Voodoo Summer (LeGarde Mysteries Book 11) Read online

  We’d just have to see.

  ***

  The last of the guests who’d been held received permission to leave the next morning when the police finished canvassing their long lists of witnesses, taking names, addresses, statements, and documenting the whole thing very officially. Some went by bus, wearily dragging what possessions they’d saved from the fire. Others drove scorched-but-miraculously-working station wagons slowly over the rutted parking lot, offering to carpool with those who had no means to return to their home states. They’d come from all around, of course, from Idaho to Florida and from Alabama to Utah. The bulk of them were New Englanders from Boston and Connecticut, and some had come up from Jersey. The sad part was that they came for a summer of carefree, lakeside fun, and ended up nearly dying in a slick new camp built for too much ritzy pleasure.

  After the way my grandparents took care of them in the face of disaster, many had already signed up for Loon Harbor’s season next summer. The allegiance was back, and new customers had been won over, not by money or prestige or fancy exercise classes. No, they were won over by good old-fashioned Maine values, hearts of gold, the best fishing around, and some darn fine cooking at the hands of my grandfather, whose ship of patrons had swelled from a dining room full of guests to multitudes of folks from all walks of life and all cultures. He’d truly blossomed under the pressure and there wasn’t one person who’d been invited to stay who didn’t adore him and hadn’t turned into a staunch supporter.

  Another bus loaded up at the top of the hill, ready to transport a few dozen of Willy’s coworkers and staff back down to Baton Rouge. Willy, Carmen, and Bosco were still among those being questioned for the next few days, so they hadn’t been given the all clear yet, which was okay with Elsbeth and me since we didn’t want Willy to go home, anyway.

  In the tradition of our typical Loon Harbor sendoffs, we gathered at the top of the hill as the bus loaded up and prepared to leave. I took the camp bell, Elsbeth had a metal pan and ladle to bang against it, my father was ready to honk the horn of our station wagon, and many others found ways to cheer and make joyful noises to acknowledge their departure and wish them well.

  My grandmother gave the signal, and I started to ring the bell, loud and clear; it sang up and over the treetops in a bittersweet farewell. Elsbeth’s pot beat a rhythm all her own which reminded me a little bit of a Bach fugue she’d played the other day on the old piano in the living room, and my father leaned on the horn with three short blasts and a pause, three short blasts and a pause. William Stone clapped wooden spoons together over on the kitchen steps making a castanet kind of sound. He stood beside Betsy, who circled a ladle inside a big stockpot to make a ringing noise. Willy used her voice as an instrument, and repeated some melodic whistles that trilled up and down the scales. All together, the cacophony was a blast of symphonic energy that signaled the end.

  The sad part was that this should have been a celebration of the end of vacation: glorious days basking in sun, pulling in big bass, and endless days on the lake. Instead, it was the end of jobs cut short, dreams smashed, and uncertain futures for some of those who had worked for the LaFontaine family for generations. But we tried to keep it upbeat in spite of the awful reality of the situation. I worried about where the people would go once they returned to the now empty LaFontaine plantation. Where would they work? Eat? Sleep? My grandmother had made some calls, and found out there were agencies that were lined up to help once the bus arrived back in Louisiana. I hoped they really did find good situations for all the currently homeless workers.

  At the top of the hill, Willy, Elsbeth and I automatically found each other when the bus ground out of sight and everyone dispersed.

  “Phew,” Willy said. “Do you do that every time a guest leaves?”

  I laughed. “We do. It’s crazy. But it’s fun. And the guests seem to like it.”

  She pointed to the bus. “But those folks weren’t your guests. They were mostly the colored staff from the other camp. Why did your grandparents do it for them, too?”

  I took both her hands in mine and faced her. “Because, Willy, they are just as important as anyone. They slept here. They pitched in and worked here after the fire. They ate at our tables. And they deserved the same sendoff as any paying guest. Maybe even a better one for all they suffered through at The Seven Whistles. Can you understand that?”

  Willy’s smile was tinged with tears. “Oh, Gus. You are one in a million.”

  I shrugged it off. “It’s not me. It’s my family.”

