In Thief of Souls, Book 11 of the French Quarter Mystery Series, a British pop singer hires disbarred attorney Wyatt Thomas to protect her from the devil. Scheduled as the Jazz Fest headliner, performer Dita Lika visits New Orleans early to seek the assistance of P.I. and paranormal investigator Wyatt Thomas. To help solve the dilemma, Wyatt enlists the assistance of a voodoo mambo, a defrocked priest, and a Harvard-educated historical researcher. What ensues is a whirlwind of paranormal adventure, fantasy, and mystery. Hope you love it.
Chapter 1
Not every horror story begins with a shocking murder. This one does.
Smoke wafted to the ceiling from the bonfire in the center of the large room. Some of the wood in the fire was almost too green to burn and produced a smell neither Charles nor his son Gillet recognized. Instead of a floral fragrance, it smelled like death.
Black drummers dressed in field pants and no shirts sat in a semicircle around the fire, their drumming drowning out any attempt at conversation. When an explosion in the fire pit filled the room with smoke, a Bokor, a mystic of African descent, appeared behind the growing flames.
The Bokor’s skin was blacker than the fire’s coals, and ridges of scar tissue marked every part of his body, not covered with voodoo tattoos. He walked through the flames with impunity, touching the gleaming coals with nothing protecting his bare feet. The drumming intensified as the Bokor’s dance became more frenetic. When the drumming abruptly halted, he stopped dancing and stood in the middle of the fire.
The man’s voice was as deep and dark as his skin when he said, “Who is here to purchase a soul?”
Charles Marchand, dressed like a wealthy plantation owner, sat cross-legged in front of the fire.
“It is I,” he said.
“Is the soul you wish to purchase for you or someone else?” the Bokor asked.
Dr. John smiled when Marchand said, “For my son, Gillet.”
“Twenty pieces of gold is the price I charge for salvation,” Dr. John said.
Charles Marchand stepped forward, pulling a money bag from his light blue silk jacket. Dr. John waited with a smile and an outstretched offering tray as Marchand began counting gold coins into it. When the final coin clanked into the ceremonial tray the drumming continued until the Bokor raised his hand. When he did, the room grew deathly silent.
“Bring the woman who is about to lose her soul to me,” he said.
Two muscular assistants herded a frightened woman into the room. She had raven hair and dark eyes from which tears rolled down her pretty face. In her last weeks of pregnancy, the young woman struggled against the men gripping her arms. When the Bokor addressed her, she refused to meet his gaze.
“What’s your name, girl?” he asked.
“Afrodita,” she said. “You know what it is.”
“What kind of name is that?” he asked.
When Afrodita didn’t answer, Dr. John backhanded her, snapping back her head. Afrodita tried not to cry, though couldn’t quell her tears as blood flowed from her nose.
“It’s my name,” she said.
“You are beautiful, Afrodita. Almost as beautiful as Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess you received your name from. Your beauty won’t save you. You are about to die, and someone has purchased your soul. Without a soul, your destiny is to burn in hell forever. Do you have anything to say?”
“Don’t take my baby. She is innocent,” Afrodita said.
“Such an act of kindness is not without cost. That cost is twenty pieces of gold. Do you have it?”
Afrodita’s blood and tears washed down her face. When she raised her head, Gillet’s eyes met hers. He glanced at the floor, refusing to continue looking into her pleading eyes.
“I have no money,” she said. “Please, spare my baby.”
“Take her to the fire,” Dr. John said.
“Wait,” someone called. It was Charles Marchand. “I will pay for the baby.”
A smile crossed the Bokor’s scarred face as he watched Marchand count out another twenty pieces of gold into the silver offering tray. The drumming began again when the last coin clanked into the tray.
Charles Marchand sat on the floor beside his son Gillet. The handsome young man refused to gaze into the accusing stare of the young woman named Afrodita. Covering his face with a grotesque African mask, the Bokor chanted as he danced in and out of the fire.
As the drumming grew louder, the Bokor’s dance grew more frenetic. Realizing her fate, Afrodita began to struggle. The two men shoved until they had positioned her directly in front of the Bokor. They released Afrodita’s arms, and then retreated to the recesses of the dark room.
