Mardi Gras Gris Gris Read online

  Danny gave him a lopsided grin. “Glad to help.”

  “Thanks.” Jim smiled. “The sheriff’s office has a lot better facilities to work with and I’m still a novice at being the head of an agency.” He wouldn’t have admitted his insecurity to anyone but Danny. The man had been his mentor since the day he arrived in town.

  “Don’t sell yourself short. All your experience with NOPD will come in handy with this case.” Danny lowered his voice. “You’ve run the department a hell of a lot better than the former chief.” He chuckled. “They honored him by choosing him to be King Helios this year.”

  “In some circles that is an honor.”

  “Not so much in mine. But I’m glad I’m not with NOPD during Carnival.”

  “Yeah, the weeks before Fat Tuesday were hell.”

  Presently a Cypress Lake police officer approached them, carrying camera gear. “Chief… Sheriff.” He nodded to the two department heads. “This was not a good way to end a parade.” Kenneth Wallace’s stocky build and a prominent lower jaw gave credence to his nickname.

  “Bulldog, I call that an understatement,” Jim replied. “To add insult to injury, any evidence across the street we might have has been trampled on by the crowd.”

  “I’ll head over there after I get some shots here.”

  “Good deal,” Jim told him. He pointed to the body. “Make sure you get some clear shots of the gris-gris bag and the murder weapon.”

  Wallace studied the body for a moment, and then clicked off several shots from every direction. “Man oh man, this is really weird. It’s like something out of a freakin’ horror movie.” He snapped a few close-ups of the knife and the gris-gris bag. “Anything else, Chief?”

  “Not at this scene. But we’ll need shots of the bag’s contents.”

  “Will do. I’ll go across the street, and then see about getting these printed out,” Wallace called back. He strode over to the yellow tape boundary and ducked under it, disappearing behind the parked street sweeper.

  Both Jim and Danny turned their attention to the black Ford Explorer pulling up just outside the area marked off by the crime scene tape. Murmurs from the crowd increased in volume at the sight of the vehicle.

  “The coroner’s here,” one of the deputies announced. The young man appeared pumped with excitement and barely able to control himself.

  Danny leaned closer to Jim. “Some of my younger deputies have never experienced a murder. I suspect this is like an episode of a television cop show come to life to them.”

  “Hope we don’t have to rein anybody in.”

  A man with a thin white mustache exited the Explorer. He ducked under the yellow tape and strode toward the officers. The breeze lifted several strands of white hair from his balding crown.

  “Doc Hadley,” Jim greeted him. “Sorry to call you away from the festivities.”

  “No problem. I’m used to being called away from a lot of events by my live patients.” Hadley stooped beside the body. “Let’s see what we have here.”

  “The body was turned over before we arrived on scene,” Jim informed him. “He originally fell face down after being struck by the street sweeper.”

  Dr. Hadley continued to check the body. After his brief inspection, he looked up at Jim’s intent face with a neutral expression. “For the record, he’s officially dead.”

  Both Jim and Danny automatically checked their watches to note the time. 11:45 am. Jim jotted the time in a small notebook.

  “Knife wound to the chest,” the coroner continued, pointing with a latex-clad hand. “From the condition of the body, I’d say Mr. Berthelot lived maybe five minutes before he succumbed to his wound. We’ll know more after the autopsy.” He gave Jim an apologetic look. “You know since I’m not a pathologist, I can’t perform an autopsy. So the procedure may take a while. Orleans Parish is pretty backed up, I’d say.”

  Unfortunately, Jim was forced to agree with his assessment of the murder rate in New Orleans.

  A white coroner’s office van drove up. Two attendants stepped out and walked to the rear of the vehicle. The clanging of doors ensued and minutes later they emerged with a gurney. The men pushed the gurney toward the body but stopped several feet away to await Dr. Hadley’s signal to proceed.

