The Unknown Woman (5 page)

He chuckled, a rich joyful sound that seemed to offset the unease she’d experienced, and shook his head. “I’ve been here long enough that I can choose my own schedule. I like working a couple of hours during lunch, then four or five hours in the evening. That way, I have my afternoons free for gardening, which is my hobby and my obsession, according to my wife.”

Kerry realized it was after eleven. She and Matt had talked well over an hour.

After Henri left them with a fresh pot of coffee, she absently ran her finger around the rim of her cup while she thought of the afternoon ahead.

“What are you going to do today?” Matt asked.

“I don’t know.” She glanced down at her purse.

“One thing I know. I’m going to the ceremony tonight.

The ticket describes it as a tribute to the Spirit of Healing. I think I could use some help in that department.

My spirits are pretty low at the moment.”

Matt nodded. “I know the feeling.” He shook his head slightly. “But I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for us to attend some voodoo rite.”

“Why?”

“Just a gut feeling,” he admitted with a self-deprecating grimace. “Maybe we’ve been through enough. Last night was one hell of an experience.”

Kerry couldn’t deny that. “When the blackout happened, I thought it was romantic. I was soaking in the bathtub with candles all around, sipping champagne like some decadent, pampered princess. That illusion was soon dispelled.”

He leaned forward in an earnest manner. “I’m sorry I spoiled your night and pulled you into my problems.”

She assumed a lighter tone. “Hey, what are friends—or neighbors—for? You’re right. It was a strange night.”
She considered a moment, “I still would like to go to the ceremony. It sounds interesting.”

His eyes were on her, his expression thoughtful.

“Tell you what—since we both have tickets, let’s go together. I should be finished with the wine tasting and back here by six. Shall we have dinner first?”

She nodded, trying hard to ignore the little flutter of anticipation at the thought of spending an evening with Matt.

F
OR THE FIRST TIME
in a long time, Matt had trouble following the conversation about the excellence of the various wines at this very exclusive wine club, made up of a dozen of the city’s oldest, most prominent families. The wine purchaser was a senior member of the group, which had been founded by their ancestors five generations ago.

Roots.

To Matt, they meant obligations and expectations that had nothing to do with his own talents or wishes.

Across the dark walnut table, a young man stared into his wine goblet, then poured the excellent vintage down his throat without bothering with the niceties of aroma, palette and finish. Their host, Claude Pichante, glared at him.

Matt sorted through the earlier introductions. The young man was Jason Pichante. The tasting was taking place in the Pichante home, an elegant mansion in the
Garden District, which fortunately had seen only light damage in the flooding after Hurricane Katrina.

Angry father. Resentful son.

Now where had he seen a similar scenario played out? he asked himself facetiously. His sympathy went at once to the son, but he admitted he could be mistaken.

For some reason, he thought of Kerry. There seemed to be no anger in her, just goodwill and warmth. She was talkative, until the shock of Patti Ruoui’s death—the detective had told Matt the dead woman’s name—reasserted itself, then those luminous eyes dimmed with sorrow and she fell silent. It obviously bothered her that Patti had no one to mourn her passing, and the death seemed to remind Kerry of her cousin’s suicide.

Odd, but whenever Kerry seemed sad, he found he wanted to hold her until the brightness returned to her face.

“A blend of blackberries with a finish of vanilla,” Claude Pichante was saying.

Matt forced his mind to attention. He ate a plain cracker to clear his palate, then took a tiny sip from the fresh goblet the white-coated waiter handed him.

He inhaled slowly, letting the flavors flow over and under his tongue. This gave him a clear assessment of the wine’s present veracity and its future promise.

“Matt, your thoughts,” Pichante said.

“Blackberry and vanilla, yes.” Matt agreed with the
host’s assessment. “A little strong on the tannin, but balance should be restored by aging. Five years, and this wine will be excellent.”

“Ah, my thoughts exactly,” the older Pichante said.