A ceremonial knife appeared in Dr. John’s hand. Grabbing Afrodita by the neck, he stabbed the knife deeply into her belly, blood gushing and covering her dress as he plunged his hands into her womb and yanked out a crying baby. Gillet winced as Dr. John held the bloody newborn by an ankle. The drumming continued as Gillet threw up on the floor.
Holding his mouth, Gillet sprang to his feet and ran out of the room. The Bokor brought the crying baby to Charles Marchand as Afrodita lay dying on the floor.
“You have what you paid for,” Dr. John said. “Take it.”
Charles Marchand cradled the bloody baby in his arms, his blue silk jacket ruined. With a nod, he walked to the door and disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 2
Dita Lika awoke from a violent nightmare with a scream that pierced the walls. The distressed cry awoke her sister Adelina, and she sat straight up in bed. When she burst through Dita’s bedroom door, she sat beside her on the bed and grasped her sister’s shoulders.
“Sis, you were screaming. Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m good,” Dita said.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep.”
“It’s morning. I needed to get up anyway.”
“Not me,” Dita said. “I was planning on sleeping until noon.”
“Then go back to sleep. Your nightmare wasn’t real,” Adelina said.
“Maybe not to you.”
“What did you eat before going to sleep?”
“A cheese sandwich,” Dita said.
“That’s your problem. Never eat cheese before bedtime. It always causes nightmares,” Adelina said.
Unlike her sister Adelina’s blond hair and blue eyes, Dita’s hair and eyes were dark. Sharr, Dita’s Illyrian sheepdog puppy’s tail, wagged as he scooted beside her. It was Dita’s first time sleeping in bed in many weeks, and she cuddled the puppy to her breast.
“Miss me, baby?” Dita asked.
“You kidding?” Adelina said. “Sharr has the run of the place.”
“It isn’t fair,” Dita said. “You take care of Sharr; he loves you more than me.”
“Not true,” Adelina said. “He’s been so happy since you finished your tour.”
“I wish I could stay for a while. I love touring, though get so tired of the endless hotels.”
“Hah!” Adelina said. “I should be so lucky to order anything I want at any hour of the day or night.”
“You’d soon be as sick of it as I am,” Dita said, “It’s so lonely on the road. I wish I could take Sharr with me,”
“You have other things to consider when you’re touring,” Adelina said. “You have no time to care for a puppy.”
“And no one there to comfort me when I have nightmares,” Dita said. “I think I’m going crazy.”
“You aren’t crazy, Sis. Everyone has nightmares.”
“Not like mine, they don’t,” Dita said.
“Maybe you should consult a psychiatrist.”
“You just told me I’m not crazy,” Dita said. “Now you’re telling me to see a shrink?”
Adelina squeezed Dita’s hand. “You are so beautiful and sexy. Your fans love you.”
“Don’t change the subject, and stop patronizing me,” Dita said. “I’m nothing more than the flavor of the week. When someone else hits the scene, I’ll be little more than a fading memory.”
“Nonsense. You’re a superstar. The most talented musical performer to hit the stage in decades.”
Dita hugged Adelina. “You’re my sister. I wish others saw me the same as you do.”
“Though I may be your sister, I also know it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see how talented you are. You’re a star; most performers never experience a moment of stardom.”
Dita hugged Adelina and said, “Everyone tells me how beautiful and talented I am when I’m on tour. I must work at it to keep all the false compliments from going to my head. You ground me.”
“You’re as beautiful as you are talented,” Adelina said. “The truth is not a compliment.”
“I’m only your older sister,” Dita said. “You’re giving me the big head.”
“Because you know what I say is true. It isn’t wrong to love the attention and adoration. Now, tell me more about your nightmare.”
Dita pulled off her nightgown, tossing it to the floor.
“I’m awake now, my nightmare a dying memory. Let’s go skinny dipping. I’ll feel better after a swim.”
Adelina’s grin was mischievous as she stripped off her clothes and followed Dita and Sharr out the door. Dita lived in a palatial West Hampstead estate in north London. She’d paid eight million pounds for the house when her first song hit the charts and had begun putting her imprint on the property ever since.
