In Deep Voodoo Read online

  In the ladies’ room, she wet a paper towel and dabbed at her neck and forehead. Her reflection in the mirror was fuzzily attractive—she finally understood the concept of “beer glasses.” But her hands were covered with the damnable glitter from her makeup. Everything she touched sparkled … and B.J. didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would appreciate waking up tomorrow with sparkles on his—

  “Granola Girl—I thought that was you.”

  Penny looked up to see Sheena standing next to her, her hip cocked and her neck hitched in an unnatural position, a huge python-skin bag over her shoulder.

  Sheena snapped her gum. “Did Deke get ahold of you?”

  Penny sighed and tossed the soggy paper towel in the trash. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Snap, snap, cock, hitch. “He’s lookin’ for somethin’ in the house and thought you might know where it is.”

  “What’s he lookin’—I mean looking—for?”

  “Search me,” she said with a shrug.

  “Considering how few clothes you’re wearing, that wouldn’t take long.”

  Sheena narrowed her eyes. “He’s been tryin’ to reach you. He seemed kinda worried, so you should give him a call at our home.”

  At their home. “Okay.” And then she’d spend the night with Sheena’s hottie boyfriend.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. See you around.”

  Penny left the bar and strolled across the square to her apartment. With alcohol buzzing through her system, the climb up the stairs was precarious at best. Twice she dropped her bag of gag gifts and had to go back to retrieve items—the ex-husband toilet paper, she had to admit, was a hoot. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was exhausted, but the flashlight helped dispel the darkness.

  Once inside, she set the bag on the dining table and picked up the phone, wondering what Deke had misplaced that was so important (other than his accurate financial records), and how she was going to get through a conversation with him without tipping him off that she was on to him.

  The display said she had four messages. She pushed the button.

  “Penny, it’s Deke.” His voice was low and angry. “I’ve lost something and thought you might know where it is. Call me.”

  Penny frowned.

  “It’s me again. Why don’t you get a cell phone like the rest of the world? Call me as soon as you get in.”

  “Call me.” Heavy sigh. “It’s important.”

  “Damnit, Penny, where the hell are you?”

  His tone startled her—no matter what a bonehead he was, he never raised his voice to her. Whatever he’d misplaced, it must be important. With her heart thudding in her chest, she dialed the number to the house, but the line was busy.

  Her hand brushed against her pocket, rustling the piece of paper inside. She withdrew the scrap and studied the phone number that B.J. had scrawled there. Her thighs quickened at the memory of his dark, interested gaze raking over her, but on the heels of the excitement was apprehension. She hadn’t been with a man for a long time … she couldn’t even remember the scant lovers she’d had before Deke. What did men like these days—meat and potatoes sex, or whipped cream and cherries? And what was she supposed to like? Freaky positions? Flavored lube?

  She really should read a magazine once in a while.

  Deciding that she needed a boost before dealing with Deke, she dialed the number B.J. had given her and inhaled for courage. After two rings, she panicked and started to hang up.

  “B.J. here.”

  His voice sent a rumble through her midsection. “Um … hi. It’s Penny.” She swallowed. “We met at Caskey’s.”

  “I remember,” he said cheerfully. “The redheaded lady with the secrets. I didn’t think you were going to call.”

  “Well … I did.” She winced—that was bright.

  He laughed. “So you did. Where do you want to meet?”

  She debated the safety and privacy of her apartment versus a hotel room and decided that her apartment was probably better on both accounts. “My place. I live over the beignet shop on the square.”

  “Benny’s?” He laughed. “Well, that explains your perfume.”

  She flushed hot. “Where are you?”

  “Not far,” he said vaguely. “What time do you want to meet?”

  “I need a few minutes to take care of something,” she said, glancing at her watch. It was a little past ten o’clock. “How about eleven? It’s the door to the right of the shop. Just ring my bell. I mean … the bell.”

  “I’ll be there,” he promised, his voice thick and full of other wicked promises.

