Hoodoo Money
Hoodoo Money
Hoodoo Money
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Hoodoo Money
Hoodoo Money
Sharon Cupp Pennington
lithograph on the wall next to the framed dust jacket of The Stoning
of Renzo De Benedictis, his one and only bestseller. “Integrity’s
for Boy Scouts,” he grumbled. People had lewd appetites, and
satiating those appetites had made him a lot of money.
He couldn’t recall any other time a woman had looked him
straight in the eyes and told him her conscience wasn’t for sale.
But McKay had leaned across a glass of expensive merlot, shook
his hand, and said in that irritating drawl of hers, “My decision is
final, Mr. Dalrymple. Herbert Dodding is dead. I can’t change that.
But neither will I contribute to a tell-all book that will follow those
boys for the rest of their lives. You understand, sir, I’m sure.”
Like hell, he understood.
Why did she hold onto the photographs if she didn’t plan to
use them, or any of the research she’d done into the old pervert’s
murder? Her genre was children’s books, and the “Platypus Pearl”
mystery series had made her the newest darling of the preteen
set.
Not that she bragged about it. McKay was too refined, too
genteel. Too damn Southern.
He dropped the mail in the wastebasket—nothing but bills
from his accountant—placed the laptop on his cluttered desk, and
valise on the floor. Lamp on, he shrugged out of the torturous jacket
and headed for the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in his kitchen
cabinet. Frustration mothered an awful thirst, and Dalrymple was
the thirstiest he’d been in forty-seven years of scandalous living.
He carried the bottle to the living room, grabbed the remote, and
switched on the television. He switched it off just as quick. Today
the news depressed him. Braeden McKay and her unwavering
morality depressed him.
Anger surfaced in his shaking hands when he unscrewed
Johnnie’s cap, splashed two fingers in a glass, and threw back the
amber liquid.
The muffled pop never registered as a gunshot, but an explosion
of white light inside his temple dropped Dalrymple to his knees.
The last image his brain recorded as blood filled his mouth was a
shadow lifting the laptop from his desk.
Chapter One
P
St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans, sixteen months later...
“W
sheet.”
hat do you get when you bite a ghost?” Braeden McKay
managed a weak smile and whispered, “A mouthful of
The joke wasn’t any funnier now than it had been the first
time her neighbor’s nine-year old nephew had told it. Neither was
spending an entire morning of her vacation in a cemetery. But
she had promised Angeline she’d be her guest during the Fournier
Cosmetics photo shoot. With the lure of a decadent lunch and
antique shopping afterward, she could hold out a bit longer.
Four hours spent in the merciless Gulf Coast humidity, and
Braeden’s natural curls resembled coppery cotton candy. She
twisted her hair into a haphazard roll, fastened it with a large
plastic clip, then fanned the back of her neck with the brochure
from her pocket. Not that either helped.
Heading down the stone path dividing two rows of staggered
sepulchers and patchwork grass, she was struck by the contrast
between a century-old mausoleum and the camera crew packing
12 Sharon Cupp Pennington
their high-tech gear. She supposed it was no more odd than looking
at a panoramic view of the cemetery with the city’s modern
skyline behind it, or the honking of car horns carried through the
old iron gates on a July breeze. It was one of the things she loved
about New Orleans: the blending of past and present, with ample
deference given both.
“Now what are you doing?” She found her supermodel friend
standing before a small tomb they’d discovered on a break earlier
in the day.
“I’m gettin’ myself a souvenir.” Angeline leaned over the
rusted iron fence marking Simone Dubois’ grave and plucked a
coin off the mutilated brick. “You want me to get you one?”
Braeden eyed the coin with wariness. It was small, silver,
round, and dull-edged. “You lifted that nickel from the grave of a
witch.” She suppressed her shudder. “No, I don’t want you to get
me one.”
Angeline straightened her five foot ten inch frame. “A gypsy,
Brag. Simone Dubois was a Black Gypsy, a hoodoo woman.”
“Same difference.”
“Hardly, and don’t make it sound so sinister.” She buffed
the coin against her blouse before holding it up to the light for
closer inspection. “It’s not like I’m snatchin’ bodies, or pryin’ gold
from their teeth. There must be fifty coins here, nickels and dimes,
pennies. People are expected to take a few.”
“If you want a souvenir, I’ll buy you some beads or a
feathered Mardi Gras mask like the ones we saw in the hotel
lobby.” Appealing to her friend’s flamboyant side wasn’t working;
Braeden tried the practical approach. “Okay, okay.” She raised her
arms in exaggerated surrender. “I’ll buy the postcards this trip,
for pity’s sake, and stamps to mail them. Just put the nickel back,
Angie, before somebody sees you.”
Angeline’s laugh dissipated into the fissures of the tomb. She
rested her boxy sunglasses atop her blonde head and met Braeden’s
gaze beneath the black crystal frames. “No thanks,” she said. “I
think I’ll keep my nickel. Besides, who’s gonna see me? Cooper?
We hired the man to drive, nothing more. The hoodoo woman
supposedly buried beneath all this...finery?” She reached through
the rusted iron bars, tapped the base of Dubois’ tomb with the toe
HOODOO MONEY 13
Angeline St. Cyr’s luggage. He should know; his back was still
knotted in spasms for the deed.
Before retrieving the box of Lights from the cherub’s vase,
Cooper took one last glimpse around, searching for the nerdy
stranger he’d seen lurking behind a camera. The man was gone.
He shrugged and whispered, “Just another starry-eyed fan
hoping to work up enough bluster to ask for an autograph.” Sure,
it made sense enough.