Voodoo or Die Page 20

  "Yeah, Steve was a real asshole when she told him. Melissa had all these fantasies that they'd get married and be a little family, but all he did was hand her a wad of cash and tell her to take care of it. She refused, but the stress took its toll, I guess. She wasn't very far along when she miscarried, so not many people knew."

  "Do you think she killed him?"

  "If you told me he'd been killed with rat poison, I'd probably say yes, but cyanide? Melissa wouldn't know where to get that, and she'd be afraid to mess with it."

  Unless she had an accomplice, such as Dr. Whiting. Then another thought occurred to Gloria. "Did Steve Chasen end his relationship with Melissa because he had feelings for you?"

  Marie looked uncomfortable. "I don't know."

  "But he was interested in you?"

  The woman sighed. "It's slim pickings in this town, if you haven't noticed. Most of the girls my age are married with kids. For that matter, so are most of the men. There were times when I considered going out with Steve—you know, when I was really lonely and hadn't heard from Kirk in a while."

  Kirk, the superhero phantom boyfriend.

  "But then I heard how he'd left Melissa high and dry, and in the end, I decided it would just create a lot of problems."

  "Problems?"

  Her expression grew uncomfortable again. "Melissa and I weren't exactly best friends, but I didn't want to hurt her. Plus... Guy didn't like Steve."

  Gloria's pulse picked up. "Do you know why?"

  "Typical male stuff. I mentioned before that Steve took potshots at Guy's masculinity. And when Penny was around, Steve dropped little innuendos about Deke, even after the man was dead, for God's sake."

  "What kinds of innuendos?"

  "Little digs that he knew more about Deke than Penny did. I thought it was cruel and pointless, but Penny handled it well. It was another side of Steve I didn't like—he seemed to be on some kind of power trip."

  And blackmailing definitely would have fed that compulsion.

  "Bottom line," Marie said with a sigh, "Steve wasn't a very nice guy."

  "So I've been told," Gloria murmured. "That reminds me—the memorial service is at eleven tomorrow morning."

  "I'll be there. And I'll help to spread the word."

  "Thank you. I don't guess you could help me write the eulogy?"

  Marie pushed to her feet. "Sorry. Writing is not my strength." Then she smirked. "Maybe you should call Sheena Linder—I hear she's writing a screenplay."

  Gloria smiled. "And I think she's casting locals."

  "Not all of us peasants," Marie said dryly. "Maybe Mona Black—she and Sheena have been inseparable lately. Oh, and Chief Riley. You'd better stake your claim. Sheena looks at that man like he's a big, juicy steak and she's about to go to the electric chair."

  Gloria tried to look nonchalant, but a blush blazed its way up her neck. "I have no intention of staking a claim on Chief Riley."

  "Funny," Marie said as she walked toward the door, "but since you two spent the night together, I thought you'd at least be on a first-name basis." She gave Gloria a sly smile and a wave. "See you tomorrow."

  Gloria frowned after the woman, then brought both palms to her forehead and closed her eyes.

  What an unbelievable day. Two people dead—Melissa Phillips and the poor soul in the fire.

  Who?

  A vagrant, as the police theorized? A burglar, tempted by all the electronic equipment, who had accidentally set a fire? Or the blackmailer?

  She glanced at her cell phone. Since she hadn't heard from the man who presumably would be missing his five hundred dollars by now, maybe he had perished after all. And while she wouldn't wish death on the person, if someone had to die in that fire, the blackmailer would be her first choice.

  Her spirits lifted half a notch—if the blackmailer was out of the picture, then maybe she wouldn't have to leave Mojo after all.

  Then she winced. And then what? Stay and carry on with Zane as Gloria Dalton?

  Assuming he wanted to carry on. There were undoubtedly lots of available women in town, and it sounded as if Sheena Linder was ready to pounce.

  As soon as the thought materialized, she groaned—how hypocritical, considering she was the one who'd practically attacked Zane.

  Determined to focus on something productive, she went to her desk and pulled out a notebook to write a eulogy for a man she'd never really known and, if she had, probably wouldn't have liked.