When Dita dived into the courtyard pool, Sharr followed her. Water splashed when Adelina dive-bombed them. They frolicked in the water until all three were exhausted and struggled to climb out of the pool. They didn’t bother putting on clothes as they lay on plush towels.
“You still haven’t told me about your nightmare,” Adelina said.
Adelina shook her head when Dita asked, “Do you believe in Satan?”
“I try not to think about such things.”
“Have you ever had a dream about the devil?” Dita asked.
“I don’t eat cheese before I sleep,” Adelina said.
“That’s not my problem,” Dita said. “My nightmare has nothing to do with what I eat before I sleep. It’s recurrent and starting to scare me.”
Dita nodded when Adelina said, “Tell me about it.”
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. A car horn down the street honked as Dita stretched out on the plush bath towel and put her arms behind her head.
“It’s always the same,” she said. “I’m in a strange place I don’t recognize. There’s a young woman in the scene so pregnant she looks as if she’s ready to pop.”
“Then the woman in your nightmare can’t be you. You don’t even have a boyfriend,” Adelina said.
“Don’t be critical. Neither do you.”
“Just saying.”
“And, I’ve never been to the place in my nightmare. It seems so strange, exotic, and unknown to me.”
“Paint me a picture,” Adelina said.
“A room so dark and humid, it seems like a dungeon somewhere in the tropics. Men dripping with sweat, beating drums around a fire. It’s like a pagan ceremony, except all the men in the circle are black.”
“Africa?”
“America, I think, though not in this century,” Dita said. “We’re in a large room with an earthen floor. Maybe the basement of a huge house.”
“Who else is there?” Adelina asked.
“Two white men dressed in silk suits that look like something from a French history book. I believe it’s a wealthy man and his son who looks as if he’d like to be elsewhere.”
Adelina smiled and said, “Is he handsome?”
“Very. There is also a witch doctor named Dr. John. He’s presiding over a ceremony that always begins with the beating of drums and him dancing on burning coals.”
“Witch doctor? How do you know he’s a witch doctor?”
“Because of his scars, tattoos, and knowing smile. Someone in the room called him Bokor. I looked it up. It means a voodoo witch for hire who serves the loa with both hands.”
“What does that mean?” Adelina asked.
“A priest who practices good and evil. Bokors are Haitian mystics, though I don’t believe Haiti is where my dream occurs.”
“Where, then?”
“New Orleans.”
“You’ve never been to New Orleans. How would you recognize it?”
“Don’t know,” Dita said. She grinned when Sharr licked her face. “You smell like a wet dog.”
“So, how are you a part of this nightmare?” Adelina asked.
“An observer. The two white men are in the audience, watching though not participating in the ceremony.”
“You keep calling them white men. You’re white.”
“Maybe I wasn’t during another lifetime,” Dita said.
“Are you making this up as we go along?” Adelina asked.
“No way. It’s a different place and time. The men in the room treat the woman like a slave,” Dita said. ‘I had the feeling that perhaps I was a slave.”
“It must have been another time. There haven’t been enslaved people in New Orleans or anywhere else in centuries,” Adelina said.
“That’s what makes the nightmare so strange. It seems so real, yet it’s taking place somewhere I’ve never visited and during a time long before I was born.”
“So, what happened?”
“One of the white men had paid for the woman’s soul. Dr. John was preparing to kill her.”
“Get out of here,” Adelina said.
“It’s true. The woman was resigned to her imminent death but begged the Bokor not to take her baby. He informed her it would cost another twenty pieces of gold.”
Adelina’s hand went to her mouth. “The voodoo man was going to murder the woman and her baby?”
“Exactly. The woman didn’t have the money and was crying her eyes out. The older white man shelled out more gold to save the baby.”
“And then?”
“Dr. John cut the baby from the woman’s womb and gave it to the man who’d given him the gold.”
Adelina’s hand again went to her mouth. “Oh my God!” she said. “No wonder you were screaming. You aren’t pregnant, are you?’
Dita shook her head. “Everyone in the troupe is wary of losing their jobs and half afraid to approach me. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex.”