  With his examination complete, Dr. Hadley rose from his position next to the body. “This is a crying shame. I can’t imagine what all this craziness means. Never thought this kind of thing would happen here.”

  “Neither did I,” Danny said.

  “I sure as hell never expected a high profile case like this,” Jim said.

  Hadley tilted his head slightly. “I guess you saw a lot of those in the city.”

  “Too many.” He grimaced. “And now I have to perform one of the worst tasks of my job—notifying the next-of-kin.”

  ~ * ~

  The twins had completely worn themselves out at the festivities and from last night’s sleep-over. Both fell asleep on the floor in Matthew’s bedroom, still in their costumes, shoes and all. I gazed down at the duo and smiled. After many years of marriage, I thought Jim and I would never have any children. But there they were. Two six-year-old bundles of pure joy and at the same time boundless energy that tended to wear me out. Caroline and Matthew, twins like me and Steven.

  The thought of my brother triggered unpleasant memories about the events prior to our move to Cypress Lake and my decision to prove Steven didn’t murder his wife when everyone else, including the police, and even Jim, an NOPD detective at the time, thought otherwise.

  The heart-wrenching memories of a night years ago when I discovered my sister-in-law’s body came rushing back. A decade later the cold case investigation of Anne’s murder reopened with Steven again the prime suspect.

  Those recollections automatically prompted the image of the scene at the parade today. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to erase the horrific sight out of my thoughts without success.

  I hardly knew Teddy Berthelot, but the emotional response to the sight of him staggering across the street clawed at me.

  Something brushed against my leg. Looking down, I smiled. Katy, my four-legged baby, meowed softly. The cat sniffed Caroline’s shoes, taking in the many new smells designed to grab any feline’s interest.

  Careful not to wake the children, I removed their shoes, and then covered the sleeping duo with a fleece blanket from the bed.

  After observing the twins for a few moments longer, I picked up the cat and walked into the family room. I eased onto the sofa with Katy, affectionately stroking her ginger-colored fur. Petting the cat was always relaxing. No wonder animal therapy continued to gain popularity.

  Now that I’d calmed down, the idea of keeping up with the investigation entered my mind. I could be an impartial observer. After all, I’m not related to this victim. There’s a good reason for me to get involved.

  Staying informed about the procedure for this murder investigation could aid me in creating a realistic plot for the mystery novel I have tried for several years to get published. A year ago, my second short story appeared in Mystery and Intrigue magazine which did provide encouragement as far as my writing career was concerned and even a few dollars. Maybe, just maybe…

  What am I thinking? God, I must be a masochist. Don’t go there. What an insane notion. I can’t stop visualizing scenes from Anne’s murder. Why did I believe this would erase all traces of those memories simply because I didn’t have a personal connection this time?

  There were other more pressing responsibilities to consider, like the twins. I came very close to being killed the last time I decided to investigate on my own.

  Considering the angry response I threw out at Jim’s attempt to comfort me at the scene, I would again be skating on thin ice with my marriage and my life.

  Yet the mystery lover in me couldn’t help wondering about Teddy’s sudden appearance from the opposite side of the street. Where had he been and why didn’t anyone notice the knife with a gris-gris bag da
ngling from it? Had I really seen a second masked man in the crowd?

  I tried to recall the image, if there actually was another person. Nothing came back to me. My imagination must have been working overtime. But what about the man who seemed to be watching me? Was that my imagination also?

  The presence of the gris-gris bag gave the whole scene an eerie feel. Only in Louisiana. Of course, during Mardi Gras, oddities were the norm. The killer must have planned his actions on that premise.

  Three

  I leaned back and closed my eyes. The image of Teddy Berthelot’s blood-soaked clothing and the knife handle protruding from his chest would take a long time to go away, if ever. The significance of the gris-gris bag escaped me.

  Teddy didn’t run in the same social circles as Jim and I, so his private activities were unknown to me. In the past we attended several galas for charitable causes where the Berthelots also put in an appearance, which was hardy conducive to getting to know them.