  Steve Chasen, age—

  She squinted—how old was Steve? She pulled out the scant information in his employee file. Twenty-eight. Heartbreakingly young.

  Steve Chasen, age twenty-eight, was a resident of Mojo—

  She stopped—maybe a "longtime" resident? She checked his resume. He'd listed working for Deke Black for a couple of years, and nothing before that. So "longtime resident" didn't seem appropriate, and "beloved" was a downright fabrication.

  Steve Chasen, age twenty-eight, was a well-known resident of Mojo, where he worked in a respected law firm—

  She winced—"respected" wasn't a word most would attribute to Deke Black, considering his association with the voodoo museum.

  Steve Chasen, age twenty-eight, was a well-known resident of Mojo, where he worked as a paralegal.

  Gloria stared at the solitary sentence until her eyes crossed. What now? Wasn't it customary to tell of a person's hobbies?

  He had a knack for—

  Pissing people off and exploiting their personal lives for money?

  —high-tech equipment and he maintained a lovely home.

  That had since been torched and burned to the ground.

  He was preceded in death by his parents.

  Gloria paused, wondering if the loss of the young man's parents had caused him to lose his moral compass. After her mother's disappearance, she had felt adrift herself, but she had eventually moored herself through the strength of spirit that her mother had instilled in her. On a very deep level, it was satisfying to know her mother had confidence she could make it in the world on her own.

  He is survived by many friends, acquaintances, and business associates, and a beloved pet cat named—

  She frowned and erased.

  —a beloved pet cat.

  She frowned at the abbreviated eulogy, then set down her pencil. It would have to do.

  The bell on the front door sounded and she rose, picking up her coffee mug as she moved toward the reception area. The entryway was flooded with sunshine from the newly installed window. Diane Davidson walked in, with Henry in tow.

  "The window looks great," Diane said, then pointed in the direction of the other end of the shopping center, where a police car sat and a crowd still lingered outside. "Did I miss something?"

  Patting Henry's happy head, Gloria filled Diane in on what had happened at the bookstore. Diane looked horrified.

  "That poor girl. And poor Hazel—she's such a nice lady, she must be positively distraught."

  "And Mona fired her on the spot."

  "Our esteemed mayor. I can't figure her out. She owns half the town, and one day, she's doing something good, the next day, she's heartless." Diane made a sorrowful noise. "First Steve Chasen, then the person who burned up in his house, and now Melissa. They say that death comes in threes... let's hope this is the end of it."

  Yes, let's, Gloria thought.

  Diane turned back to look at Gloria, a little smile on her lips. "What was in the gift box?"

  Gloria debated whether to tell her about the voodoo doll, but so many people already knew. She relayed the contents as dispassionately as she could, but Diane gaped.

  "A voodoo doll of you? Under a book? Were you in the bookstore when the accident happened?"

  Gloria nodded. "I was standing next to Melissa. Dr. Whiting pushed me out of the way."

  Diane was silent, but fear lit her eyes.

  "But I'm fine," Gloria said quickly, giving Henry a scratch behind his ears to prove her good humor. The dog closed his
eyes and lowered his head in pleasure.

  "Where is the voodoo doll?" Diane asked.

  "Chief Riley took it with him. He wants to find out who's playing a prank. If you see any more boxes like that, call the police."

  Diane nodded mutely.

  "Meanwhile," Gloria said, pouring herself a cup of coffee, "I have a lot of paperwork to do." Gloria glanced at Henry, who was sniffing wildly at her legs.

  "Sorry," Diane said, dragging him away. "He probably smells the cat on your clothes."

  "That must be some snout, to be able to smell buried truffles."

  "All bloodhounds are good trackers—they're made for it. When they walk with their nose to the ground, their ears swing back and forth, stirring up the scent. But Henry here is extraordinary." She smiled shyly. "At least that's what Jimmy says."

  "Too bad Henry couldn't find that body in the woods Jimmy is looking for," Gloria said lightly.

  Diane looked up, her cheeks pink. "He probably could if he had the original scent to follow."

