Deja Voodoo

Chapter 1

From his seat in first class, Perry Mason stared out of the window as the plane made its final approach. The calm waters of Lake Pontchartrain, dotted with sailing boats and cabin cruisers and divided by a very long, flat bridge, disappeared as the jet turned toward the airport. He loved experiencing the aerial view of a city; often when he made a return flight into Los Angeles, he had the impression that below the aircraft the fields, buildings and cars were little more than toys in an elaborate train display. But once the wheels touched down and reality set back in, that nostalgic quality faded and he was once again a grown man with a job to do. This time, however, he couldn't help but smile. New Orleans was a special place, and he was invigorated and eager to hit the ground running, so to speak.

Unfortunately, the passenger on his left did not share his enthusiasm. His secretary, Della Street, had a death grip on Perry's hand. Like a vice, it tightened still more as the landing gear was lowered. Her nails bit into his skin and he winced. She didn't notice. Her normally bright, shining eyes were clouded with anxiety and her naturally rosy, peaches and cream complexion was wan and pale.

"Easy, girl," he said encouragingly, "We're almost there."

He was used to his secretary's fear of flying. During the war Della had been but a teenager, but she had done her part by volunteering as a nurse's aide. Time after time she had seen pilots and crew come through the hospital as they recovered from crashes, near-misses, or injuries relating to accidents in the air. Those horror stories fueled her imagination with all the things that could happen on a flight. By the time she had come to work as a secretary, she had vowed to herself that the only forms of transportation she would consider were by vehicle, train or horseback.

So it was that the only way Perry could persuade her to make the flight was by explaining the urgent, serious nature of the present situation. Even then, he had had to make promises, both personal and professional, to coax her onboard. During the flight from Los Angeles he had tried to go over the details of the case as a means to keep her mind occupied on something other than the potential of a crash, but Della had insisted talking could alter the dynamics of the air pressure. She had actually nudged him in the ribs when he had had the audacity to yawn! It had taken until they were cruising over Texas that she had finally relented and let him brief her about New Orleans and what they needed to do upon arrival.

Now as the plane made its final adjustments, Della was breathing slowly in an effort to keep from panicking. The feeling of Perry's strong hand gave her the anchor she needed to get herself together. She ordered herself to rein in her fears, but the bump of the wheels hitting the runway, and the sudden deceleration forced her to gasp.

"See?" he teased gently, "we're safe."

Overhead the voice of the pilot said, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New Orleans. Please remain seated until the plane comes to a complete stop. Thank you."

Easing his hand from Della's, Perry flexed the fingers to restore circulation. Once he had jokingly suggested she try a stiff drink before takeoff, but she had told him it would only make her airsick. He doubted she had ever tried it before, given her penchant for avoiding flight, but he let it go. And there was the silver lining of having the pleasure of her hand in his. That, no matter the circumstances, was always a delight.

In the last remaining minutes left of the trip, he allowed his thoughts to move from holding her hand to kissing her palm. His eyes closed and he sighed as a mental picture of unbuckling her seatbelt and pulling her into his lap danced across his imagination. He could feel her soft hair as he held her, her head tucked under his cheek as he whispered words of comfort or encouragement. His heartbeat accelerated as he ever so slightly pressed his lips to the crown of her head and—

"Hey, Perry! Are you going to get off the plane?"

Paul Drake's brash voice broke into Perry's daydream. His eyes opened and his cheeks burned as he realized the plane was no longer moving. "Of course. Just gathering my thoughts."

Paul's chuckle told him the validity of his statement was questionable. Turning to look at Della, he noted that she was watching him with wide eyes. Standing, he had to bend slightly to make sure he didn't strike his head on the overhead storage. He took her hands, drawing her to her feet, and smiled reassuringly.

"We have to go, Miss Street."

She was still visibly shaken, and her face was ashen, but she forced a smile in response. He never mocked her fears, and she was determined not to let them hold her back. Swallowing the last of her anxiety, she nodded. This time, when she met his eyes and smiled, it wasn't forced.

His eyes leapt to meet something in hers before he remembered that Paul was watching.

"I'm fine now. Thank you for . . ." she shrugged, then trailed off, "well . . ."

Paul cleared his throat and moved out of the way to let the pair slide from the row of seats. Behind them Arthur Tragg waited patiently. He had shared a seat with the private detective—over his objections—and was just as eager to deplane and get onto the business at hand, but he respected Della's space and the need for delicacy.

