In Thief of Souls, Book 11 of the French Quarter Mystery Series, a British pop singer hires disbarred attorney Wyatt Thomas to protect her from the devil. Scheduled as the Jazz Fest headliner, performer Dita Lika visits New Orleans early to seek the assistance of P.I. and paranormal investigator Wyatt Thomas. To help solve the dilemma, Wyatt enlists the assistance of a voodoo mambo, a defrocked priest, and a Harvard-educated historical researcher. What ensues is a whirlwind of paranormal adventure, fantasy, and mystery. Hope you love it.
Chapter 1
Not every horror story begins with a shocking
murder. This one does.
Smoke wafted to the
ceiling from the bonfire in the center of the large room. Some of the wood in
the fire was almost too green to burn and produced a smell neither Charles nor
his son Gillet recognized. Instead of a floral fragrance, it smelled like
death.
Black drummers
dressed in field pants and no shirts sat in a semicircle around the fire, their
drumming drowning out any attempt at conversation. When an explosion in the
fire pit filled the room with smoke, a Bokor, a mystic of African descent,
appeared behind the growing flames.
The Bokor’s skin
was blacker than the fire’s coals, ridges of scar tissue marking every part of
his body not covered with voodoo tattoos. He walked through the flames with
impunity, touching the gleaming coals with nothing protecting his bare feet.
The drumming intensified as the Bokor’s dance became more frenetic. When the
drumming abruptly halted, he stopped dancing and stood in the middle of the
fire.
The man’s voice was
as deep and dark as his skin when he said, “Who is here to purchase a soul?”
Charles Marchand,
dressed in the trappings of a wealthy plantation owner, sat cross-legged in
front of the fire.
“It is I,” he said.
“Is the soul you
wish to purchase for you or someone else?” the Bokor asked.
Dr. John smiled
when Marchand said, “For my son, Gillet.”
“Twenty pieces of
gold is the price I charge for salvation,” Dr. John said.
Charles Marchand
stepped forward, pulling a money bag from his light blue silk jacket. Dr. John
waited with a smile and an outstretched offering tray as Marchand began
counting gold coins into it. When the final coin clanked into the ceremonial
tray the drumming continued until the Bokor raised his hand. When he did, the
room grew deathly silent.
“Bring the woman
who is about to lose her soul to me,” he said.
Two muscular
assistants herded a frightened woman into the room. She had raven hair and dark
eyes from which tears rolled down her pretty face. In her last weeks of
pregnancy, the young woman struggled against the men gripping her arms. When
the Bokor addressed her, she refused to meet his gaze.
“What’s your name,
girl?” he asked.
“Afrodita,” she
said. “You know what it is.”
“What kind of name
is that?” he asked.
When Afrodita
didn’t answer, Dr. John backhanded her, snapping back her head. Afrodita tried
not to cry, though couldn’t quell her tears as blood flowed from her nose.
“It’s my name,” she
said.
“You are beautiful,
Afrodita. Almost as beautiful as Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess you received your
name from. Your beauty won’t save you. You are about to die, and someone has
purchased your soul. Without a soul, your destiny is to burn in hell forever.
Do you have anything to say?”
“Don’t take my
baby. She is innocent,” Afrodita said.
“Such an act of
kindness is not without cost. That cost is twenty pieces of gold. Do you have
it?”
Afrodita’s blood
and tears washed down her face. When she raised her head, Gillet’s eyes met
hers. He glanced at the floor, refusing to continue looking into her pleading
eyes.
“I have no money,”
she said. “Please, spare my baby.”
“Take her to the
fire,” Dr. John said.
“Wait,” someone
called. It was Charles Marchand. “I will pay for the baby.”
A smile crossed the
Bokor’s scarred face as he watched Marchand count out another twenty pieces of
gold into the silver offering tray. The drumming began again when the last coin
clanked into the tray.
Charles Marchand
sat on the floor beside his son Gillet. The handsome young man refused to gaze
into the accusing stare of the young woman named Afrodita. Covering his face
with a grotesque African mask, the Bokor chanted as he danced in and out of the
fire.
As the drumming
grew louder, the Bokor’s dance grew more frenetic. Realizing her fate, Afrodita
began to struggle. The two men shoved until they had positioned her directly in
front of the Bokor. They released Afrodita’s arms, and then retreated to the
recesses of the dark room.
