That Voodoo That You Do Read online

  Jessie stared at each of them. “I thought you said Aunt Blanche summoned me.”

  “She did,” Mabel Ruth said. “She needed a reason to bring Lucas home.”

  Jessie still didn’t understand. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Everything,” Millicent explained. “Lucas thinks he’s here to take care of you. Your job is to convince him to investigate the murder.”

  Anger, frustration, and another old, familiar feeling surged through Jessie. She’d spent her life “helping” everybody else. She’d spent her life marginalized. She made no effort to keep the fury out of her voice.

  “I couldn’t convince Luke Tanner to walk with me to the mailbox,” she said. “Not that I’d want to.”

  The three elderly ladies exchanged a knowing look.

  “Oh, I think you’d be surprised,” Mabel Ruth murmured. “Blanche had great faith in you.”

  Jessie stood very still. This was all too familiar. Déjà voodoo.

  She could support Luke while he did all the interesting stuff, just as she’d supported her father and had intended to support Kit, or she could defy expectations and test herself. The problem was she knew next to nothing about investigating an alleged murder. If only she’d spent more evenings watching Law and Order.

  Still, it might be kind of fun.

  “No disrespect to you or Aunt Blanche,” Jessie said, “but I believe we can dispense with the middle man. I will sort this out myself.” The three old ladies just looked at each other.

  “That’s fine, dear,” Mabel Ruth said.

  ****

  Reverend Dennis Prendergast surveyed himself in the large mirror above the dresser in the bedroom he shared with his wife. His Pepsodent smile reflected back at him as he smoothed the thinning, gel-saturated dark blond hair off his ruddy face. He had a variety of smiles from which to choose. They were all effective, but he liked the toothpaste smile best.

  He turned sideways and sucked in his gut. The mirror didn’t lie. He might be pushing fifty, but since his recent weight loss, he was as fit and handsome as he’d been at twenty-five.

  He’d had to work at it. The women here in the Piedmont cooked exclusively with butter and lard. Hell, Ferguson’s didn’t even stock olive, vegetable, or peanut oil because of some long ago allergy-related death. During his first months in Mystic, he’d put on some pounds, but recently he’d dropped weight. For one thing, he’d canceled those infernal potlucks. For another, he’d discovered something better than fried chicken, tuna noodle casseroles, and chocolate cake.

  Something intoxicating, stimulating, thrilling.

  He’d discovered extramarital sex.

  His palms itched to cup Lois Epps’s titanic breasts. His eyes fluttered shut as the memory of Lois’s skillful mouth shot a jolt of pure lust through his loins. He pressed his hand against the front of his fine wool slacks.

  The shock of cold steel against the back of his neck caused his hand to jerk. He winced at the sudden pain and swallowed a curse.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Eleanor’s pleasant voice was too close. How much had she seen? He mumbled something incoherent.

  “I noticed a stray hair and thought I’d even it up.”

  Dennis felt the sharp blade of the scissors against the back of his neck. He held his breath, but he couldn’t control the trembling that started when she inched the metal against his clammy skin. A crisp “snip” crackled in the air like a gunshot, and his trousers loosened.

  “There,” she murmured. “Perfect.”

  That was Eleanor. Precise. Measured. Perfect. He’d never seen her lose her temper. Marrying her was the smartest move he’d ever made. He’d gotten a cook, caretaker, companion, and financial security in exchange for a wedding vow. Not that he took all the credit. God was on his side.

  Always had been.

  “Thank you, dear.” He smiled at his wife.

  “You sound a trifle coldish.” Eleanor was such a mother hen. “Perhaps you should stay in tonight.”

  Stay in? When all of Mystic Hollow would be at the holiday festival? When there was a good chance he’d get another sublime encounter with Lois’s mouth? And out in public, too. Reverend Prendergast liked to take risks. He found the risk of discovery heightened the sexual excitement.

  He gazed at his wife. She wore her pale red hair in a no-nonsense cap. Her skin, the color of skim milk and her pale eyebrows combined to make her features almost disappear in her face. But she was a tireless worker who had secured his place in the community with her willingness to help on every project.