Within five minutes they were walking through the busy airport lobby and headed toward baggage claim when Hamilton Burger, hatless and harried, strode up to the foursome. His frown was obvious. Having taken the first available flight out, he had been waiting for their arrival for two hours, and the strain was evident. His face was piqued with red spots, the freckles standing out prominently from his face. His graying ginger curls looked as though his fingers had been through them repeatedly, and his normally clear blue-gray eyes were dim with fatigue and worry. But it was his voice, filled with impatience and a lack of tact, that demonstrated just what state his nerves were in.

"There you are! Do you know how long I've been waiting? What the hell took you so long? You're the last damned people off the plane!"

Perry, who had been holding onto Della's lower arm just below the elbow, stopped walking and met his friend's gaze directly. "I realize there isn't a moment to spare, Hamilton, but if you swear like that at Della ever again, you'll be the one who goes missing. Understand?"

He flushed, then nodded. "Sorry, Della." Then without bothering to apologize to the others, he demanded, "Let's get out of here and find Mignon."

Together they took care of collecting their possessions and followed the district attorney to a waiting vehicle. Waiting until Della was settled beside him, Perry leaned forward and addressed Burger, who had taken the front passenger seat, "I want to talk to the Chief of Police before we head to the plantation."

Mignon Germain, Hamilton Burger's fiancée, was all things lovely and genteel. Where he could be bad-tempered and abrupt, she was soft and patient. Although she was certainly an independently minded woman, she never made Hamilton feel as though he were beside the point. Likewise, though much was always expected of the wife of a district attorney with political aspirations, he nevertheless made no attempt to alter her own plans or suppress her goals and dreams for the sake of his own. It was a good match, which made her disappearance four days ago that much harder to accept.

Before she left Los Angeles she had told him she was going to New Orleans to settle her family's estate and sell her ancestral plantation before their upcoming marriage. She hadn't wanted any lingering business looming over the upcoming ceremony and honeymoon trip. At first, all had been well when she had arrived. But after promising to call him in the evening that first day, he hadn't heard from her. The silence extended into the next day, and by the second evening, when she failed to contact him again, Burger took action.

Calling first Tragg and then, when the policeman explained he could only reach out to the local authorities, Burger had bitten back his pride and called Paul Drake. Within an hour of enlisting their help, Perry was brought into the picture, as well.

"There's nothing for a lawyer to do there," Hamilton had protested, but at something he saw in his friend's eyes, he had sighed and relented. "I suppose there may be legalities tied to the plantation. Or she may be detained for some reason and . . . Oh, I don't know! I guess what I'm saying is, come. Come as my attorney, with the understanding that you may have to act as hers, as well."

And so, Perry had agreed. Now they were sitting in the office of Chief of Police of St. James Parish. Captain Henri L'Heureux, a seasoned officer with an authentic, heavy accent from the area, took them through the information his officers had collected. They learned that Mignon had arranged to meet with a real estate agent at the plantation, but there was no evidence to suggest the appointment had been kept by either party. Likewise, she had secured a reservation at one of the neighboring hotels, but the staff there insisted she had not checked in. It seemed that after her first call to Hamilton letting him know she had arrived safely, no one had seen or heard from her.

Hamilton stood and began to pace the room. "She hasn't exactly been swallowed in the mists of time, Captain! No one vanishes into the bayou like this."

L'Heureux scowled. "I understand you're upset, Mr. Burger. We take the disappearance of our residents and visitors very seriously. But I think you need to remember that this is an active investigation, and you are being briefed solely as a courtesy. Now, please, sit and let me continue."

He huffed, retook his seat, but leaned forward aggressively and demanded, "So have you talked to this real estate agent? He sounds very suspicious. I think you should bring him in and let us question him."

Both Tragg and Perry laid restraining hands on his shoulders and pressed him back, but it was Della who defused the tense moment.

"Hamilton, listen to me. The captain knows his business. You are here as Mignon's fiancé, not as a district attorney. You know you can't demand to question someone! This isn't a trial, and even if it were, you would have to recuse yourself. I think you'll find that Captain L' Heureux's men are up to the task. Now, I suggest—and again, this is entirely up to the captain," she met the man's eyes briefly before focusing on Burger again, "that Paul and Arthur stay here and get as much information as they can while you, Perry and I go to the plantation."