A ceremonial knife
appeared in Dr. John’s hand. Grabbing Afrodita by the neck, he stabbed the
knife deeply into her belly, blood gushing and covering her dress as he plunged
his hands into her womb and yanked out a crying baby. Gillet winced as Dr. John
held the bloody newborn by an ankle. The drumming continued as Gillet threw up
on the floor.
Holding his mouth,
Gillet sprang to his feet and ran out of the room. The Bokor brought the crying
baby to Charles Marchand as Afrodita lay dying on the floor.
“You have what you
paid for,” Dr. John said. “Take it.”
Charles Marchand
cradled the bloody baby in his arms, his blue silk jacket ruined. With a nod,
he walked to the door and disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 2
Dita Lika awoke from a violent nightmare with
a scream that pierced the walls. The distressed cry awoke her sister Adelina,
and she sat straight up in bed. When she burst through Dita’s bedroom door, she
sat beside her on the bed and grasped her sister’s shoulders.
“Sis, you were
screaming. Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m good,” Dita
said.
“Is there anything
I can do?”
“Just a nightmare.
Go back to sleep.”
“It’s morning. I
needed to get up anyway.”
“Not me,” Dita
said. “I was planning on sleeping until noon.”
“Then go back to
sleep. Your nightmare wasn’t real,” Adelina said.
“Maybe not to you.”
“What did you eat
before going to sleep?”
“A cheese
sandwich,” Dita said.
“That’s your
problem. Never eat cheese before bedtime. It always causes nightmares,” Adelina
said.
Unlike her sister
Adelina’s blond hair and blue eyes, Dita’s hair and eyes were dark. Sharr,
Dita’s Illyrian sheepdog puppy’s tail, wagged as he scooted beside her. It was
Dita’s first time sleeping in bed in many weeks, and she cuddled the puppy to
her breast.
“Miss me, baby?”
Dita asked.
“You kidding?”
Adelina said. “Sharr has the run of the place.”
“It isn’t fair,”
Dita said. “You take care of Sharr; he loves you more than me.”
“Not true,” Adelina
said. “He’s been so happy since you finished your tour.”
“I wish I could
stay for a while. I love touring, though get so tired of the endless hotels.”
“Hah!” Adelina
said. “I should be so lucky to order anything I want at any hour of the day or
night.”
“You’d soon be as
sick of it as I am,” Dita said, “It’s so lonely on the road. I wish I could
take Sharr with me,”
“You have other
things to consider when you’re touring,” Adelina said. “You have no time to
care for a puppy.”
“And no one there
to comfort me when I have nightmares,” Dita said. “I think I’m going crazy.”
“You aren’t crazy,
Sis. Everyone has nightmares.”
“Not like mine,
they don’t,” Dita said.
“Maybe you should
consult a psychiatrist.”
“You just told me
I’m not crazy,” Dita said. “Now you’re telling me to see a shrink?”
Adelina squeezed
Dita’s hand. “You are so beautiful and sexy. Your fans love you.”
“Don’t change the
subject, and stop patronizing me,” Dita said. “I’m nothing more than the flavor
of the week. When someone else hits the scene, I’ll be little more than a
fading memory.”
“Nonsense. You’re a
superstar. The most talented musical performer to hit the stage in decades.”
Dita hugged
Adelina. “You’re my sister. I wish others saw me the same as you do.”
“Though I may be
your sister, I also know it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see how talented
you are. You’re a star; most performers never experience a moment of stardom.”
Dita hugged Adelina
and said, “Everyone tells me how beautiful and talented I am when I’m on tour.
I must work at it to keep all the false compliments from going to my head. You
ground me.”
“You’re as
beautiful as you are talented,” Adelina said. “The truth is not a compliment.”
“I’m only your
older sister,” Dita said. “You’re giving me the big head.”
“Because you know
what I say is true. It isn’t wrong to love the attention and adoration. Now,
tell me more about your nightmare.”
Dita pulled off her
nightgown, tossing it to the floor.
“I’m awake now, my
nightmare a dying memory. Let’s go skinny dipping. I’ll feel better after a
swim.”
Adelina’s grin was
mischievous as she stripped off her clothes and followed Dita and Sharr out the
door. Dita lived in a palatial West Hampstead estate in north London. She’d
paid eight million pounds for the house when her first song hit the charts and
had begun putting her imprint on the property ever since.