  He patted her hand. “People will expect to see me.”

  He helped her on with the thin brown coat she’d worn for the past five years, then he shrugged into his stylish Burberry.

  “I wish you’d replace that with something new, Ellie.”

  “This one still has some wear in it.”

  “It doesn’t have any lining,” he complained.

  “How do you stay warm?”

  “I never get cold. You know that.”

  He did know it. He found it a little reptilian. He shook off the image and took her arm. She felt familiar, comfortable. They’d been through a lot together.

  They left their modest half of the duplex and walked fifteen yards to the back end of the church’s parking lot. From there they crossed Church Street and stepped onto the Green. Dennis spotted Lois immediately. His blood pressure rose, and he issued a playful invitation he knew his wife couldn’t accept.

  “Come watch the parade with me, Ellie.”

  “I have to be at the refreshment table with Letty,” she reminded him.

  He rolled his eyes. Miss Letitica Appleby was a thorn in his paw. His cross to bear. The rotten apple in the barrel. It wasn’t enough that the self-righteous old biddy followed him around town, hounding him with tittle tattle about everybody’s trespasses. She lived in the other half of his house. She was his next-door neighbor. He was tuned to the all-Letty network all the time.

  “How can you stand that woman? She’s so danged holier-than-thou.”

  “Really, Denny!”

  “C’mon, Ellie. She’s always tattling on someone. She should remember John the Baptist. Someday someone will serve her head on a platter.”

  “Hush.”

  The warning was unnecessary. His attention had riveted on the bulbous bosom bouncing toward him. The fisherman’s sweater Lois wore couldn’t hide their perfectly apple-like shape of her breasts or the way each breath lifted them practically to her chin.

  “It’s amazing she can even breathe,” Eleanor murmured.

  The unaccustomed humor startled Dennis, but it didn’t cause him to take his eyes off the magnificent glands that loomed before him. He glanced at her husband, tall, rail-thin, with cadaverous eyes and thick, dark-rimmed glasses.

  Dennis plastered on a smile. “Evening, Lois, Mort. Looks like we’re about to get a storm.”

  “Hmph.” The mortician was a man of few words. He was dressed, as always in a black suit, white shirt, and dark tie, as though he might be called upon at any moment to direct a funeral.

  Dennis glanced at Lois’s face. Her eyes were too close together for beauty, and her chin receded. She wore too much makeup and dyed her hair the color of a new tire. But when she ran her tongue slowly over her lips, as she was doing now, sweat appeared between his shoulder blades.

  Jesus. He had to get her alone.

  “Oh, Reverend.”

  Miss Letty’s shrill voice sliced through his building fantasy and twanged his last nerve. He gritted his teeth. Her long, thin face ended in a sharp point that turned up as if it were trying to reach her long, bony nose. She wore a black coat of indeterminate age, and she wore her yellowed gray hair pulled back in a barrette.

  “Blanche Maynard would turn in her grave,” Miss Letty spat out. “Her great-niece arrived today and already she is living in sin with that scoundrel Lucas Tanner. The bad seed.”

  “N
ow, Letty,” Eleanor started to say.

  “He was always a wrong’un. It was a miracle he never murdered Blanche in her bed. She was just lucky.”

  “I don’t know how lucky she was,” Eleanor murmured. “After all, she’s dead.”

  “That boy ruined the Wetherington girl,” Letty continued. “Now he’s ruined the great-niece.”

  “I don’t imagine she’s ruined just yet,” Eleanor said. “After all she’s only been here a few hours.”

  “It will happen, mark my words. This town is turning into Sodom and Gomorrah! First Francine Ferris and the Reeves boy. Now this.” She stuck out her skinny neck so her hooked nose was only inches from Dennis’s face. “I want to know what you intend to do about it!”

  “We could build an ark,” Eleanor murmured.

  Letty whirled to speak to her but was distracted by the sight of the mortician. She grabbed his arm.

  “Oh, Mr. Epps. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you have a skulker. There’s been a man in a cape lurking around your establishment for the past two nights.”

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice stiff. “But you needn’t trouble yourself. We have an excellent security system installed.”

