Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Read online

  "The king shall mourn and the prince shall be wrapped in despair!" he cried. "And the hands of the people shall tremble!"

  As he looked around at those lost sheep who were the citizens of New Orleans, he got a sudden prickly sense that someone was studying him. He dropped his eyes to the page, read a passage, then looked up, but saw no one watching. Then, as he closed his Bible and made ready to go home, he was startled to see a familiar face. Standing there, ten feet away, staring directly at him. He heard a word whispered—a name. Then an automobile came rattling into the gutter, making a racket and a splash, and he turned his head. When he turned back, the face was gone.

  Brother Martín walked away, glancing over his shoulder and murmuring a prayer for God to deliver him from evil.

  Valentin woke to the sound of banging in the kitchen. He sat up, rubbing his face, and caught the rich aroma of chicoried coffee that mingled with something baking, smells that had him bewildered for a few seconds. Then he remembered: Dominique.

  His vest was hanging on the bedpost and he pulled out his pocket watch. It was after two o'clock. He had slept a good bit of the day away. He pulled on trousers and went out into the front room, where the afternoon sun had cast the walls with a reddish glow. Her two satchels were pushed into the corner. Still foggy from sleep, he went to stand in the kitchen doorway.

  She was kneeling to open his old oven with its spindly cast-iron legs and peer inside. She had traded her walking dress for the simple shift she had been wearing on Freret Street. She smiled up at him and he felt an errant twinge of pleasure that carried with it another spike of suspicion, though she seemed quite at ease and quite harmless. There was fresh coffee brewing in the percolator.

  "Something smells good," he said.

  "It's oven bread," she said as she drew a round dark loaf from the oven. "From Tobago. Only down there we make it outside, in clay ovens." There were two plates, a little tin of butter, and a small pot of honey on the table. All shy again and eager to please, like a servant—or a new wife—she said, "Sit down, please, suh."

  She poured coffee and cut the bread. Over the midafternoon breakfast, he asked about her home and family. "I growed up in this little town called Batteaux Bay. It's on the water down there. I got three sisters and two brothers, they all still there. I went to school and then I went over to Trinidad to find some work. I didn't want to stay there, so I saved my money and got papers and come to New Orleans. That was last year, right about this time. I wasn't here but two weeks and I ... I met Jeff Mumford." The light in her face dimmed and her gaze turned melancholy and dropped away. She told him that Jeff had courted her like she was a lady and not some sporting girl. She agreed to come stay with him in his little house. She had been mostly happy with him, though at the end it wasn't the same.

  "Wasn't the same how?"

  "He was just different. I t'ink maybe he was getting tired of me. I don't know. And then he was gone."

  He allowed a moment's respectful silence and then said, "Can you think of anything else about what happened to him?"

  Now a cloud came over her features, bringing with it a resentful glint to her eyes. "I t'ink it was a woman," she said in a low voice.

  "You think a woman murdered him?"

  "I t'ink a woman was mixed up in it."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Why?" She drew herself up. "'Cause I know about these t'ings. I believe he was witched, suh. Where I come from, we know all about that. What we got down home make your voodoo here look like somethin' for little children. So I know. Some woman got claws on him and that was the end."

  Valentin had to make an effort to keep a sober face. He'd noticed the dime on the thong around her ankle that first day, and was disappointed to learn that it wasn't just an ornament.

  Uptown New Orleans was awash with voodoo and all its trappings. It was, in fact, this girl's ancestors who had carried it from their islands to New Orleans over a century of migrations. It had spread through every corner of the city, until it stood with the Catholic and the Baptist faiths. "While there were no magnificent churches, no sonorous sermons, and no golden collection plates, it was hard to find anyone in the blocks north and west of Rampart Street who didn't give voodoo or hoodoo at least a passing respect. Most made it part of their daily lives. Valentin, in his disdain for it, was a definite minority.

  "He died of poisoning," he reminded her.

