Second-Hand Murder: Book 1 in The Bandit Hills Series Page 4

  “Good. Thank you. Now what were you going to tell me before?”

  “Oh, right!” With Phil nosing around, I’ve almost forgotten. “That book that I saw in Stephanie’s place, the one that looked like she was still reading? I looked it up online; it’s about Haitian voodoo.”

  Dash lowers his chin in his best “are you serious” look.

  “Don’t give me that look. You live in Bandit Hills. Is voodoo really out of the question? She went away on vacation—maybe she went to Haiti, and brought something back with her. Like… a curse. Maybe even in the doll.”

  By the time I finish, I realize that I’m talking excitedly… because, if I’m being honest, the idea of a real voodoo curse is kind of cool. Then I reel it in and remind myself that what I’m talking about might have cost a young woman her life.

  Dash sighs like he’s dealing with an ignorant child, which really irks me, and he holds out his hand. “Let me see the doll.”

  I reach into my purse and I give him the doll and the photo of Stephanie. He turns the doll over in his hands, studying it like he’s going into savant mode.

  After a couple of minutes, I ask impatiently, “What are you thinking, Sherlock?”

  “Well,” he says, drawing out the word, “I think two things. Number one: this is not a voodoo doll of Stephanie Marshall. Stephanie’s brunette; this looks nothing like her. So who is it a doll of? Number two…” He pauses for a moment, pinching a few strands of the thin yellow grass atop the doll’s head. “Number two, I’m pretty sure this is real human hair.”

  And then the power goes out in the diner.

  Chapter 9

  It’s late afternoon by the time I get back to the shop to relieve Mom of duty. She has a million questions for me, all of which are subtle ways of asking if Dash and I are going to get married immediately and have sixteen babies. I suffer through her barrage with vague answers and shrugs. I know it irks her, but seriously, my romantic life—or complete lack thereof, lately—is no one’s business but mine.

  After the lights went out in the diner, Tank announced that it was just a tripped breaker, and about a minute after he disappeared into the basement the lights came back on. Tripped breaker, sure. It was just a coincidence, right? And if you believe that, there’s a bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you. Regardless, Dash and I decided that would be a good time to curb our investigation for the day, so we parted ways with the promise of meeting up again tomorrow and thinking things through, which in Dash-speak means “no more breaking into houses, please.”

  I sent Mom home early, so it’s just me, Xerxes, and (presumably) the ghost of Stephanie Marshall in the store—and the occasional customer, of course. In between sales and idle chit-chat, I scour the internet for whatever I can find on voodoo, specifically of the doll variety.

  Here’s the thing: when it comes to the internet, it can be tough to discern what’s real and what’s total hogwash. But if enough resources share similar ideas, you can pretty much determine that a thing is legit. Case in point: the history of the voodoo doll, which I think is pretty interesting.

  It turns out that what we twenty-first century people think of as the voodoo doll actually originated in England. See, there were these people that were called “cunning folk,” which were low-level practitioners of magic. These cunning folk were usually employed to use magic against malevolent witchcraft—which to me kind of feels like a short-order cook trying to outdo a French chef, but whatever—and one of their tactics was to create a voodoo doll, which was an effigy of the witch, and stick pins in it to cause the witch physical harm.

  As the British Empire got bigger and bigger, some of these practices were disseminated into other cultures. In this case, their folk magic permeated parts of Africa and the Caribbean, where it was at some point associated into the ideology called voodoo. Now, centuries later, we modern-day ignoramuses just lump the doll into the “black magic” of voodoo, even though traditional voodoo is more of a belief system than a way to curse your neighbors.

  I find all sorts of personal stories and anecdotes about voodoo dolls, and varying degrees of efficacy—there are a whole bunch of people who say it’s all hooey, and then there are a whole bunch of people who say it really works. It’s impossible to say for sure. All I know is that after reading a dozen or so stories of allegedly real voodoo doll incidents, I decide that I’ve had enough of the internet for one day.

  By the time I close my laptop lid, it’s dark out; nearly time to close. I know without looking that nobody is out on Main Street, and suddenly feel more alone than I did a moment ago. I can’t stop thinking about what Dash said, that the hair on the doll was real human hair… and not Stephanie’s.

  From what I read about the dolls, the curse requires some part of the target, be it hair (weird), fingernails (gross), or even a bit of skin (super weird and gross). But if the hair isn’t Stephanie’s, then who was the doll meant for?

  I dig in my purse to take another look at the doll. It’s not there. For a moment I panic, wondering if Dash took it home with him, or worse, if I left it at the diner. I dump the contents of my purse onto the counter, and while I’m sifting through it, I see the doll—not in the mess I’ve made, but below it, inside the glass case again.

  “Come on,” I mutter aloud. “If you want my help, you gotta stop moving stuff around on me. I keep a very neat store, and I don’t appreciate—”

  As I unlock the case and reach for the doll, the lights go out. I gasp a little as the shop is plunged into sudden darkness.

