Oh, God, she’d lied to the police—and not just to the police, but to Jack. Groaning, Martine dragged her hair into a ponytail. Instead of being bouncy and perky like it should be, it just dangled limp and heavy—the way she felt, coincidentally. She’d put on makeup as soon as the detectives had left, but she’d had a hard time finding the balance between enough and too much. Even now, she couldn’t tell whether she looked like someone who’d had a shock or someone trying to pass for a clown. She hadn’t actually lied to the police. She just hadn’t volunteered a few things, like the fact that Paulina believed their voodoo curse was the reason for the threat against her. Or that one of their other best friends had been killed just a few months ago, allegedly because of the curse. Or that Tallie, Robin and Martine herself were on the supposed hit list, too. Martine couldn’t get past the cold hard fact that the others ignored: their voodoo curse wasn’t real. It had been far more Dr. Seuss than Marie Laveau. They hadn’t raised any spirits; they hadn’t disturbed the peace between this world and the other; they hadn’t done anything a million stupid kids before and after them hadn’t done. What had happened to William Fletcher had been a coincidence—not even a surprising one, according to gossip. He’d been warped in his tastes and careless in his pursuit of them, and Callie and Tallie’s mom had often said that one day the consequences of his actions would catch up with him. That Saturday night they had. But it wasn’t her fault, or Paulina’s or the others’. Heaving a sigh that echoed with restlessness and sadness, she pulled on a bright yellow-and-pink madras plaid rain slicker and a pair of boots and headed out. Back in the day when the shop was new and finding its way, she’d made time to bake goodies for her employees’ breakfast and breaks, but business had luckily picked up about the time her baking interest waned. Now she visited Wild Berries, a small shop on Jackson Square, and bought treats far better than she could make. The strange dampness made her pull the slicker hood over her head as she walked. It wasn’t raining exactly. It was more as if the drops of water were suspended in air and broke only when a person bumped into them. The few that trickled down her face were ridiculously cold and sent shivers all the way to her feet. And all the weather people could say was Unusual weather patterns or Maybe a break this weekend. Anise, one of her employees, kept insisting the sun was never going to shine again, but then, Anise was a gloom-and-doom sort of person. With her distinctive Goth appearance, Martine hadn’t decided whether she added to the ambiance of the shop or scared the customers instead. When Martine stepped inside Wild Berries, a bell dinged overhead, and a small high voice sang out, “The sun will come out tomorrow...” She slid her hood back to revel in the brilliant smile the shop owner, Shelley, gave her. Even on her worst day she summoned more optimism than Martine could even imagine at the moment. Shelley was happy, she’d once told Martine—truly, seriously, contented all the way down to her soul. Martine knew days of deep satisfaction, but she envied Shelley her pure unwavering light. “How’s business?” Martine asked as she strolled the length of display cases, her mouth watering with each new discovery. Lemon and brown sugar and chocolate perfumed the air, along with buttery pastry and cinnamon and coffee. If it was possible to absorb calories by osmosis, Wild Berries was the place to do it. “My early birds are reliable. It’s slow right now, but it’ll pick up by lunch. How about your place?” “People come, buy and go. Let me have twelve of your most decadent creations, would you? Make one lemon with a sign that says ‘Hands off. For Martine’s pleasure only.’” With a laugh, Shelley folded a brightly decorated cardboard box and began filling it. “I thought I saw you pass by yesterday afternoon, but you were moving so fast, I wasn’t sure.” Martine kept her smile in place by sheer will. “Yeah, I—I had a—a meeting.” With a woman who’d been murdered twelve hours later. God, that sent a chill through her soul. She wondered about Paulina’s parents: Where did they live now? When would they be notified? How thoroughly would the loss of their only daughter devastate them? And more questions. Had she been married? Was there a husband out there worrying where the hell his wife had gone? God have mercy, what if there were kids feeling the same? And what about Tallie and Robin? They should know, too, because they’d been Paulina’s friends, too. The five of them had shared a lot of history. And they deserved a warning because, even if Martine didn't believe in the paying-for-their-curse business, it seemed someone else might. Paulina had believed it, and she was dead. Callie had believed it, and she was dead, too. Martine couldn’t have helped Callie, and she hadn’t helped Paulina, but if she at least contacted Tallie and Robin...at least gave them a heads-up... A flash of color wavered in front of her, and she blinked hard, bringing the plastic bag holding the pastry box into focus. Shelley wore her usual smile, but it was tinged with a bit of concern. “You okay, Martine?” she asked, and Martine was pretty sure it wasn’t the first time. “Yeah, sure. Nothing a few days on a tropical beach wouldn’t cure.” “You and me both. Sun, sand, cabana boys...my dearest dream. Maybe the lemon tart will take you away for a few moments, at least.” Martine traded her debit card for the bag, then looked inside and located the tart underneath the box’s cellophane lid. In fine print across the pastry, Shelley had written with frosting, Reserved for Martine. With a laugh, she pocketed the debit card again. “My employees are most grateful, and so am I.” “Have a good day. And don’t let the weather get you down. No matter how dreary, it’s still New Orleans, and that beats a sunny LA or New York or Chicago any day.” Martine waved as the bell dinged above her again. Shelley was right. A bad day in New Orleans was better than a good day anywhere else. She’d had a lot of dreams growing up, but in terms of distance, they’d ended fifty miles from her hometown. She enjoyed traveling, but at the end of every trip, she was happy to be home where she belonged. Would always belong. And no one—no old friend, no murderer, not even Detective Jimmy DiBiase—could take that from her. She was halfway past Saint Louis Cathedral when the nerves between her shoulder blades prickled. The power of a look never failed to amaze her: this one was as physical as an actual touch, and it made shivers dash down her spine. She tried to casually glance over her shoulder to see who was watching her, but when she moved her head, the hood of the slicker stayed where it was, instead giving her a good look at the pink lining. Stopping and actually turning around was a bit obvious, but when she reached the intersection, that was exactly what she did. It was truly raining now, so much more normal than the earlier damp that some pressure deep inside her eased. The few people around were intent on getting to their destination, except for a crowd of tourists huddled beneath a lime-green golf umbrella and conferring over a map. No one showed any interest in her. No one seemed to notice she existed, despite her yellow-and-pink slicker. Nerves. She wasn’t a person usually bothered by them, and they were making her jumpy. Bad weather, slow business, Paulina, DiBiase... It was all enough to give anyone a case of the creeps. Satisfied that was it, she headed down the street again. Her path took her past the house where Evie and Jack lived, with its smaller entrance leading to her psychic shop. Guilt curling inside, Martine ducked her head and lengthened her stride. She would talk to Evie soon, but not yet. Only half a block separated