  "While I was with Chief Riley, he received a call. Jimmy said he thought he remembered where he'd seen the body and wanted to take Chief Riley there."

  Diane's expression clouded, then she turned to drag Henry back to the bathroom.

  Gloria took her coffee back to her desk, opened the file on Cameron Phelps's divorce papers, and tried to immerse herself in the details of someone else's life. His wife's name was Megan, it was a first marriage for both of them, and the union had produced no children. It was a no-fault divorce, the property settlement of modest holdings was split fifty/fifty and looked completely run of the mill.

  A divorce didn't get any easier than this, she conceded, nursing a little pang of sadness that the man's dedication to such a noble cause had driven a wedge between him and his wife. She remembered B.J.'s comment about how lucky they were to have someone with Cameron's credentials join the missing persons task force. But in the process of finding others, he had lost his marriage. Pity.

  She looked up the number for the Browning Motel and left a message for him to drop by any time Monday to pick up his file. Then she wrote a cover memo that all the papers seemed to be in order and slid the file inside an envelope with a No Charge note on the top for Diane. It had taken almost no time to review the contract, and besides, it was her very small way of indirectly contributing to the work that was going on at the museum.

  Since there were no more candy bars to buy, she noted wryly.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon sifting through the offers Jodi Reynolds had received for the rights to her official story as the most publicized survivor of the Mojo Instruments of Death and Voodoo Museum. Some of the offers were simple to weed out merely from the shoddy contract or ridiculous demands on the young woman's availability. By the end of the day, Gloria had managed to narrow the offers down to the three top production companies that had the best qualifications, were offering the best overall payment terms, and whose contract language was the most accommodating. One production company wanted to shoot on-site—an impossibility, considering the museum was now a crime scene, but they were certainly offering a handsome sum for exclusive rights, which would include a documentary of Jodi touring the actual rooms where she had been tortured.

  Ah, nothing was quite as entertaining as depravity.

  At least Jodi Reynolds would be a very rich woman regardless of the deal she decided to accept. The money wouldn't erase the abuse she had endured while she'd been held against her will in the attic of the voodoo museum, but at least it would give her the freedom to escape the scrutiny long enough to start to heal.

  Gloria generated a cover memo with her notes for Jodi and Sheena to reference while they made their decision, then returned the offers to the pink gym bag and called the cell phone number Sheena had given her.

  "This is Sheena," the woman answered, gum snapping.

  "Ms. Linder, this is Gloria Dalton. I've had a chance to go through those offers and narrow them down to the three that seem to strike the best balance between what you and your sister want."

  "Great," the woman said. Snap, snap. "We'll be in first thing tomorrow to meet with you."

  "Actually, we're closing tomorrow to attend Steve Chasen's memorial service."

  Sheena expelled a noisy sigh that said she didn't appreciate something as pedestrian as a funeral getting in the way of her movie deal. "What time is the shindig?"

  "Er, the service is at eleven."

  "I'll see you there."

  "That's nice of you," Gloria offered, "since you didn't know Steve that well."

  "I have a business relationship with Goddard's—if the family wants their loved one to have a casket tan, he hauls the body down to my salon after-hours."

  Gloria blanched—that had to be illegal on some level.

  "I'll swing by Monday morning to talk about the contracts," Sheena said, then disconnected the call.

  Feeling as if she'd been sideswiped, Gloria hung up the phone, a little jealous of people who steam-rolled their way through life, demanding more than their fair share. Sheena Linder didn't hide behind colored contact lenses and bland clothing. When her time came, the woman would probably go out in a blaze of neon glory and get a gold-plated tombstone.

  Gloria checked her watch and pushed back her chair. As much as she didn't want to go home, it was time to call it a day. She had a cat to feed. She'd drink the beer left over from last night and try to figure out if the possibility of a dead blackmailer improved her situation.

  As she and Diane left the office, Gloria glanced down the sidewalk to see Jules Lamborne going into Primo's.

  "You go ahead," Gloria said to Diane, then strode toward the dry cleaner's. She had questions, and she had a feeling the eerie little Cajun woman had answers.