He searched her face, then that of the man behind the desk, and nodded. By way of an apology he said, "That suits me."

The captain, impressed by how she had handled the man, smiled his thanks at Della. Directing his comment to Burger, he admitted, "We did interview the real estate agent, and his account was confirmed. There is no reason to doubt the man's veracity. However," he paused, holding up a finger, "I will give his details to Mr. Drake on the condition that any follow-up questions be done in the presence of one of my officers."

Perry watched as Hamilton's entire demeanor changed. He smiled to himself.

I would take a bet that my girl could sell ice to Eskimos. My girl. What a lovely way to think of her. My girl…

"I apologize, Captain. I'm obviously at my wit's end," Hamilton said. Then reaching out to squeeze Della's hand, he added, "And you're right, Della. I have no business interfering in police business. My only concern is to get Mignon back."

Her answering smile for Burger sent a sharp pang to Perry's heart until she turned to him and the twinkle in her eyes made it clear she sought his approval. His eyes held hers reverently, and the silent message between them was sent and received. He scooted his chair back, stood and took her arm. Her hand unconsciously covered his.

"Let's go, Hamilton."

Traveling up the long, winding drive that led to the plantation, Della marveled at the scenery around her. Live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss created a green tunnel over the road. The scent of gardenias and bougainvillea was strong enough to infiltrate the car. She could almost picture the days of the Old South in which genteel women in hoop dresses fanned themselves on the veranda while elegant gentlemen in tight riding breaches and gloves leaned over them, flirting and offering a distraction from the unrelenting heat and humidity.

Her daydream shattered in the face of reality when the car stopped in front of the rusted gates of the property. A stone arch above the wrought-iron barrier announced to all concerned that "Le Grange Bellemère" lay ahead. After their driver—an officer assigned to accompany them—pushed the gates wide and returned to the vehicle, they got their first look at Mignon's family's home. If the condition of the oaks on the ride to the property were stately, the ones on the land itself were barely hanging on. Years of erosion, disease and humidity had taken their toll. Yes, the branches were covered in moss, but somehow the effect reminded Della more of cobwebs in an old, musty cellar than a proud manor. As they approached the house itself, she noticed that the once immaculate house was now in complete disrepair. Shutters hung loose from windows caked in grime. Railings on the upper balconies were broken or missing. The paint color was hidden by dying vines that climbed the sides of the house. Whatever grass and shrubs that had graced the lawn in lush, green hues were now shriveled, brown clumps.

"So much decay," Perry breathed, voicing what she had been unable to say.

Della gave an involuntary shiver and moved closer to Perry. He drew her under his arm protectively. Something terrible has happened to Mignon. I can feel it. There's nothing of her presence here, nothing that indicates this place has seen a living creature in half a century.

"Looks like something out of a Hitchcock movie," Perry observed, tilting his head for a better look from the car window.

"Oh Perry, really."

Burger's chuckle was nervous. "No, Della, Perry's right. According to Mignon, the property has been used for several low-budget movies." He looked dubious even as he said it. "It used to amuse Mignon to see the films."

The car came to a stop at the end of the drive. The officer cut the engine, and the others piled out. Without the hum of the motor, the eerie silence was deafening. Perry looked up, then up further. The house was at least three stories, not including an attic he was sure was present.

A cold finger of dread touched his spine and he shivered. I'm letting my imagination get the better of me. It's just a rundown house. There's no need to leap to fantastic conclusions. Still, I don't know how Mignon expected to sell the house in its present condition to anyone, let alone finalize the sale before the wedding.

Perry sighed, then shook off his momentary gloom. Deliberately making his voice light, he said, "Hope you have the key, Hamilton. I don't relish breaking and entering."

Hamilton stood beside him. His countenance was gray, as though seeing the house confirmed a fear that he hadn't allowed himself to consider. Nevertheless, he shook himself into action and crossed to the large front door. Trying the handle, he found it turned easily. Looking back at Perry, he grinned.

"No breaking required. Come on in."

Perry, once again with Della's arm, followed him into the house. The officer stood with his back against the car, obviously in no hurry to revisit the house.

The inside was no better than the outside. Huge cobwebs and thick dust covered every surface. Heavy sheets were thrown over what furniture remained. Della drew in a breath, coughed, then coughed again. Perry's eyes surveyed the foyer, chronicling each and every detail and filing the information away until he had time to think about it. Burger looked around for a light switch, but failing to find one, he turned back to them and shrugged.