Across the table, his son gave a soft, but audible snort. Again he downed the wine.

“Jason, if you have an appointment, you may leave us,” his father said, steel undercoating every word.

The other five club members, all elderly gentlemen, continued with the tasting as if they hadn’t heard a word.

Matt did the same.

He checked the clock over the mantel. It was nearly time to leave. He was looking forward to dinner with Kerry. As for the healing ceremony, he wasn’t so sure.

Jason Pichante suddenly stood up, slammed the exquisitely carved chair backward against the elaborate sideboard and left the room.

Claude sighed. “Children,” he murmured. “Jason thinks he’s in love. The young woman’s most unsuitable, as his mother and I have pointed out.”

The guests, Matt included, chuckled over the father-son dilemma, but Matt’s sympathies sided more firmly with the son. He could remember more than one society deb being paraded before him as marriage material. At the time, he would have scorned the goddess of love herself if his family had brought her to the house for a weekend gathering.

Not that he’d done so great on his own. Working in
New York City, he’d met a buyer for an expensive boutique and fallen hard. When she found out he mostly avoided his family and they wouldn’t be spending weekends and holidays at the upstate family compound surrounded by rich relatives and friends, she’d dropped him for a shipping heir from East Hampton.

After that experience, he’d learned to avoid any mention of his connection to the well-known Andersons. His family’s law firm handled contracts for film and music celebrities, and some women had wanted to use him as a springboard for their own careers. He could handle that as long as they were up front about it. Most weren’t.

For a second, he wondered what his high-society family would think of a small-town dental hygienist. Kerry was obviously close to her family and had a tender heart where others were concerned. Or so it seemed. He’d been fooled once before by a sweet act that covered a calculating nature. He was doubly on guard now.

Hearing a door slam in another part of the grand mansion, he felt glad to no longer be twenty-something and defiant as only the young can be.

When the tasting was over and Matt had checked his notes against the wine labels to make sure he had the information correct, he thanked his host and assured the group that he was quite impressed with their cellar and the care they took in stocking it.

In fact, it was one of the best tastings he’d had in the city, so he was telling the truth.

With a lighter step, he hailed a taxi and returned to the hotel. In his room, he changed from the blue summer suit to jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. A crewneck sweater would take care of the cooler evening air, he decided, and looped it over his shoulders.

Wallet. The ticket. Yep, he was ready, and it was nearly seven. Time for dinner. He had a place in mind.

Pausing, he wondered if he should knock on the adjoining door. Somehow that felt presumptuous, so instead, he went outside and crossed the patio to her door. He knocked softly.

“Be there in a sec,” she called.

When Kerry opened the door, he caught his breath. Like him, she wore jeans and sneakers, with a green knit top that hugged her torso, showing off every curve. She carried a light jacket.

Her eyes reminded him of gemstones, but he couldn’t decide which kind. They weren’t emerald or peridot, but some enticing blend all their own. Just as the finest wines combined complexity and depth—

“Ready?” she asked, looking up at him expectantly.

He nodded, struck speechless like some kid on a first date.

What the hell was that about? he asked himself, but no answer was forthcoming. “I have a recommendation for a restaurant near here. Shall we go there for dinner?”

She glanced at their clothing. “It isn’t formal, is it?”

“No, it’s very casual—Cajun cooking. I have the
names of the hottest dishes they serve. I was told no one could claim to know New Orleans cuisine without trying the real stuff.”

When she laughed, he did, too. They strolled out into the pleasant twilight.

“Oh,” she said, stopping in the courtyard. “Detective Rothberg came by this afternoon. Patti’s name is Ruoui. He said the restaurant staff confirmed that she had no immediate family, but she did have a boyfriend. No one knew his name. Apparently she wasn’t on intimate terms with any of the other workers.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said when I talked to him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this morning?” she asked, giving him a curious glance.

“Talking about it makes you look so sad,” he said simply and took her hand as a crowd of college kids surged by them like a school of dolphin riding out a squall on the ocean.

