Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Page 20

  Once she left home, she had made her way to Houston, where she landed herself a job dancing in a traveling show that was just heading out on a summer tour. There was no need for any training in the balletic arts. The routines were simple. The prime requirements were a good figure and a willingness to show it off in a skimpy dress.

  With her latte skin, eyes with the slightest Chinee slant, and tight and slender body, she was a sight up on a plank stage. Right away, she was courted by members of the shifting company of musicians, comics, and patent medicine drummers. Though she didn't care much for having a regular man humping away between her legs, she understood what she had to do to get by. At least she had the choice of who she lay down with and when. She played them like clowns and took their gifts and their coins.

  She thought the money she was collecting was decent, until one of the other dancers took her aside and explained exactly where the real cash was made. She began entertaining men in the towns they visited, rich farmers and local businessmen who couldn't risk getting caught patronizing local women. Not to mention that in the backwoods, clean doves were few and far between. Most were dirty, unschooled, good-for-nothing drunkards who had neither the looks, the skills, nor the ambition for the outside world. So Justine had stayed busy in the evenings after the shows were over. The best part was that the next morning she was gone again, on to the next town and the next eager fellow.

  Her eyes settled for a moment on the name Ville Platte. She fixed on the two words for a long moment, then turned away and sat down on one of the hard oak benches. She stared out through the wide, tall windows at the trains, long and dark, blowing steam and soot as they rolled in and out. Eddies of passengers, their faces white, brown, and deep black, swirled before her eyes.

  She had stayed out with the last circuit of shows for two years. The one called the Flying Horses brought her to the fairgrounds in New Orleans. She had gone with the new manager one time as a payment for keeping her on. When he demanded more, she quit the show and tried to lose herself in the city. Then he found her in the upstairs room in a house on Basin Street and tried to force himself on her. Valentin St. Cyr, who happened to be on the premises, stepped through the door and into her life.

  That had happened almost three years ago. Now it was over and she was staring at the placards on the wall in a train station, realizing that there were so many places she could go and get lost, leaving Valentin St. Cyr and Mr. Tom Anderson to fend for themselves. She could escape and become a whole new person. Again.

  Valentin passed not fifty feet behind her as she stood staring at the wall. So intent were they both on their thoughts that they didn't notice each other.

  The detective bought a ticket on "Smoky Mary," the small gauge rail that ran from downtown to Lake Pontchartrain. In the spring and summer, the train would be full of those traveling to enjoy the concerts, fairs, carnivals, and other amusements that kept the lakeside communities lively. Now, with the concessions closed for the winter, there were only a handful of passengers in each car. Valentin sat by the window, watching the scenery change from the buildings and bustling traffic downtown, to the neighborhoods of single homes on the north side, and into the sparsely populated flats beyond the fairgrounds.

  He got off at the Spanish Fort Station and walked along the sand and gravel road that edged the lake. Most of the attractions were shuttered. The dance halls that stood on pilings out over the water looked particularly forlorn. During the warmer months, the revelry was so loud that people swore you could hear the shouts, laughter, and especially the music all the way downtown. Now they looked like pieces of flotsam adrift on the gray water.

  The road narrowed and there were houses on each side, small frame structures, also built up on pilings, with wide galleries. Some were residences used only part of the time for those who wished to escape the murderous heat of the summers in the city. Others served as year-round homes.

  Though Valentin hadn't paid a visit to Eulalie Echo in almost two years, he recognized her house right away. It stood out brightly among the drab clapboards up and down the road, painted a bright white, the gallery overrun with all sorts of plants and festooned with carvings and sculptures of wood and metal that harkened back to Africa.

  The house was fitted with a Dutch door, and before Valentin could call out a greeting, Miss Echo appeared in the open upper half.

  "Well, well," she said, clapping her hands lightly. "There's a face I haven't seen in some time. Must be trouble in Storyville."

  The tall Creole woman was related to the LeMenthes and had been named Ferdinand's godmother. She was a midwife, a seer, a healer, and a good voodoo queen, as compared to those foul witches who sold their talents to do harm. Some years ago she had moved out of the city and into this tidy house on the banks of the lake and had since dwelled there among her herbs and flowers. She had many regular customers who visited for her advice, for help with problems, for herbs and spices. She also traveled into New Orleans several times a week to deliver her goods and services. Believers swore her cures and potions never failed, so she stayed busy. Valentin was lucky to find her at home and alone.

  She invited him into her kitchen and to a seat at the heavy old table of pale oak. She took down a jug of her home-brewed whiskey and poured them both a short glass. She took a moment to ask after her godson and question him about the goings-on around Basin Street.

  "And what about your young lady? Justine, is it?"

  "She's gone," he said.

  "Oh ... I'm sorry to hear that."

  He shrugged and sipped his whiskey.

  "So, Valentin," Miss Echo said. "Were you just passing by this afternoon? Or do we have business?" Her eyes brightened with mischief. "I know! You finally decided that there's true power to the voudun and you need some help from me. Is this it?"