  A silly smile crept up her face. “Okay. Good-bye.” She hung up the phone and squealed like a teenager. She was going to have hot voodoo sex tonight.

  Impatient and horny, she called Deke’s number again, but the phone was still busy. Sighing in frustration, she worked her mouth from side to side. She could walk to the house, ring the doorbell, and be done with it faster than waiting for him to get off the phone. And maybe this was her chance to get back her lovebirds ornament under the pretense of finding whatever he was looking for. She moved toward the door a little too quickly, and a sharp pain stabbed her temples. Maybe the short walk would sober her up just a tad, too.

  If she was going to spend the night with a long, hot Cajun, she wanted to be able to remember some of it.

  She retrieved her purse, then grabbed her flashlight and headed back down the stairs, slowly. Out in the square, she blinked against the bright lights—fireworks were being set off in the fire department parking lot. The festival had grown even more frenetic, with the crowd around the peristil chanting, whirling, and twirling to the increased tempo. Lulled by the earthy rhythms, Penny relaxed and moved through the crowd at a leisurely pace, enjoying the weightlessness of her buzz and the hum of noise around her, womblike and comforting. On the far side of the shelter, she spotted Jules Lamborne performing some kind of dance in slow motion, her eyes closed and her movements fluid. She seemed to be stepping and waving to a song in her head.

  Penny smiled, thinking she’d have something to tease Jules about in the morning—that she’d decided to put in an appearance at the festival after all. A sharp, whacking sound close by startled Penny. She turned and winced to see a chicken’s head fall to the ground mere inches from her foot, its body spirited away to be offered to whatever lwa was being celebrated. A robed priestess was leading the ceremony, wearing an eerie mask that resembled the front of a human skull, minus the lower jaw, and topped with a spray of feathers. She held the headless chicken in one hand and a bead-covered rattle in the other hand.

  Fascinated, Penny watched as the priestess began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster, more times than what seemed humanly tolerable. When she finally stopped, she was facing Penny. Suddenly the woman lifted the rattle in Penny’s direction with an arm so rigid that it shook from sheer effort. Penny stood rooted to the ground, mesmerized by the rattling noise and the jingle of the bell attached to the handle, unable to move. Cold fear trickled down her back, like ice water. Was the priestess singling her out, casting a spell to rid her of—or to infuse her with—evil?

  The moment was broken when the priestess abandoned her rattle to snatch another squirming chicken from its cage and relieve it of its head, this time with a savage twist of her bare hands, leaving a long white neck bone exposed. Penny winced—the sacrifice was even more bloody than the first, and in violation of an agreement with animal control. But the crowd seemed energized, cheering when the priestess set the headless chicken on its feet and the carcass ran around, flapping its wings, exhausting adrenaline in its muscle tissue.

  Penny shuddered and backed away, eager now to finish her errand. The dark side of voodoo did not amuse her.

  The streetlights were bright, illuminating the sidewalk during the three-block trek back to the Victorian on Charm Street. Away from the main crowd, though, the temperature had dropped into the low
fifties, she guessed as she pulled the yellow shawl tighter around her shoulders. And something else warmed her—the anticipation of spending the night with the sexy, mysterious B.J.

  The Victorian fairly glowed with its new pink paint job—if possible, the color was even more ghastly at night, and it emitted a damp, fusty odor. The porch light was on, as were the light in front of the garage and a few strategic landscape lights that she had installed herself. From the street she could see lights on inside the house—the kitchen, Deke’s office, and the master bedroom. She climbed the steps to the porch and glanced at the metal glider before ringing the doorbell. After a couple of minutes passed, she cupped her hands around her eyes and peered into the small square window on the door. The pressure made the door swing inward. Deke still hadn’t adjusted the plate on the frame so that the door would catch without leaning a shoulder into it.

  She stuck her head inside. “Deke?” She stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind her. “Deke, it’s Penny!”