When Dita dived
into the courtyard pool, Sharr followed her. Water splashed when Adelina
dive-bombed them. They frolicked in the water until all three were exhausted
and struggled to climb out of the pool. They didn’t bother putting on clothes
as they lay on plush towels.
“You still haven’t
told me about your nightmare,” Adelina said.
Adelina shook her
head when Dita asked, “Do you believe in Satan?”
“I try not to think
about such things.”
“Have you ever had
a dream about the devil?” Dita asked.
“I don’t eat cheese
before I sleep,” Adelina said.
“That’s not my
problem,” Dita said. “My nightmare has nothing to do with what I eat before I
sleep. It’s recurrent and starting to scare me.”
Dita nodded when
Adelina said, “Tell me about it.”
There wasn’t a
cloud in the sky. A car horn down the street honked as Dita stretched out on
the plush bath towel and put her arms behind her head.
“It’s always the
same,” she said. “I’m in a strange place I don’t recognize. There’s a young
woman in the scene so pregnant she looks as if she’s ready to pop.”
“Then the woman in
your nightmare can’t be you. You don’t even have a boyfriend,” Adelina said.
“Don’t be critical.
Neither do you.”
“Just saying.”
“And, I’ve never
been to the place in my nightmare. It seems so strange, exotic, and unknown to
me.”
“Paint me a
picture,” Adelina said.
“A room so dark and
humid, it seems like a dungeon somewhere in the tropics. Men dripping with
sweat, beating drums around a fire. It’s like a pagan ceremony, except all the
men in the circle are black.”
“Africa?”
“America, I think,
though not in this century,” Dita said. “We’re in a large room with an earthen
floor. Maybe the basement of a huge house.”
“Who else is
there?” Adelina asked.
“Two white men
dressed in silk suits that look like something from a French history book. I
believe it’s a wealthy man and his son who looks as if he’d like to be
elsewhere.”
Adelina smiled and
said, “Is he handsome?”
“Very. There is
also a witch doctor named Dr. John. He’s presiding over a ceremony that always
begins with the beating of drums and him dancing on burning coals.”
“Witch doctor? How
do you know he’s a witch doctor?”
“Because of his
scars, tattoos, and knowing smile. Someone in the room called him Bokor. I
looked it up. It means a voodoo witch for hire who serves the loa with both
hands.”
“What does that
mean?” Adelina asked.
“A priest who
practices good and evil. Bokors are Haitian mystics, though I don’t believe
Haiti is where my dream occurs.”
“Where, then?”
“New Orleans.”
“You’ve never been
to New Orleans. How would you recognize it?”
“Don’t know,” Dita
said. She grinned when Sharr licked her face. “You smell like a wet dog.”
“So, how are you a
part of this nightmare?” Adelina asked.
“An observer. The
two white men are in the audience, watching though not participating in the
ceremony.”
“You keep calling
them white men. You’re white.”
“Maybe I wasn’t
during another lifetime,” Dita said.
“Are you making
this up as we go along?” Adelina asked.
“No way. It’s a
different place and time. The men in the room treat the woman like a slave,”
Dita said. ‘I had the feeling that perhaps I was a slave.”
“It must have been
another time. There haven’t been enslaved people in New Orleans or anywhere
else in centuries,” Adelina said.
“That’s what makes
the nightmare so strange. It seems so real, yet it’s taking place somewhere
I’ve never visited and during a time long before I was born.”
“So, what
happened?”
“One of the white men had paid for the woman’s soul. Dr.
John was preparing to kill her.”
“Get out of here,” Adelina said.
“It’s true. The
woman was resigned to her imminent death but begged the Bokor not to take her
baby. He informed her it would cost another twenty pieces of gold.”
Adelina’s hand went
to her mouth. “The voodoo man was going to murder the woman and her baby?”
“Exactly. The woman
didn’t have the money and was crying her eyes out. The older white man shelled
out more gold to save the baby.”
“And then?”
“Dr. John cut the
baby from the woman’s womb and gave it to the man who’d given him the gold.”
Adelina’s hand
again went to her mouth. “Oh my God!” she said. “No wonder you were screaming.
You aren’t pregnant, are you?’
Dita shook her
head. “Everyone in the troupe is wary of losing their jobs and half afraid to
approach me. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex.”
