Chapter 8
When Rachel entered through the front door, she thought she’d stepped into an issue of Southern Living magazine. The spacious foyer was covered with black-and-white marble tiles. To the left was a small parlor that looked rarely used; to the right, a grand dining room with a table that could comfortably sit twelve people, and a magnificent staircase that led to the second floor. Rachel walked straight ahead to a big open kitchen that was straight out of a reality TV cooking show: she spotted stainless steel Viking appliances, black granite countertops, a wood-burning pizza oven, and a wine cooler just in one glance. Off the kitchen area was a small breakfast nook that overlooked the backyard, and a patio with a gorgeous pool. A family room to the right held two comfortable leather couches, a couple of oversize recliners, a plasma TV, a fireplace, and a checkerboard game table.
“Nice house,” Rachel said.
“Chris said his brother put big bucks into renovating after their dad passed away.”
Rachel followed Red out to the backyard. The area around the pool was cleverly landscaped with rocks, waterfalls, and palms so that it looked like a tropical oasis. At the end of the pool was a built-in stone hot tub, and beyond that, an outdoor kitchen, complete with a grill, sink, stove, and refrigerator. A large flat-panel TV was hoisted over a tiki bar with a palm-thatched roof and four barstools.
“Wow, this puts my Miami home to shame,” Rachel said.
Rachel still kept the large home that she had once shared with her ex-husband and Mallory. She was having trouble coming to terms with the idea of selling it. After the divorce, she’d moved to a small bungalow that was closer to her office. Now it was just her and Maggie, and she didn’t need all the space the old house had. It was time to start letting go of the house, but she wasn’t sure how.
She looked at the second story of the garage. “Guest quarters?”
“Two-bedroom apartment. Chris said that Erin used it as an art studio.”
“Let’s take a peek.” Rachel walked up the wooden stairs and found the door unlocked. The apartment had a small kitchen and living room. Through one door she saw a queen-size bed that was unmade. “Huh, I wonder who sleeps here?”
The other door was closed. She tried the handle. Unlocked. She pushed the door open. Art canvases littered the room. It smelled heavily of paint and turpentine. A drawing board held several sketches. Rachel picked one up.
“Creepy.” The picture was pencil drawn and featured an old cemetery with broken headstones and a foggy background. “This is really unusual. She has these beautiful watercolors of the Mississippi River and jazz musicians but pencil sketches of old graveyards and skulls. It’s almost like two different people were working in this studio.”
“Yeah, check this out.” Rachel turned to where Red was standing and joined him before a small table covered in deep purple velvet and littered with statues and half-burned votive candles.
“What the hell is that?”
“Looks like an altar of some kind.”
Rachel knelt down to take a closer look. The statues were of different shapes and sizes. One was an old man carved from stone. His eyes were misaligned and too big for his head. He was shirtless and his nipples were pierced.
She stood up and wandered over to a small desk. It was neat compared to the rest of the room, with a small stack of bills on one side and a plain notebook on the other. Rachel picked up the notebook, and a business card fluttered to the floor. She bent down to pick it up. The card was plain, black and white, with weird symbols on it.
“Madame Verdene’s Voodoo Shop,” she read aloud. “Located in the French Quarter on St. Peter Street.”
“Maybe that’s where Erin buys her stuff for the altar,” Red said.
Rachel walked over to a small closet. Inside, it was neat and organized. Paint supplies, candles, and various small bottles labeled in cryptic black script.
“These look like potions of some sort,” said Rachel. “Was Erin into black magic?”
Red shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea. This is New Orleans. Home to Anne Rice, vampires, witches, and voodoo.”
“I pictured her as a typical soccer mom,” Rachel commented. “Maybe there’s no such thing.”
“You can never tell what dirty little secrets people have in their closets,” Red said, walking out of the apartment. “Literally.”
Rachel pulled out her notebook and quickly wrote down the number of the voodoo shop. She returned the card to the notebook and then followed Red back outside.
“Top of my list is visiting Madame Verdene’s Voodoo Shop,” Rachel said.
“Sounds perfect. I know a great little restaurant in the Quarter that I’ve been dying to go back to. We can stop by and see the voodoo shop and then grab a bite.”