Enrique and Flora watched as Strata Luna nailed a small cross made of wooden Popsicle sticks to the trunk of a tree. On the double headstone that marked her daughters' graves, she poured the loose incense she used to communicate with the dead. After a brief sizzle and flame, the pungent odor of saltpeter and herbs filled the gathering darkness.
It was late. After closing time. The caretaker of Bonaventure Cemetery had unlocked the gate so Strata Luna could visit the graves in private.
Enrique nudged Flora with his elbow. 'Come on,' he whispered.
They turned and walked away from the woman cloaked in black.
In all the times Enrique had been coming to the cemetery with Strata Luna, he'd never witnessed anything weini-and didn't want to. The dead could stay dead as far as he was concerned. He once thought he'd seen someone return from the grave-and his heart had nearly popped through his chest. But then he discovered the person had never really been dead in the first place.
He hated the dead. But the undead…?
Whole different story.
Strata Luna was practically a mother to Flora. To Enrique, quite a bit more…
He suspected Flora knew he sometimes joined Strata Luna in her bed. Not that the woman in black cared much for him. He doubted she'd ever really cared for any man except the root doctor, Jackson Sweet. No, Enrique was just performing a service.
He wasn't complaining.
Strata Luna thought he was somebody she could teach and mold. Thought she had him under her control, but she was mistaken. Nobody controlled Enrique Xavier.
There were things about him she didn't know. Things Flora didn't know. He had a life outside Black Tupelo and Strata Luna. A secret life.
'I'm cold,' Flora whispered. 'Mosquitoes are biting me.'
Enrique rubbed her bare arm, causing friction. 'You're the one who wanted to come,' he reminded her.
Unlike Enrique, Flora was drawn to death. She liked to explore cemeteries, and she'd been on every single Savannah ghost tour more than once.
'Don't give me that shit, Enrique. You wanted me here.'
He laughed-a little nervously.
It was true. He didn't like roaming around in the cemetery by himself while Strata Luna practiced her communion with the dead.
Flora tugged on his shirt. 'Let's go see Grade.'
Darkness had fallen like a shroud, and her face was hardly more than a blur. He pivoted and walked in the opposite direction. 'No way, man. I ain't gonna go see Grade.'
'Come on,' she pleaded in a voice that always weakened him. 'I want to see her.'
Gracie was famous. She'd died over a hundred years ago, when she was six. There was a life-size statue of her somewhere. To the left? Right? He always got all turned around in Bonaventure.
A lot of people claimed to have seen little Gracie wandering around the cemetery, which was one of the reasons Enrique had asked Flora to come along. If he ran into Gracie, he didn't want to be alone.
'Don't talk about her,' he whispered. 'She'll hear and you'll draw her to us.' And with Strata Luna over there, holding the door between this world and the next wide open, no telling who might show up.
Flora scampered away. 'Gracie!' she called. 'Oh, Gracie!'
Enrique ran and grabbed her, putting a hand over her mouth.
They'd known each other for years, and were like brother and sister. 'Shut up' he hissed against her cheek. Her hair smelled like flowers.
Flora pried his hand away. 'Shhh. Listen,' she said, laughter still in her voice. 'Did you hear that?'
'What?'
'Something moving.'
Enrique straightened in the thick darkness, his eyes and ears straining. Up high, against the sky, he could make out dark curtains of dangling Spanish moss. Lighter objects near the ground were tombstones and cemetery statues.
He hoped none were Gracie.
Damn Flora.
He heard a sound in the distance that made the hair on his scalp stand up and his heart begin to hammer.
Was that a little kid? Talking? Laughing?
That's what it had sounded like. A little kid.
Oh, man.
What was he doing here?
'Don't you two have any respect for the dead?' came Strata Luna's angry voice out of the darkness, no footsteps to announce her arrival. 'Fighting and laughing and carrying on. You should be ashamed.'
Guilty, they both fell as silent and sober as chastised children.
'Let's go back to the car,' Strata Luna said. 'And hope you haven't caused my calling-up-the-dead spell to go bad and curse us all.'
Chapter 13
The morning after the visit to the morgue, Elise sat across from Major Hoffman's desk while Gould perched in a nearby chair.
'I could use more manpower,' Elise said. She didn't want her request to imply that Gould wasn't holding up his end, but there were times she felt as if she were trying to solve the case on her own.
'Jordan Kemp's death could still be drug-related and self-induced,' Hoffman said in her soft, Southern voice. 'And so far, no connection has been made to Harrison. Until we have that connection, it's going to be hard to justify pulling people off other cases-but I'll see what I can do. At least temporarily.'
'Thanks.' Elise wasn't surprised. Dead prostitutes weren't a priority. Not the major's fault. It was just the way things worked.
'What about the other body that woke up in the morgue?' Major Hoffman used a spoon to scrape the last remnants of yogurt from a plastic container. Her nails were long and red; her makeup was flawless. 'Samuel Winslow?'
Major Hoffman was a black woman in a position predominantly held by men. For years, the city government had ignored Savannah 's crime problem. When Hoffman came along as head of Criminal Investigation, she immediately put foot patrols in downtown parks and tourist areas, creating a visual presence. She was also working on creative ways to address the racial tension within the city.
'The body was cremated, and there were no in-depth tests run after the initial autopsy,' Elise said. 'The lab work showed he was a heavy drug user, with large quantities of heroin in his bloodstream, along with a trace amount of morphine. At the time, it seemed to be a pretty straightforward misdiagnosed drug overdose.'
'Understandable given the circumstances.'
'One other thing.' Elise pulled a Polaroid photo from her bag and slid it across the desk. 'This artwork was on the body of Jordan Kemp.'
Major Hoffman examined the photo, then passed it back. 'Black Tupelo.'
'Right.'
'Did the first prostitute have this kind of marking?'
'No. And no sign that it may have been removed.'
'I've scheduled a press conference for an hour from now. Is this Black Tupelo information something we want released yet? What do you think, Detective Gould? You've been awfully quiet.'
He shifted in his chair. 'At this point, I think we should keep it to ourselves until we have more to go on.'
