Fairbanks, Nancy Read online

  As if we had any absinthe, I thought. I'd had vodka; he'd had tequila in Jell-O.

  I was worried enough about Julienne to ask if a psychic reading could locate a lost person, whereupon Broder dragged me away from the helpful attendant and into the gift shop, which had, at least, a higher level of light, not to men­tion an interesting selection of gris-gris potions and voodoo dolls. I bought, over Broder's objections, a love potion for my son Chris who, in his last phone call from school, had complained that the object of his affection had just dumped him for a marketing major. There's nothing like a joke, which I considered the love potion, to cure a minorly broken heart.

  Then I selected a voodoo doll for my daughter. I thought she might find it therapeutic to name it after her American government professor and stick pins in it. He had thrown a blackboard eraser at her in front of some two hundred stu­dents when she dozed off during an unusually boring lec­ture. I hadn't cared much for government myself, except as it applied to things medieval. The organization of the En­glish court system under Henry II, for instance, had once been a matter of great interest to me when I was a young me­dieval history major.

  As the clerk in the voodoo gift shop was wrapping my purchases and Broder hovered nervously, as if to protect me from spells and charms and other unchristian dangers, I fished out the photograph of Julienne, Philippe, and me. "Has this lady visited your shop?" I asked, pointing to Juli­enne.

  "Looks familiar," the girl allowed, passing me my wrapped love potion and pincushion doll. "Looks like a lady came in—Sunday, I think. Some time in the afternoon. Be­fore dusk, anyways. We close at dusk."

  Broder muttered to himself. He seemed to find something ominous in closing at dusk instead of, say, 5:30 or 7:00. In fact, he found the dusk closing so ominous that he decided he'd wait for me outside.

  "What was she wearing?" I asked, hardly noticing Broder's departure now that I was on the trail of information about Julienne.

  "Nothin' fancy," said the clerk. "Don' really remember. Nice curly hair, though. Well, jeans. Yeah, I think jeans."

  "And a jean jacket?" If so, her observation would support the bartender's at Lafitte's Absinthe House.

  The clerk pulled thoughtfully at one of many long, thin braids. "Didn' notice a jacket, ma'am."

  I must have looked disappointed.

  "Mighta been over her arm."

  I nodded encouragingly.

  "Bought a voodoo doll." She pointed to a male doll.

  Was Julienne going to stick pins into a representation of Nils? Or even Linus, who hadn't been willing to forgo a night's sleep to accompany her on another photographic ses­sion? "Was she carrying a camera?"

  "Everybody's carrying a camera." She nodded at mine as a case in point. "Well, except that fella who left just now.

  You want a book about Marie Laveau? She was the most fa­mous voodoo queen of New Orleans."

  "Does it contain recipes?" I asked. That would make a wonderful chapter. Voodoo recipes. If they happened to be tasty. The clerk was giving me a peculiar look. I imagined what Broder would think if he could hear me asking about voodoo recipes. He'd assume I was interested in gris-gris type things, scary potions, while I, practical woman that I am, had been wondering what Marie Laveau had cooked for breakfast. If it was grits, the Marie Laveau chapter was gone!

  Still, I took a picture when I got outside, then looked around for my escort. Goodness! He was nowhere in sight. Could Broder, imagining that I had sold my soul to souvenir-dispensing devil worshipers, have deserted me? Instead of Broder, I was approached by a stocky woman wearing a tur­ban, a bunchy, many-colored, ankle-length skirt, and a black knitted shawl. A freelance voodoo tour guide? I asked my­self. She grabbed my arm and thrust her face, a remarkably ugly face, into mine.

  In a raspy, threatening voice, she whispered, "Bad luck you stay heah in N'Awlins, missus. I got da second sight."

  "Really?" I pulled back to try for a better look at her, but she had me by both arms now, and her grip was bruising.

  "Bettah you go away, missus. Bad things come to you, you keep walkin' dese streets."

  It occurred to me that she meant to steal my camera or my handbag. Why else would this peculiar person be trying to frighten me with spurious prophecies?

  "Danger. Ah see danger," she intoned in a loud, hollow voice.

  "Me, too," I replied as I jerked away from her hands and got a firm grip on both my purse and my camera. "If you don't go away, I intend to summon a policeman."

