That Old Black Magic
Mary Jane Clark
Dedication
For Peggy Derryberry Gould,
with endless gratitude for the peace of mind you provide.
And for all those who struggle with Fragile X Syndrome,
as well as the researchers who are working on treatments.
Onward.
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Thursday, March 13
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Friday, March 14
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Saturday, March 15
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Sunday, March 16
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Monday, March 17, St. Patrick’s Day
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Tuesday, March 18
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Wednesday, March 19, St. Joseph’s Day
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Thursday, March 20
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Friday, March 21
Epilogue
Boulangerie Bertrand Beignets
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Mary Jane Clark
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Several days from now . . .
Piper was sipping a cocktail, but she couldn’t taste it. Her sights were set on the tattered cloth doll. It was dancing frantically, tangled in yellow police tape. The more the doll jerked, the more snarled up it became until, finally, the strangled doll collapsed motionless on the floor.
She watched the pool of blood seeping out slowly from beneath the doll, the wet redness growing, coloring everything in its path except for the knotted police tape. Eventually the tape began to unravel itself, and its snakelike yellow tendrils started slithering toward Piper.
She wanted to get away. Her mind willed her body to move. Nothing happened. She was paralyzed. There was no escaping.
Her fear soaring, Piper tried to call out, but no words came from her mouth. Only a desperate, whimpering sound emanated from deep inside her throat.
The yellow snakes slid closer.
Thursday
March 13
Chapter 1
Marie Antoinette would have loved this place!”
Piper Donovan stood agape, her green eyes opened wide, as she took in the magical space. Crystal chandeliers, dripping with glittering prisms, hung from the mirrored ceiling. Gilded moldings crowned the pale pink walls. Gleaming glass cases displayed vibrant fruit tarts, puffy éclairs, and powdered beignets. Exquisitely decorated cakes of all flavors and sizes rested on pedestals alongside trays of pastel meringues and luscious napoleons. Cupcakes, cookies, croissants, and cream-filled pastries dusted with sugar or drizzled with chocolate beckoned from the shelves.
“It’s unbelievable,” she whispered. “I feel like I’ve walked into a jewel box—one made of confectioners’ sugar but a jewel box nonetheless.”
“Seriously, Bertrand,” said Piper. “It’s so crazy. I’ve read so much about Boulangerie Bertrand, and I’ve watched the episode that the Food Network did on you pretty much on loop since it aired. So I can’t believe I’m actually here in New Orleans and have the chance to work with you.” Piper did a full turn, trying to take it all in. “It’s not like me to get starstruck, but this is epic.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” said Bertrand Olivier, bowing slightly. Piper noticed a balding spot on the top of his head amid the bushy salt-and-pepper hair. “I hope this time together will be beneficial for both of us. Would you like to see what I am working on?”
“I’d love to,” said Piper.
She followed Bertrand from the display area down a long corridor that led to a large kitchen. Gleaming copper pots of varying sizes hung from pegs on one wall, while another wall was lined with larger stainless-steel ovens. There were two doors, one at the back opening to the outside and another on the far wall leading to an office. Piper caught a glimpse of the desk and shelves inside. Spread out on a long wooden tabl
e in the middle of the kitchen were rows and rows of what Piper first thought were large gingerbread men. Closer inspection revealed that the cookie men had been decorated with different clothing in vibrant shades of icing—blue, red, yellow, green, and purple. Their faces had been painted in various expressions: some wide-eyed, others with eyes closed; some tight-mouthed, others with jagged teeth. Each figure had an X marked on its left breast. And a long, thick needle made from chocolate protruded from that X.
“Are these voodoo dolls?” asked Piper with delight. “Amazing!”
Bertrand nodded, grinning at the praise.
“They did come out well, n’est-ce pas? These are our cookies-of-the-month.”
“I love that,” said Piper. “What did you do last month?”
“Nursery-rhyme characters,” said Bertrand. “And the month before that, jazz instruments. The cookies-of-the-month have proved to be big sellers for us.”
“I can see why,” said Piper as she scanned the table. “Who wouldn’t want to buy some of these? Wait till I tell my mother about them.”
“Feel free to flip through our bakery scrapbook and look at our designs,” said Bertrand. He gestured at the cookies on the table. “Try one, please.”
Piper could feel him observing her as she selected a yellow voodoo-doll cookie. As she lifted it to her mouth, she paused before biting off the chocolate needle. She laughed.
“I hope this isn’t going to cast some sort of evil spell on me.”
Chapter 2
Carrying his clarinet case and his straw bag of tricks, Cecil Gregson wended his way through the streets of the City of the Dead. The narrow alleyways were edged with rusty ironwork and rows and rows of tombs. Some of the tombs were modest, some were grand, and most were in advanced stages of deterioration. Marble crosses and statues jutted from their surfaces. Almost all of the final resting places were aboveground.
He squinted as he walked, blinded by the light reflected off the sun-bleached tombs. His heart beat faster as he neared his goal. He wanted to have some time alone beside the notorious tomb.
Cecil pushed the porkpie hat back on his head and groaned inwardly as he came to the bend and saw the people gathered around what was said to be the spot where Marie Laveau rested. Cecil was disappointed that he wasn’t alone—disappointed but not surprised. He had heard that more visitors came to the crumbling crypt of the voodoo queen of New Orleans each year than went to visit Elvis Presley’s grave. Cecil wondered if he counted as one visitor or one hundred, since that was approximately how many times he came annually to pay his respects.
