Perhaps it’s his twin sense, or the fact that I’m trembling and fighting for breath, but he charges across the room.
I point to the last item in the case: the pirate’s dagger, encrusted with a dried, black substance.
The color drains from his olive skin. “Dang.”
I nod, in total agreement.
“What’s it doing there?” His voice is tinged with panic.
“I don’t know.” My mind races about a thousand miles a minute, calculating the knowns and unknowns. After considerable mental acrobatics, I come up with a whole lot of nothing. But one thing is for sure—the knife is here, among Beau’s private belongings, smattered with strange dark stuff, just like Missy.
A jolt of electricity shoots straight from my feet to my brain. I’m on to something, though exactly, what I’m not sure.
I open the glass case, lean close and take a whiff. The odor is faint, but the lingering scent is familiar. “See this black stuff? I think it’s the same gunk that was on Missy’s body.”
He peers at the knife. “But she didn’t have any injuries. So it couldn’t have been used to hurt her.”
“No, but it means it was with her in the bathroom when she died.”
Jack gawks. “Do you think Beau killed her?”
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered the same thing. Heck, I even told Cooper as much. Finding the knife here in Beau’s study certainly does seem to implicate him. But still, one thing doesn’t make sense. “Why would Beau put it here with that stuff on it? Wouldn’t he have wiped it off first?”
Jack nods. “Good point.” His eyes light up. “Hey, I know it sounds crazy but what if someone planted it to frame Beau?”
“Who would do that?” Then I recall the morning of Missy’s funeral and a chill tap-dances up my spine. “Claude was here, all by himself. He totally could have done it. But that would mean he killed Missy.”
Jack rubs the scruff on his chin. “If only there was a way to know for sure.”
I smile. “Oh there is.” Reaching into the case, I carefully lift the dagger, then wrap it in a blank piece of paper from the desk and tuck it into my messenger bag.
Chapter Eighteen
“You want to go back to Miss Delia’s? Now?” Jack brow is creased with disbelief, but I think he’s more upset that I made him return the study key to Beau’s pocket.
“We have to. I can’t work a Psychic Vision charm without the ancestors’ mortar.”
“But we don’t have a car.”
“We’ve got a golf cart.”
He flashes me his best you’re-a-gigantic-hypocrite look. I can’t blame him. I’ve reminded him it’s illegal to drive the main roads a million times, not to mention how terminally slow those carts drive. But that was before, when we could rely on Cooper for transportation. Now, he’s nowhere to be found, his cell clicking straight to voice mail. And we can’t exactly ask Dad to drive us since that’ll raise more questions than we can possibly answer. Desperate times require even more desperate, and occasionally stupid, measures. The golf cart is our only option.
An hour later, after taking as many back roads as possible, we finally arrive at Miss Delia’s. The fluorescent headlights cast a ghostly glow on the bottles hanging from the live oak in front of her house. The electric engine is silent so the only sound is the ground crumbling beneath the cart’s small, fat tires.
The front light is on and Miss Delia’s out on the porch, her chair midway down the ramp. She stops short. “Who’s there?” Her voice is firm, but I could swear there’s a there’s a hint of fear there, too. “That you, Taneea?”
“It’s me, Emma. And Jack,” I call back, realizing this is the first time I’ve ever been here at night. We probably scared the crap out of her.
“Lord, child, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to end me. I thought I’d be alone this evening.” She flicks the chair into reverse and rolls backward up the ramp.
“Sorry,” I say as we climb the porch steps to meet her. “We didn’t interrupt anything did we?”
“Never you mind what an old lady does at night. Now, what’s brought you over this evening?”
“We found something important that couldn’t wait. I need to do a Psychic Vision charm. Like now.” I flip open my messenger bag and pull out the pirate’s dagger, then point to the dried black substance that’s embedded in the engraving on the handle and blade.
Her lips turn down. “I thought we were through with that thing.”
“Me too.” I reach for the screen door and hold it open for her.
Once inside, Jack plops on the couch. “Emma thinks that black gunk on the blade proves it was with Missy when she died.”
I nod. “I’m guessing it was either Beau or Claude, heck maybe even both of them. Someone put it in Beau’s study. A Psychic Vision might clear everything up.”
Miss Delia’s eyes turn hard. “I’d love to know what Claude is really up to. I got a bad feeling the moment I laid eyes on him. At first I though he was just interested in the missing artifacts, but now I’m sure he’s the one teaching Taneea hoodoo. Ain’t no way she conjured that gambling charm herself.”
“But why would he do that? And what’s his connection to Beau and Missy?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Money? Power? Isn’t that what most crime usually boils down to? Beau’s got both of those in spades. If Claude is a conjurer, there’s no end to what he could squeeze out of Beau if he framed him for Missy’s death.” She nods toward the kitchen. “You’ve got work to do while Jack and I have a little chat. Call me when you’re ready.”
Under the bright light of the kitchen’s overhead fixture, I purify myself with the citronella oil and then assemble the ingredients necessary for the spell and set the kettle on to boil. Laying out the ingredients, I yawn, deep and cavernous, as fatigue-laced tears spring to my eyes.
It’s been the longest day ever between my sweaty bike ride here this morning, casting the Law Keep Away spells, the altercation with Taneea and being abandoned by Cooper, then the excruciatingly slow walk home with Jack. Not to mention our strange meeting with Beau. Even if I wasn’t practicing hoodoo, I’d be exhausted, but astonishingly, thanks to my energy tea, I’m only slightly tired. Gold star for Emma!
Speaking of which, I need some more if I’m going to pull off this Psychic Vision. Glancing around to make sure I’m still alone, I slip my hand into my bag and retrieve the flask of tea that I refilled before we left. Flipping the top, I hold my breath and guzzle the vile, bitter concoction.
Yellow pulsing energy swells in my chest, then surges through my body, shivering down through my fingers and toes. My pulse rages and breath speeds as every centimeter of my skin comes alive. I feel my pores open, the pads of my fingers prickle as they clutch the smooth bottle, even the eyelash that’s about to tumble from its follicle. I’m literally bursting with energy.
A couple minutes later, hopping like the Energizer Bunny, I lunge through the swinging door. Miss Delia starts. “We’re ready,” I say and then zoom back into the kitchen. Sitting on my stool next to the mortar, my fingers rap the counter as I wait for her to wheel in. I stare, captivated by the sound and sensation of my nails clicking against the butcher block. My heart keeps pace with my tapping.
Miss Delia rolls in and dabs some citronella on her wrists and behind her ears. Her eyebrow hitches. “Are you sure you’re up to this? It’s been a long day. We can always do this tomorrow.”
My head snaps in her direction. “No, I’m fine.” The veins in my neck throb, stretching my skin with each beat.