  “What’s there to steal?” Lois asked. “There’s nothing there but stiffs.”

  Dennis winced at the crude remark. Then his eyes dropped to her breasts, and his mind clouded. Under the sweater her flesh quivered like Jello. His lower body throbbed, and he prayed for everyone else to disappear.

  As always, God answered.

  Even as Letty’s eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed, Eleanor took the old bat’s arm. “Come along, Letty. The parade is about to start. Soon we’ll have customers for the brownies and hot chocolate.”

  Dennis Prendergast sent his wife an appreciative smile.

  “I have paperwork to do at the office,” the mortician said. “Reverend, could you keep Lois company?”

  It was further proof, if any was needed, that God wanted Dennis Prendergast to be happy.

  Dennis flashed his patented smile. “Sure thing, Mort. Nothing I’d like more.”

  Chapter Three

  Jessie smiled along with the children thronging the streets that bordered the Green when she saw Santa arrive on the town’s volunteer fire truck. It was hard to believe there’d been a murder here in Norman Rockwell country.

  She wasn’t sure she believed it yet.

  But she’d pledged herself to find out.

  “Does Mystic Hollow have festivals very often,” she asked her companions.

  “Too often in my opinion,” Mabel Ruth said. “There aren’t enough jobs in town to keep young people here. Mayor Foote believes our best hope is tourism. He’s always on the lookout for something to lure people. Like the Maple Syrup Roundup.”

  “I’d think people would flock to that.”

  Millicent shook her head. For an instant it looked like it might snap off her thin neck. “They might. If this was Vermont. Maple trees don’t produce sap this far south.”

  “Then there was the animal fair,” Maude said. “Where there were several, uh, incidents.”

  “Tommy Anderson’s rat snake ate Daniel Erskine’s white mouse,” Millicent said.

  “And we’re pretty sure that’s when Pyewacket got in the family way,” Maude confided.

  “Tonight’s just for fun,” Mabel Ruth said. “Oh, and uniforms. We’re raising money for the Marching Mystics, the high school band.” Very Professor Harold Hill.

  Maude’s fingers dug into her arm causing her to gasp. “Look,” Maude hissed. “Over there. That’s the reverend.”

  The alleged murderer looked more like a televangelist than a killer. An overly made up brunette with a bust like a shelf clung to his arm.

  “That isn’t his wife,” Maude whispered. “That’s the undertaker’s wife, Lois Epps. Eleanor is the redhead.” She indicated a tall, thin, woman whose placid countenance matched her pale hair.

  Jessie felt a weird disconnect. Lois didn’t look like a woman married to a mortician. Eleanor didn’t look like a woman married to anybody.

  “Oh, there’s Francine,” Maude said.

  They headed to a spot some feet away where two booths had been set up with folding tables and chairs. Francine turned out to be Francine Ferris, a tall, shapely redhead of about thirty with eyes the color of Easter chocolate. She smiled at Jessie.

  “I was very fond of your great-aunt,” she said. “I miss her.”

  “Francie owns Bell, Book and Candle,” Mabel Ruth said. “We all spend a lot of time there.”

  Jessie took in the young woman’s long black skirt and the giant plastic hoops at her ears.

  “Are you a witch, too?”

  “No.” Francine laughed. “I carry the New Age stuff, but I also display handicrafts made by the locals. It’s kind of Bewitched meets The Waltons.” She indicated a crystal ball on a table draped with chiffon scarves. “Tonight I’m a fortuneteller.”

  “Ah.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to shut down the other booth. My partner-in-crime, Thelma Sessions, had to stay home tonight with a sick pig.”

  The last word came out as a squeal. Francine was suddenly airborne, her long, lush hair and her skirts flying as strong masculine hands swung her around.

  “I’m sure my new roomie would love to help you out.”

  The deep voice sent a shock through Jessie’s system. All her senses went on red alert. She glanced from Francie’s flushed face to Luke’s amused expression. Were the two lovers? Unlikely. The canasta ladies said he’d only been in town for three days.

  Butterflies circled in Jessie’s stomach. Maybe Francine was an old girlfriend. And maybe, judging by the grin on the redhead’s face, the old embers were re-igniting. Jessie didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.

