The Prophet

“She lived with Dr. Shaw when she first came to Charleston, didn’t she? Did you know Ethan Shaw?”

“Well enough to realize that he was in love with Mariama, too.”

My brows shot up in shock. “Ethan?”

“It’s like I said—”

“Every man who crossed paths with Mariama loved her.” But Ethan? “Did Devlin know?”

“He may have, but most men had blinders on when it came to Mariama.”

“Do you think anything went on between them?”

His gaze was scornful. “She wouldn’t have given someone like Shaw the time of day. But she wasn’t above using him if the need arose.”

“Using him how?”

He took a moment to answer. “Mariama had an unnatural power over the living. Whatever she wanted… whatever she needed…she could always find someone willing to do her bidding.”

That didn’t exactly answer my questions, but I suddenly remembered something Devlin had said to Ethan the night before. You told the police you were with me the whole night. You didn’t just give me an alibi. You gave yourself one, too.

He couldn’t have been doing Mariama’s bidding that night, though, because she was already dead.

“What’s wrong?” Fremont asked.

“I’m just wondering why so many smart men fell in love with her. I understand she was beautiful and charismatic, but from everything I’ve heard, she was also selfish and cruel.”

“She wasn’t always like that. She was wild and impulsive and more than a little dangerous. But not cruel. Not until Darius changed her.”

I marveled that, even dead, he was still quick to defend her. “Darius Goodwine? What was their relationship?”

“First cousins, but they were raised as siblings.”

“How did he change her?”

“He knew how to use her Achilles’ heel against her.”

“What do you mean?”

“John Devlin was her weakness. There was a part of him that Mariama couldn’t touch, couldn’t own. His resistance drove her mad. She would have done anything to weaken him. So Darius exploited her vulnerability.”

“How?”

“He persuaded her to run off to Africa with the child. It took Devlin weeks to find them. He brought Shani back home, but Mariama stayed on with Darius. By the time she finally returned, Darius had made the transformation.”

“What kind of transformation?”

“From shaman to tagati.”

“What’s a tagati?”

“The closest translation would be sorcerer. Or witch. Someone who uses medicinal conjure for evil purposes.”

Medicinal conjure as in gray dust? I wondered.

“The most powerful thakathi are female and Darius convinced Mariama that with his knowledge and her power, they could be an invincible force. He followed her back to Charleston and his influence had a profoundly negative effect on her.”

“Because she started to believe him?”

“Because she knew it was true. It’s not easy for an outsider to grasp, but in our community, the concept of magic is as accepted as the concept of God. There is an old saying that we practice one religion openly on Sundays and another in secret every other day of the week.” He’d been gazing out over the water, but now he turned to stare at me. “A lot of people don’t believe in ghosts, but that makes me no less real to you.”

I could hardly argue with that logic. “You say Darius followed her back to Charleston. Is that when he brought in gray dust?”

Fremont said in a hushed voice, “What do you know about gray dust?”

“It’s a hallucinogenic powder that stops the heart.”

He glanced around as if afraid someone might eavesdrop. Which, when I thought about it, was pretty strange. The only one who could be overheard was me, and people would likely take me for a nutcase and keep their distance.

“Who have you been talking to?” he demanded.

“No one. I’ve just been doing some research. That is what you expected of me, isn’t it? That I should be more resourceful?” I didn’t give him a chance to reply. “If you were investigating Darius at the time of your death, then he’s our most likely suspect.”

“I wasn’t just investigating him,” Fremont said. “I was trying to stop him.”

“From drug smuggling?”

He paused. “Yes.”

Something in his voice drew another shiver. “Were you working with Devlin?”

He murmured something so low I couldn’t make it out. I had the troubling notion it was a chant or incantation.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why is everyone afraid of Darius Goodwine?” I demanded. “He can’t possibly be a threat to you now.”

The ghost didn’t reply. He was already starting to fade and in another moment, he was gone. I stood at the railing alone and trembling as a cold gust cut through me. My foreboding grew with the wind. The harbor sparkled with sunlight but somewhere in the distance, darkness gathered.

Chapter Thirteen

Normally, I would have continued along the Battery to Murray Boulevard and then up Rutledge Avenue past Colonial Lake Park to my house. This morning, however, I cut through White Point Gardens, striding past the Civil War monuments and cannons and giving a wide berth to the lovely white gazebo where a sunrise wedding had just taken place.

Casting a longing glance at the happy couple, I stopped briefly to admire a bed of purple asters, then headed up King Street where the restaurants and bakeries were just starting to come alive. The smell of fresh coffee and pastries wafted on the cool breeze, and I was sorely tempted to stop at one of the outdoor eateries and treat myself to a leisurely breakfast. The streets were filling up, too, and I could sit there and people watch while I nibbled on vanilla French toast or a peach almond muffin and reflect on my conversation with Fremont’s ghost. But I’d done enough dwelling and obsessing over the past two days. What I needed was a diversion.

So I continued on past the trendy cafes and gourmet coffee shops and didn’t break stride until I reached Cumberland. Then I slowed, searching for The Secret Garden. I spotted it just ahead on my right, a quaint little shop with a metal awning over the front door and, as I remembered, a walled garden and fountain in the back where one could sit with a book and a cup of tea.

I was disappointed to find the shop closed, though I could have hardly expected otherwise at this early hour. Still, a cup of exotic brew and a pleasant chat with Clementine Perilloux would have been just the thing to take the chill off my meeting with Robert Fremont. I had to admit that, despite the circumstances, I’d enjoyed my visit with her. And I was glad that I’d felt that way even before I discovered that she was the sister and not, in fact, Devlin’s brunette.

I supposed my impromptu trip to the shop so early in the morning was a testament to my loneliness. I’d had so few close friends over the years. There really was no one I could call on the spur of the moment to have coffee or lunch. No one I could talk to about books or movies or Devlin.