  Elsbeth joined the conversation, having just picked a handful of wild daisies. She flaunted her bouquet, waving it in the air, and danced around us like a sprightly fairy. “Gus is one in a million, Willy. And I think I may marry him some day. We discussed the topic when I was ten.”

  Willy grinned. “You two would be a great match,” she said with a sweet giggle.

  I remembered our discussion that summer when we lay on the hot rocks in the stream back at home. The three of us had sprawled in the lazy stream and talked about life. I’d asked her to marry me at the tender age of eleven. She’d been ten. And she’d said, “Of course, but first I have things to do.” Her agenda was to get the Berlin wall torn down and reunite East and West Germany before she could settle down and have a family. I’d calmly accepted those conditions, and firmly believed she’d accomplish something to make the world better, whether it was in Germany or back home in East Goodland. That was just the kind of girl she was.

  And then I remembered the spark that had formed between Siegfried and Willy. I’d had high hopes for his first girlfriend, but it had never grown beyond a few instances of touching hands and sweet smiles. I wished they’d had their first kiss before he’d been in the accident, because now I wondered if he’d ever have a first kiss.

  I tried to push the sad thoughts away as we wandered down to the lake.

  “You know what?” I said suddenly. “We need a break. Let’s go over to Moosehead Island.”

  With no argument from the girls, we separated to change into our swimsuits and grab some towels, and then reconvened at the Wee Castle dock to start up the Evinrude motor on my grandfather’s good old StarCraft.

  Chapter 43

  The bow of the boat crunched onto the sandy shore. I leapt out and dragged it up out of the shallows with the rope. The girls had been singing at the top of their lungs in sweet harmony, and I couldn’t help myself, I had to join in when they got to the chorus for “Good Day Sunshine,” from the Beatles new Revolver album that had recently been blasting all over camp from everyone’s transistor radios. I had mine back at the cabin and cherished it. My father gave it to me last summer as a “for no special reason” surprise present, and I’d listened to it until I’d worn out the batteries and had to change them a dozen times. But I was forbidden to use it near the water, so we had to make do with our own voices during our watery adventures.

  We collapsed on the shore in a bundle of arms, legs, and laughter. “I love that one,” I said.

  “Let’s do Yellow Submarine,” Willy said. “When I get home, I’m going to buy the single. It has Eleanor Rigby on the flip side.”

  Elsbeth sighed. “Oh, I love that song, too. Paul’s voice just sends me to the moon and back.”

  I felt that little twinge of jealousy that often accompanied her swooning over Paul McCartney, but tamped it down. It wasn’t real. She couldn’t ever actually meet him and marry him instead of me, right?

  We lay back on our elbows, chatting lightly and enjoying the warm sun. When the call of nature hit me, I rose to find a private spot back in the woods. Just as I was finishing up, I spotted something that glinted metallic on the far end of a cove. I squinted at it, eventually making out the lines of a speedboat.

  I hurried back to the girls. “Hey, there’s somebody else on our island.”

  Elsbeth and Willy scrambled to their feet. “Where?” they asked in unison.

  “Come on, let’s check it out.”


  “Like spies,” Elsbeth giggled. “Gus, you can be Napoleon Solo from ‘The Man from U.N.C.L.E.’”

  I loved that show and warmed to the idea. “Siegfried usually pretend to be Illya Kuryakin. He was so good at it. He could even do the Russian accent.” I stopped and felt a stab of pain in my chest. “I wish he was here.”

  The girls hugged me sideways. “It’s okay, Gus. He’ll come back to us soon. But for now, we have to play lady agents. I will be Natasha, a Russian spy who has teamed up with her undercover French partner here, Madame LaFille.”

  Willy laughed. “I love that. Okay, Natasha. Lead on. But we should be quiet if we want to sneak up on whoever’s over there.”

  We ran from tree to tree, stopping to hide and listen, peeking around to see if we could identify any new sounds or objects. Finally, Willy, who was currently in the lead, hissed for us to get down. “Shh! I see something.”

  Smoke curled from a campfire and the aroma of frying fish wafted over the air. We crept closer, crawling now on our bellies like army soldiers.

