The Hexorcist Page 7

  “Not unless you were dead in the alley earlier,” Oscar replied, not missing a beat.

  “Then you definitely weren’t talking about me.” Laverne made a face as she watched Ofelia mix her drink with expert hands. “I heard about that. People are chattering left and right. They say that the boy didn’t have a mark on him.”

  “He was an adult, not a boy,” Ofelia countered, adding a sprig of mint to Laverne’s drink as a garnish. “Although ... he didn’t look all that adult. Frankly, it was jarring to see him there ... and I say that as someone who has seen my fair share of death.”

  “No word on how he died?”

  Ofelia shook her head. “Not that I’ve heard.” She pinned her father with a warning look, although she was certain he already understood that she didn’t want gossip about Henrietta’s hex bag spreading through town. Oscar hadn’t even asked where she got the bag, or how she tied it to Brett, so she hoped she was safe. In an ideal world, he would completely forget their conversation from a few hours before.

  Of course, Ofelia didn’t live in an ideal world. Nobody did.

  “People are saying that he was killed by magic,” Laverne volunteered, causing Bastion to pause in his drink ministrations. “They say he dropped dead thanks to an errant spell.”

  Ofelia did her best to keep her face blank. “I don’t know. I didn’t see any scars on him. Magic that strong usually leaves a mark.”

  “It depends on what the spell was aimed at,” Bastion countered. “I once knew a guy who was cursed by a woman so that his thing fell off.” He pointed toward the spot below his belt so Ofelia wouldn’t have to ask which “thing” he was referring to, not that she didn’t already understand the gist of the statement. “He was so shocked by what he saw when he excused himself to go to the bathroom that he dropped dead. You don’t think it was something like that, do you?”

  Ofelia blinked several times in rapid succession and then shook her head. “No, I don’t think it was anything like that. In fact ... .” She trailed off when a group of people pushed their way through the front door. She didn’t recognize all five of them, but three of their faces were familiar.

  “What is it?” Oscar asked, instantly alert. He could read his daughter better than most and there was trouble sliding across her pretty features.

  “I recognize them,” Ofelia replied, keeping her voice low as she watched the five-some make their way to one of the rectangular wooden tables arranged along the far wall. They were talking to one another, rather loudly, and she wasn’t the only one to turn her attention in their direction.

  “They’re tourists,” Laverne noted, wrinkling her nose. She wasn’t a big fan of people she wasn’t already familiar with. She once told Ofelia that she believed there was only so much room in people’s hearts for friendship and she’d obviously met her quota. “Why would you want to hang around with them?”

  Ofelia snapped out of her reverie as she watched one of the cocktail waitresses approach the table. “I didn’t say I wanted to hang out with them. I said I recognized them.”

  “Who are they?” Bastion queried.

  “The dead guy’s friends ... and girlfriend.”

  “Get out!” Bastion was scandalized. Even if he wasn’t, though, his voice would’ve carried. His tone was high-pitched enough that he drew glances from at least ten curious onlookers.

  “Keep it down,” Ofelia chided, shaking her head. “We don’t want them to think we’re talking about them.”

  “But we are talking about them,” Laverne pointed out, wrinkling her nose as she glanced over her shoulder. “I’m not one to judge — you know that — but what sort of person goes out to get hammered right after their friend is murdered?”

  Ofelia didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she waited for Laverne to turn back to her and arched an eyebrow when the actress turned sheepish.

  “What?” Laverne complained. “I don’t judge. Oh, don’t look at me that way.”

  Ofelia snorted. She was familiar enough with Laverne’s sense of humor that she recognized the woman was playing a part. Laverne knew she was judgmental. She simply didn’t care.

  “Maybe they’re just feeling sorry for themselves,” Bastion offered after a beat. “I mean ... if one of my close friends died, I would want to drink, too.”

  “They’re in a strange city, though,” Ofelia pointed out. “Although, to be fair, I don’t know that the death has been ruled a murder yet.” She thought about her coffee exchange with Detective Sully. “The detective in charge didn’t mention that to me this afternoon ... although I guess anything is possible.”