  "I don't care what he died of," Dominique said stubbornly. "He was witched, and it was a woman done it to him. It was voudun."

  He didn't bother to argue with her.

  "I should have seen it comin'," she went on, her voice now breaking a little. "I could have done somethin'."

  "You couldn't have known," Valentin said.

  She sighed, calming herself. "Don't matter now, does it? He's gone."

  Valentin finished the last slice of his bread and honey, drank off his coffee, and stood up. "I'm going to work," he said.

  She sat back. "Now?"

  "I've got to see about a problem in Storyville. After that I'll go to the Café. I'll be there all night. It's my usual schedule." He wondered why he felt the need to explain his movements.

  He also wondered why he soon found himself taking extra care with his clothes for the night. When he came out of the bedroom, she was sitting on the couch, her hands folded in her lap. She gave him a modest glance up and down and said, "You look nice, suh."

  He smiled. "You know, you don't have to call me that."

  "Sorry. It's a habit, you know."

  He gathered his keys and went to the door.

  "When will you come back?" she said.

  "It could be four o'clock or so." He nodded to the bedroom door. "You go ahead and take the bed."

  "Oh, no, suh. I couldn't do that."

  "It's fine." She gave him an uncertain look. "It's all right, Dominique. It's easier that way."

  She dropped her eyes. "I can wait up, if you like."

  "No, don't do that. It will be late when I get back. I mean early."

  "I don't mind."

  "It's really not necessary," he said.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "That wasn't polite, was it?"

  "It's fine. You go ahead and take the bed," he said, and went out the door.

  Beansoup rounded the corner of Girod Street, as nonchalant as could be, and this time he got it right. Miss Justine, just stepping onto the banquette, couldn't help but notice him.

  Justine glanced around, saw him, and knew right away that it was no happenstance. When their eyes met, he feigned surprise and stopped in his tracks. She wondered if he had come with a message from Valentin and wondered what she'd do if he had.

  "Miss Justine..." He took a moment to survey the facade of the house. "Is this where you stay now?"

  "That's right." She gave him a glance of bemused affection. "I'm making market," she said. "Will you walk with me for a while?"

  "Oh, sure, that'll be just fine," he said, and they started off.

  She asked how things were at St. Mary's and if he was paying attention to the nuns. After a few minutes of idle banter, she sensed him growing impatient and gave him what he had come for. "How is Mr. Valentin?" she inquired.

  Beansoup slowed his steps. "Who? Oh, him? Oh, yeah, I guess he's all right. You know he's working again." He nodded knowingly. "Some musicians died and it looks like something's wrong about it. So he's working on that now."

  They walked on for a few paces more. She sensed something more on the tip of the boy's tongue, so she said, "And what else?"

  "Ummm ... I don't know if I should say."

  "What is it?" She saw the way Beansoup's gaze wandered away. "What? Does he have company over there?"

  The kid shrugged. "I seen him with a girl. Real black-skinned lady. They was at his rooms."

  Justine felt her mind go into a dizzy tilt. "How well for him," she said, with a catch in her voice.

  "Sorry," Beansoup said. "Maybe I shouldn't have said nothin'. She just showed
up after ... you know..." He jammed his hands in his pockets, and they walked on without speaking for a minute. "What about you?" he said presently.

  "What about me?"

  "You doin' all right with yourself?"

  "I'm doing well, yes."

  That brought another look of pouty displeasure as Beansoup saw his short career as a cupid coming to an end. This wasn't going at all the way he'd expected. They stopped across from the French Market. Justine was touched by the hurt look on his face. He was taking this all to heart. She was about to say something comforting when he suddenly turned around and said, "I believe there's going to be some trouble."

  "What trouble?" she said. "When?"

  "I don't know. Soon. I just got a feeling." He threw a hand up in farewell and ran away.

  Valentin knocked on the door of the house on Robertson Street. Across the street was that whitewashed wall of St. Louis Cemetery No. 2.

