Part 17 (2/2)
At the moment it was definitely worse.
She stepped through the doorway, her patterned gown swirling around her ankles, then turned to fix a pointed gaze on the man who'd neither moved nor responded. ”Our neighbor doesn't understand the sort of force he's up against here, husband of mine.” But he will. Oh, he will! Her days of pleasing and appeasing were over. She'd finally learned that whatever she wanted she had to get for herself.
Jasmine was on the phone moments later. ”You still have the ear of that parish official who oversees real estate, do you not?” She heard the man at the other end of the line grunt his affirmative answer. ”Good. Here's what I need you and Henri to do for me.” She outlined her simple but foolproof plan-when Abe was involved, it had to be foolproof.
”I need the deed to Nate Booth's house and a duplicate set of papers prepared for me to sign.” With Abe's forged signature, naturally. The less the man knew, the faster things went. ”Once the new deed is back in the proper file drawer at the courthouse, we'll put a t.i.tle search in motion, and the rest is...ah, beignets and cafe au lait, no?” She laughed, imagining the look on her neighbor's face when he sat in the street, evicted from his own home. ”Very good then,” she sang out. ”Keep me informed, as always.”
Dropping the receiver in place, she breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Mambo Jasmine might not be welcome among any of the social clubs of New Orleans, but she had connections of her own that served her well. Her circle of friends didn't organize fancy b.a.l.l.s with royal courts like the krewes did, but her people had push, pull, and a dagger or two well-hidden in their vests.
Within days the papers were in her hands, perfect duplicates of the originals, requiring only Abe's signature to seal the fate of the blue stucco house and its current occupant. She tested her fountain pen on sc.r.a.p paper first, perfecting the scrawl that would spell out Abe Kingsbury-and Nate's doom.
Her hand moved across the paper in swift strokes. There. Only those with a trained eye would notice a difference. And if they did, nothing would be said. They'd be too afraid to challenge the Queen of the Quarter over something as trivial as a man's inheritance.
Capping the pen with an exaggerated sweep of her hands, Jasmine gazed out the balcony window and imagined the tropical beauties she would soon press into the fertile soil of their newly acquired garden. ”She's her father's daughter,” people in the Quarter often said. Jasmine rewarded herself with a broad smile. High praise indeed.
Abe took one step through the stucco archway and smiled until his sunbaked face ached. What a woman! He didn't know how Jasmine had managed it-didn't want to know, really-but the house was his, every square foot of it. He moved quickly through the rooms, his eyes scanning the walls that needed painting, the floors that begged for sanding before the veve-a pattern of cornmeal for the Loa-could be spread on the floor to prepare for the rituals.
Plenty of time for that later. Right now it was the garden he wanted to see. He strolled out of the darkened house and into the late afternoon sun which bathed the courtyard in a golden haze of light and shadows. Jasmine was right, as always-the plantings were in a sorry state. But, with a little fertilizer, a little coaxing, the garden had potential.
He settled on a stone bench, avoiding a damp patch of moss, and surveyed the enclosed s.p.a.ce: a mosaic of brick wrapped around kidney-shaped garden plots, surrounded by four stucco walls two stories high. Jasmine would want exotic flowers and herbs; he'd want greenery and vegetables. He ran his hands through his thinning hair and sighed. It'll be flowers then. Hadn't he accepted his role in their marriage years ago?
”What did you do to Nate Booth, Mr. Kingsbury?”
Abe abruptly rose to his feet, startled not only by an unexpected visitor but by the man's disturbing question, whoever he was. His eyes searched the dim corners of the courtyard as his words came out in a croak. ”Who's there?”
”Didn't you hear? Nate killed himself.” The voice came from the entrance to the house.
Abe swung that direction in time to see a man he knew only as Eddie sauntering toward him. Abe relaxed, the tension in his shoulders already gone. Eddie was a loose cannon but hardly a serious threat. He was a street preacher, routinely dressed in drab clothes and toting a Bible. The Vieux Carre was his parish, a vendor's cart his pulpit, as he preached to the shuffling crowds of tourists and locals. ”Wors.h.i.+p the one true G.o.d!” Eddie called out endlessly to all who would listen. The list was short.
The man was not only crazy, Abe decided; he was uninformed. There were hundreds of spirits, not one. Agwe, the spirit of the sea, and Erinle, the spirit of the forests, and Dambala, the serpent spirit. One G.o.d, one spirit? Ludicrous.