“Maybe that’s your problem,” Adelina said. “Perhaps you need someone to screw your brains out.”
“Maybe so. Let’s go to Soho and find a walkup,” Dita said.
“Kiss my ass,” Adelina said. “There are no male prostitutes in a walkup.”
“How do you know?” Dita said. “Have you ever visited one?”
“Women don’t have to pay for sex. Especially not you, the most popular female entertainer in the world.”
“You’re full of shit. If that’s true, then why am I so horny?”
“All you need is a few weeks off from the tour. Find a man and stay in bed for a few days.”
“Not a bad idea. What’s my next gig?” Dita asked.
“Jazz Fest in New Orleans. You’re headlining.”
“What’s Jazz Fest?” Dita asked.
“Don’t be a thicko. Jazz Fest is an important music event. Every musical group wants to perform there.”
“You have to be kidding. I can’t go to New Orleans.”
“Of course, you can,” Adelina asked.
“You don’t visit the place where your nightmares occur.”
“Why not?” Adelina said. “Maybe New Orleans holds the answers you seek.”
“I don’t think so.” Dita grabbed her cell phone and dialed her agent. “Raoul, I need to cancel my next engagement.”
“Cancel Jazz Fest? It’s the most prestigious event on your tour. Are you crazy?”
“I’ve never even heard of it,” Dita said. “Who else has played the event?”
“The question you should ask is, who hasn’t played it? The answer is every important musical act,” Raoul said.
“I have reasons for not going to New Orleans,” Dita said.
“Sounds like a personal problem.”
“Very personal. Going there frightens me to death.”
“Doesn’t matter what you want. You’re committed, and it’s too late to back out. Don’t argue with me on this.”
Dita was still talking into the phone when she realized Raoul had hung up.
“What did he say?” Adelina asked.
“He gave me no choice but to attend.”
“The Jazz Fest is in New Orleans, the very city where you are having your insane nightmare,” Adelina said. “Go there and find out what the problem is.”
“What if I lose my soul?”
“Now, what are you talking about?” Adelina said.
“I’m frightened,” Dita said.
“You’re fantasizing about your nightmare, and it’s been bothering you. Check it out while you’re at Jazz Fest.”
“I won’t have time to research my nightmare,” Dita said. “I’ll have a show to perform.”
“You’ll love the place. New Orleans is the birthplace of jazz,” Adelina said. “It’s an exotic city, unlike any other place. As you said, maybe you lived there in another life.”
“Now you’re the one doing the fantasizing,” Dita said.
“I read the brochure Raoul sent you. It seems reasonable your nightmare takes place in New Orleans. It’s just a nightmare. Why are you afraid to go there?”
Dita didn’t answer Adelina’s question. “When does Jazz Fest start?”
“A week from today,” Adelina said.
“Get me a ticket. I’m going tomorrow.”
“You can’t do that. You have to travel with your band,” Adelina said.
“Without me, there is no band,” Dita said. “I’ve made up my mind. Get me a ticket.”
Chapter 3
New Orleans winters are generally warm, though the last one had seen temperatures below freezing twice. Tornadoes had blown through the old city, taking several roofs and a few lives. It made me wonder how many tornadoes New Orleans had survived in its more than three-hundred years of existence.
I’d gained a few extra pounds over the winter, a warm spring breeze begging me to get outdoors, exercise, and lose weight. Rain clouds raced over the French Quarter when I finally laced my jogging shoes and took the trolley to City Park.
City Park is an oasis of nature not far from the French Quarter. It’s bigger than New York’s Central Park and boasts the most extensive collection of live oak trees worldwide, some over six-hundred years old. I’d lost count of the times I’d jogged through the park. Its lagoons, wildlife, gardens, and beauty still amazed me every time I visited.
My run through the park invigorated me, and I’d worked up quite a sweat. Too sweaty to ride the trolley, I decided to continue on foot back to Bertram’s. My decision proved ill-advised when thunder sounded overhead, and the cloudy skies morphed into a spring rainstorm, my jogging shorts and tee shirt drenched long before I saw the neon lights of the French Quarter.