  The door was opened by a thin woman with red hair and splotched cheeks on her pale, puffy face.

  She looked ill, but then many of the women in that part of town were walking germ colonies. He stated his business and she invited him inside.

  He stepped over the threshold with an effort. He didn't want to be there. It was particularly irksome because he thought this business was over and done. The word was on the street. Who would be so foolish as to defy Tom Anderson?

  The madam of the house appeared, interrupting his brooding. She was a white woman with a face that, except for the split lip, was flat and wooden, defining one of those types who came off hardscrabble land and into the city to find a different kind of slavery. She might have been fairly attractive as a young sporting girl. Now she was growing old and mean. Valentin had seen them by the dozen, and at some point, they all looked the same: dry, grim, and pinched, like the witches in fairy tales.

  He listened to her story. It sounded much like the incident of the week before. He did not bother to question the two doves who were on the scene that day. Because what had happened there followed the pattern too closely: The two characters had come to the door, made a demand, then got rough when the victim didn't snap to. It didn't make sense. It felt like someone had gone to the trouble of putting on a crude farce.

  He thanked the madam, told her he would be looking into the matter, and left her with her pinched and crabby sneer in place. On the way back to St. Louis Street, he glanced around, but saw no sign of Picot's tail. Either he'd lost him or this one was better at his job. He hoped it was the latter, because he'd decided that it was time to stop fooling around and bait a trap.

  A half hour later, he was stepping down before City Hall. He went around to the alleyway in back, passed through the door, down the steps, and along the dank corridor.

  The mulatto attendant was in the tiny office that adjoined the autopsy room, dozing in his chair. He came awake with a start when Valentin rapped his knuckles on the desk. His eyes fluttered and he used one hand to wipe a dribble of saliva from his chin.

  He recognized the visitor. "What the fuck's this?" he gurgled. "Whatchu doin' here?"

  "I need some information," Valentin said.

  "Need what?" The man was still half asleep.

  "Information," the detective said in a harder voice.

  Now the attendant began to come around. "What are you talkin' about?" There was stale liquor on his breath. "What information?"

  "From your files."

  "Them's all confidential. It's city business."

  Valentin took a casual look around. "Where do you keep the records?"

  "You need to leave," the mulatto said, swaying to his feet. "And I got to go back to work." He made a shooing gesture with one hand.

  "I could tell your superiors that you've been stealing from the corpses," Valentin said.

  The hand stopped its motion. The mulatto blinked quickly three times and he swallowed. "I ... what?"

  "You know what I'm talking about."

  The attendant twisted nervous fingers. "I said you need to leave. Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

  "Don't play coy. You know who I am." He cocked his head. "I'm betting that if I go out on the street and find the closest pawnshop, they'll tell me that you do business there all the time. They probably have some of your most recent pieces on hand. The kind that could be traced back to their original owners. And I'll bet I can find the jeweler who buys the gold teeth you bring around. At best, you'd be out of a job and out of business. You might even end up in a cell across the street. And if they find out you stole from anyone important, you'll be there for a long goddamn time. Understand?"

  As Valentin wound his way through this speech, the mulatto sagged back down into his chair. Now he looked sick, his face going paler by degrees. When the detective finished, he croaked, "What do you want?"

  "I want to know if any other musicians have turned up here in the past month."

  "Any other what?"

  "You go through the records," the detective explained patiently. "Pick out the ones with 'musician' on the line next to Occupation. Copy their names down. I'll be back tomorrow to see them."

  "Tomorrow!"

  "In the morning. So have the information ready."

  "I can't do it!" the attendant moaned. "If I get caught, I lose the job."

  Valentin said, "Then don't get caught."

  He went out the door and down the hall, leaving the attendant with his mouth hanging open in a half-formed moan of protest.