  But I had lived here long enough to know the parish hierarchy. The people in the top social status weren’t any different from the family I’d been born into in New Orleans and the peers I socialized with growing up—the same kind of snobby people all with a sense of entitlement. I more or less steered clear of that group if I could help it.

  The Berthelot family, the Reynauds, and the Wagner-Edwards clan owned a major portion of the land in the parish and participated in a lot of high society functions here and in New Orleans.

  Envisioning Teddy’s participation in herbal healing, or magic spells, or having any dealings with the people who dealt in such undertakings, took a great deal of imagination even for me. Of course there was always one member in every group of kin who went against the family tradition. Teddy’s public persona didn’t fit the description of a black sheep. However, one could never tell.

  Wearing the rubber mask also seemed odd. Many people do mask for Carnival, but the number of those who go in costume has diminished during the years we lived here. The trend these days was to wear a crazy multi-colored wig or hat and a Mardi Gras t-shirt and donning several strands of beads caught in one of last year’s parades.

  In New Orleans, the custom of masking in elaborate costumes had ebbs and flows, except maybe down on Bourbon Street. The idea behind the masking tradition was to be incognito. Why did Teddy need to conceal his identity in public? He didn’t do a very good job with his disguise. Was his reason the other man I thought I saw?

  I dismissed all my questions about the murder. Jim would have the job of solving the crime. There were a few more housekeeping jobs I needed to attend to—tasks I always put off until later. Housework was never my cup of tea.

  Before I moved from the sofa, I heard the front door open. Jim stepped inside, followed by Rachel and Danny.

  “I didn’t expect you back from the scene until much later.” I invited Danny and Rachel to be seated in the chairs across from the sofa.

  Jim leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, and then sat beside me. “There wasn’t much we could do after the coroner’s people removed the body. My officers went over the whole area, but anything remotely resembling evidence had been trampled on by the parade goers. They did get a few promising pieces. Of course those could be contaminated.”

  “Our suspect undoubtedly planned it that way,” Danny said. “Everyone we spoke to only noticed Berthelot crossing the street, or when he was lying face down on the ground.”

  “We might be able to pick up something off the murder weapon. But that’s a long shot.” Jim paused and gave me a cautious glance. “We wanted to get a report on what you ladies saw at the scene. You feel like talking about it?”

  “Sure, I’m all right.” I kept trying to figure out why Jim had decided to do the interview with both Danny and Rachel at our house. He evidently read my curious expression.

  “Danny will be working with me on the case and we also have a request for some other info from Rachel.”

  She raised her eyebrows at his remark. “Like what?”

  Danny gave a slight wave of his hand. “We’ll get to that later. First we need to know exactly what you saw.”

  I told them what I had seen, without mentioning the possibility of a second man. He was probably a figment of my imagination. Rachel’s story pretty much matched mine. Our stoic-looking husbands simply nodded and neither made any comments on our witness statements.

  After a short silence, Jim finally spoke up. “My photo man Wallace took pictures of the contents of the gris-gris bag. Rachel, will you check them out and see what you think about them?”

  “We thought maybe you could look at these photos and see if you can make sense of these items,” Danny said. “Maybe you ran across something like this in your years at the university since rituals and myths were your specialty.”

  She glanced at me. “Once upon a time, I taught an anthropology class on religion and rituals.” Curiosity was evident on her face, but she gave Danny a serious look. “As you well know, it’s been many years, but maybe something will click. I’ll take a look.”

  I eyed the top photo before passing them from Jim to Rachel. The first picture showed two tarot cards, both in the suit of swords. Interesting. While the victim didn’t die from an injury caused by a sword, his wound was inflicted by a blade—a knife in this case. There was something different about these cards. They didn’t look like the standard commercial deck. Could they be hand-crafted?

  Rachel flipped through the photos and then returned her attention to the first image.