  “Hey! Not funny. I can’t see.” The lights come back on, and again I reach for the doll, and again the lights go out.

  At this point, I’ve moved beyond scared and into annoyed territory.

  “If I can’t see, I’m going to end up tripping over the cat and breaking my neck. Is that what you want?” The lights stay off. “Fine. I’ll just sit here in the dark then.” I cross my arms like a petulant child. “Charlie, the mayor’s ghost, can talk, you know.”

  Taunting a ghost is probably not my finest moment, but like I said, I’m peeved. “If he wanted to tell me something, he’d just…” I trail off as a light bulb clicks on—a metaphorical one in my mind, not a literal one. It’s still very dark. “You want to tell me something?”

  The lights come back on. Instead of grabbing at the doll, I take a look at it carefully. It’s just sitting there, in the locked glass case, between two pieces of jewelry—necklaces, to be exact, with thick braided chains and big shiny stones. They’re both completely fake, gaudy costume jewelry, but they look expensive, so I keep them in the case.

  “Oh, god,” I groan. “These used to belong to Marla. Please tell me that’s not where you’re going with this.”

  The lights dim, but don’t completely go out. I’m not sure how to take that, but I’m guessing that it’s a ghostly affirmative.

  “Stephanie,” I say, feeling weird about addressing someone who’s not really there, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but Marla’s a… well, fraud is a bit harsh. Let’s say she’s a performer.”

  The lights go out again. I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Fine! Fine, I’ll talk to Marla. But you and I, we need to work on our communication.”

  The lights come back on, and the little am/fm radio I keep behind the counter suddenly blares to life, scaring the bejesus out of me as the chorus of Wayne Newton’s “Danke Schoen” croons in the otherwise silent store.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, Dash meets me outside the store before I even have the chance to unlock the doors. He carries two Styrofoam cups of coffee and hands me one. I take it graciously, but he waves off my thanks, bouncing on his heels like a little boy on Christmas morning.

  “Dash, you look like you’re about to burst,” I tell him as I unlock the door.

  “I know! I spent hours online last night, researching Stephanie Marshall. And I found out some interesting stuff.”

  Part of me is glad he’s so invested i
n this case, but another part wonders if he even has any other cases on his plate.

  “Lay it on me,” I tell him. “But first grab one of those donation boxes.”

  “Sure thing,” he says, tucking a cardboard box under his arm and following me inside. “So first I checked out Stephanie’s social media accounts. They’re still up, for now—sometimes it takes years for them to take it down, if no one notices. Anyway—”

  “Ah, good morning Dashiell!” Mom is definitely a morning person, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite as lively as she is this morning when she steps through the door. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  She smiles at Dash, and raises her eyebrows at me. Dash might have been a bit slower on the uptake the first time or two, but this time he definitely gets the implication and his face turns beet-red.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Cleary,” he says sheepishly.

  “Oh, please, call me Julia,” she says, and pats Dash on the arm.

  I just kind of stand there, part in amusement at Dash’s discomfort, and part in embarrassment that I didn’t forewarn him. “Are you here to spirit my daughter away again?” She leans in and stage-whispers, “Because it’s very okay with me if you do.”

  “Mom!” I say in disbelief, with an inflection I haven’t used since I was sixteen.

  “Uh, maybe just for a little while,” Dash says, and then to me, he adds, “Care to go for a walk?”

  “Yup, absolutely.” I grab my coffee and hurry out the door. “Be back soon!” I shout to Mom.

  Once we’re safely out of the store, I apologize to Dash. “Well, that was horrifying. Sorry ‘bout that.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees, “It’s okay. So… does she think we’re…?” He doesn’t finish his statement, but he motions between us with his hand to imply “together.”

  “Um, maybe? But my mom would get excited if I was talking to an unemployed circus performer, if it meant having a date.”

  Dash snorts. “Thanks. I’m very flattered.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. She’s just… hopeful.” I clear my throat, eager to change the subject, and quicken my pace a little. The sun feels good on my face, but a slight breeze on the air reminds me that autumn is on the way. “So, tell me what you found out.”

  “Right!” Dash says a little too enthusiastically (equally eager to talk about something else, I assume). “As I was saying, I checked out Stephanie’s social media accounts. Luckily they’re not private. I had to read a ton of posts to get the whole picture, but I think I pieced the story together.

  “Last month, Stephanie went on vacation to New Orleans with a female coworker. They must not have been too close, though, because on the very first day, the coworker met a guy and pretty much ditched Stephanie.”

  “That’s just lovely. Young woman in a big party city by herself. What could go wrong?”

  “Well, that’s the thing—nothing went wrong. It actually seems like she had a pretty good time. She took a lot of selfies, most of them uninteresting, but there was one in particular of her in a bar with a guy.”

  Gears start turning in my head. “Let me guess—long brown hair, nice tan, ridiculously handsome?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d say ridiculously handsome...”

  I can’t help but grin. “Sure. The guy in the photo from the book.”