  Oscar’s gaze was pointed when it snagged with Ofelia’s serious stare. He understood that Brett was murdered. He’d seen the hex bag, after all. He also grasped the fact that Ofelia didn’t want to spread gossip on this particular case. It wouldn’t go well for her if the detective figured out she was digging into something she had no business digging into.

  Cherry, the waitress, slid to a stop in front of the bar. “I need one blackberry bramble, one southern belle, a bayou zinger, and two white Zinfandels.”

  Ofelia made a face. “White zinfandels? Which ones ordered the wine?”

  “Those two women on the far end.”

  That figured, Ofelia rationalized to herself. It was the girlfriends who hadn’t bothered to come looking for their friend. They were the milquetoast sort. She could tell with a single glance. “Coming right up.”

  Bastion insisted on making the zinger because he enjoyed practicing, leaving Ofelia to mix the other two cocktails and pour the wine. She kept her eyes on the small group as she worked, noting each expression in turn. They didn’t exactly look like they were having a good time. Of course, they didn’t appear to be prostrate with grief either. She knew three of them because she’d been eavesdropping when the detective introduced himself in the Bancroft lobby. Peter and Stuart were old friends. Kim was the girlfriend. Out of everyone gathered at the table, her feelings were the hardest for Ofelia to gauge. She sat at the far end of the table, fixated on nothing, and didn’t say a word. She was morose, to the point of being difficult to watch. She wasn’t crying, though. Her eyes were dry.

  She could be in shock, Ofelia told herself. She knew better than almost anyone that there was no rationalizing emotions. She’d seen her father melt down about the littlest things, and then smile his way through a funeral when someone he knew died. There was no “right” way to mourn.

  And yet there was something about the woman’s demeanor that bothered her.

  “She doesn’t look upset, does she?” Oscar noted as he stared in the same direction. “I don’t know a lot of people who would be sitting at a bar, right around the corner from where the person they supposedly loved was killed, only hours after it happened.”

  “She has no verification that he was murdered,” Ofelia argued, opting for pragmatism. “She might think it’s some terrible tragedy. Maybe the others wanted to go out and were afraid to leave her alone. She looks kind of ... empty.”

  “She looks kind of lost,” Laverne corrected. “While I don’t think it’s appropriate that they’re out and carousing, I can’t say that woman looks very happy.”

  “I guess.” Ofelia blew out a sigh and stared at the group for a beat longer and then returned to the drinks. “It’s not my place to judge.”

  “Right?” Laverne held out a fist to bump, but Ofelia ignored it. “Oh, I’m not judgmental. I simply know what’s right and what’s wrong ... and that’s wrong. I hate it when people assume I’m making a judgment when it’s not true.”

  Ofelia’s lips quirked as she dropped blackberry garnishes on the bramble. She was about to reassure Laverne that nobody believed she was judgmental — even though it was far from the truth — when a commotion at the other end of the bar caught her attention. There, Victor Stravinsky sat staring at his phone, several people grouped around him.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, legitimately curious.

  Victor, hi
s face unnaturally pale, lifted his eyes. He was a vampire, so they were an odd color. She’d known him for so long at this point, though, she hardly noticed. “There’s been another death,” he intoned, his voice deep and emotionless. “It’s a local.”

  “Really?” Ofelia edged closer to him. She wasn’t a fan of vampires — although Victor didn’t bother her so much — but he’d once asked her to keep her distance because her scent supposedly overwhelmed him. As a witch, she had no idea that was a thing ... but she was willing to take his word on it for safety’s sake. “Who is it?”

  “Henrietta Wells.”

  Ofelia went rigid, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. That wasn’t the response she was expecting. Her mouth went dry and she struggled with the appropriate response. “Does it say how she died?”

  “No. It’s not a news report. I have a friend down there. I guess she was found in Pirate Alley of all places.”