“Maybe that’s your
problem,” Adelina said. “Perhaps you need someone to screw your brains out.”
“Maybe so. Let’s go
to Soho and find a walkup,” Dita said.
“Kiss my ass,”
Adelina said. “There are no male prostitutes in a walkup.”
“How do you know?”
Dita said. “Have you ever visited one?”
“Women don’t have
to pay for sex. Especially not you, the most popular female entertainer in the
world.”
“You’re full of
shit. If that’s true, then why am I so horny?”
“All you need is a
few weeks off from the tour. Find a man and stay in bed for a few days.”
“Not a bad idea.
What’s my next gig?” Dita asked.
“Jazz Fest in New
Orleans. You’re headlining.”
“What’s Jazz Fest?”
Dita asked.
“Don’t be a thicko.
Jazz Fest is an important music event. Every musical group wants to perform
there.”
“You have to be
kidding. I can’t go to New Orleans.”
“Of course, you
can,” Adelina asked.
“You don’t visit
the place where your nightmares occur.”
“Why not?” Adelina
said. “Maybe New Orleans holds the answers you seek.”
“I don’t think so.”
Dita grabbed her cell phone and dialed her agent. “Raoul, I need to cancel my
next engagement.”
“Cancel Jazz Fest?
It’s the most prestigious event on your tour. Are you crazy?”
“I’ve never even
heard of it,” Dita said. “Who else has played the event?”
“The question you
should ask is, who hasn’t played it? The answer is every important musical
act,” Raoul said.
“I have reasons for
not going to New Orleans,” Dita said.
“Sounds like a
personal problem.”
“Very personal. Going
there frightens me to death.”
“Doesn’t matter
what you want. You’re committed, and it’s too late to back out. Don’t argue
with me on this.”
Dita was still
talking into the phone when she realized Raoul had hung up.
“What did he say?”
Adelina asked.
“He gave me no choice
but to attend.”
“The Jazz Fest is
in New Orleans, the very city where you are having your insane nightmare,”
Adelina said. “Go there and find out what the problem is.”
“What if I lose my
soul?”
“Now, what are you
talking about?” Adelina said.
“I’m frightened,”
Dita said.
“You’re fantasizing
about your nightmare, and it’s been bothering you. Check it out while you’re at
Jazz Fest.”
“I won’t have time
to research my nightmare,” Dita said. “I’ll have a show to perform.”
“You’ll love the
place. New Orleans is the birthplace of jazz,” Adelina said. “It’s an exotic
city, unlike any other place. As you said, maybe you lived there in another
life.”
“Now you’re the one
doing the fantasizing,” Dita said.
“I read the
brochure Raoul sent you. It seems reasonable your nightmare takes place in New
Orleans. It’s just a nightmare. Why are you afraid to go there?”
Dita didn’t answer
Adelina’s question. “When does Jazz Fest start?”
“A week from
today,” Adelina said.
“Get me a ticket.
I’m going tomorrow.”
“You can’t do that.
You have to travel with your band,” Adelina said.
“Without me, there
is no band,” Dita said. “I’ve made up my mind. Get me a ticket.”
Chapter 3
New Orleans winters are generally warm,
though the last one had seen temperatures below freezing twice. Tornadoes had
blown through the old city, taking several roofs and a few lives. It made me
wonder how many tornadoes New Orleans had survived in its more than
three-hundred years of existence.
I’d gained a few
extra pounds over the winter, a warm spring breeze begging me to get outdoors,
exercise, and lose weight. Rain clouds raced over the French Quarter when I
finally laced my jogging shoes and took the trolley to City Park.
City Park is an
oasis of nature not far from the French Quarter. It’s bigger than New York’s
Central Park and boasts the most extensive collection of live oak trees
worldwide, some over six-hundred years old. I’d lost count of the times I’d
jogged through the park. Its lagoons, wildlife, gardens, and beauty still
amazed me every time I visited.
My run through the
park invigorated me, and I’d worked up quite a sweat. Too sweaty to ride the
trolley, I decided to continue on foot back to Bertram’s. My decision proved
ill-advised when thunder sounded overhead, and the cloudy skies morphed into a
spring rainstorm, my jogging shorts and tee shirt drenched long before I saw
the neon lights of the French Quarter.