  “Right. And then there was another photo. Here, I printed it out for you.” He reaches into his back pocket and unfolds a sheet of paper. The screenshot shows a photo of the voodoo doll—the same one currently in my purse—and beneath it is a caption from Stephanie that says, “A weird gift from Jean Pierre.”

  “So Jean Pierre,” I say aloud in my best French accent, which is still pretty terrible, “gave Stephanie the doll. Shouldn’t be too hard to find him, with such a unique name.”

  “Sure, for Bandit Hills. But there are about two hundred Jean Pierres in just the French Quarter, let alone all of New Orleans. So I scoured all the social media sites I could think of—”

  “Jeez, Dash, that must have taken hours!”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “And still nothing came up. This guy had almost no online presence. Eventually, I found him though… Want to guess where?”

  “Match.com, hopefully—”

  “You’re funny. No, Mr. Ridiculously Handsome’s portrait is on the Louisiana arrest record website. Twice.”

  I slow my pace a little. “For what?”

  “Turns out he’s into alternative medicine—you know, like acupuncture and reiki and stuff like that. His specialty is herbal remedies. Except he was selling them without a license. The first two times he was busted, he got fined; the third time, he spent a week in jail.”

  “Herbal remedies? Sheesh, Dash, do you think he could have given her something? Maybe she took it home with her, and that’s what made her sick, which is why she went to the doctor’s, and then—”

  Dash tugs my arm gently, prompting me to stop. He searches my face as he says, “Whoa, whoa. Slow down; you’re going a mile a minute. This whole time, I thought we were investigating what killed Stephanie, not who killed Stephanie.”

  I stare at my feet. If I’m being honest, I’ve never really considered that it would be anything other than murder most foul. I mean, a voodoo doll? A ghost seeking the help from the living? Those have “murder mystery TV series” written all over them.

  “Aren’t all unexplained deaths treated as homicides until they’re proven otherwise?” I ask him, hoping that I sound like a savvy investigator.

  “No,” he replies, “Suicides are treated as homicides until proven otherwise. And that depends on jurisdiction. You can’t believe everything you see on TV.” He sighs and paces the short width of the sidewalk. “Look, I have to be honest, if there is even a chance that this turns out to be murder, we can’t handle this on our own. We can’t arrest anyone. We don’t have the resources to prove anything. We’d have to report what we know.”

  “We don’t know anything for sure yet,” I retort. “We know there’s some guy that spent some time with Stephanie, and also did some time, but we can’t just call the cops in New Orleans and say, ‘Go find the best-looking dude named Jean Pierre and arrest him because a girl he met in a bar died later.’” I shake my head. “All I know is that if he had anything to do with it, I owe it to Stephanie to try to find out.”

  We walk in silence for a moment, and then I ask, “Wait, you said he was arrested twice. What was the second time for?”

  “Oh, the second time was a night in jail after a domestic dispute with his ex-girlfriend… Savannah something-or-other.” He sighs. “All this new information, and we’re no closer to finding anything out. What’s our next play?”

  “I think we should go talk to the coworker, the one she went on vacation with. I assume you have a name?”

  “Of course,” Dash replies. Then, looking sheepish, he asks, “You really think he’s that good looking?”

  “Are you kidding? He puts underwear models to shame.”

  Dash rolls his eyes and starts to walk off without me. I laugh and catch up to him, linking my arm with his as we walk. You know, so he wouldn’t feel insecure.

  Chapter 11

  Dash pulls into the parking lot of the Arborton pharmacy where Stephanie worked. We go in together and step up to the counter, where a bored-looking young woman in her mid-twenties regards us like we’re flies on her food. Her raccoon-like eye makeup and nose stud make an interesting contrast to her white lab coat.

  “Can I help you?” she drones.

  “Are you Claire?” Dash asks.

  The girl looks down at her nametag, which clearly says “Claire,” and then back at Dash. “Last time I checked.”

  “Real ray of sunshine, this one,” I mutter.

  “My name is Dash Hamilton,” he tells her. “I’m a private investigator. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your friend Stephanie Marshall, if you don’t mind.”

  At the mention of Stephanie, Claire goes fro
m sarcastic and angsty to vulnerable in half a second. “I… I don’t really want to talk about that. It’s too soon.”

  “I understand,” Dash says. I have to give it to him; he’s handling this a lot more delicately than I would. “Can I at least ask you a few questions about your trip to New Orleans?”

  “The police didn’t question me,” Claire says.

  “The police aren’t investigating this; I am. Look, no one’s in trouble here, least of all you. I just want to piece some things together, that’s all.”

  Claire mulls this over for a moment, and then says, “Okay, but I don’t want to do it here.” She shouts, “Bob! I’m going on break!”

  From somewhere behind her, amid the tall rows of shelves, a male voice grunts an affirmative.

  Claire leads outside through a rear door. She props the steel door open with a triangular doorstop and then folds her skinny arms across her chest. “Okay. Shoot.”