Bertram Picou, my landlord, and close friend, owned the most eclectic bar in the Quarter. His customers and tourists had gone home or to their hotels because of the rain. He caught my attention when I pushed through the door, pointing his Gallic nose at a woman sitting alone at the bar.
The attractive young woman was humming to herself as she filed her fingernails. She grinned and held her hand toward me as I stood dripping on Bertram’s old oiled-wood floor.
“Are you Wyatt Thomas?” she asked.
“Yes. I got caught in the rain during my jog.”
I noticed her British accent when she said, “I’m Dita. Can we talk?”
I pointed to the creaky staircase leading to my apartment. “I live upstairs. If you don’t mind waiting a bit longer, I’ll shower and change out of these damp clothes.”
“Take your time,” she said. “Bertram and I are having a lovely conversation.”
Dita’s cut-off jeans were too short, and her cowboy boots and thigh-length red, white, and blue leggings were too brash. Her black cowboy hat paired with Lucy-in-the-Sky-With-Diamonds sunglasses was anything but understated. I turned around when Bertram called my name.
“I fed that mangy cat of yours. Her yowling was running off my customers.”
“Sure they didn’t leave because of the rain?” I asked.
“Don’t be an ingrate,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said.
Bertram had indeed fed my cat Kisses, and I found her asleep on my bed.
She didn’t open her eyes when I said, “Too wet to go tomcatting?”
I hung my sticky jogging shorts and tee shirt on the back of a chair, waited for the water to get hot, and then luxuriated in the steamy heat. Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when I returned to the bar dressed in khaki pants, sandals, and a blue Hawaiian shirt that would have made Elvis proud.
Dita smiled when she said, “Feeling better?”
“Think I’m going to live. Sorry for taking so long,” I said. “The hot water felt so good I had trouble leaving it. “What can I do for you, Dita?”
“I have a problem. Your name came up as someone who might help me.”
“What kind of problem,” I said.
“Something of a psychic nature. My people tell me you’re more than a private investigator,” Dita said.
“Oh?”
“They say you know about the paranormal, and voodoo in particular,” she said.
“Me and everyone else in New Orleans. Did Bertram bring you a drink?”
“I don’t drink when I’m discussing business.”
Bertram pushed a glass of lemonade across the bar toward me.
“Me either,” I said. “At least not alcoholic beverages. My coonass friend makes wonderful lemonade.”
Bertram’s elbows rested on the bar as he listened to every word we said.
Dita smiled when he said, “I brew a mean cup of Earl Grey.”
“You sell tea in a bar?” Dita asked.
“Whatever floats your boat,” Bertram said. “Costs the same as a lime mojito.”
“How much does a lime mojito cost?” Dita asked.
“Ten bucks,” Bertram said.
“I can get a lime mojito at any pub in London for seven pounds.”
“It’s a long way to London from here, pretty lady. Make you a deal. Buy one of my lime mojitos, and I’ll throw in a crumpet for free.”
“Deal,” she said.
Bertram grinned as he mixed Dita’s mojito and presented her with the drink and a fresh pastry.
“This isn’t a crumpet,” she said.
“It’s a beignet,” he said. “Try it.”
Dita took a bite of the succulent pastry and then another. “This is good,” she said. “What is it?”
“A beignet from down the street,” Bertram said.
“You didn’t make it yourself?”
“I’m a man of many talents. Making beignets isn’t one of them. Try the mojito,” he said.
Dita took a sip and said, “Very good. You could find work at any pub in London.”
“They couldn’t afford me,” Bertram said. “I’ll get you another beignet.”
“No,” she said. “I have to watch my figure.”
“You kidding? You got better legs than a movie star.”
“I’d gain weight in a heartbeat if I didn’t work out daily,” Dita said.
I interrupted their bantering and said, “Tell me about your problem.”
“It has to do with voodoo,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“You’re not put off talking about voodoo?”
“Voodoo’s a common topic around the French Quarter,” I said.
Thunder shook the roof, rattling the light fixtures.
“Is it always this stormy?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” I said. “At least this time of year. Hope it doesn’t scare you.”
“Few things frighten me,” Dita said. “My nightmare that recurs practically every night is disturbing, even to me.”