  "You be callin' dem po-lice, you nevah leave N'Awlins alive."

  "You stole that outfit from the museum, didn't you?" I retorted, feeling braver each minute because, after all, there were other tourists I could call out to. "I saw one just like it on a mannequin inside." Still clutching my handbag to deter theft, if that was her game, I reached behind me to turn the gift shop doorknob, then flung the door open, stumbled over the sill, and cried, "This woman has stolen your... your ar­tifacts."

  The clerk who had sold me the voodoo doll and several customers, who must have entered the shop from the mu­seum, gaped at me. The turbaned woman gave me a baleful look over her shoulder as she fled, running down the street and colliding with Broder at the corner. Being a Christian gentleman, he helped her up. Being a rude criminal, she shoved him aside and disappeared around the corner.

  It wasn't until I returned to my hotel room that I realized I had lost the gifts for the children. Had she taken them? Or had I simply dropped them on the sidewalk or in the shop during the hullabaloo that followed her departure: Broder's fussing, official apologies from the staff of the museum, and a brief spate of note-taking from a policeman who arrived to investigate the incident.

  He told me that the city was full of "nut cases" and I shouldn't let the incident worry me since I was none the worse for it.

  11

  Risotto Mille e Una Notte (Thousand and One Nights Risotto)

  Before I collapsed on the cabbage rose bedspread in our room at Hotel de la Poste, I called Linus Torelli again and, for a wonder, found him in. "Did Julienne have jeans with her when she left your room?" I demanded, not even both­ering to identify myself.

  Torelli did not sound happy to hear from me. "I told you she was still wearing the red dress. She had no other clothes with her except some sort of shawl thing and the purse."

  Perhaps it was another woman, not Julienne, seen yester­day by the bartender and the voodoo sales clerk. "I hope you're telling me the truth, Professor. It's only fair to warn you that I've already talked to a police lieutenant at the Vieux Carre station, and I mentioned your name."

  "I can't believe this!" His voice had gone high with anx­iety or exasperation; I wasn't sure which. "All I did was be­friend her. That's all! You must be a crazy woman to harass me like this." He hung up before I could pursue the conver­sation.

  Sighing, I propped a pillow against the French head­board on my bed and picked up my New Orleans guide. Where else had Julienne suggested we go together? I thumbed through the book and came upon two more places: the French Market and the swamp tour boats. Julienne loved the swamps; she had always said they were unearthly, eerie, and mysterious. Oh, how I hoped that she'd return to accompany me on a swamp tour. And go shopping for sou­venirs with me at the French Market. I'd already missed sharing the Historic Voodoo Museum with her and hated to think of paying another five dollars should she insist on re­turning to point out things that I might have missed. Of course, I probably had missed everything of interest, now that I thought of it. I'd been focused on finding someone who had seen her, not to mention inhibited by all Broder's carping and the unfortunate confrontation with the pseu-doseer outside. With such thoughts spiraling through my mind, I drifted into a light sleep from which I was awak­ened by the telephone bringing me Lieutenant Alphonse Boudreaux's sexy, drawling voice.

  "No news is good news, Miz Blue," he said. "We got no unidentified Caucasian women in our hospitals, jails, morgue, or fished outa the river, so Ah don't know w
here your friend is, but it don' seem like she's dead or injured in N'Awlins."

  "I guess that is good news," I said doubtfully. "I found two people who may have seen her yesterday afternoon in the Quarter."

  "Well, that's good news, too. Means she was OK twenty-four hours ago. Ah hafta say it sounds to me like she left of her own free will. That bein' the case, this isn't really police business. Country's full of runaway wives, ma'am. They got a right if that's what they want to do. Like you said, her hus­band hasn't been treatin' her kindly."

  "But Lieutenant, believe me, if she were OK, she would have called me, no matter how angry she is with Nils."

  "Maybe. But an angry woman, she don' always think about anything but what's botherin' her. Could be that way with your friend. Like as not, she'll be gettin' in touch when she cools down. Meantime, Ah believe Ah did see your name on a police report came in the end of the shift. You the Miz Carolyn Blue got accosted outside the Historic Voodoo Museum?"

  "Oh well, it was nothing," I assured him.