Bertram Picou, my
landlord, and close friend, owned the most eclectic bar in the Quarter. His
customers and tourists had gone home or to their hotels because of the rain. He
caught my attention when I pushed through the door, pointing his Gallic nose at
a woman sitting alone at the bar.
The attractive
young woman was humming to herself as she filed her fingernails. She grinned
and held her hand toward me as I stood dripping on Bertram’s old oiled-wood
floor.
“Are you Wyatt
Thomas?” she asked.
“Yes. I got caught
in the rain during my jog.”
I noticed her
British accent when she said, “I’m Dita. Can we talk?”
I pointed to the
creaky staircase leading to my apartment. “I live upstairs. If you don’t mind
waiting a bit longer, I’ll shower and change out of these damp clothes.”
“Take your time,”
she said. “Bertram and I are having a lovely conversation.”
Dita’s cut-off jeans were too short, and her
cowboy boots and thigh-length red, white, and blue leggings were too brash. Her
black cowboy hat paired with Lucy-in-the-Sky-With-Diamonds sunglasses was
anything but understated. I turned around when Bertram called my name.
“I fed that mangy
cat of yours. Her yowling was running off my customers.”
“Sure they didn’t
leave because of the rain?” I asked.
“Don’t be an
ingrate,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said.
Bertram had indeed
fed my cat Kisses, and I found her asleep on my bed.
She didn’t open her
eyes when I said, “Too wet to go tomcatting?”
I hung my sticky
jogging shorts and tee shirt on the back of a chair, waited for the water to
get hot, and then luxuriated in the steamy heat. Not more than fifteen minutes
had passed when I returned to the bar dressed in khaki pants, sandals, and a
blue Hawaiian shirt that would have made Elvis proud.
Dita smiled when
she said, “Feeling better?”
“Think I’m going to
live. Sorry for taking so long,” I said. “The hot water felt so good I had
trouble leaving it. “What can I do for you, Dita?”
“I have a problem.
Your name came up as someone who might help me.”
“What kind of
problem,” I said.
“Something of a
psychic nature. My people tell me you’re more than a private investigator,”
Dita said.
“Oh?”
“They say you know
about the paranormal, and voodoo in particular,” she said.
“Me and everyone
else in New Orleans. Did Bertram bring you a drink?”
“I don’t drink when
I’m discussing business.”
Bertram pushed a
glass of lemonade across the bar toward me.
“Me either,” I
said. “At least not alcoholic beverages. My coonass friend makes wonderful
lemonade.”
Bertram’s elbows
rested on the bar as he listened to every word we said.
Dita smiled when he
said, “I brew a mean cup of Earl Grey.”
“You sell tea in a
bar?” Dita asked.
“Whatever floats
your boat,” Bertram said. “Costs the same as a lime mojito.”
“How much does a
lime mojito cost?” Dita asked.
“Ten bucks,”
Bertram said.
“I can get a lime
mojito at any pub in London for seven pounds.”
“It’s a long way to
London from here, pretty lady. Make you a deal. Buy one of my lime mojitos, and
I’ll throw in a crumpet for free.”
“Deal,” she said.
Bertram grinned as
he mixed Dita’s mojito and presented her with the drink and a fresh pastry.
“This isn’t a
crumpet,” she said.
“It’s a beignet,”
he said. “Try it.”
Dita took a bite of
the succulent pastry and then another. “This is good,” she said. “What is it?”
“A beignet from
down the street,” Bertram said.
“You didn’t make it
yourself?”
“I’m a man of many
talents. Making beignets isn’t one of them. Try the mojito,” he said.
Dita took a sip and
said, “Very good. You could find work at any pub in London.”
“They couldn’t
afford me,” Bertram said. “I’ll get you another beignet.”
“No,” she said. “I
have to watch my figure.”
“You kidding? You
got better legs than a movie star.”
“I’d gain weight in
a heartbeat if I didn’t work out daily,” Dita said.
I interrupted their
bantering and said, “Tell me about your problem.”
“It has to do with
voodoo,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“You’re not put off
talking about voodoo?”
“Voodoo’s a common
topic around the French Quarter,” I said.
Thunder shook the
roof, rattling the light fixtures.
“Is it always this
stormy?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” I
said. “At least this time of year. Hope it doesn’t scare you.”
“Few things
frighten me,” Dita said. “My nightmare that recurs practically every night is
disturbing, even to me.”