At her somber expression, he squeezed her hand and, in amused tones, began to tell her about the wine tasting that afternoon. He related the father-son incident to the tension between him and his father while he was growing up.

“An alpha father and alpha son do have a hard time,” she told him, gazing up at him in such an earnest manner that he was seized with the urge to kiss her.

He tried to figure out what it was about her that made him feel so impulsive. It was a totally new experience for him.

They had reached the restaurant and in a few minutes were seated at a small round table.

“I can’t imagine not getting along with my family,” Kerry confided, picking up the conversation where they’d left off. “We’re always visiting or calling each other. Not that we have anything important to say. I suppose we just like the sound of our own voices.”

Her quiet laughter and the affection in her tone made him envious. “Do you have more than one sister, or any brothers?”

“No, but my mom was from a family of five kids, my dad from three, so there were always lots of cousins around when I was growing up. And lots of adults to keep us in line, lovingly, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, a picture of the perfect family forming in his mind. Life wasn’t like that, but something about this woman conjured up visions of all the good things a person could wish for.

A warmth swept through him as he listened to the lilt in her voice. He was attracted to her, he realized, very attracted.

Last night, after he’d gone to bed—for the second time and in a different suite—he’d thought about her and the red silk robe, the pajama legs visible beneath it, terry scuffs on her feet. She’d been an alluring combination of elegance and practicality.

The women he knew would have been dressed in a matching gown and peignoir set or designer pajamas.

“Beer?” the waiter asked. Before they could answer, he rattled off about twenty microbrews on tap.

Matt shook his head. “I’ve had my quota of alcohol, but you go ahead if you like,” he told Kerry.

“I’ll take iced tea,” she said.

He ordered the same.

“When you said you were a wine expert, I wondered how you handled all the drinking. My great-uncle was an alcoholic. My family used him as an example of what could happen with excessive alcohol use.”

“If you’re rich enough, people ignore your drinking,” he said, his voice thick with cynicism. “Or cover for you.”

Her eyes went wide and solemn, and Matt saw the questions she was too polite to ask.

He found himself answering them. “My family is wealthy. Old money. Long history in the community. Embarrassing incidents have a way of disappearing from the record. Youthful indiscretions are ignored. It also doesn’t hurt if the family has a very influential law firm.”

“I don’t know about altering records,” Kerry said, “but being related to lawyers can come in handy. My mom’s oldest brother is an attorney. He was thrilled when his son and a nephew decided to study law and went into the firm with him.”

“In our family,” Matt reported grimly, “the men are expected to enter law.” He shrugged. “I chose differently.”

“Why?”

Coming from Kerry, the question didn’t feel intrusive. Matt knew she was genuinely interested in him as a person. “Probably defiance, the same as Jason Pichante. The high school counselor advised that I had wide-ranging interests and an aptitude for stringing words together. Journalism was one of the fields she suggested I should consider.”

“And so you did. A wise decision.” Kerry smiled in approval. “You obviously love what you do.”

He shrugged. “I make a comfortable living at it.”

She beamed at him. “That’s the way I feel about my work. I’m lucky to be paid for something I enjoy doing.”

It felt like a bond between them. For reasons he couldn’t name, Matt liked that idea. He liked it a lot.

“M
Y TONGUE
is still burning,” Kerry told Matt.

“Mine, too. Cajun cuisine must be an acquired taste.”

His rumble of laughter warmed Kerry. She knew he was probably used to much more sophisticated women than a small-town Midwesterner like herself. But at least they could enjoy each other’s company.

“Well, I for one am not going to acquire a taste for that rice sausage dish,” she declared. “It was so hot I couldn’t breathe for a couple of minutes after the first bite. But the filé gumbo was delicious.”

“I agree.”

They were taking a cab to the voodoo ceremony, and Kerry shivered slightly as they passed a cemetery. She hoped the rite wasn’t performed there.

