Part 36 (1/2)
”Wow. She really does look like you, cher.” His accent was both Southern and foreign. His skin was the shade of summer sand, his hair as black as Raye's. Both those things only made his eyes s.h.i.+ne more blue.
”This is Bobby Doucet,” Raye said.
I nodded, smiled. He did too.
”You spoke to your parents?”
”Yeah.”
”You were adopted?”
”No.”
Now she bobbled her tray. If this continued, there wouldn't be any coffee left, though neither of them had spilled a drop from what I could see. Magic or luck?
”That's impossible,” Raye said.
”Not really.”
I hadn't been adopted, I'd been ... subst.i.tuted. Quickly I explained all I'd learned.
Raye glanced at her fiance. ”That explains why you didn't find any record of another abandoned baby in the area.”
”You're a New Orleans detective?”
”I was. I accepted the job of chief of police in New Bergin when the last chief retired recently.”
”Convenient.”
”The town hadn't had a murder in eons. Chief Johnson wasn't equipped to handle several in a week.”
”Who is?”
”Me,” Bobby said. ”New Orleans isn't exactly a murder-free zone.”
”You'd know.” I didn't. The farthest away I'd ever been-unless I counted Scotland-was Milwaukee. Also not a murder-free zone, though probably not as hopping in that area-or any other-as New Orleans.
”Your parents' story explains why there was no mention of your being found,” Bobby said. ”But where is your other sister?”
”Don't ask me. I'm still getting used to her.” I pointed at Raye. ”You mentioned you found me by magic. How'd that work?”
”I cast a spell to find Henry once, saw you. He filled me in on the rest.”
”Couldn't you do the same to find her?”
”I tried, but I got nothing. Maybe the two of us together-”
”We have murderers to catch first,” Bobby interrupted.
”Homicide cops,” Raye said. ”Always about the murders.”
”We're funny that way.”
My lips twitched. I liked him. I liked her. I felt like I'd known them both a lot longer than I had.
”Want some coffee?” Bobby asked.
”G.o.d, yes.”
”We've got extras. Join us.”
”Eight cups for two people?”
”A few more than two,” he said.
The door opened without either one of them touching it, and for an instant I thought Raye had done it-she'd opened mine-then I caught sight of three figures inside.
”It's time you met the gang,” Raye said.
”I don't-” I suddenly took several quick steps forward, as if pushed or pulled, over the threshold and into the room. I hadn't meant to.
”Raye.” Bobby shut the door.
”Sorry.” I didn't know if she was talking to him or to me. ”This is my sister, Becca.” She set her tray of coffee on the dresser.
A tall man, with salt-and-pepper hair and a dark, crisp suit, led with his hand. ”I'm Nic Franklin.”
”FBI,” Raye said. ”Though I'm sure you could tell.”
I shook his hand. ”Why would I be able to tell?”
”No one dresses like that on purpose,” said the tiny woman just behind. If not for the white streak in her dark hair, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes I'd have thought she was a teenager.
”I'm Ca.s.sandra,” she said.
”Are you in the FBI too?”
”I'm a voodoo priestess.”
I laughed. No one else did.
”Anyone want to explain why we need a voodoo priestess?” I glanced at Ca.s.sandra. ”No offense.”
”None taken. I'm a witch expert.”
”Sure you are.”