  "You weren't hurt?"

  I looked down at my forearms, which were beginning to ache, and there I saw the fingerprint bruises made by the strange woman who had warned me of danger. "Did you catch her?" I asked, realizing that I would have to wear long sleeves for several weeks. It was no problem here in cool and rainy New Orleans, but when I got home to El Paso, the temperatures could well be nudging the short-sleeve range. We don't really have much of a winter, ex­cept at night. Temperatures do tend to plummet then, but not below zero, as had been the case when I was growing up in Michigan. In El Paso, we're lucky to see tempera­tures near freezing, and then the local weathermen issue all sorts of plant and pet warnings. What weather wimps Southwesterners are!

  "We haven't caught the lady who bothered you, no, ma'am, an' Ah'm sorry to say we likely won't. The museum isn't even sure she stole a dress from them like you thought."

  I sighed. A familiar police refrain. Two porch chairs had been stolen from my courtyard at home, and the police had said the same thing, adding that my chairs were probably on their way to Mexico. If my assailant had stolen that outfit or the gifts for my children, those articles would, no doubt, stay in New Orleans, but that didn't do me any good. "I do thank you for your efforts, Lieutenant," I said and bade him good­bye.

  "What lieutenant has been making efforts on your be­half?" my husband asked, entering the room and dropping his briefcase on the bed.

  "I was accosted in front of the voodoo museum by some crazy woman," I replied, holding out my bruised arms for his inspection.

  "Good lord!" Jason exclaimed and dropped down beside me, all concern.

  "But I fended her off and managed to keep both my purse and camera."

  "Where was Broder during all this?" Jason asked, loos­ening his tie. "I thought he was supposed to be protecting you from sin and sinners."

  "More like protecting himself," I muttered. "He left, hor­rified, when I asked about Marie Laveau voodoo cookery."

  Jason grinned. "I won't even ask you what voodoo cook­ery is, unless it's something you plan to practice on me."

  "You know I don't cook if I can help it now that I'm semiretired in the domestic venue."

  "More's the pity," he replied sadly. Then he informed me that Lester and Miranda wanted to meet us at Bacco for din­ner. They'd read about the restaurant in some gourmet mag­azine. Since Bacco was in our hotel, I didn't see any way to avoid the dinner, although the prospect of listening to Mi­randa talk about the $350 an hour she billed while defend­ing greedy and amoral corporate clients didn't give me much joy.

  Nonetheless, I smiled at my husband and ducked into the bathroom to shower and put on something less casual. Maybe the very rich Miranda and the very eminent Lester would pick up the bill. And I could certainly make cuisine notes for my book.

  While I was waiting for Jason to fiddle the knot of his tie into a configuration that pleased him, I thumbed through my Louisiana New Garde cookbook because the restaurant at which we were destined to eat rang a bell with me. Indeed, I found a number of recipes in the book that were attributed to Ristorante Bacco. What luck! I hadn't previously noticed that such luscious-looking dishes came from our very own hotel. When I pointed out items to Jason, he found several he wanted to try.

  Bacco was charming in a number of ways: the wood-fired ovens (I was almost tempted to order pizza), the lessons in Italian piped into the ladies' room (Miranda com­plained about hearing the same thing when she was put on hold while calling for a reservation), the charming am­biance, the elegant curved ceilings, but particularly the food. Once I had tasted it, I was sorry to have stuffed myself with the muffuletta at lunch, not that the sandwich wasn't won­derful, too—but the food at Bacco—Viva la Italia! It almost made Miranda's company bearable and Lester's news less disturbing.

  Because I was still suffering from lunch overload, I chose a salad and the oyster and roasted eggplant ravioli (a first course hearty enough to be an entree.) I myself have been known to make a memorable lobster ravioli, so complicated that I hope never to make it again. Therefore, I choose these time-consuming seafood raviolis when I have the chance. And this one was lovely. I believe I detected in the filling, besides the minced oyster and eggplant, hints of garlic, green onion, breadcrumbs, oregano, and a dash of some­thing spicy. And the sauce—which I confess to finishing with my bread when I had consumed the ravioli—cream, butter, wine, shallots, garlic, the oyster flavor and then the surprise—the taste of some licorice liqueur. I checked when we returned to the room and discovered that it was a favorite of New Orleans chefs: herbsaint. What a charming name! I wondered what saint might have favored anise. My refer­ence books don't say.

