“How does she always know I’m coming?” Danni demanded. “That woman really is complete magic.”
Jeziah laughed, leaned over the counter and whispered, “She was always a big fan of Marie Laveau, you know. And Marie Laveau got most of her mystical wisdom from being a good listener—and having the wisdom to truly hear what was going on. This time, it’s not so much of a secret. She heard about the musicians, and knew you and Quinn would be involved in the investigation.”
“The newest murder wasn’t even made public last night,” Danni said.
“Danni Cafferty! Have you forgotten? This is New Orleans. There’s public, and then there’s public. You don’t think the people in Lawrence Barrett’s neighborhood noticed the cop cars and the throngs of police over there?”
Danni laughed. “You have a point.”
“Natasha is in the courtyard.”
“Waiting for me?”
“Actually, she’s doing a reading out there right now. Give her five, then she’ll be ready.”
Natasha definitely did have spiritual powers. Danni had seen her at work often enough to know. But she was also, as Jeziah had implied, brilliant at reading the people around her and at zeroing in on a situation.
“There are some new masks from Haiti on the wall. You might want to browse those for a few minutes. Hey, where’s Wolf?”
“Guarding the shop,” Danni said.
Jeziah didn’t ask why. He merely nodded.
The Haitian masks were beautiful, painstakingly hand-carved. Danni could easily have studied each one for a long time, but it seemed she had barely begun when Jeziah told her to head out to the courtyard.
Natasha stood to greet her. She “held court” at a wrought-iron table in the courtyard. Small trees and well-tended bushes planted long ago surrounded the courtyard, while delicate wind chimes and dream catchers hung in the branches around them.
Natasha deserved the title of queen. She was statuesque, with coffee-and-cream skin, and large dark eyes that seemed to read a person’s soul. She usually kept her hair swept up in a scarf, much like the famous voodoo queen Marie Laveau. Natasha wasn’t against using any trick that helped her.
She gave Danni a kiss on the cheek and told her to sit.
“What have you heard?” Danni asked her.
“Well, naturally I’ve seen the news, but my flock speaks, as well. Gary Carter plays with a group on Frenchman Street, and he was well aware of that attack on those musicians. When the news got out that Holton Morelli had been killed it was upsetting, but it was easy to say it might have something to do with his involvement in the drug trade. But now...do you know more?”
“I do,” Danni said.
She went on to explain about her conversation with Tyler Anderson about Arnie Watson, and their visit to Arnie’s parents. Natasha listened attentively.
“I knew Arnie Watson, heard what happened to him. His parents are devout Baptists, so I can’t say they’ve been in the store often, but they’re not crazy anti-voodoo crusaders or anything. They’ve brought out-of-town friends by, and even though she’s Baptist, Mrs. Watson loves to buy rosaries for an aunt of hers. She gets one every year. But I must say, reading between the lines, Arnie’s death seemed suspicious. Never knew him to use drugs, and I think I would have heard if he did,” Natasha said.
“According to his parents, friends and bandmates, you’re right. They all said he never did drugs and was happy to be home. And according to Quinn, you don’t just go out one day and inject yourself with a lethal dose of heroin right out on Rampart Street.”
“He could have been moved.”
“The ME doesn’t think so, but thankfully we’re on good terms with Ron Hubert, so if necessary, we could get more facts.”
“Exhume the body?”
“If necessary,” Danni said. “Meanwhile, I was hoping you might have heard something on the street.”
“I’ve heard a great deal of fear. But even when they’re afraid, people have to work for a living. And people always talk—especially when they’re afraid. It doesn’t take a psychic or a Sherlock Holmes for people to figure out that this killer isn’t just after musicians, he’s looking for something specific. And since we’re talking musicians, that pretty much has to mean a certain instrument. Word is, Arnie Watson had a special sax. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“And no one knows where it is?” Natasha asked.
“Tyler Anderson, Arnie’s friend, thought he had it and brought it to us. But it wasn’t the special sax after all. That sax disappeared the night that Arnie died, and no one knows where it is.”
“Well, someone knows where it is—the person who has it. But what will you do if you find it?”
“Once we find it, we’ll set a trap. But how the hell do you find one sax in the city of New Orleans?”
Natasha smiled. “You join a band.”
“A band?”
“Quinn plays guitar.”