  The evening sun was going down as Treau Martin waited for the ferry to Algiers. It was a glorious sight to see, the sun turning from gold to orange, and the high clouds spreading the rays out like separate pathways to heaven. The warm and gentle breeze was like a caressing hand on his brow.

  He looked across the muddy water. On the other side was a small church. He pictured a steepled wood frame, a few benches for congregants, a table that served as an altar, some rough boards nailed together as a pulpit. The flock was small, a mere handful, but they were pious souls and in need of someone to guide them through this world of woe to the other side of Jordan.

  Treau's sermon this night would be in the manner of an audition. If he passed, the church would be his. He could leave New Orleans, that sewer of sin. He could forsake his past and with time forget what he had been and what he had done in his darkest hours. As one washed in the blood of the lamb, he would be renewed, reborn.

  The ferry was running late and though he could see the dark shape chugging closer, he was anxious to go. There were a dozen other folks waiting. They huddled in little packs, except for one lone character who hung back in a black duster that was too long for the September weather.

  The flat-bottomed boat pulled up to the dock with a wet creak and disgorged its few passengers. The waiting dozen filed on. The Reverend Martín—he did like the sound of that—tipped his hat to the ladies and then made his way down the gangplank to board.

  The roof of the cabin of the craft had been extended back to provide cover for crossings in bad weather. It was a pleasant evening, though, and the passengers stayed outside to relax along the railing and watch the stirring wake and the city lights recede into twinkling stars.

  Treau paid heed as the sun bid a glorious farewell to the day and then sank down over the Gulf of Mexico. He heard the rough churning of the engine and the sloppy splash of the prow cutting the water. He saw the evening's first blinking lights from the other shore. They were halfway there. A small welcoming party of elders and sisters would be waiting for him on the other side.

  As he stretched to see, he caught something in the corner of his eyes. Shuffling up the rail toward him was the passenger in the long coat.

  Treau sensed something wrong and looked around. All the other passengers were on the port side, watching the sunset. He turned back to greet the stranger with a kind word. Before he got it out, an arm shot out with something that cracked his temple. He let out a grunt as a wild light flashed across his brain. He started to collapse, but before he could
tumble to the deck, hands grabbed his shoulders, and with a hard burst of strength, lifted him off his feet. He was toppling over the railing and then the frothing water swallowed him. He sunk into the Mississippi, the wake of the ferry churning him down into the brown darkness.

  Justine did her dutiful best to be patient while Paul worked himself into a lather, worrying her pelvis like one of those eager little dogs that got sudden urges and went for the nearest available leg. He didn't seem to get this fucking business at all. His clumsy efforts made her suspicious that he would have preferred another person, maybe one of his own sex. Or maybe he had just never learned what to do. She knew that a taste of a quadroon was something of a ritual for rich white boys coming of age. She had entertained a few herself. She hoped those young men had improved their amorous skills more than the fellow who was currently installed between her thighs.

  She stifled a yawn and mused on these things as he banged away at her. Finally, he let out a little hiccup of a gasp, collapsed, and rolled off. He reached immediately for the white hand towel that was draped over the headboard and attended fussily to his private parts, as if to wipe every trace of her from his pink and flaccid self. She noticed the look of relief on his face, as if he had completed an unpleasant task.

  When he went to soak in the bathtub, she began pulling on her clothes. When he got out, he would spend an hour or so dressing and drinking coffee and then call for the car to carry him to his family's offices on Carondelet. He had something to do with managing rice plantations that she didn't understand. It really didn't matter what he did, now or later. It had only been two days and she knew that she was not going to be staying with him. She didn't really like him. She thought him a fool and a weakling, and she could not be the mistress of such a man for life. She could not bear his colored children. She could not live in a prison on Girod Street for his pleasure and her wealth. Let someone else accept that sentence.

  For the moment, though, there was nowhere else to go. She wasn't about to run back to Magazine Street. So she would stay where she was until she could escape with something other than her satchel of clothes.