The Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy by Jewell Parker Rhodes

Author:Jewell Parker Rhodes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

ANOTHER BEGINNING

Two Thousand and Five

The only protection is . . . to see the self as other. Immortal.

Grandmère, my mother, my daughter, and myself—we were all named Marie.

This story is all of us.

Voodoo is worth passing on.

—Marie Laveau, June 12, 1881, early evening

(From Louis DeLavier’s journal)

ou know me.”

DuLac was slumped in a claw-footed chair, his head back and mouth half-open. Marie had asked Reneaux not to knock. Instead, they let themselves in, walking into the vestibule, its walls covered with velvet flocking. Marie was assailed by the home’s hothouse scent, like entering another world, layered with incense, sweet flowers, and a hint of cinnamon. Excessive decadence. Eighty-eight degrees outside and the fireplace roared, flames licking the air.

An empty brandy glass, turned upside down, was next to DuLac’s bare feet. He smelled of alcohol and dirty sweat. Shirt messed; belt buckle undone. Marie knew he hadn’t been to work. There must’ve been comments in the ER today: “DuLac tied another one on”; “Drowned himself in the bottle”; “Gave himself an overdose.” While she and Reneaux had found space to make love, DuLac had drunken himself into a stupor. And El? Knowing her, she’d be at work, fussing over patients, saying prayers to the Virgin and to wakeful spirits.

“You know me,” Marie repeated.

“I knew your mother. And your mother’s mother before.”

Kind Dog nudged DuLac’s knee.

DuLac stroked Dog’s ears, then looked up at Marie, smiling, his face beatific. “You came back.”

In that moment, Marie forgave him everything. She moved forward, watching his smile widen, his arms spreading wide. She fell to her knees, her head on his thighs, and he wrapped his torso over hers and held her, cradled her . . . and hummed.

“You?” she asked.

“Oui, I came to see you. In Chicago.”

She looked at him, wistful.

“Non. I’m not your father. Just a man who tried to persuade your Maman to come home.”

“You read my mind.”

He smiled. “Non. Just your face. You’d the same look when you were a child. I don’t think anyone knows who your father be. All I know is he terrified your Maman enough to run her off. Or, maybe, that’s not right. Maybe someone terrified them both. She was so frightened.”

“Too frightened.”

“And what about you? Are you too frightened?”

“I’m scared but I feel as though I belong here. In New Orleans.”

“Oui. You made it on your own. Found your way home. Eh, yé, yé, Maman Marie.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“You think she’s the one?” asked Reneaux, his voice overlapping Marie’s.

DuLac laughed, high-pitched. “I need either an Aspirin or a drink.”

“You’d better drink,” said Reneaux. “Aspirin might kill you.”

DuLac shrugged. He rubbed Kind Dog’s head. Clutching the brandy bottle, his fat-bellied glass, he said, “Come with me,” and led them down the hall.

“My chapel,” he said, opening the door.

The room was dim, candles flickered, and incense, heady and sweet, burned in a gold cup. There was a statue of the Virgin, dressed in blue and white, a crucifix, and a charcoal drawing of an old man, back bent, with a walking stick.

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