“Please tell me about it,” I said.
“It concerns a voodoo man named Dr. John. Did such a person ever exist in New Orleans?”
“Marie Laveau is the most famous female voodoo person from the past, Dr. John, the most notorious male voodoo practitioner,” I said.
“How long ago?” Dita asked.
“1840s,” I said. “Your nightmare involves Dr. John?”
“The devil and Doctor John are villains in my nightmare. It’s always the same. A voodoo ceremony in an empty room with a dirt floor. Shirtless men are beating drums, their driving rhythm the percussive music for Dr. John’s walk across a bed of hot coals.”
When she paused, I said, “Go on.”
“Dr. John’s face and body are covered with scar tissue. It appears symbolic and looks like someone administered the cuts with a scalpel or sharp knife. He looked quite frightening in the light of the fire.”
“You said you’re in a dark room,” I said.
Dita nodded and said, “Like the basement of a large house.”
She shook her head when I asked, “Where does the smoke go?”
We both turned our attention to Bertram and said, “It’s a nightmare. It don’t have to make sense.”
Bertram didn’t reply when I said, “Dita feels her nightmare is real. She wouldn’t have traveled from London to tell us about it if she didn’t. Am I right about that?”
Dita nodded. “I don’t know where the smoke went. There must be a plausible explanation because everything seems so real.”
“Then tell me more,” I said.
“Dr. John addresses a woman brought from somewhere as Afrodita.”
“Your name,” I said. “Are you the woman in the dream?”
Dita shook her head. “She is about my age, though someone I don’t recognize. She is also pregnant. Dr. John tells the woman someone has purchased her soul and he will kill her as a sacrifice to Satan.”
“Damn!” Bertram said. “Your story’s scary. I need a lemon drop.”
“What’s a lemon drop?” Dita asked.
“Vodka, lemon juice, and sugar,” Bertram said.
Thunder shook the rafters again as Bertram grabbed three shot glasses from beneath the bar, filling mine with lemonade and the others with the lemon drop concoction he’d mixed in a blender.
We clicked glasses, drained them, and said, “Bottoms up.”
“Good?” Bertram asked when she licked her lips.
“Tastes like lemon drop candy,” she said.
“Just the way it’s supposed to taste,” Bertram said. “Sorry I interrupted you.”
“Finish your story,” I said.
“Where was I?” Dita said.
“Dr. John told the pregnant woman named Afrodita that he was about to kill her,” I said.
“An older white man responded when Dr. John asked who was paying for the soul.”
“Did you recognize him?” I asked. Dita shook her head. “Then describe him for me.”
Dita nodded. “A handsome man. Early fifties. Dark hair and eyes. His clothes were regal. Blue velvet coat, hand-sewn vest, and brown silk pants custom made and from a different century. He gave Dr. John twenty pieces of gold.”
“There must have been a reason he was buying a soul,” I said.
“For his son, Gillet. His father called him by his first name,” Dita said.
“That’s a place to start,” I said. “What did Gillet look like?”
“Long brown hair. Delicate facial features. He was crying and couldn’t look the woman in the eye when she begged Dr. John not to kill her baby. The voodoo man told her it would cost another twenty pieces of gold.”
“Heartless bastard,” Bertram said.
The lights flickered, the storm raging outside. An unexpected gust of wind rustled the front door.
“A ghost?” Dita asked.
“More than likely,” I said. “Lots of ghosts in the French Quarter.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?” Dita said.
“There are ghosts in this bar,” Bertram said.
“Get out of here!” Dita said.
“I’ve seen them,” Bertram said. “Some of them are famous.”
“Like who, for instance?”
“Louis Armstrong. He came around one morning early,” Bertram said. “Sang and played his horn for me until sunrise.”
“You’re full of it,” Dita said.
“If I’m lying, I’m dying,” he said.
Dita glanced at me and said, “Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“More than you can imagine,” I said.
“You’re both full of it,” Dita said. “Don’t be stingy with your lemon drops.”
Bertram poured more shots. “I’ll fix another batch if you help me drink it.”
Dita fumbled in her Gucci bag for a fifty-pound note and handed it to Bertram.