The cabbie let them out at a gate just beyond the graveyard and nodded toward a grove of trees. Lights twinkled between the branches. “Over there,” he said, nodding in that direction. “Stay with the crowd and you’ll be fine.”

Matt paid the man and thanked him. “You will be back to pick us up?”

“Sure thing, mon. Two hours.” He handed over a card. “But call if it ends before then.”

The driver seemed certain the ceremony would take the full two hours. Kerry glanced toward the cemetery and another shiver pressed along her spine. A wrought-iron fence separated the cemetery from the grove of trees, which was reassuring.

She almost laughed at herself. As if that spindly little fence could keep out ghosts.

When had she started to believe in the supernatural? she wondered. Glancing at her tall handsome companion as they hurried along the path to the edge of the bayou, she was grateful not to be alone.

A slow drumbeat beckoned the followers to gather for the ceremony. Healing, Kerry had learned, also involved cleansing. It was necessary to get rid of the evil in one’s heart so that the Spirit of Healing could enter.

As she and Matt walked out of the trees into the clearing, the beat of the drum picked up, becoming softer but more urgent.

“Come,” a woman said as if she’d been expecting them for some time. “Sit here.”

Kerry tucked her hand into the crook of Matt’s elbow and held on, unnerved by the woman’s appearance.

Her hair was pure white and very long, past her waist, and spilled from a gold scarf tied gypsy-fashion over her head. Her brown face looked like crumpled paper, it was so lined.

Her makeup was similar to what Patti had worn in her Queen Patrice persona, with gold the dominant color, then green and purple. The woman’s blouse and long skirt were black, and she wore a gold-and-green striped cape tied with a purple cord.

“Thank you,” Matt said to the crone.

He and Kerry sat where she indicated on a woven grass rug. The man at Matt’s left leaned close. “That was the old queen,” he said in awe. “You must be special for her to recognize you.”

Matt couldn’t imagine why. “Have you been to these ceremonies before?”

“Several times. My grandmother lives near here and my family visits every January.”

“Is there anything special we’re expected to do during the, uh, performance?”

“No. The queen and her court do everything. Every spirit has its song, dance and rhythm. The audience must never do anything to disrupt the flow or the spirit may be displeased and bring disaster to us all.”

“I hope we’re doing the right thing by being here,” Matt said wryly.

“This is good
Ju-Ju
,” the man confided. “The Healing Spirit is gentle. The Earth Spirit requires a blood sacrifice, which bothers some people.”

The lonely beat of a single drum suddenly echoed around the clearing and over the opaque waters of the bayou, making it seem as if there were hundreds of drummers.

“The Spirit of Healing,” the man told them, “is symbolized by thunder. We’ll hear lots of drums tonight. The dancing will be entertaining, and sensuous.” He grinned, not in a lewd manner but as one tourist to another.

Matt and Kerry nodded together. Their eyes met. Kerry squeezed Matt’s arm, which she hadn’t realized she was holding, then let go. He smiled as if assuring her all would be well.

She hoped he was right. Little flashes of nervous tension were racing to all points of her body. If someone said “Boo!” at that moment she would probably have heart failure on the spot.

A young woman, also a voodoo queen judging by her clothing, moved through the group collecting the colored tickets. Matt and Kerry handed her their purple ones. She paused, quickly perused them, then turned the tickets over.

Kerry noticed there were identical markings on the back, a tiny sign like a hand with three fingers raised. She touched her bracelet and found the charm of three bones. For some reason, the symbol seemed comforting.

The voodoo queen gave them a solemn smile and nodded as if in welcome. Her gaze flicked over them again before she continued to the man beside Matt.

Kerry let out a relieved breath, feeling she’d just passed some test.

“Whew,” Matt said
sotto voce
, evidently feeling the same. “This is going to be a very interesting evening.”

The drums stopped, and the ensuing silence was so profound it was nerve-racking. Even the breeze held its breath.

