Voodoo, Lies, and Murder Read online

  Uh-oh. Alarm bells clanging. A secret story? "And the police haven't managed to find any clues about what happened to Liza?"

  Nicole leaned forward in the chair and clutched my arm again with amazing strength. "No. Please don't let Chantal and Liza end up as some empty file on the police's cold case list." Her brown eyes darkened with emotion. "You have to find them."

  "I'll do everything I can to find them, I promise," I reassured her again.

  She finally released her grip and nodded. "I'm willing to offer you a one-million-pound bonus if you find her, or find out what happened to her. I don't want to be like Liza's parents, living in limbo, not knowing what's happened to their little girl. I need to know the truth."

  "A reward isn't necessary," I started, but she cut me off with a raised hand.

  "What good is money to me if my daughter is missing?" She laughed, but there was no joy in it. "The police couldn't find out what happened to Liza. I don't want it to be the same with Chantal. You're the only one who can help me find her, I just know it."

  I nodded. "I understand you're a well-respected voodoo mambo. Can you explain how that works?" I asked. "It may have a bearing on what's happened to Chantal."

  Her eyebrows raised in surprise for a moment. "You've done your research already."

  I smiled. "It's my job."

  "Plus, I told her about your psychic TV show," Tia piped up. "And Hacker's from Haiti so he knew about—"

  I glared at Tia to shut her up.

  Tia bit her lip and clamped her mouth shut.

  "It's true, I am a mambo, but voodoo is not sinister or disturbing like it's portrayed in the movies. It's actually very misunderstood. We worship spirits like any other religion. And these spirits guide us in the physical journey of life. Voodoo is much like Christianity, in that we both believe one god created the earth. But since we cannot communicate directly with our god we must communicate through lesser spirits we call loa. Not all loa are good, of course. If a certain loa is treated with disrespect or ignored, they can inflict illness or pain or cause bad things to happen. This is why we must keep the spirits happy, to stop bad things happening in the world. As a mambo, I use my power for good. I perform rituals, spells, potions, and healing for people so the spirits will guide and protect them. I hold religious ceremonies to invoke the spirits. And, as in my TV show, I let the spirits possess me so they can pass over messages or guidance to their loved ones. In voodoo, death is a substantial part of the religion, which is why it may be so misunderstood. We communicate with the spirits of our dead ancestors or leaders, too, for comfort and guidance. We believe signs of death shouldn't be feared but cherished for the protection they give us, and we want to honor them." She paused. "We have many different spirits that control the universe. Spirits for love, war, healing, rivers, agriculture, forests, everything."

  "Is there much call for a voodoo priestess in the UK?" I asked her skeptically. I mean, obviously Nicole wasn't short of a few quid, but was that from her husband's money or hers? Tia had said her TV show had been top of the ratings a few years ago.

  "Around sixty million people in the world practice voodoo. Obviously, the United Kingdom is a melting pot of cultures, so there are voodoo worshippers here. But most of my clients don't necessarily believe in voodoo, they believe in healing and protection, and that is what I give them, along with advice about love, relationships, health, work—anything that affects people's daily lives. I also do voodoo readings to predict the future with spirit guidance, and I connect with people's dead ancestors for them. I have some very high-profile clients."

  "It's not that different from people having their tarot cards read and seeing a medium," Tia said to me. "And look how many people do that."

  Okay, yes, she had a good point. "But what about left-handed voodoo or black magic?"

  "I don't practice that." She shook her head hard, her eyes darkening with emotion.

  "I know that, but your sister Marie does, doesn't she?" I asked.

  Nicole's forehead crinkled with despair. "Do you think Chantal's disappearance has something to do with Marie?"

  Definitely no Botox going on.

  "I don't know yet, but I have to look at every possible angle."