He suspected that tourists must be disappointed when they came to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 and saw the run-down Greek Revival tomb. Amassed at the bottom of the crypt were trinkets left by other visitors. Empty cigarette packages, lip-gloss wands, bottles, ribbons, sticks of gum, coins, beads, cards, rocks, and other items that would only look like trash to the uninitiated.
Beads of perspiration dotted Cecil’s brow as he found a spot at the edge of a group of tourists and laid his instrument case and straw bag on the ground. He watched and listened as a good-looking, jean-clad tour guide spoke.
“Because New Orleans has an unusually high water table, underground burial often isn’t practical. In times of heavy rains and flooding, there have been problems with coffins bursting up through the ground and floating away. Interring the dead in aboveground family crypts is the logical solution.”
A florid-faced man raised his hand. “Falkner, these crypts don’t seem big enough to hold whole families,” he said, gesturing around at the other tombs surrounding the voodoo queen’s. “Don’t they get filled up pretty fast?”
“They are really very efficient,” answered Falkner, the tour guide. “The crypts serve as reusable combustion chambers. The extreme heat of New Orleans bakes the stone, brick, and concrete vaults, quickly breaking down the human remains deposited inside. After a year or two, the tomb can be reopened, and whatever’s left is moved to a specially made burial bag and placed at the side, back, or bottom of the vault, leaving room for the next deceased family member to take up residence.”
“Eww! Creepy!” cried a teenage girl as she grabbed onto her boyfriend’s arm.
“And what about Marie Laveau?” asked another tourist, fanning himself with his baseball cap. “Why is a voodoo queen interred in a Catholic cemetery?”
“Voodoo is a religion, a form of worship brought to the Caribbean and American colonies from Africa through the slave trade,” explained Falkner. “But remember: Many slaves were owned by Catholic masters, and they were influenced by that. New Orleans voodoo is steeped in Catholicism. Marie Laveau was a devout Catholic who attended Mass nearly every day. She mixed holy water, incense, Catholic prayers, and saints into the African-based voodoo rites.”
“I’ve heard the term ‘hoodoo,’ ” said the same tourist. “Are hoodoo and voodoo the same thing?”
“Hoodoo is derived from voodoo,” answered Falkner. “But voodoo is considered a religion and hoodoo is not. Hoodoo is only concerned with the magical practices of voodoo.”
The tour guide walked around to the side of the tomb. “See these X’s?” he asked, pointing to the many marks scratched on the crypt wall. “These have been left largely by tourists who’ve heard that marking the tomb with three X’s or spinning around three times or knocking on it or rubbing a foot on it before leaving an offering of some kind will get them a wish granted. I can tell you that it’s considered a crime to mark up this tomb or any of the others. I can’t tell you if you’ll get your wish.”
Cecil watched as the tour group moved on. He wanted to yell after them and tell them that he could attest to the fact that Marie Laveau did answer when she was called upon. He knew it to be true.
Reaching into his bag of tricks—past the cigars, the leather cat-o’-nine-tails, and other voodoo goodies—Cecil pulled out a black candle and a pack of matches. Spinning around three times, he lit the candle, laid it at the base of the tomb, and made his wish.
Chapter 3
You must be très fatiguée, Piper, from your long trip. Marguerite will show you upstairs to your apartment. I hope you will like it.”
Piper didn’t want to confirm Bertrand’s suspicion. It seemed ridiculous for a twenty-seven-year-old to be tired. It was only a few hours’ flight from Newark to New Orleans, yet she hadn’t slept well, had gotten up absurdly early, and had been too wired to nap on the plane. The reality was, she still hadn’t fully recovered her strength after her ordeal in Sarasota the month before. Piper was dying to lie down for a little while.
“Thank you, Bertrand. And how should we do this?” asked Piper. “When do you want to start in the kitchen?”
“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” said Bertrand, his eyes sweeping up and down her body. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day to get settled? Perhaps a walk around the French Quarter to get acclimated. Early this evening come with us to dinner. We are going to Bistro Sabrina, which is owned by Leo Yancy. We make desserts for his restaurant and will be providing the cake for his upcoming wedding.”
“Great,” said Piper. “What time?”
“We’ll pick you up at seven.” Bertrand glanced over Piper’s shoulder at customers gathered in front of the display cases. “Now I must get back to work.”
Bertrand beckoned to a sturdy woman with a short, stylish haircut and dark brown eyes who stood behind the counter. She wiped her hands on a towel and took off her apron before walking over to them.
“This is Marguerite, Piper. My wife and the love of my life.” Bertrand kissed his spouse on her smooth forehead. “I don’t know where I would be without her.”
“Probably baking for the president or some European head of state,” said Marguerite Olivier. “You’ve held yourself back, Bertrand, to make me happy. You see, Piper, I am the one who can’t imagine living anywhere other than New Orleans.
I grew up here, and I’ll be buried here.”
“Well, Bertrand’s hardly been toiling away in anonymity,” Piper said with a laugh as she shook Marguerite’s hand and appreciated the firm grip. “I feel so lucky to have the opportunity to be your guest baker! I’m so glad my mother entered my name.”
“We are, too,” said Marguerite, fine lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes as she smiled. “Once we looked at the pictures of the cakes you’ve already done, we were sold on the idea of having you as our visiting artist. We also like the idea of having someone so young and full of ideas.”