Page 2 of Cursed
The town was definitely open for business, but the free parking lot next to the grocery store was only a third full—on a Friday afternoon. And all of the retail businesses lining the brick sidewalks featured prominent “sale” signs in the windows. Beyond the shops was a two-story Victorian that housed the Chamber of Commerce.
After pulling up next to a well-kept Cadillac, Morgan went inside.
The woman behind the counter glanced up immediately. “Can I help you?” she inquired, as though speaking to her new best friend.
Morgan thought she was probably Sadie Delay, since she fit the description Gascon had given her of one of the women who worked in the office.
“I’m just looking,” Morgan answered. As she began picking up some of the brochures for bayou boat rides and outlet malls fifty miles away, a tall, well-built man bustled out of the back office.
“Dwight Rivers, president of the Chamber of Commerce” he said in a hearty, booming voice that Gascon had described as a bullhorn in search of a crowd to control. “What can we do to help you? Are you vacationing in the area?”
“I might,” she said because she didn’t want to get into the kind of hostile situation she’d created at the gas station.
The man stuck out a broad hand, which she felt compelled to shake.
Cautiously she tried a testing remark. “I would have expected to see more people around town on a Friday afternoon.”
He sighed. “So would I.”
“Is there some problem in town?”
“Just the slow season.”
Right. For the past eight months.
“The guys at the gas station told me that there had been some deaths in the swamp.”
His features darkened. “Well, they talk too much.”
“Sorry, I’m just trying to …”
“No. No. That’s okay. It’s not your fault. I understand why you’d be nervous. There’s talk of a big cat prowling the bayou country, and that’s hurt business here. But you’re perfectly safe in town. In fact, we have several charming bed and breakfast establishments that would love to have you stay with them. I can call up one of the owners for you right now.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” she answered, quickly. Before he could push any more of the town’s delights on her, she turnedand walked out the door. Probably in the next few hours he’d hear over the grapevine that she was working for Gascon. Maybe he’d think she’d been less than honest with him. But she could always use the gas station as an excuse. Who would want to get into two confrontations in the space of half an hour if she could avoid them?
She lingered in town for perhaps fifteen minutes, taking a self-guided tour, noting the wide lawns and old mansions in the better areas and the smaller, ramshackle houses with faded paint and missing siding on the metaphorical wrong side of the tracks.
Swinging back onto Main Street, she headed for the road that she knew would take her to Belle Vista. Gascon had asked her to arrive before dark. Although she still had plenty of time, she couldn’t help feeling a sense of urgency now.
The last dwelling inside the town limits was a two-story farmhouse. Though the gray siding looked like it needed painting, the lawn and shrubbery were well kept. But it wasn’t the landscaping that caught Morgan’s attention. The window to the right of the green-painted front door sported a sign that made her eyes widen.
It said: Voodoo Priestess.
Morgan, whose sensibilities were firmly planted in the culture of the north, had always thought of Voodoo as an ancient cult—and one that was never quite respectable. Apparently in St. Germaine, it was okay to advertise yourself as a priestess right out in the open.
Why hadn’t Gascon mentioned it in all the information he’d given her about the area? An oversight? A deliberate omission?
She’d slowed down to look at the house and the sign. As she stared at the window, a hand pulled the curtain aside, revealing a woman with a creamy complexion and long, shiny hair as dark as midnight. Her dark gaze zeroed in on Morgan, and shefelt something like a physical blow to the center of her chest. For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Then her foot bounced on the accelerator, and she jerked forward, before deliberately smoothing out her speed.
What was that?
Her own out-of-kilter reaction? Or something emanating from the woman?
Had the priestess somehow known she was coming to town? Because Gascon had told her? Or had she seen Morgan in her crystal ball?
No, that was the wrong image. Probably a voodoo priestess would be looking at chicken entrails.
Morgan snorted.You’re just letting this place spook you. The way nothing has spooked you in recent memory.