  "I haven't spoken to Marie for about twenty-six years because she decided to use her powers for evil instead of good." She leaned forward in her chair. "I met James before he started his business. He was taking a year off to travel the world after he finished university. He's always been fascinated by different cultures, and when he came to Haiti, he was interested in the voodoo religion and the role of high priestesses. Because Marie and I were the most sought-after mambos, he wanted to meet us, and…well, it was a whirlwind romance, and the rest is history. We fell in love, I moved here, and we got married. Marie and I were always close, so when I left Haiti, we missed each other, and she decided to start a new life here as well. She met a man and had a brief fling and a son. Both of us carried on with our mambo rituals here, but she became tempted by the bad things that left-handed voodoo could give her—money and power. When she became involved in the darker side of our religion, I couldn't bear to have anything to do with her." Nicole sighed. "I know the evil things left-handed voodoo can do, and I didn't want any part of it. I cut off all ties with her back then, which was just before Chantal was born. Marie never even met Chantal so I can't see how she has anything to do with this." Her voice came out forceful.

  "I will still need to speak to her," I said, not exactly relishing the thought. I was too young to be turned into a zombie. Plus, I was supposed to be getting married at some point in the future and I had my eye on a dress. A sexy little Vera Wang number wouldn't exactly go with gray, flaky skin and yellow teeth, would it? "I really need to question all family members when someone disappears."

  "I don't even know where Marie is."

  "I'm sure we'll be able to track her down," I said. "Do you have a list of Chantal's friends? I'll need to talk to them, too."

  Nicole rose from the chair as if she were balancing a book on top of her head. She moved elegantly, like a dancer. "I already drew up a list for the police." She went to a small bureau in the corner of the room, retrieved a piece of paper, and handed it to me.

  I scanned the list. "Did she have a boyfriend?"

  Nicole nodded to the list. "Steven Shaw. His name is down there. They used to go to school together and were childhood sweethearts, but after Liza went missing, Chantal broke it off with him. They were still friends, but I got the impression he wasn't happy about the situation. He still texted her and sent her gifts, and he was trying his hardest to get her to change her mind and come back to him."

  Could it be a crime of passion? Jilted lover kills ex? I'd just have to find out. "Is your husband here? I'll need to talk to him, too."

  "He should be here soon. He had some things at the office that needed his urgent attention."

  "Do you have a photo of Chantal?"

  "Of course, how silly of me." She shook her head softly to herself, trying to keep her composure as she rose to her feet again. She walked with purposeful steps toward a fireplace. Above were several pictures in ornate frames. As if in slow motion, she reached out to touch one, delicately stroking the face of a young woman. She picked it up and clasped it to her chest, walking back to us. Handing it to me, her eyes filled with unshed tears.

  Chantal was stunningly beautiful. A mixture of black heritage from her mum and white from her dad. She had long, thick curls and the same almond-shaped eyes as Nicole, but lighter brown, full lips and cheekbones to die for. She could've been a model.

  "What else can I do to help?" With delicate fingers, Nicole wiped away the tears that snaked her cheeks.

  "I need to have a look at her bedroom here. And if I could have a key to her apartment, I'd like to check there, too."

  "Of course. But the police already checked and they didn't find anything that could help."

  "They may have overlooked something." I'd been a polic
e officer for seventeen years; I knew things often got missed. Plus, if the police weren't convinced she'd really gone missing and not just run away of her own accord, it was likely they didn't do a very thorough search.

  "Follow me." Nicole rose and she guided us back through the hallway to a stairway with an ornate banister. Upstairs, we passed more closed doorways until we got to one at the end of a corridor. God, the place was huge. Did they really need so much space for just Nicole, James, and Chantal? It seemed kind of lonely to me. I liked cozy with a hint of clutter. Okay, more than a hint, but I liked to have my stuff around me. Stuff was good, although since Brad was such a neat freak, I was trying to be more clutter-free since moving in with him. Was this house more of a status symbol? Big developer equals big house. Maybe he had short-man syndrome and was trying to make up for it.

  Nicole paused and took a deep breath. "I won't go in with you. I keep expecting to see her there, and I can't stand it. I'll wait downstairs." She retraced her steps, leaving us to it.