"Used to make movies, huh?" Della asked, one eyebrow arched. "I can't imagine any set designer or production manager green-lighting this place for filming. The dust alone is enough to make a man!"

Perry saw Burger bend to examine footprints on the dusty floor of the entryway, indicating where someone had recently trod. The attorney's head came up and his eyes were bright with excitement. "These look like feminine prints, most likely Mignon's. The larger prints must have been the real estate agent."

Perry offered him a smile of encouragement. "Okay, but remember, we don't know that. There's no telling when those prints were left." He felt Della look at him in admonishment and lightened his tone. "Hamilton, I'll take the upstairs if you want to keep looking down here."

Della started to follow him, but he shook his head. Reading the unease in her expression, he squeezed her hand and smiled. "It's okay, Della. Why don't you wait for us here? No need for you to risk your heels."

She smiled back and nodded. Perry always seemed to understand exactly what she was thinking and feeling. It's one of the things she loved about him.

That's one of the things I love about him, she told herself. Then as she realized what she had thought, she stood still, marveling at herself. I can't believe that thought just entered my mind! Perry's my boss, nothing more. Besides, we're good friends. It's only natural to love something about your friends. It doesn't signify one single thing. You aren't in love with the man. As if to refute that assertion, her face flushed with a lovely shade of pink. Annoyed with herself, she demanded, Oh, for heaven's sake, get a grip, girl!

As the two men headed off in different directions, she turned slowly, taking in her surroundings. She stopped when she saw a shaft of sunlight streaming into a large room off to the left of the foyer. Moving carefully, she entered the room. Wood-paneled walls with built-in bookcases indicated it was at one time used as a library. Walking slowly, she approached the source of the sunlight. A broken window was partially obscured by a grimy curtain. Gingerly shifting it, Della secured the curtain, allowing more light to filter in.

A second, more detailed survey of the room confirmed her first guess: this was indeed a library. Although the shelves were bereft of books, she could see marks from how the dust settled that they once filled the space. There was a large, impressive fireplace on one wall, but from what she knew about the region, she had serious doubts a fire had been laid in it in this century. There was a spiral staircase on one side of the fireplace that allowed the reader access to the upper shelves. Judging from the condition of the rest of the house, Della had no plans to ascend the stairs.

She was so consumed with the details in the room that she hadn't taken in the one remaining possession of any value until she stepped back and the sunbeams revealed a massive oil painting above the mantle. Despite the natural light, it was too dark to make out the image.

This is ridiculous! This place has to have electricity. Hamilton made it sound like Mignon spent quality time here as a child. There is no way she planned to sell this place without it, indoor plumbing, and . . .

A quick search only yielded a hurricane lamp set on a windowsill. With a sigh of frustration, she rummaged in her purse and produced the book of matches she kept handy for her boss. Quickly lighting the lamp, she adjusted the wick until she deemed the lighting good enough.

"I guess that will have to do," she muttered under her breath, the clapped her free hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

It was a portrait. The woman depicted wore the clothing of the mid-1800's, her dark, possibly black hair neatly coiffed and adorned with roses. The eyes staring back at her had an unusual, almost living quality about them. Not brown, but not green, either. But it was the face as a whole…

She lowered the lamp to the floor, mesmerized and drawn to the painting. So absorbed was she that she failed to hear both Perry and Burger crash into the room. The scream Della thought she had muffled had obviously reverberated through the house.

Both men rushed into the room, stopping short when they saw Della standing transfixed, clearly unharmed. A moment later the front door opened and the officer stood in the doorway, confusion etched on his face.

Perry reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder, causing her to jump and release another scream.

"Della," he breathed, "it's only me."

Hamilton took the lamp, edging closer to the portrait. "I don't believe it."

"What?" both Perry and the officer asked at the same time, but it was the former who moved to stand next to his friend.

Looking up at the portrait, Perry took in the figure and once again felt a sinister chill take possession of his spine. The face…

My God! That face I know as well as my own. "How is that possible?" Della Street, caught by the artist in a time long since passed, stared down at him. He looked over at his Della in awe.

The officer came to stand beside the others, looking from the portrait to the girl and back again. "Are you sure this is your first time in New Orleans, ma'am?"

But Della, unable to find her voice, crumpled to the dusty floor.