  Ofelia cocked her head to the side, considering. “That’s right off Jackson Square.” Slowly, she let her eyes drift to her father. There was an unasked question hidden in the depths of the sapphire blue.

  He nodded before she even opened her mouth. “I can handle slinging drinks for a few hours if you need to go. Don’t worry. I’m ... fine.” His smile was winsome. “I won’t do anything stupid.”

  Ofelia nodded in thanks and removed her apron. “I need to go check on this.”

  Obviously confused, Bastion slid her a sidelong look. “You need to check on Henrietta? I didn’t realize you two were that close.”

  “I had a lot of respect for her,” Ofelia lied. “I just ... need to check.” She skirted around her father, giving his shoulders a squeeze as she made her escape. “Thanks for helping, Dad. I shouldn’t be gone all that long.”

  “Take your time,” Oscar encouraged. “It’s the middle of the week in the off-season. We can handle anything that comes our way.”

  “Thanks. I mean it.”

  IT ONLY TOOK OFELIA EIGHT MINUTES to make the trip to Pirate Alley. The bulk of that trek had been spent avoiding Bourbon Street as much as possible. She could hear the music blasting from Cafe Beignet and knew the tourists were having a good time, something she didn’t begrudge them. That didn’t mean she wanted to deal with them.

  She was barely on the scene when she caught sight of Sully. He was settled toward the back of the narrow corridor, his head bent as he talked to a uniformed officer. They were too far away for Ofelia to hear what they were saying, but the grave expression on his face told her that whatever they’d found wasn’t good.

  Slowly, Sully lifted his nose to the air. It almost looked as if he was smelling something out of the ordinary. His movements were deliberate, smooth, and when he turned his head to look directly at her, Ofelia felt a chill go down her spine.

  He said something else to the uniform and then started in her direction. A crowd had gathered on the other side of the police tape and Ofelia tried to look nonchalant as he approached. It was hard to ignore him when he lifted the tape and motioned for her to join him on the other side.

  Ofelia did her best to look confused and pasted a quizzical expression on her face. “I swear I didn’t do it, Detective,” she offered, raising her hands in mock surrender. “I’m not even sure what it is you’re doing here.”

  “Really?” Sully’s tone was dry as he folded his arms over his chest and regarded her with overt suspicion. “You left your bar in the middle of a shift to come over here because you didn’t know what was happening, huh?”

  Instead of cursing herself for a fool and apologizing, Ofelia made a face. “How do you know I was working at the bar?”

  He’d made a call to check on her. Of course, he wasn’t going to admit that. Then he would have to explain himself, and he definitely wasn’t in the mood for that. “How did you find out about Henrietta’s death?”

  Oh, well, at least he wasn’t going to play coy, Ofelia rationalized. That, at least, was something. “News is spreading through the Quarter. One of the bystanders out there texted a guy who just happened to be in my bar. Once I heard the news, I had to come see for myself.”

  Sully pursed his lips.

  “It’s the truth.” Ofelia knew she sounded defensive but there was nothing she could do to rein herself in given the circumstances. “The way she disappeared this afternoon ... well ... it makes me wonder. Apparently she didn’t wander that far from Jackson Square after all.”

  Sully agreed, glancing over his shoulder to where the coroner’s team worked and making up his mind on the spot. “We don’t have a time of death yet. We have an estimate of about three hours ago.”

  Ofelia did the math in her head. “That would’ve been around the dinner hour. How did someone manage to take her out in such a busy area during the dinner hour?”

  He held his hands palms out and shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Badly.”

  Ofelia rolled her eyes but didn’t back down. When Sully got a gander at the set of her jaw, he almost smiled, only managing to contain himself at the last second. This was not a funny situation.

  “Her throat was slashed,” he replied after a beat. He had no idea why he was sharing information with her — especially this much information — when he wasn’t convinced he could trust her. Something inside told him it was the right thing to do, though.

  Ofelia swallowed hard. “That means it was over quick, right?”