  With the eerie voodoo conversation reverberating in my head, I half expected to walk in and find Chantal there, too. No such luck. Although I could smell a hint of perfume in the air.

  Chantal was either a neat freak, too, or the maid had won the National Dusting and Tidying Championships. The police wouldn't have left it this tidy after searching it, so I was guessing the maid had put everything back in the same position as Chantal would've left it. The double bed had a gold satin duvet cover on it with perfectly plumped pillows. More scatter pillows in dark brown satin covered the bed, along with a tatty white teddy bear that looked old and worn, and was probably a much-loved toy in Chantal's childhood. Heavy dark brown velvet curtains were open at the window that led onto a balcony, overlooking the well-cared-for gardens. A large white dressing table with gold edging sat in an alcove on the other side of the room. One wall housed floor-to-ceiling cupboards. Lots of them. Cupboard heaven.

  "Awesome room," Tia said, opening one of the cupboard doors.

  Chantal had more clothes than Tia, which was saying something, since Tia's dad was always giving her his latest creations. Still, at least Chantal's clothes were more of the non-glaringly bright variety. If she had this many clothes here, even though she'd only moved back a few months ago, how many did she have in her apartment?

  I wandered into an en suite bathroom. Brown fluffy towels, spotlessly clean and unused. A variety of normal girlie stuff—makeup, tweezers, moisturizer, expensive soap, a bottle of perfume. I took the lid off and sniffed. Yep, it was the same brand I'd smelled in the bedroom. While Tia looked around, I rummaged in a cupboard under the sink. Nothing interesting in there. Nothing that screamed CLUE in loud neon. No map with an X to mark the spot where Chantal was. And no smoking guns to make my job easier.

  Big fat bummer.

  It seemed like Chantal had a fairytale upbringing. Privileged, not wanting for anything, possibly spoilt. What had happened to her? Had she run away? That seemed out of character for her. Been kidnapped? And if so, why? For a ransom? Nicole hadn't mentioned anyone contacting them for money. Abduction for some other, more sinister reason? Possibly.

  "What am I looking for?" Tia asked.

  "I don't know." I shut the cupboard door and headed back to the bedroom.

  "Well, how can we find it if we don't know what we're looking for?" Tia's eyebrows knitted together.

  "We don't know what might be important until we find something."

  Tia scratched her head, frowning, as she opened the drawers on the dressing table, and I went to work on the cupboards, going through pockets, handbags, and boxes of shoes. "Make sure you look underneath and behind the drawers. There may be something hidden."

  "Ooh, what about this?" Tia swung around to me, a snow globe in her hand. "I used to have one of these when I was a kid."

  Bless her. She meant well, but I'd never make an investigator out of her. I'd have to double-check the drawers when she'd finished, just in case. "That's just a snow globe."

  "Omigod!" Tia exclaimed. "I'm getting a feeling about Chantal."

  "What sort of feeling are you getting?" I raised an eyebrow. When I was looking for her dad, Tia had a weird feeling he was being held hostage in a pasta shop. While the shop part wasn't true, there was a pasta connection—only it didn't really help me much in tracing him. What would she come up with this time? A bubblegum factory?

  Tia closed her eyes, holding the snow globe to her chest. "I'm just getting this feeling that she's alive." Her lids flew open again and she smiled.

  "Well, I'm glad about that, but maybe you shouldn't mention it to Nicole just yet, in case it gets her hopes up." I turned my attention back to the cupboards, running my hands along the top shelves.

  Nothing hidden. Damn.

  I glanced around the room.

  "You don't believe me, do you?" Tia said, a hurt expression settling on her face.

  "I do believe you," I fibbed. I didn't want to hurt her feelings, and what was a little white lie between friends?

  "Don't."

  "Do."

  "Don't."