  She took a few seconds to enjoy the stunning entryway that she had been so proud of, trying not to notice the things that were out of place or the cobwebs hanging from far corners illuminated by the rose-colored, recessed lighting. She inhaled the comforting scent of old plaster and Bri-Wax, and her heart squeezed with homesickness. She knelt to straighten a rug whose corner had been upturned, then frowned at a stack of unread newspapers by the door and brightly colored high-heeled shoes casually lying about, blazing a trail to the kitchen doorway on the left. Mail was piled up and falling off the Duncan Phyfe side table. A zebra-print jacket had been tossed carelessly over the silk flower arrangement adorning the table.

  She hated to think what she might see in the daylight.

  Seeing Sheena’s things strewn about the house she loved made bile rise in Penny’s throat, but she tried to push the thoughts out of her mind. Deke had made his choice and Sheena was his problem now. Apparently, the woman was still at Caskey’s, dressed to kill.

  Penny swallowed hard, antsy to leave. “Deke! It’s Penny!”

  From the darkened entryway, she could see his office door on the second floor, just beyond the landing. The door was slightly ajar, spilling light into the hallway. The muffled noise of the television sounded. She could picture him reared back in his chair, his feet on his desk while he talked on the phone with one eye on a ball game.

  She worked her mouth back and forth in sudden inspiration—if she was careful, she could get to the attic and remove her lovebirds ornament before he even realized she was in the house.

  She slipped off her sandals and carried them as she crept up the wood stairs in semidarkness. Because she knew where all the creaky spots were, she was able to make her way up silently, although the floor felt gritty beneath her bare feet. Her heart rattled against her breastbone, but she conceded a thrill of excitement to be doing something so illicit.

  When she reached the second floor, she held her breath as she stole by Deke’s office door, sure that any second he was going to emerge and blast her for snooping around. But she made it past the door undetected. Next was the master bedroom. She couldn’t resist a glance inside, but she grimaced at the unmade bed and piles of clothes on the floor. Their framed wedding picture on the dresser had been replaced with a picture of Sheena and Deke.

  “He could have at least bought a new frame,” she muttered. On impulse she walked in and picked up the picture, hurt and anger bubbling in her chest anew. The picture had been taken on a carriage ride—in New Orleans, no doubt.

  Deke had never taken her on a carriage ride.

  In the photo, Sheena looked pouty, and Deke looked … pained, as if his balls were in a bind.

  Feeling malevolent, she placed the picture frame on the floor, then slipped her foot into her sandal and ground her heel against the glass until it cracked, sending a splinter across their faces. Then she positioned the photo facedown so that it appeared as if it might have been knocked off by an errant tube top.

  With her ears piqued, she stepped back out into the hallway. Hearing nothing but the television, she turned toward the narrow stairway leading to the attic. A pull chain to a bare lightbulb provided just enough light to climb to the top. Penny jiggled the glass knob to the attic door and pushed it open, wincing when it groaned loudly. She waited a few seconds, but when she didn’t hear Deke pounding her way, she stepped into the attic.

  Every woman should have an attic, a place to put things that were special and not for public display. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the family keepsakes and heirlooms that would have filled up the large space beautifully. Instead she’d had an old calico chair losing its stuffing that she’d never gotten around to reupholstering, a large framed mirror that was cracked in the corner but had been too nice to put in the Dumpster, and a chest of drawers painted pale blue that had never seemed to fit anywhere in the house.

  She stepped onto the linoleum she’d laid down, thinking her feet would be black by the time she left. She’d have to take a shower before B.J. showed up … but then if he had bedded Sheena, he probably didn’t mind dirty feet.

  The top drawer of the chest held mostly linens she’d bought at estate sales. She rummaged until her hand closed around the tissue paper holding the lovebirds ornament. For old times’ sake, she unwrapped the pewter ornament and ran her finger over the white enameled birds holding a ribbon in their beaks that said Deke and Penny, forever.