The old queen walked into the center of the clearing and paced around a fire pit, her eyes on the people seated around her in a circle. Some must be actual practitioners of the voodoo art, Kerry decided as they nodded to the woman.

With a sudden swoop, the old woman bent over the fire pit. Flames, several feet high, leapt skyward from the logs.

A collective “ohh” went up from the onlookers.

The flames settled into a steady pattern, then danced as the breeze picked up again.

The lone drum started its beat. Kerry instinctively moved closer to Matt. He put his arm behind her back in a gesture of support rather than intimacy. She let herself lean into him, just a little.

The ancient voodoo queen began to sway. She clapped her hands very softly to the drum’s rhythm. Another drum joined in, one with a different voice that seemed to harmonize with the first.

The crone tapped her feet on the hard-packed sand. When she twirled around, Kerry saw she wore no shoes, but a circle of bells surrounded her ankles and continued down her arch, anchored by a string around her toe.

Kerry recalled seeing something similar in the tourist shops during her afternoon explorations. The string
was stretchy and some of the “shoes” had plastic flowers or ribbons instead of bells for decoration.

The ceremony continued with songs and dances that were sometimes slow and gentle, sometimes wild and sensuous.

And the drums, always the drums.

Kerry found herself clapping and swaying with the crowd and Matt joined in, too, but more slowly than she did, as if he considered each action before he did it.

At one point the old queen and her retinue of young novices sprinkled exotic-smelling flower petals over the audience, an obvious blessing, and Kerry was touched by the beauty of the ceremony.

Then there were the moments of wild ecstasy when the women moved like spirits possessed by the music of tambourines and chimes and the ever-present drumbeat.

The old queen was magnificent, weaving her way among the younger women, as agile as any of them as she leaped high as the flames or swayed like a wheat stalk in the breeze. She came close to Kerry and Matt and twirled the striped cape above her head, the stirred air wafting over their faces.

A strange excitement rushed through Kerry. She was intensely aware of Matt beside her. She felt his warmth as well as that from the fire. When she gazed into the fathomless eyes of the queen, knowledge flashed between them.

Kerry and Matt would be lovers.

It was fated. Kerry knew that with an unshakable certainty, and she also knew this magic wouldn’t harm her.

Sorrow sifted through her as she thought back to the previous day. Patti should have been here, leaping and swaying and whirling to the magic rhythm.

Kerry resolved to ask the old woman if they could do anything for Patti, for Queen Patrice, to assure she found peace in her death.

A large, warm hand covered hers. She glanced up at Matt and saw the question in his eyes. He must have sensed her sadness at the thought of the beautiful young woman who apparently had no one to mourn her passing.

I mourn you
, Kerry said to Patti’s spirit, feeling that it was close at this moment. If Patti had lived, Kerry knew they could have become lifelong friends.

“You okay?” Matt asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll explain later.” A restlessness as well as a certainty was growing inside her. She intended to use the rest of her time in New Orleans to find out about Patti and to see that she was laid to rest in a place she would have liked, not shoved into some anonymous grave in a pauper’s cemetery.

Somehow Kerry would find a way to reconnect the lovely young woman she’d known so briefly with those who had loved her. Somehow she would do this, Kerry vowed.

“T
HIS WAY
,” the crone said when the ceremony was over and the fire mostly embers.

Matt moved protectively toward Kerry.

The old queen smiled slightly, then nodded her head toward the path through the trees. “I’ll light the way for you.” She poked a torch into the fire pit. It flamed up at once. “Come.”

Matt guided Kerry in front of him on the path as they followed the woman away from the bayou. The night was eerily dark. The moon, which was full a few days ago, had disappeared behind thick white clouds during the healing ritual. The old woman with her torch was their only companion along the path. The other guests had departed quickly.

Matt hoped the cab was there as promised. Kerry had been spooked enough for one night. She seemed to be taking all this voodoo stuff rather seriously. That, plus the effect of Patti’s death on her, worried him. He didn’t want her gentle soul to be bruised by all this.