“Please tell me
about it,” I said.
“It concerns a
voodoo man named Dr. John. Did such a person ever exist in New Orleans?”
“Marie Laveau is
the most famous female voodoo person from the past, Dr. John, the most
notorious male voodoo practitioner,” I said.
“How long ago?”
Dita asked.
“1840s,” I said. “Your nightmare involves Dr.
John?”
“The devil and
Doctor John are villains in my nightmare. It’s always the same. A voodoo
ceremony in an empty room with a dirt floor. Shirtless men are beating drums,
their driving rhythm the percussive music for Dr. John’s walk across a bed of
hot coals.”
When she paused, I
said, “Go on.”
“Dr. John’s face
and body are covered with scar tissue. It appears symbolic and looks like
someone administered the cuts with a scalpel or sharp knife. He looked quite
frightening in the light of the fire.”
“You said you’re in
a dark room,” I said.
Dita nodded and
said, “Like the basement of a large house.”
She shook her head
when I asked, “Where does the smoke go?”
We both turned our
attention to Bertram and said, “It’s a nightmare. It don’t have to make sense.”
Bertram didn’t
reply when I said, “Dita feels her nightmare is real. She wouldn’t have
traveled from London to tell us about it if she didn’t. Am I right about that?”
Dita nodded. “I
don’t know where the smoke went. There must be a plausible explanation because everything
seems so real.”
“Then tell me
more,” I said.
“Dr. John addresses
a woman brought from somewhere as Afrodita.”
“Your name,” I
said. “Are you the woman in the dream?”
Dita shook her
head. “She is about my age, though someone I don’t recognize. She is also
pregnant. Dr. John tells the woman someone has purchased her soul and he will
kill her as a sacrifice to Satan.”
“Damn!” Bertram
said. “Your story’s scary. I need a lemon drop.”
“What’s a lemon
drop?” Dita asked.
“Vodka, lemon
juice, and sugar,” Bertram said.
Thunder shook the
rafters again as Bertram grabbed three shot glasses from beneath the bar,
filling mine with lemonade and the others with the lemon drop concoction he’d
mixed in a blender.
We clicked glasses,
drained them, and said, “Bottoms up.”
“Good?” Bertram
asked when she licked her lips.
“Tastes like lemon
drop candy,” she said.
“Just the way it’s
supposed to taste,” Bertram said. “Sorry I interrupted you.”
“Finish your
story,” I said.
“Where was I?” Dita
said.
“Dr. John told the
pregnant woman named Afrodita that he was about to kill her,” I said.
“An older white man
responded when Dr. John asked who was paying for the soul.”
“Did you recognize
him?” I asked. Dita shook her head. “Then describe him for me.”
Dita nodded. “A
handsome man. Early fifties. Dark hair and eyes. His clothes were regal. Blue
velvet coat, hand-sewn vest, and brown silk pants custom made and from a
different century. He gave Dr. John twenty pieces of gold.”
“There must have
been a reason he was buying a soul,” I said.
“For his son,
Gillet. His father called him by his first name,” Dita said.
“That’s a place to
start,” I said. “What did Gillet look like?”
“Long brown hair.
Delicate facial features. He was crying and couldn’t look the woman in the eye
when she begged Dr. John not to kill her baby. The voodoo man told her it would
cost another twenty pieces of gold.”
“Heartless
bastard,” Bertram said.
The lights flickered,
the storm raging outside. An unexpected gust of wind rustled the front door.
“A ghost?” Dita
asked.
“More than likely,”
I said. “Lots of ghosts in the French Quarter.”
“Are you trying to
frighten me?” Dita said.
“There are ghosts
in this bar,” Bertram said.
“Get out of here!”
Dita said.
“I’ve seen them,”
Bertram said. “Some of them are famous.”
“Like who, for
instance?”
“Louis Armstrong.
He came around one morning early,” Bertram said. “Sang and played his horn for
me until sunrise.”
“You’re full of
it,” Dita said.
“If I’m lying, I’m
dying,” he said.
Dita glanced at me
and said, “Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“More than you can
imagine,” I said.
“You’re both full
of it,” Dita said. “Don’t be stingy with your lemon drops.”
Bertram poured more
shots. “I’ll fix another batch if you help me drink it.”
Dita fumbled in her
Gucci bag for a fifty-pound note and handed it to Bertram.