  He took the teasing with a smile, pleased that Miss Echo never took offense that he dismissed voodoo as foolishness. "I wish it was that," he said.

  "What, then?"

  "I've got something on my hands," he said. "There was a jass band a few years back. Played quite a bit on Rampart Street. The Union Hall Brass Band. And four of the five members of the band have turned up dead in the last two weeks. Along with the landlady at the house where one of them died."

  She put her glass down. "Dead, how?"

  "Two of them could have been accidents, but I don't think so. I think all of them were murdered."

  "And you don't know why."

  "No."

  "And, what, you need my help?"

  "That's right."

  "But not for voudun."

  "No, ma'am. Not exactly."

  "What, then?" She watched him steadily for a moment. Then her brow furrowed. "You said, except one?"

  "That's right."

  "And who was that one?"

  "It was Prince John, Miss Echo."

  "Good lord!" Her eyes swung around to him and she drew back with revulsion. "You come to ask me about him?"

  "I need to find—"

  She raised one finger, shushing him, then turned her face away to look out her kitchen window at her back gallery and the flat scrub beyond. Her mouth set in a tight line, and when her eyes came around again, they were black blades.

  "That man...," she said. "That man and them other ones like him, they gave voudun a bad name. I don't even know that he ever had any powers, but if he did, he used them in the worst way. He brought at least one poor woman down. Turned her into an animal. You know that story?"

  "I've heard it, yes."

  "He was never no goddamn good."

  "I still need to find him. He's the only one left."

  She was quiet for a moment, calming herself. "How you know he ain't dead?" she asked him.

  "I don't."

  The voodoo woman sipped her whiskey. "Christ in heaven, Valentin, he ain't ever been anything but trouble for anyone who come near him," she said. "Just so you know. Even if you'd let me, I couldn't do much to help you with that."

&nb
sp; "I understand," Valentin said gently. "If you can tell me where he is, I'd be grateful."

  "I don't know where he is," Miss Echo said. "But ... I know where he was."

  "Where?" Valentin said.

  Eulalie Echo gave him a searching look. "Do you got any idea what you're 'bout to do?"

  Dominique left the balcony door open, and every few minutes she would lean out and look off down Magazine Street in hopes of catching sight of him when he came around the corner. She was eager to surprise him, to greet him with caresses and then see what happened. She sensed her parts tingling and her heart beat a little faster just thinking about it. That made her feel a bit guilty about Jeff. What she was doing would have him spinning in his grave.

  It had just gone dark when she finally saw his figure pass beneath the streetlamp on the corner of Canal. She began to unbutton her dress. She got it all undone and leaned out to check his progress before she slipped out of it entirely, just in time to see two figures move away in the direction of Gravier Street. One was Valentin. She felt her heart begin to pound with anger when she realized who the other shape belonged to.

  Justine had been waiting a few doors down, across the street from Bechamin's. Somehow, Valentin wasn't all that surprised to see her there.

  He stopped when he was still five paces away. "Did you forget something?" he asked her, keeping his voice even.

  "I need to talk to you," she said.

  He hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward and offered his arm. She was touched by the unexpected courtesy, and it took an effort to steady herself again as they turned around and walked back toward Common Street.

  For his part, Valentin kept his gaze fixed on the banquette, as if he didn't want to face her directly and deal with the confusion. She glanced at him, saw the same perturbed look that she had seen so many times when something he didn't care for was dropped in his lap. It didn't matter. She had to do this.

  She looked back over her shoulder and saw a distinct profile framed in the balcony doorway. She couldn't quite make out the features, only that the girl was looking their way.

  "I see you already have a guest," she said, trying to keep her tone light.

  Valentin's eyes switched at her, then went back to the banquette. He was wondering if she had come all the way to Magazine Street to start an argument about Dominique. "What did you want to talk about?" he said. It came out sharper than he had intended, and she didn't say a word for a few paces, as she reconsidered the wisdom of the visit. Valentin was getting impatient. "What do you—"

  "I went to see Mr. Anderson," she said.

  Valentin stopped. "What for?"

  "Because he sent me a note and asked me to."

  He stared at her and she proceeded to recount the conversation at the Arlington. Valentin listened, his thoughts running in busy circles. There was something wrong about it. Why would Anderson try to get to him through her? She knew nothing about his business. And they weren't even together anymore. It didn't make sense. He did know that she was letting herself in for trouble by going behind Anderson's back to alert him. The King of Storyville would be furious, and when that white man got angry, people found their lives changing for the worse.

  He turned another corner. What if Anderson knew perfectly well that she would run to him as soon as she got out the door? It could be part of the game or a way of sending him a message. Which brought him back to why the man cared whether or not he chased down the murderer of four of the five members of the Union Hall Brass Band.

  She remained silent while he puzzled. They reached the corner of Camp Street and started west. He couldn't see his way through it. All he knew for sure was that Anderson was pulling strings behind the scenes and that there could be traps at every turn. It annoyed him that the man whom he had served so ably could so complicate his life.