  Biting her lip at their naiveté, she conceded that they’d been happier then … before they’d had grown-up problems. With a sigh, she rewrapped the ornament and put it in her purse, then retraced her steps to the darkened hallway, where she tiptoed past Deke’s office door to the top of the stairs. Then she stepped back into her sandals.

  “Deke!” she yelled, stomping as if she were only now coming up the stairs. “It’s Penny! I got your messages and thought I’d just stop by. Deke?” She walked to his office door and rapped loudly. “Deke?”

  She pushed open the door. “Deke, it’s P—”

  Her voice died as her brain tried to process the scene before her. The television was on, airing a cheesy beer commercial. The phone on the desk was off the hook, ergo the busy signal.

  And Deke … Deke was on the floor on his back, arms and legs askew. He still wore the European-cut suit and the trendy silk tie, but his white shirt was now red … from the wound caused by the object sticking out of his chest:

  A wire stake topped with a pink plastic flag … just like the ones she’d used to stake off her new garden.

  11

  Until it boils over …

  For several surreal seconds, Penny had the most bizarre feeling of déjà vu, as if she’d dreamed this incident, or had lived through it before… .

  No—the voodoo doll.

  She gasped and stumbled into the room, overwhelmed and confused. Terror pulsed through her veins as she fell to her knees next to Deke. Blood speckled the beige carpet.

  “Deke,” she murmured, choking. She was certain he was dead—his eyes were open in a blank stare. His skin was chalky. He lay in an unnatural position. But she made herself press her trembling fingers against his neck to check for a pulse. Nothing.

  The sulfurous smell of blood enveloped her. Her stomach heaved, and despite her best efforts to move, she fisted her hands in the material of his jacket and threw up all over him. The alcohol burned her throat even worse on the way up than it had on the way down. By the time she had emptied her stomach, she was sobbing. She wiped her mouth with the edge of her shawl and stared at the unholy mess she’d made.

  Deke was dead. Not just dead—murdered.

  Shaking in disbelief, Penny scrambled to her feet, her mind reeling. What to do? Who to call? She hyperventilated until common sense finally kicked in—she had to calm down. Gulping for air, she picked up the phone to dial 911, and the situation slammed into her like a brick wall: What if the police thought she’d done it? Then another, more horrific thought hit her: What if whoever killed Deke
was still in the house somewhere? Looting the spare bedrooms, rooting through the kitchen, prowling in the garage?

  With trembling hands, she returned the receiver to the cradle and covered her mouth to smother the scream that hovered at the back of her throat. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe … think. Wildly searching the room for a weapon, she grabbed an antique cane from the umbrella stand near the door. First she had to get out of this house, then she’d flag down a car or call 911 from the store.

  Desperation rose in her chest, threatening to paralyze her, but she forced herself to focus on her surroundings. With her heart thrashing, she stuck her head into the hall and frantically looked both ways. All clear.

  Wielding the cane like a baseball bat, she stepped out into the hall illuminated only by the light from the office. She started for the stairs. A noise below, however, stopped her. She froze, her ears zoning in.

  There it was again—the sound of quiet footsteps coming from the back of the house toward the foyer … as if the person was trying to mask their approach. Panic lodged in her throat—should she scream? Try to escape? Hide in the attic?

  Her lungs worked like bellows. Perspiration dripped down her back. She was sure the intruder would be able to hear her fractured breathing. Her stomach was roiling again, and she swallowed hard to try to ward off another sick episode. From where she stood on the landing, she couldn’t see down into the foyer, and she prayed that she, too, couldn’t be seen. A few seconds of silence passed and her breathing slowed. Then she heard the noise again—the person was climbing the stairs, and they apparently didn’t know the creaky spots.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears as she fought the overwhelming urge to run. The light on the landing, she recalled, was blinding—if she could find the switch, she might have the advantage of surprise to get past the intruder or push them down the stairs. Pure fear spurred her into action. She lunged for the light switch and raised the cane, poised to kill if necessary. Or at least bruise.