“Why not?” she said.
Bertram grinned and stashed the note in his shirt pocket.
“You were telling us about Gillet,” I said.
“After Dr. John collected the twenty pieces of gold, he cut the baby from Afrodita’s womb. Gillet grabbed his mouth and ran out of the room. His father ruined his beautiful clothes when he took the bloody baby in his arms.”
“Damn!” Bertram said.
“Afrodita didn’t scream when Dr. John took the baby. I believe she had a smile on her face as she lay on the floor bleeding to death.”
“Double damn!” Bertram said.
“What exactly do you need me to do?” I asked. “Nightmares can’t kill you.”
“Are you quite sure about that?” she said. “The answer to your question is I haven’t a clue as to what to do,” she said.
Dita flinched when thunder rattled the rafters. She was young, probably no older than in her early twenties. Her accent and outfit labeled her as worldly. Her unsure questions informed me she was grasping at straws. She raised her psychedelic sunglasses to let me see her face. When I didn’t react, she smiled.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“You’re Dita Lika,” I said.
“Oh, my God! I underestimated you. Have you caught one of my shows?”
“I’m an information junkie. I soak it up like a sponge. I saw your picture in the Picayune. You’re headlining this year’s Jazz Fest.”
It took Dita a moment to say, “Amazing. You’ve never seen me perform?”
“I like music, though I rarely listen to it.”
“You live in New Orleans and aren’t a music maven?”
“I don’t go to movies, either,” I said.
“You are strange.”
“I hear that,” Bertram said.
“You know who I am, don’t you, Bertram?”
“You got the best set of legs I ever seen,” Bertram said. “I’d know if I ever saw you before now.”
Dita pulled out her cell phone, calling up a music video on YouTube. Bertram and I drew close to the phone as the video began to play. The primary performer was Dita Lika. After watching the video, I realized it didn’t take a musical genius to see she was a generational talent.
“Damn, girl!” Bertram said. “You dance as good as you sing. No wonder you got class-A legs.”
When Dita put away her phone with a smug smile, I said, “I’m available to help.”
“I’ve been here before,” she said.
“At Bertram’s?” I said.
“New Orleans. Jazz Fest begins next week. I want you to stay close to me.”
“Jazz Fest has lots of security. You don’t need me. You’ll never be in danger.”
Before Dita could continue, thunder shook the rafters again, and the electricity went out. From the darkness outside the front door, Bertram’s wasn’t the only French Quarter establishment affected.
“Does this happen often?” Dita asked.
Bertram lit a candle and placed it on the bar between us.
“Enough so that I keep candles and storm lanterns under the counter,” Bertram said. “Hope you don’t mind drinking by candlelight?”
Dita was grinning. “Love it,” she said. “The lights should go out more often.”
Bertram grabbed his cell phone. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”
After hanging up, he poured us another shot.
“What happened?” I asked.
“An electrical fire at the Roosevelt,” he said.
“Bad?” I asked.
“The lights are out, and the hotel is full of smoke,” Bertram said.
“Damn!” Dita said. “I was booked at the Roosevelt.”
“Not tonight,” Bertram said.
“It’s still early, and we can worry about your hotel accommodations when they restore the electricity,” I said.
Realizing the blender was empty, Bertram poured lemon juice, vodka, and sugar into his blender.
“No electricity,” I said. “Remember?”
He grabbed a wooden spoon from beneath the bar and said, “Right. I’ll have to fix the next batch like my mama used to do.”
“I better call a cab and find a room,” Dita said when they’d finished drinking the last batch of lemon drop shots.
“I live in a suite of rooms behind the bar,” Bertram said. “There’s an extra bedroom with its own bathroom. You’re welcome to stay there for the night.”
Dita glanced at me and said, “Is Bertram trustworthy?”
“You don’t run a bar in the French Quarter for as long as Bertram has without being trustworthy. If you can trust anyone, it’s him.”
“I’ll take you up on your offer,” she said. “Jet lag has caught up to me. I need some sleep and feel good about the two of you.”
Dita grinned when Bertram said, “Except for the whipping part, we’ll treat you just like your mama.”
Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.
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