Abe regarded him with thinly veiled contempt. ”What are you babbling about today, preacher man?”
Eddie stood before him, a small fellow with a wiry build and piercing blue eyes. ”Nate Booth was found swinging from a short rope attached to one of your balconies over on Toulouse.”
”What has that to do with me?” Abe maintained a calm expression but felt his stomach tightening. Jasmine had never mentioned murder. ”You say he killed himself? That's hardly my affair then, is it?”
Eddie's eyes narrowed. ”This is what the Lord says: 'Have you not murdered a man and seized his property?'”
”No, I have not.” Abe's protest sounded meager, even to him. True, he hadn't killed Nate, but however Jasmine had acquired the property, it had clearly put the former homeowner over the edge. ”Suicide isn't murder, not in any court of law.”
”In the eyes of G.o.d you've sinned, Abe.”
”Your G.o.d, Eddie.”
Eddie's expression softened. ”He was your G.o.d once, Abe. Before you sold yourself to that daughter of the devil.”
Abe knew he should strike the man down for such blasphemy, but his hands stayed by his side. Maybe it was cowardice, but Abe feared it was worse than that. It could be the man spoke the truth.
Clearing his throat, Abe did his best to sound threatening. ”I'll not have you speak ill of my wife, preacher.”
”The Word of the Lord has already spoken concerning her. 'Dogs will devour her.' Prepare yourself, man, for you will not be spared either.”
Abe felt as if a knife had plunged into his chest, so pierced was he by the prophecy of the man of G.o.d. Yes, his own G.o.d once, before Jasmine became Queen of the Quarter and dragged him into her sacred voodoo-hoodoo nonsense.
No. That wasn't true. He wasn't dragged. He went willingly, eagerly, abandoning all-powerful Jehovah G.o.d for a powerful woman and her plethora of spirits. The truth forced the knife in further, twisting it until Abe found himself slumped over the stone bench, hot tears stinging his eyes. He tore at his s.h.i.+rt, as if to relieve the pain in his chest. ”Forgive me, G.o.d. Please...forgive me!”
He looked up, hoping to find compa.s.sion, even absolution, in Eddie's eyes. But the man was gone, the courtyard silent except for his own tortured groaning.
Mambo Jasmine had the best seat in the house.
Within minutes the first of many Mardi Gras parades would flow beneath her balcony, where she'd carefully positioned herself on the brick corner support.
”Jean-Paul, a fresh gla.s.s of mint tea. Quickly.” She heard her servant's footsteps echoing through the house and smiled. Born to give orders, Abe had always said. Poor Abe. Gone years ago. Killed when his carriage ride through the Quarter turned into a deadly encounter with a vanload of sightseers. Her sons had filled their father's shoes, with mixed results. She still held the purse strings, still called the shots. Abe's dying words about watching her back had almost faded from memory, haunting her only in the predawn darkness of their lonely bedroom.
Jasmine straightened at the wail of a saxophone and a m.u.f.fled drumbeat. The musicians were warming up mere blocks away. She offered a regal nod to the familiar faces strolling the street below, their admiring eyes turned upward, obviously pleased with her attire. She'd dressed for public display in her finest silks of vibrant hues, had taken special care with her makeup, and piled her hair on her head with jeweled combs that sparkled in the evening twilight.
The life of a queen brought with it certain expectations, did it not?
Jean-Paul appeared on the balcony, a tall gla.s.s of iced tea in hand. His brief nod as he handed it to her was servile enough, but she caught a flicker of disdain in his eyes as he took his place behind her. Something would have to be done about him. Servants with att.i.tude problems simply would not do.
Jasmine craned her neck as the parade rounded the corner, filling the narrow street with a cacophony of music, colorful costumes, and exuberant dancing. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched two more servants join Jean-Paul on the balcony. No point fussing at them for laziness when they surely wouldn't hear her. The drums were deafening, their rhythm primitive, sending the masked dancers swirling like dervishes. A small pack of dogs nipped at the mummers' heels, snarling and barking in the noise and confusion below.
Suddenly a familiar face appeared among the revelers-a city official, and not a friendly one. Jasmine fixed a chilly stare on him, knowing her heavily lined eyes would emphasize her displeasure. He looked up at her, his own gaze filled with scorn, as she leaned forward to offer him a caustic greeting, raising her voice so the words would drown out the incessant barking beneath her...
She's Got Big, Bad, Bette Davis Eyes: Jezebel
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