  Chapter 25

  When Gloria walked inside the dry cleaner's, Cecily and her aunt Jules were talking. Cecily appeared to be scolding the old woman.

  "Knock it off," Cecily said, her voice gentle but firm. "You're scaring the customers." When she noticed Gloria, Cecily straightened. "Hi, Gloria. Your clothes are ready." After a warning glance at her aunt, she turned to flip through the carousel of clothing behind her.

  Gloria walked up to the counter and nodded hello to Jules. The woman nodded back, then glanced at Gloria sideways, her mouth screwed up, as if she wanted to say something but couldn't.

  "Did you hear I received another voodoo doll today?" Gloria asked.

  "Yep," the woman said abruptly, then turned to go.

  "Wait," Gloria said, holding out her arm. "What can you tell me about it?"

  Jules shot a defiant glance at her niece, then looked at Gloria and shrugged. "Dunno. What'd it look like?"

  "Dressed in fabric from a jacket I lost, with my real hair."

  When Jules pursed her wrinkled lips and squinted, she looked like a dried apple-head doll. "Real hair, don't see that too often. Was it stabbed?"

  "No."

  "Hm. Did it have a face?"

  "Buttons for eyes, I think."

  "Tweren't meant for you, then."

  Gloria frowned. "How do you know?"

  "Eyes open, no pin—the mojo weren't aimed at you. It was meant for someone else."

  "Then why did I get the doll?"

  Jules looked at her, her eyes shining with an almost unnatural light. "You set things in motion for the other person to get their punition."

  "Punition? You mean punishment?" The nerves along Gloria's neck and spine began to vibrate as the woman's spooky mood enveloped her. "Why would someone want to punish Melissa Phillips?"

  "That's for her to answer. You should feel good that while you were here, you helped the lwa set things right."

  "The lwa?"

  "Voodoo gods," Cecily piped up, hanging Gloria's clothes on a rack near the cash register and eyeing her aunt irritably. "Auntie Jules, I thought we talked about this."

  Jules jerked her thumb toward Gloria. "She asked." The old woman muttered something Cajun
under her breath and shuffled out the door.

  Cecily sighed. "I'm sorry about that."

  "No, she's right," Gloria said, staring after the woman. "I asked."

  "Tough day, huh?" Cecily asked, ringing up the sale.

  "Yeah. By now I'm sure everyone in town knows what happened."

  "Everyone is spooked, all right. Lately, things seem to have gotten weirder and weirder."

  Gloria opened her wallet to count out cash and realized from the empty sleeve in her wallet that Zane still had her driver's license. "You mean since I arrived?"

  Cecily pressed her lips together, looking apologetic. "It's just talk, that's all. Small towns thrive on it, the juicier, the better. Things will settle down... eventually."

  Gloria picked up her bagged clothes and said good-bye, but Jules's words kept circling through her head... that she had set things into motion... that it was her fault Melissa Phillips was dead...

  She drove toward her house, so numb she nearly forgot to stop by Goddard's to drop off the cryptic eulogy for Steve Chasen. Things were hectic at the funeral home, with the impending arrival of another body—Melissa's, Gloria realized with a stone in her stomach.

  As Gloria made her way back to the parking lot, a dizzy spell descended, intense enough to put her on her knees next to her car. When the horizon righted, she stood and slowly lowered herself into the driver's seat. She pulled the bottle of Meclazine from her purse and choked down a capsule without water.

  The stress, she realized, was finally getting to her.

  She wasn't sure how much more she could take.

  She was a nervous wreck as she drove the short distance to her house. Was there really such a thing as black magic? Could a mere doll make things happen?

  Or was she simply losing her mind, making her vulnerable to the ramblings of a woman who was too old to be alive?

  An overwhelming urge to call Zane and purge herself seized her. She wondered if he was still tramping around the woods with Jimmy Scaggs, looking for the alleged body the mountain man claimed to have tripped over, or if Zane had tired of all the eccentricities of the Mojo residents and simply written the man off.

  Even if she gave in to the impulse to call Zane and tell him the truth about herself and the possible danger, it wouldn't explain the bodies Zane had on his hands. She swallowed. Unless...