  While I was eating my salad, Jason and Lester were feasting on polenta topped with squid that had been saute'ed in garlic olive oil, highly seasoned, then cooked in wine. I'm not really a fan of polenta, but I sampled a bite of Jason's squid. Delicious! I made notes. I don't remember what Mi­randa ordered as a first course because she didn't offer me a taste. She did complain about my making notes on the food. The waiter, however, seemed pleased and happily discussed ingredients with me.

  While we were waiting for our entrees, Lester said, "Julienne is really causing a stir with this puzzling disappearance. Carlene was highly insulted, as were several scientists whose presentations she'd promised to attend. Of course, I assume that she will stop sulking and reap­pear tomorrow, since she's responsible for chairing a ses­sion."

  "Am I the only one who's worried about her?" I asked as I sipped Chardonnay.

  "From what Lester's told me, I don't think we need to worry," said Miranda with an insufferable air of superiority and disdain.

  How could I have liked the woman so much when we were young? I wondered. She'd changed out of all compre­hension. Lester I could understand. His jolly personality had evidently been the result of alcohol, which he no longer con­sumed. According to Miranda, he also had a cholesterol problem, which had not been ameliorated by his drinking problem. How unfortunate for Lester! Although the gourmet world was celebrating the health benefits of red wine, those benefits had not worked for him. Miranda insisted that he order a risotto dish, which she described as well reviewed and cholesterol-free. Poor Lester acquiesced but looked sadly envious when Jason chose veal chops in a chicken liver-balsamic sauce, a dish he had seen in my New Orleans cuisine book.

  "Maybe you wouldn't mind explaining that remark, Miranda," I said. "If there's news of Julienne, I'd like to hear it."

  "I doubt that it's the news you were hoping for," said Mi­randa smugly. 'Tell her, Lester."

  The waiter had begun to serve our entries when Lester responded to his wife's command. "There's quite a contin­gent here from Julienne's university," he said. "As I'm on the organizing committee, I was, naturally, aware of that, so I took the trouble to look some of them up." He shook his head dolefully and dug into his rice, then chewed with an enthusiastic smile. "This is very good!" he exclaimed. Miranda looked
smugger than ever. "Here, Carolyn, try it," Lester offered.

  Naturally, I did, and goodness! It was heavenly! How hard was it to make? I wondered. It seemed like an excellent choice to pass on to my readers if the chef would give me the recipe, which I didn't remember seeing in the book. Later I discovered that I had missed the recipe, probably be­cause of its long Italian name. "What is it called?" I asked, even as I waved to the waiter.

  Lester didn't remember. "Risotto Mille e Una Notte," said Miranda.

  She would remember, I thought, feeling rather grumpy at the thought that Miranda probably spoke Italian fluently, whereas I knew only the few words I had picked up from operas. Being able to exclaim, "Oh, del!" which means "Oh, heaven!" isn't really very helpful when reading a menu.

  "Here, let me try it," Miranda said to her husband. "I don't know why you'd ask Carolyn's opinion. I'm the one who suggested the risotto."

  "Carolyn's the expert," said Lester somewhat plaintively, if a man could sound plaintive while he was eating as fast as he could. And I noticed that he didn't provide his wife any, even when ordered to.

  With the waiter heading in my direction, all smiles, Mi­randa whispered urgently, "For heaven's sake, Carolyn, you're not going to go into another long food discussion with the help, are you?"

  I ignored her and told the waiter I was interested in procuring a recipe for a book I was writing on New Orleans cuisine. I mentioned my publisher, in case he thought I was some charlatan trying to gain special attention with little white lies. However, he was delighted. Evidently, the chef and the restaurant owners liked publicity. Miranda would have been horrified had she been able to see the ingredients, which included, as one might expect of a good risotto, a lot of butter and cheese, not to mention all the lovely prosciutto.

  I didn't show the ingredients to her. Lester was enjoying his meal, and I'd have felt terrible if she made him stop eating. Surely his cholesterol wasn't so high that one meal would kill him. Maybe she was primarily worried about his calorie intake.