What was he thinking? He hardly knew Kerry, after all. Maybe both of them were affected by the tragedy more than they realized.

“Did you know Queen Patrice from the voodoo museum?” Kerry now asked the older woman.

She turned to face them. “I have been her spiritual advisor for over a year.”

“Oh,” Kerry said. “Then…then you must know she died last night?”

Matt observed the quick signs of shock—the blink
of the eyes, the tightening of the hand holding the torch—before the woman recovered. “I didn’t. What was the cause?”

“The police aren’t sure, perhaps an overdose. Do you know if she was on drugs?”

“She was not,” the woman said emphatically. “It would have been a betrayal of the healing spirit.” She paused. “It is her guiding spirit. She should have been here tonight.”

“Did she have any family?” Kerry continued. “The police detective said she would be put in a public grave if no one claimed the body.”

Matt was surprised at Kerry’s persistence, then realized he shouldn’t have been. She had strong feelings about family and was apparently determined to do something about Patti’s lack of one.

“She must be cleansed,” the woman said, the lines of her face drawn into a fierce frown. “Only fire will do that now.”

“What do you mean?” Kerry asked.

“She must be cremated. Her ashes must be returned to a place of rest for her.”

Kerry nodded. “Where? Where was she from?”

The voodoo queen continued along the path, muttering to herself, and didn’t answer. Matt felt himself growing impatient.

Hearing steps behind them, he glanced over his shoulder. One of the younger women who’d taken part
in the dancing followed them, a flashlight in her hand. She smiled and nodded.

The world felt normal once more. The old queen could sure give a person the willies.

Near the edge of the trees, the path split, and Matt spotted a familiar light by the road. Their driver had returned as promised. The old woman took the path leading back among the trees.

“This way,” the younger one said, guiding them toward the taxi.

“Did you know Patti?’ Kerry asked her. “She was also Queen Patrice.”

“Yes. She was my friend.” She was silent for a moment. “Do you know how she died?”

“Not yet—the authorities will do an autopsy,” Kerry said. “There seems to be no family.”

Matt studied the young voodoo queen as she paused and gazed at Kerry. She was unusually still for a moment.

“May I read your fortune?” she asked.

Kerry’s shoulders stiffened. “It isn’t necessary. Patti did that yesterday.”

The darkly outlined eyes looked from Kerry to Matt. “Sorrow lies in your path,” she said softly.

“The shining path?” Kerry questioned. “I know about that.”

The young queen ignored her. “Patti sometimes spoke of a plantation where she was raised. Cordon Rouge was its name. On Bayou Rouge. The museum may know more.”

With that, she turned and disappeared into the trees, the flicker of the small flashlight the only sign of her progress. Matt and Kerry were left standing in the dark.

“Well,” he said, “looks like we’re on our own.”

“The path is fairly straight from here to the road,” Kerry told him. She hurried forward.

He caught her hand and walked beside her. The trail broadened, but still Matt felt foolishly protective of the petite woman who held his hand as if she were comforted by his touch.

“What did you think?” the cabbie asked. He flicked away a cigarette and opened the door for them. “Did you find the ceremony interesting?”

“Very,” Kerry said.

As they drove back to the hotel, Matt relaxed, realizing that he’d been tense for the past two hours.

“The old queen can be very haughty at times,” the driver said. “I’ve known her to send away folks if she doesn’t like them. Tourists get angry when that happens, but it isn’t their call.”

“Maybe they don’t understand the ceremony isn’t a show put on for their benefit,” Kerry suggested.

“You got that right,” the man said.

When she slid her hand from his, Matt resisted an urge to slip his arm around her shoulders and hold her close.

They lapsed into silence for the remainder of the trip, which seemed shorter on the return leg. At the
hotel, Matt said, “I’m hungry. I’ve heard the chef here makes outstanding desserts. Shall we try a couple?”