“Why not?” she
said.
Bertram grinned and
stashed the note in his shirt pocket.
“You were telling
us about Gillet,” I said.
“After Dr. John
collected the twenty pieces of gold, he cut the baby from Afrodita’s womb.
Gillet grabbed his mouth and ran out of the room. His father ruined his
beautiful clothes when he took the bloody baby in his arms.”
“Damn!” Bertram
said.
“Afrodita didn’t
scream when Dr. John took the baby. I believe she had a smile on her face as
she lay on the floor bleeding to death.”
“Double damn!”
Bertram said.
“What exactly do
you need me to do?” I asked. “Nightmares can’t kill you.”
“Are you quite sure
about that?” she said. “The answer to your question is I haven’t a clue as to
what to do,” she said.
Dita flinched when
thunder rattled the rafters. She was young, probably no older than in her early
twenties. Her accent and outfit labeled her as worldly. Her unsure questions
informed me she was grasping at straws. She raised her psychedelic sunglasses to
let me see her face. When I didn’t react, she smiled.
“You have no idea
who I am, do you?”
“You’re Dita Lika,”
I said.
“Oh, my God! I
underestimated you. Have you caught one of my shows?”
“I’m an information
junkie. I soak it up like a sponge. I saw your picture in the Picayune. You’re
headlining this year’s Jazz Fest.”
It took Dita a
moment to say, “Amazing. You’ve never seen me perform?”
“I like music,
though I rarely listen to it.”
“You live in New
Orleans and aren’t a music maven?”
“I don’t go to
movies, either,” I said.
“You are strange.”
“I hear that,”
Bertram said.
“You know who I am,
don’t you, Bertram?”
“You got the best
set of legs I ever seen,” Bertram said. “I’d know if I ever saw you before
now.”
Dita pulled out her
cell phone, calling up a music video on YouTube. Bertram and I drew close to
the phone as the video began to play. The primary performer was Dita Lika.
After watching the video, I realized it didn’t take a musical genius to see she
was a generational talent.
“Damn, girl!”
Bertram said. “You dance as good as you sing. No wonder you got class-A legs.”
When Dita put away
her phone with a smug smile, I said, “I’m available to help.”
“I’ve been here
before,” she said.
“At Bertram’s?” I
said.
“New Orleans. Jazz
Fest begins next week. I want you to stay close to me.”
“Jazz Fest has lots
of security. You don’t need me. You’ll never be in danger.”
Before Dita could
continue, thunder shook the rafters again, and the electricity went out. From
the darkness outside the front door, Bertram’s wasn’t the only French Quarter
establishment affected.
“Does this happen
often?” Dita asked.
Bertram lit a
candle and placed it on the bar between us.
“Enough so that I
keep candles and storm lanterns under the counter,” Bertram said. “Hope you
don’t mind drinking by candlelight?”
Dita was grinning.
“Love it,” she said. “The lights should go out more often.”
Bertram grabbed his
cell phone. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”
After hanging up,
he poured us another shot.
“What happened?” I
asked.
“An electrical fire
at the Roosevelt,” he said.
“Bad?” I asked.
“The lights are
out, and the hotel is full of smoke,” Bertram said.
“Damn!” Dita said.
“I was booked at the Roosevelt.”
“Not tonight,”
Bertram said.
“It’s still early, and we can worry about your
hotel accommodations when they restore the electricity,” I said.
Realizing the
blender was empty, Bertram poured lemon juice, vodka, and sugar into his
blender.
“No electricity,” I
said. “Remember?”
He grabbed a wooden
spoon from beneath the bar and said, “Right. I’ll have to fix the next batch
like my mama used to do.”
“I better call a
cab and find a room,” Dita said when they’d finished drinking the last batch of
lemon drop shots.
“I live in a suite
of rooms behind the bar,” Bertram said. “There’s an extra bedroom with its own bathroom.
You’re welcome to stay there for the night.”
Dita glanced at me
and said, “Is Bertram trustworthy?”
“You don’t run a
bar in the French Quarter for as long as Bertram has without being trustworthy.
If you can trust anyone, it’s him.”
“I’ll take you up
on your offer,” she said. “Jet lag has caught up to me. I need some sleep and
feel good about the two of you.”
Dita grinned when
Bertram said, “Except for the whipping part, we’ll treat you just like your
mama.”
###
Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.