  “We’re not really roommates,” she babbled. “We just happen to be, temporarily, sharing Blanche’s house.”

  Luke let Francine’s feet drop to the ground, but he kept his arm around her. His green eyes glittered at Jessie, and she shivered. The bad seed was definitely dangerous.

  “You’d like to help, wouldn’t you, Jessie?

  You’ve got cruise director written all over you.”

  Jessie’s smile was tight. “Sure.”

  Francine’s smile was a lot more genuine. “It would be great if you could operate the kissing booth.”

  Kissing. Jessie bit back a groan. If she’d known how to kiss she’d still be engaged. Hell, she’d be married. And now, everyone in what was supposed to be her sanctuary, would know she sucked at that most basic of romantic interactions. She caught the sly grin on Luke’s face.

  He already knew.

  How? Was he a witch, too?

  ****

  Harlan Foote had been mayor since Luke played tight end on the Mystic Hollow Consolidated football team. The egg-shaped, mustachioed man loved his unpaid position more than he loved his shoe store with its bare wood floorboards and its 1950’s ceiling lights, and almost as much as he loved his wife, Hermione, their six daughters, and their hordes of grandchildren. He loved the town, too, just as Blanche Maynard had loved it.

  Almost as much as Luke hated it.

  Harlan Foote had dreams for Mystic Hollow.

  For Luke, this was where dreams came to die.

  The mayor toddled up to the chestnut tree where Luke stood with Zachary Reeves, a career marine whose powerful arm had put the football in Luke’s hands enough times to take Mystic Hollow Consolidated to the Class D state championship title.

  A blast of harsh wind made the egg-shaped man rock on his pins.

  “Wind’s picked up.” Harlan had always been master of the obvious. “Looks like a storm’s brewing.”

  Luke knew exactly what Harlan Foote would say next. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “How’d you boys like to put up the shelter?”

  Luke had already spotted a familiar pile of thin metal rods that looked as sturdy as toothpicks. He d
idn’t bother to point out the thunderheads barreling toward them would almost certainly level the flimsy structure on contact or that most of the festival-goers could sprint home as fast as they could gather under the shelter. It was tradition to have a shelter at a festival and Mayor Foote valued tradition.

  “By the way,” he continued. “Thanks for bringing out the chairs and tables. Can I count on you boys to haul them back to St. Michael’s later on tonight?”

  Luke and Zach exchanged a glance. The storm would hit Mystic Hollow in less than two hours, just about the time they’d be loading up his truck.

  “No problem,” Luke said.

  “You boys are real hometown heroes,” the mayor continued. “You and Bobby Ray. Back on the gridiron and now on the battlefield. Real hometown heroes,” he repeated.

  Luke’s gut clenched at the undeserved praise. He noticed Zach had frozen like a buck in the headlights.

  Harlan Foote looked up into Zach’s hard face. “Heard you’re heading back,” he said, quietly. “You take care now. Come home safe.” He left the rest of the thought unsaid.

  Not in a wooden box like Bobby Ray.

  Luke knew Zach was hurting. He’d been in the convoy when Bobby got picked off.

  “Good old Mayor Foote,” Luke said, trying to lighten the moment. “He’ll never change.”

  “Why should he? He’s happy in this hellhole.”

  Luke knew Zach was struggling with survivor guilt, but the comment shocked him. The tall marine had always been quiet, solid, dependable. And from as far back as Luke could remember, Zach had wanted to settle down in Mystic Hollow with Francine.

  “What’s going on with you?”

  Zach cupped his hand and bent down to light a cigarette. “I’ve seen more of the world.”

  Luke studied his friend. “What part of the world did you find so compelling? Fort Benning? Baghdad?”

  “It’s a job.” Zach crushed the unlit cigarette.

  Luke cursed. “Bobby Ray’s death wasn’t your fault.”

  Zach drew another cigarette out of his jacket pocket, lit another match, and caught the tobacco on fire. He inhaled in a long, smooth breath. “He was under my protection. Now he’s in the ground. I’d say that was my fault.”