  He nodded. “She didn’t suffer. She would’ve been gone within seconds. It’s likely she didn’t even know what happened to her. The thing is ... ,” he trailed off.

  “What?” Ofelia didn’t want to push too hard, but she was curious enough to hold her ground. “What’s the thing?”

  “The thing is that, given the way her body landed, it looks like whoever did this came up behind her. He or she got close enough for Henrietta to let her guard down. It would’ve been a quick slash but ... she could’ve easily fought if she saw it coming. She might’ve been injured in the process, but she knew how to take care of herself. Basically I’m saying that ... well ... .”

  “She knew her attacker,” Ofelia finished, her eyes traveling back to the alley as her stomach churned. “Someone who knew her well enough for her to trust them did this.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That means it’s a local.”

  Sully hesitated this time. “That means it’s likely a local,” he conceded after a beat. “We don’t have any proof of that yet.”

  Ofelia didn’t need proof. She knew what she felt in her gut. Something very bad was going on here, and she had to figure out what before things got worse ... if that was even possible.

  Eight

  Ofelia remained at the crime scene until long after Henrietta’s body was carted away. She had no idea why she insisted on hanging around. After their initial conversation, Sully secured her behind the crime scene tape and focused on his job rather than her ... and yet she didn’t leave.

  It was late when the scene died down. Ofelia could hear the revelry on Bourbon Street from blocks away and she wasn’t looking forward to cutting through the area a second time. She was about to leave when Sully called out to her.

  “Wait.”

  She slowed her pace and glanced over her shoulder, confusion washing over her when he jogged to catch up. He looked amused by her expression when they were finally face to face.

  “I don’t know anything,” she promised him. “If I did, I would tell you.”

  “We both know that’s not true,” he countered. “You keep your cards close to your vest and purposely don’t share unless you see no other way out of it. I’m not an idiot.”

  “I didn’t say you were an idiot.”

  “No, you’re far too polite for that,” he drawled. “You would never say anything of the sort. You’re a good, Southern girl.”

  The snort that escaped Ofelia’s mouth was very unladylike. “There’s nothing good abo
ut me.”

  Sully gave her an appraising look that bordered on flirty before gesturing toward the sidewalk. “I’ll see you back to Krewe.”

  The statement caught her off guard. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll see you back,” he repeated, not backing down. “You’re a good six blocks away from there.”

  “A distance I’ve walked numerous times by myself.”

  “Yes, well, you’re not doing that tonight.”

  “Says who?”

  “Me.”

  Frustration bubbled up as Ofelia ran her tongue over her teeth and debated how to respond. “I’m fully capable of taking care of myself,” she said finally. “You don’t have to feel as if I’m your responsibility.”

  “I have no doubt you can take care of yourself. It’s late, though. We have a killer on the loose. I would feel better making sure you make it back to Krewe.”

  She blew out a sigh. “Can I ask you one thing?”

  “Sure. Just know that whatever ‘gotcha’ question you’re about to throw at me, I’m still walking you home.”

  Amused despite herself at his bossy nature, Ofelia managed to hold it together long enough to ask her question. “Would you be offering the same service to a man if he was the one who stayed late at a crime scene?”

  “Probably not,” Sully conceded. “This isn’t about you being a woman, though.” Mostly, he silently added. It wasn’t as if he could forget she was a woman ... or that scent. He loved that scent. “This is about you meeting up with my victim earlier. I’m hoping if I make you uncomfortable enough during the walk that you’ll tell me what you were doing with Henrietta.”

  Ofelia blinked several times ... and then laughed. The sound was low and rich and Sully found he liked it, which made him internally curse himself because this was now a multiple murder investigation and she couldn’t be completely ruled out as a suspect.

  “Fine. You can walk me back to the bar,” Ofelia conceded. “I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, though.”

  “I think you know more than you’re saying,” Sully countered as he fell into step with her. “I can’t decide if you’re purposely keeping it to yourself because you don’t trust me or if something else is going on. Either way, I wish you would share the information you’re sitting on.”