  Elsbeth pointed to a tarp strung across some branches and a bedroll beneath it. A box of supplies leaned against a tree, filled with boxes of cereal, Twinkies, and more.

  Suddenly I wanted a Twinkie really badly.

  I squashed the insane desire and sneaked closer to the girls so we could whisper and observe.

  “Do you see anyone?” I asked.

  They shook their heads, but the sound of a twig snapping behind us made me jump and spin around.

  Pierre.

  He waved a service revolver back and forth between the three of us. “Hey, whaddya know. It’s my little slave girl and her superhero friend. And a nice little Nazi girl to round out the picture.”

  I leapt to my feet, red-faced and furious. “Elsbeth is NOT a Nazi!”

  With a sardonic chuckle, he shoved me back. “Aw, don’t get all bent out of shape. But lucky for me you three came over here. Now I don’t have to go hunt you down.”

  “Hunt us down?” Elsbeth screamed. “For what?”

  Pierre’s eyes were riddled with craziness. They flitted to each of us and back again. “Too many witnesses. That’s what I told my father.”

  “Just before you shot him?” I asked, trying to back away slowly.

  “Oh, no. We’d been talking about how to avoid the noose for a long time. Get rid of anyone who saw or heard a thing. And if it meant burning up the whole damned camp, then so be it.” He stopped and stared at them again. “But wait. You should have been killed in that freezer. How the hell did you get out?”

  Willy stood tall. “It’s a long story, Pierre. But Gus and I did escape, and we’re alive. We already told the police what you did. So you have no place to hide. The story is out. They are searching for you, right now as we speak. They know you killed your father.”

  It was a bit of a stretch, but she said it convincingly.

  Elsbeth piped up. “And did you kill Monique, too?”

  “That bitch was too damned nosy. Caught me looking into a guest’s window and threatened to turn me in.” His face went blank for a moment, and then he raised it to the sky with fury. “She was going to turn in her own flesh and blood!” he suddenly screamed. “So I had to take her out.”

  My mind was whirling. The guy was a maniac, and by the way he waved his gun around, I guessed that his killing spree wasn’t over yet. In the distance, a thundercloud boomed and the sky darkened. A storm was coming in.

  Pierre suddenly stopped and looked at Willy, a crafty expression on his face. “Before I kill you, little slave girl, I have something to tell you. And I’m delighted to announce that you won’t like it one bit.” He gestured to a log beside his fire. “Over there, all of you. Sit down.”

  Like an actor strutting before his audience, he began to pace up and down the narrow beach, gesticulating wildly. It began to rain, and a fresh wind roughened the lake to high waves.

  “Speaking of flesh and blood,” he cackled. “Did you ever wonder why you have the same eye color as my father?” Rain dripped down his brow, but he ignored it.

  Willy drew in a sharp breath. “What? No. I figured it was just coincidence.”

  He spat the words. “Well, it isn’t. He loved your sweet Mama, that little Bayou whore who warmed his bed when my mother kicked him out of her room years ago. Oh, he loved her all right. Real good. And he made you while your supposed father was overseas, serving in the Marines.”

  Willy’s face went slack, her eyes darkened, and she stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m saying, dear sister, that you and I are related. You’re my half-sister. And when your mother died in childbirth with you, your father came home from the war to mourn her. Except he saw your skin color and he knew, he knew right away, that you were a LaFontaine.” Pierre’s eyes danced with merriment.

  Willy’s eyes locked on him. “I don’t believe it.”

  Pierre rolled his eyes. “Oh, believe it, little slave girl. And I hope you didn’t believe that crap about your father dying in a car accident shortly after you were born.”

  “It was a bus accident. The bus hit his car,” Willy said, tears now streaming down her face.

  “Oh, it was an accident, all right. But it happened on our roof when your father attacked my father for taking advantage of his wife while he was gone. For impregnating her with the special LaFontaine seed. He wasn’t too happy about that. And my father didn’t like being accused of such things by a common nigger.”

  The three of us inhaled sharply. Nobody used that horrible word in our circles, and if they did, they were instantly ostracized.