  "What am I supposed to do?" Justine said, breaking into his thoughts.

  "Don't do anything."

  "He's expecting an answer."

  "You don't work for him," he said curtly.

  "I thought everyone worked for him. You said that."

  He grunted softly. He had said it, and it was true.

  "He's going to make things go bad for me, too," she blurted. "He said he would."

  He heard the fearful note in her voice and stopped again to stare at her. "What are you talking about? Make things bad for you how?"

  "I don't know!" she cried. "He can do anything he wants to anyone he wants. You said that, too!"

  He looked at her, saw the light dancing in her dark eyes, and knew in that moment she was hiding something. "What is it?" he asked her. She shook her head, her face paling beneath the streetlamps, and he began to discern something looming ominously, something she had kept from him for the entire two years that she had shared his bed.

  "Whatever it is, you're going to have to tell me."

  She stayed quiet for so long that he wasn't sure he had heard her. He was about to repeat it when she said, abruptly, "I don't know why I came here. I don't have to talk to you anymore." Her tone was cold, almost accusing, as if whatever was tormenting her was his fault.

  "Does it have anything to do with your Frenchman?"

  It caught her by surprise. She turned slowly. "What did you say?"

  "I asked you if it has something to do with the Frenchman?" There was no mistaking the lurking anger.

  "No," she said, biting down on her own words. "It doesn't."

  "Then what—"

  "What do you think he'd do if he found out I came here like this?" she cried, her voice taking on a frantic edge.

  "It's all right," Valentin said, trying to calm her. "No one will know you came here."

  "You know. I know." She made a furious gesture back toward his flat. "Your damn black girl knows."

  With that, her voice cracked and wavered like the air had gone out of her. Looking lost, she took his arm again, as if she now needed the support.

  They stepped to the corner of Magazine and Gravier. After another few seconds' silence, Justine sighed, released his arm resignedly, and nodded in the direction of his rooms.

  "You need to get back," she said. "She's waiting for you." When he didn't move, she hardened her voice and said, "Go."

  "What about your—"

  "Don't worry about it," she told him. "Just go."

  Valentin hesitated for a few seconds, then walked away from her. As he moved off, Justine heard the woman's voice coming down from the balcony, sounding hollow, wounded. Valentin murmured something in response. The street door opened, casting his profile for a second as he stepped inside. Then it closed, leaving darkness.

  The woman—Dominique—lingered on the balcony. It gave Justine a moment's sad pause, and she felt like weeping as she recalled all the evenings she had stood there, waiting for him to turn the corner. Then feeling him drawing closer before he actually stepped into view. She would hurry inside to greet him home. There was a little period of time, just after she had come to stay with him, when she all but lived for such moments, and would fairly swoon like a schoolgirl at his approach, as if she might topple over the railing and onto the cobbled street in a delirious, broken heap. That had ended, of course. The Black Rose murders had changed all that. She stopped waiting on the balcony or by the window when it rained. There came a point when it didn't seem to matter anymore. She tried to remember who had given up first.

  The crackling of wires interrupted these dark thoughts as the Magazine Line car came grinding toward her. She held up her skirts and crossed over to the other corner, where she could step on. As the streetcar rolled away, she caught a glance of Valentin's woman, still on the balcony, again peering her way. There was something about the way she stood there, with her chin and heavy bosom thrust out, her hands on her solid hips, her eyes and claws no doubt sharpened, lurking over the street like a bird of prey defending her nest. As the tableau grew smaller in the back window, Justine wondered why she had brought her problem to Valentin at all. It looke
d like he was going to have plenty on his own.

  Valentin spent a troubled night. As soon as he came inside, Dominique treated him to a reproachful stare that was followed by a long string of questions, which he deflected as best he could. She finally gave up and took her hurt feelings back into the kitchen.

  She had prepared a nice meal, but he ate so little that she asked him if he was feeling poorly. Afterward, he sat on the couch, with a book that he did not read open on his lap. Dominique fretted, pestering him until he spoke sharply to her. When it got late, she changed into her nightgown and made it clear by her longing looks that she was ready for a repeat of the night before. He told her to go to bed, that he would be in later.

  She pouted, her soft lip curling. "It's her, ain't it?"

  "It's not what you think."

  "No? What then?" She gave him an accusing look. "You ain't got no appetite. You ain't got two words to say to me. Now you sendin' me off to bed without you. What's wrong?"

  "She's in trouble."

  Dominique said, "She's in trouble all right."

  She saw the look Valentin was giving her and closed her mouth.

  "She didn't say anything about coming back," he told her firmly. "That's not what she wanted. She's with that Frenchman. So you don't need to be fretting about it."

  She watched his face for signs of deceit, saw none. Maybe he was that able a liar, but she didn't think so. "She needs to have some respect, that's all," she said. "I'm the one in your bed now, ain't that right?"

  "Yes, that's right," he said. "She's in trouble, that's all. And it's probably because of me."

  Dominique frowned darkly and muttered something he couldn't catch, then went off to the bedroom to wait for him.