a hip, new wardrobe. The marshals would make sure she could practice law again if she wanted to, but it was a joke really—her fantasy of helping other people fix their lives when her own was such a shambles.

  Maybe she'd change occupations altogether... become a teacher, work with children. Children were safe, didn't ask questions, didn't expect so much in return.

  With a sigh, she scrutinized the roots of her wet hair, happy to see that they were indeed dark again. At the growl in her stomach, she padded barefoot to the kitchen and frowned when she realized she still hadn't gone to the grocery and would have to make do with another omelet. The caustic scent of scorched fibers still tinged the air. If it would only stop raining, she'd open a window. As if to mock her, the cadence of the heavy rain increased, battering the roof, the wind buffeting the little house.

  The croaking noise of the doorbell ringing broke into the silence, startling her to the point of crying out. Who would be out in this weather? A stealthy trip to the side window confirmed her fears—it was Zane.

  She exhaled noisily, trying to rein in her emotions. Did he know something? Had he come to confront her? After a couple of missed heartbeats, she forced herself to relax. He'd come for business, that was all... to pick up the voodoo doll.

  Gloria glanced down at her bland, casual clothing, her bare feet, and put a hand to her wet hair—it wasn't as if she was in danger of enticing him into another kiss... or anything else.

  After a brief pep talk, she swung open the door.

  Zane stood on the covered stoop, rain dripping from his hat and dark overcoat and... a pizza box? Plus a six-pack of Samuel Adams bottled beer.

  Zane with a pizza and beer... a feeling of déjà vu swamped her. "Hi," she managed, hanging onto the doorknob to keep from falling.

  He flashed one of his rare lopsided smiles that made her stomach turn inside out. "Are you armed and dangerous?"

  Unnerved, she lifted her chin. "Not at the moment."

  "I wanted to make sure you had something in your stomach besides chocolate bars." Then he leaned forward and sniffed the air. "But I can smell that you already ate... maybe." He grimaced. "Did you burn something?"

  "Um... it wasn't food," she murmured.

  "So do you want some of this?" he asked, holding up the pizza box.

  Warning flags raised in her mind, but she was so relieved that he hadn't confronted her with her deception she ignored them and waved him inside. "Come in and take off your clothes—" She stopped, mortified. "I mean, take off your coat."

  He grinned as he shrugged out of his coat and hat, setting them on the mat just inside the door. "It's nasty out there tonight." He shook his head, ruffling his hair, which was almost as wet as hers.

  "I'll get you a towel," she said, grateful for the chance to compose herself. She practically ran to her bathroom, then grabbed a towel and bit into it to stifle a cry of frustration and, God help her, excitement. Just like the first time that Zane had come to her house with a pizza.

  "I can do this," she murmured aloud, staring in the mirror to reassure herself that she looked nothing at all like Lorey Lawson. She had schooled her entire self to be different—her mannerisms, her body language. As long as she didn't have a Tourette's moment and blurt the truth, Zane had no reason to suspect she was anyone other than Gloria Dalton, attorney-at-law, newly relocated to Mojo.

  Who kissed men for no apparent reason.

  She massaged her temples, then took a deep breath and headed back to the kitchen.

  "Here you go," she said cheerfully, extending the towel.

  He reached for it with a smile. "I was about to come look for you."

  His smile made her heart—and her feet—stumble. "I... don't have all my linens unpacked yet."

  "Me neither." He wiped his bare arms and neck. "Living out of boxes makes me never want to move again."

  She smiled her agreement and realized with a start he had removed his dark blue uniform shirt. A snowy white T-shirt molded his che
st and biceps. What had been the lean, lithe muscle of a teenager was now the thick, dense muscle of a man. The moisture evaporated from her mouth.

  "I hope you don't mind," he said, nodding to the shirt he'd hung over the back of a chair, its sleeves dark with wetness. "Thought I'd let it dry out a little."

  Swallowing past a cottony tongue, she said, "Wh-why don't I toss it in the dryer for you?"

  "That'd be great. Point me in the direction of plates, and I'll serve up the pizza."

  She did, her chest infused with the happy familiarity of being domestic with Zane. Careful, she warned herself, this can't happen. She turned to walk toward the utility room. "I'll pick off the mushrooms," she said over her shoulder.

