The Devil's Playground by Craig Russell

Author:Craig Russell
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2023-06-20T00:00:00+00:00

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Whatever Madame Erzulie’s clairvoyant abilities are, she clearly has a talent for seeing where the money is, thinks Rourke as she pulls into the driveway. The medium’s house is huge and Gothic, sitting on a lot of an acre or more of manicured gardens bounded by expensive stone- and ironwork. The house itself is over three stories and is all overblown oriels, latticed windows, and finial-tipped peaked gables. To one side of the house is a building that has been styled to be reminiscent of a nineteenth-century coach house but comprises a triple garage for automobiles with rooms above it.

She walks along a stone-chipped driveway to the front door, rings the doorbell and waits, but gets no answer. Going around to the back of the house, she finds another door and she knocks, again without success. Walking back around to the side of the house, she leans into one of the leaded windows and looks in, cupping her hands around her eyes. The room she looks into is crammed with dark furniture, sculptures, and art. Paintings lie stacked against the marble fireplace, and there are stacks of books and other objects sitting on the floor. Some furniture is already shrouded in dust covers, and Rourke sees packing crates sitting patiently waiting to be filled.

Madame Erzulie, it seems, has foreseen new pastures.

A painting leans against the wall facing Rourke and it captures her attention. Her view of it is only partly obstructed, and she can see it is brightly colored and almost abstract in style, sitting discordantly with the rest of the self-consciously Gothic items in the room. The painting shows a large snake, almost rainbow colored, describing a writhing oval shape. The snake’s gaping mouth is sinking fangs into its own tail, as if eating itself. It troubles Rourke that she has seen something similar somewhere recently but can’t place where or when.

“What do you think you are doing?”

The male voice behind her gives her a start. She spins around to see that a man has come up behind her. Tall and muscular, tough-looking, with a thick mop of butter-colored hair, and very pale blue eyes that are narrowed and fixed on her. The man is jacketless, his white shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows. He holds a rag, which he uses to wipe engine grease from his hands.

Mary Rourke recognizes his voice as the one who answered the phone.

“I’m looking for Madame Erzulie. I spoke to you before. I told you I needed to speak to her as a matter of urgency.”

“I remember. Why?”

“Why do you remember? Maybe because I have an unforgettable voice.”

He ignores the joke. “Why do you need to speak to Madame Erzulie?”

“I have questions.”

“About what?” He looks from her face to his hands, which he continues to work at to clean of engine grease. The casualness of the gesture is overdone, and Rourke senses an insecurity.

“Maybe I want my tea leaves read.”

“That’s not the kind of thing Madame Erzulie does.”

“No? Pity. Who are you, by the way?” she asks.

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