  “There are four items in the bag,” Danny noted. “Isn’t there a myth or two about the power of different numbers?”

  She redirected her gaze from the pictures to him. “There is something about the power of three, but it’s more like odd numbers in the gris-gris bags. You’re supposed to put in an odd number of items from three to thirteen. This one has an even number.

  “Most people associate the gris-gris only with voodoo. Contrary to popular belief, the gris-gris bag has been used for decades by healers of many world cultures to create spells dealing with health concerns, or to find a lover, or some other benign objective,” she continued. “The optimum word here is benign, not sending a message about a murder.”

  Rachel examined the photo again, appearing to take in every detail. She pointed to two of the items shown. “These are tarot cards, the ten of swords and the two of swords. I’m not really familiar with the tarot deck, but it stands to reason since Teddy was stabbed to death, the sword must represent the method of murder or death. But ten swords seem like overkill, because he was only stabbed once.”

  She looked at each of the men as if to gauge their reaction to her interpretation. “And even the two of swords doesn’t make sense. Maybe someone more familiar with the individual cards and their meanings could give you a more accurate explanation. Or I could do some research on the cards. ” She pointed a finger at the tarot cards in the photo. “I can tell you this about the cards. These are not commercially produced. Someone painted these; they’re hand made.”

  Jim gave a nod of agreement to Rachel’s statement. “The originals were painted on small pieces of canvas.”

  “The cards show quite a bit of detail,” she said.

  I felt a bit of what some might call unwarranted self-righteousness due to my observation about the cards. I couldn’t help myself. Little by little, I was being drawn back toward my original idea of delving into the investigation.

  Not wanting to be left out of the conversation, I asked, “What else was in the bag besides the cards?”

  “A stone of some kind and a drawing of a man with a sword.” Jim’s clipped tone indicated he didn’t want me to have any more information about the case unless it was absolutely necessary. No doubt, after my previous experience, he feared I would end up in danger if I became involved.

  Taking another look at the photos, Rachel studied the other two items.

  “The bloodstone is a form of green jasper,” she exp
lained. “It’s been used for thousands of years in magic to halt bleeding—usually from an injury. The red speckles on the surface represent drops of blood. Soldiers carried the stones with them on the battlefield to prevent wounds and to gain victory and power over their enemies. My interpretation of the killer’s message is that Teddy Berthelot’s death is a victory over his enemy…and although not in the original context, the victim’s blood flow has definitely been halted.”

  “What about the drawing?” Jim asked.

  “The photo isn’t too clear, but from what I can tell…” She picked up the remaining photo. “Oh good, you have a close-up.”

  Rachel considered the details of the enlarged photo. “The subject of the drawing is a black-cloaked man, his sword drawn and ready for battle. He looks like Thanatos, the Greek god of death. According to the myth, whoever Thanatos struck with his sword went directly to Hades.”

  “Here we go with the swords again,” Danny commented. “Obviously our subject is pretty knowledgeable about mythology and the occult.”

  “Rachel, I agree with your interpretation of the bloodstone and the drawing,” Jim said. “Your explanation about the swords sounds logical, but I can’t help believing there’s another meaning besides the method of death.” He gave a brief smile, almost a sneer. “I’m sure there’re quite a few card readers in New Orleans who would be more than happy to give me a reading.”

  Danny chuckled. “For a price, you mean.”

  “Right.”

  “I know a woman who could help with the tarot cards.” I braced myself for a barrage of negativity from Jim. He must have been hesitant to say anything in front of company, but the clenching of his jaw muscles spoke volumes.

  Ignoring his look of displeasure, I continued. “I once consulted a psychic in New Orleans named Taylor Evans. She may know the Tarot. I recall seeing several books in her office on the cards.”

  “Her name rings a bell,” Danny said.

  “She told me she’s teamed up with law enforcement agencies in the past to help solve cases. Perhaps that’s how you heard her name.”