  After a couple of beats of silence, he called, "How did you know I got mushrooms?"

  She winced—oops. She wasn't supposed to know he loved mushrooms. "Uh... I just assumed. Everyone I know except me likes mushrooms."

  "Oh... I thought maybe the local grapevine was at work again," he called. "It's unbelievable how nosy people are in this town."

  Her shoulders sagged in relief—another close call.

  She set the dryer timer, but before she tossed in his shirt, she brought it up to her face and inhaled Zane's scent—his maleness, his musky aftershave. When her thighs began to tingle, she knew she was flirting with danger. To continue this fantasy of hers was insanity. Inhumane. Incapacitating.

  All in all, wholly inadvisable.

  She walked back to the living room on wobbly legs to find Zane sitting on the couch, the low, narrow coffee table set with plain white plates, a large wedge of pizza on each. He was taking a drink from a bottle of beer, and when he looked up, the sight of him took her breath away.

  "I took the mushrooms off yours and piled them on mine."

  Just like old times. "Th-thanks." She eased onto the couch, a good foot away from him.

  He reached for his slice of pizza and gave a little laugh. "What did you burn? The air in here smells hazardous."

  "I... lit a candle and it... was bad."

  "I didn't realize that candles went bad."

  She nodded, feeling like an idiot, and bit into her pizza.

  "This is a nice place," he said, glancing around at the craftsman-style bungalow. "Nice bones. My real estate agent didn't show me this place, or I might have bought it myself."

  "I'm renting."

  "Oh." He tipped up his beer for a swig. "Were you waiting to see if you'd like living in Mojo?"

  She chewed slowly, then swallowed. "I suppose so."

  One side of his mouth lifted. "After the week you've had, are you ready to leave?"

  Gloria frowned. "Mona Black asked me the same thing. And I had the feeling that she wouldn't be upset to see me go."

  "Why would your office landlord want to see you go?"

  She shrugged, but her mind went to the empty folder with Mona's name on it that she'd found in Steve's briefcase. "Have there been any other reports of poisonings?"

  "No, thank God."

  It was a relief... but damning, too, where Steve Chasen's death was concerned. "I heard you being interviewed on the radio on my way home."

  He made a rueful noise. "I heard the announcer was trying to make it sound like something supernatural is going on in this town."

  "What do you think happened to Steve Chasen?"

  "All I know is it didn't have anything to do with a voodoo doll." He sighed. "But that's why I came by—to get that freaky toy and try to get to the bottom of what's going on in this crazy little town."

  At his dismissive tone, warmth suffused her cheeks. Then a chilling memory surfaced. "Penny Francisco told me she thought Jules Lamborne knew something about the voodoo doll that was made in the likeness of her ex-husband, and might know something about this one, too."

  "I've met the old gal—spooky, but harmless. And maybe she created the dolls, but science and common sense say it still didn't have anything to do with Deke Black's death. Or Chasen's."

  Gloria wet her lips. "Except Jules told me the other day she wasn't sorry to see Steve gone. She said that he was spreading poison around town."

  That got his attention. "Those were her exact words?"

  "Yeah. Do you think she knows something?"

  "I think she likes to pretend she knows something."

  "You don't believe some people have a sixth sense, that some things can't be explained?"

  "No," he said flatly, polishing off his slice of pizza and reaching for another one. "Everything can be explained... eventually. That kind of supernatural nonsense just clutters the picture."

  She chewed slowly, then chased a bite of pizza with a swallow of beer. "So you think Steve's poisoning was a random incident?"

  "It seems likely. We've contacted the company that manufactured the candy, and they're cooperating. Cyanide occurs naturally in some manufacturing processes, so it's possible that it could be some kind of industrial accident. We'll know more when the candy wrapper is analyzed."

  "You found it?"

  He nodded. "We think so—we found a half-eaten candy bar in the wreckage of his car and sent it to the state crime lab in Baton Rouge. We should know something soon. And I requested his home phone and cell phone records."

  "Really?" she squeaked, remembering in all the commotion, she'd left the ransacked cell phone bill at Steve's house. What if the phone records led Zane to Steve's blackmailing partner, who might in turn expose her?

  "Just covering all the bases," he said, seemingly unaware that he'd just given her something else to worry about.