  “Your father killed my father?” Willy asked, her eyes wide and streaming tears.

  “I'm afraid he pushed him off the roof. After that, you were all ours.”

  “Does my Aunt know about this?” Willy said with a hiccupping sob.

  “She probably knows you’re one of the many offspring my father sired. But I doubt she knows about the real story of your father’s accident. That was hushed up real good.”

  Willy stood, fire in her eyes now. We rose beside her in solidarity, dripping wet in the onslaught of rain. “This is not real,” she shouted. “How can this be?”

  Pierre sniggered, still pacing back and forth with his gun trained on us. “Oh, it’s real, sweetie. And that’s why you’ve always been meant for me. I’m the next in line. I’m due for some special time between the sheets with you, sister.”

  I roared at him, shoving him back onto the beach. “NO!”

  He stumbled, but caught his balance, pressing the gun to my temple. “You get off me, you meddling little bastard. Geez, you’re a thorn in my side.”

  He walked me back to the group and sneered at us. “This gun works,” he said, and to prove it, he aimed and picked off a crow in a nearby tree. The poor bird fell flapping to the ground, and then went still. “I’m a damned good shot, so don’t even think about running.”

  Tears ran down Elsbeth’s cheeks. “You killed that poor bird, for no reason. You’re horrible!”

  “I’ve got bigger prey in mind today, little girl. And I’m looking at all three of them.”

  Willy’s fury had been growing by the second. I saw it in the cold clenching of her fists, the dead certainty in her eyes. She started to chant some of our favorite phrases, walking slowly toward Pierre.

  His eyes widened in fear. “Now, don’t you put any of those mumbo jumbo voodoo curses on me, girl!” He backed up a step, his gun wavering.

  Elsbeth and I jumped up and linked arms with Willy, joining in.

  “I am cursing you and all your progeny, Pierre LaFontaine. This is the worst curse of bad luck known to my people. The curse of death.”

  “Moolahi Saya Nowtaya,” she said, pointing a shaking finger at him.

  Elsbeth and I chanted with her. “Moolahi Saya Nowtaya.”

  “You will die a death of fire and pain. The devil himself with rise up to claim you.”

  Pierre ac
tually screamed and held his arms over his face as if to ward off the spell. He backed up into the lake, ankle deep now. “No! Stop that, you little bitch.”

  Elsbeth and I yelled the words now, adding in the last phrase Willy had taught us. We didn’t care if it really meant what she was threatening him with, we just wanted to scare him into submission. “Blooga meeka reezie,” we shouted, moving slowly closer to him.

  Willy screamed loud and pure, her voice reaching above the sounds of the rumbling thunder and lightning that now crackled around us. “You are cursed!” she said, pointing a wavering finger toward him.

  “No!” he screamed, aiming the gun at her. His finger twitched on the trigger, but we kept going.

  “Blooga meeka reezie,” we screamed at the top of our lungs, all three pointing at him. “You are cursed!”

  It happened so fast. He exploded in light and fire, sizzling black in the aftermath of a lightning strike that hit him, grounding itself in the water circling his legs. We were blinded by the flash, knocked back by the power of the blast, and landed on the wet sand ten feet away, crumpled beside each other, but largely unhurt.

  Willy lay sobbing on her side. Elsbeth shook her head groggily.

  “What happened?” I whispered, trying to get up. My ears were ringing from the intense volume of the strike. The air smelled of burnt flesh.

  I threw up in a bush, returning to my friends a few minutes later.

  “He’s dead,” I said, stating the obvious. “It was the lightning.”

  Elsbeth raised her wide eyes to mine. “No. It was voodoo magic. Can’t you see?”

  Willy wiped her eyes. “I hated him so much. Why did he have to tell me those horrible things?”

  We both went to her side and consoled her as best we could in the middle of the downpour.

  “Come on, let’s get under the shelter,” I said.

  We shuffled over to the semi-dry pine needles beneath the canvas tarp and huddled together until Willy’s shaking sobs subsided.

  “Mein Gott,” Elsbeth said. “He was going to kill us.”