  "D—" My gaze hit the teddy bear on the bed. The rest of the room was in keeping with a mature young woman—elegant, tidy, modern, expensive. But the bear was tattered and old. Its fur had once been soft and thick and now it was balding and worn. One of its ears was practically falling off, and it was a grubby shade of brown. I glanced around the room. There were no other childhood mementoes here, so why had Chantal kept the bear around?

  I strode toward the bed and picked it up. I squeezed it. The stuffing had been squashed over the years so it felt lumpy and was out of shape.

  I turned the bear over and found a zip underneath its round tail.

  Undoing the zip, I reached my hand in.

  There was something inside.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "What is it?" Tia peered over my shoulder.

  My hand connected with some paper and cardboard inside the teddy bear. I pulled them out onto the bed and sat down.

  The first thing that caught my eye was a pregnancy test box—the kind that holds two plastic wands. I opened it up. There was only one tester left in the box.

  There was a business card that read Dr. Andrew Scott—Second Chance Clinic with an address and phone number. On the back of the card, two words were scrawled in black biro: Holbrook Clinic.

  The last item was a folded-up note, written in different handwriting to the words on the back of the card:

  Chantal

  I am extremely sorry you won't return my calls. That night was never a mistake for me, you have to believe me. I've loved you for a long time, and I will continue to love you, no matter what.

  I promise I will not pressure you into anything. I am here for you when you need me.

  Lovingly yours

  X

  "Nicole said Chantal had broken it off with her boyfriend, Steven." I re-read the letter. "They went to school together so they would've been around the same age, but this letter doesn't sound like the kind of love letter a young guy would write."

  "No. This definitely reads like it's from an older guy."

  "And as far as Nicole knew, Chantal wasn't seeing anyone else. It sounds like this night the letter refers to was a one-night stand. So, what? She gets pregnant and runs off to have an abortion?" I asked, more to myself than Tia. "And if so, why hasn't she come back?" A horrible thought popped into my head. Had something bad happened to her during a termination?

  "Omigod." Tia's eyes widened, then she shook her head. "No, I'm definitely getting the feeling she's alive."

  "I hope to God you're right." I stuffed the pregnancy test, note, and business card in a plastic bag and popped it into my rucksack, and we finished searching the room. When nothing else of value turned up, we descended the stairs and met the maid on her way up.

  She avoided our gaze, nodding at us but glancing down at the carpet as she tried to scurry past.

  "Excuse me," I said.

  She sto
pped, back rigid.

  "How long have you worked for Nicole and James?"

  She glanced up at me. "Five years."

  She looked like she was almost the same age as Chantal. Did they share secrets? "Were you close to Chantal?" I asked.

  "Not really," she whispered. "I mean, we spoke to each other, of course. She was always polite to me, but we were not friends. I am just the employee, I know my place." She chewed on her lower lip, eyes darting around the hallway.

  "So Chantal didn't confide anything in you? Anything that might help us find her?" I asked.

  She shook her head, lip biting getting more pronounced.

  Now, I don't want to blow my own trumpet, but over the years I've become a bit of an expert on body language. Especially when people are lying. There are a million little hints that give it away. Some of them are involuntary reflexes that people aren't even aware of—tiny movements that the untrained eye wouldn't notice. While I was pretty sure she wasn't actually lying, I was convinced she knew something.

  "And you never found anything in her room that was odd? Anything that could help me find her?"

  Another shake of her head.

  "Was Chantal acting strangely before she disappeared?" I asked.

  "Well, she had been very depressed because of her friend disappearing. Sometimes she would not talk for days. Lately, she had been saying that she was going to find out what happened to Liza because the police could not come up with anything."

  I noted her French accent again. "Are you from Haiti, like Nicole?"

  "Yes." She jutted out her chin with pride.

  "Is James Langton here yet?" I asked.

  "Yes, I will take you to him." She rushed back down the stairs as if she were happy for the reprieve from my questions.

  Back in the same room as earlier, Nicole was sitting by the window, staring out into the expanse of lawn, wiping her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.

  James Langton sat opposite her, legs crossed, a crystal tumbler of what looked like scotch in his hand.