  "Will you keep me posted?" she asked, tamping down guilt over the fact that she was withholding information from him. Among other things, that she had a breakfast date with a blackmailer.

  "I'll let you know whatever we can make public." He tipped up his beer again. "So... you and Cameron Phelps."

  She blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "At your office today. I, uh... I thought I saw something between you."

  The air sizzled with sudden tension, in conflict with the rain that pummeled the roof and the humidity that had seeped through the seams of the old house. A nervous flush started at her neck and worked its way north.

  "Cameron Phelps was at my office on business." Irritation flared in her chest—the man was way too presumptuous... and feeding her fantasies that he might actually be jealous.

  Zane wiped his mouth. "I'm sorry—that was out of line." He set his bottle of beer on the coffee table and stood. "I guess I'd better get what I came for and take off."

  She stood awkwardly. "Right. I'll get the, um, doll."

  "Actually, I need to bag it—the less we touch it, the better."

  She pushed her tongue into her cheek. "Right this way." With her nerves zapping like broken electric lines, she led him to her bedroom, glad that this room, at least, looked moved into. She watched him take in her solid, simple furniture and wondered what kinds of things Zane surrounded himself with. Antiques? Books? High-tech equipment?

  Feeling self-conscious, she walked to the lingerie bureau and slid open the drawer where she'd stashed the voodoo doll. Amidst her satiny underthings, the doll seemed to have taken on a more sinister quality since she'd last examined it. The pin imbedded in the doll's stomach now seemed less whimsical and instead made her wonder what kind of pain Steve Chasen had experienced in the last minutes of his life.

  And if this doll had something to do with it.

  She stepped aside to give Zane room, her skin singing with embarrassment at his bird's-eye view of her lingerie. The exotic array of animal-print teddies, beaded satin corsets, and panties trimmed with six-inch lace was a far cry from the tame, demure exterior she had worked for years to perfect.

  He shot her an amused—and impressed—glance before reaching into his back pants pocket and removing a white latex glove. She brushed back her still-damp hair, wanting this to be over, wanting Zane out of her bedroom. She didn't need yet more images to torture herself with.

 
After snapping on the glove, he reached into the drawer and lifted the doll. Unfortunately, a leg snagged on a shiny zebra-print demi-cup bra. A hot flush consumed her as the flimsy piece of erotic fabric swung in the air. With thumb and forefinger, Zane removed the bra and held it up, his eyes shining with interest. "Nice. And unexpected."

  She pulled at the hem of her brown turtleneck, mortified... and aroused.

  "Hey," he said with a laugh, "since you know what kind of underwear I have on, it's only fair that I know what you're wearing, right?"

  Gloria plucked the bra out of his hand and dropped it back into the drawer. Trying to rescue her shredded dignity, she nodded to the voodoo doll. "I think you have what you came for."

  He took his time answering, his eyes going from smiling to smoldering. "I suppose."

  He wanted her... she could feel it. Her breath caught in her chest at the realization. She wanted him, too, so much it frightened her, because there were so many reasons not to give in... for both of their sakes. And how immoral would it be to make love with Zane under the pretense of being someone else?

  Every cell in her body wanted to wrap her arms and legs around him and drag him to her bed, but she'd spent years denying her instincts, of being vigilant about her behavior and considering the consequences. Yet she'd never truly thought she'd be in a position to relive her fantasies with Zane.

  "Gloria," he murmured quietly, then reached for her.

  Hearing her new name from his lips jarred her from her reverie. She straightened and turned toward the doorway. "I'll see if your shirt is dry."

  She fled to the utility room and pulled his shirt from the dryer. Unable to resist, she pulled the warm fabric to her face to fill her lungs with him one last time. Her breasts felt heavy, and a pang of desire sliced through her midsection. So many of her sexual experiences—real and imagined—were wrapped up in this man.

  "It's okay if it's not dry," he said.

  She jerked her head around to see him standing in the doorway. "Uh... it's dry."

  He smiled. "Good."

  She handed the shirt to him and followed him back to the living room, her pulse clicking. The voodoo doll lay on the table next to the door, encased in a clear plastic bag, its macabre features in relief under the lights. Was it a cruel joke someone had left to frighten her or Steve, or had the little doll somehow triggered all the bizarre incidents that had happened since?