Wild Man's Curse (Wilds of the Bayou #1) by Susannah Sandlin Page B
Authors: Susannah Sandlin
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deputies.”
She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice cracked. “Please.”
So he told her, beginning with when he noticed the boat and, later, heard the thud. “Maybe if I’d checked here straightaway instead of stopping the poacher . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to. He’d been saying that sentence to himself ever since that morning.
“Don’t,” Ceelie said. “If you hadn’t taken the time to stop by, no telling when anyone would’ve found her.”
She peppered them with questions for more than a half hour. She wiped away tears a couple of times, but never lost control. Her demeanor was forthright and plainspoken, but never aggressive. She reminded Gentry of her great-aunt, at least in the few conversations he’d had with Eva. Ceelie’s forthrightness must not have set well with the TPSO detectives if they’d labeled her as temperamental—or maybe she’d just had time to calm down.
“I have one more thing to ask,” she said, fingering the patched spread on the bed. “Tell me about the table and what it looked like that morning—the small one beneath the window.”
Gentry blinked. After the money on the counter, that table had been the next-oddest thing about the crime scene. Funny that she would home in on that.
He shifted to look at it, remembering how it had looked about this time five days ago. “The main thing I remember about the table was that it didn’t appear to have been touched. It was one of the few places that hadn’t been disturbed. Everything else was . . .” Hell, she knew what it was.
“A bloody mess, I know.” Ceelie’s storm-cloud eyes seemed to almost glow from the darkened corner where the bed sat. Gentry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone quite so striking. He’d like to just sit and look at her, which was . . . pathetic. “What was on the table?”
Gentry glanced again at the small piece of furniture. “The two wide candles were on there, although they were farther apart, at opposite corners of the table. They were both lit.”
“And there was a pile of sticks on the table,” Jena added.
Ceelie nodded. “Not sticks. Bones.”
Gentry jerked his gaze from the table back to Ceelie. “What kind of bones? So your aunt really was a, uh, practitioner?”
Ceelie smiled, but Gentry thought it was more ironic than amused. “Chicken bones. And do you mean was Tante Eva really a voodoo queen? Or did she follow the ways of the native mystics? Don’t worry—I’ve heard the stories. Maybe so. I don’t know what a voodoo queen is, really. Do you?”
Gentry opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut and shook his head. He didn’t know a damned thing about voodoo or mysticism except that it was creepy and there was more of it out here in the dark corners of the parish than most people thought. His were a superstitious people. And their superstitions and beliefs weren’t the type of “spells” and paraphernalia tourists bought at shops in New Orleans.
“I do know she believed in some of it,” Ceelie said. “Maybe more than some. Anyway, do you remember anything else about the table?”
Gentry walked over to it and looked down. It was a small wooden rectangle with simple, straight legs attached by what looked like hand-cut dovetail joints. Which meant it was old and probably twice as strong as most of the pressboard crap being made today.
He studied the items on the table. “This piece of leather or hide was underneath the candles and bones that morning, placed just like it is now. The bones were in the middle, and the candles at two corners. There was no blood on the table, which is what struck me as odd. I don’t remember anything else.” He looked at Jena. “You?”
“No. Why is the table important, Ms. Savoie—Ceelie?”
She shook her head. “I just thought it was weird that the table hadn’t been disturbed when everything else in the room had been dumped out or torn apart. Seemed like my aunt’s
She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice cracked. “Please.”
So he told her, beginning with when he noticed the boat and, later, heard the thud. “Maybe if I’d checked here straightaway instead of stopping the poacher . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to. He’d been saying that sentence to himself ever since that morning.
“Don’t,” Ceelie said. “If you hadn’t taken the time to stop by, no telling when anyone would’ve found her.”
She peppered them with questions for more than a half hour. She wiped away tears a couple of times, but never lost control. Her demeanor was forthright and plainspoken, but never aggressive. She reminded Gentry of her great-aunt, at least in the few conversations he’d had with Eva. Ceelie’s forthrightness must not have set well with the TPSO detectives if they’d labeled her as temperamental—or maybe she’d just had time to calm down.
“I have one more thing to ask,” she said, fingering the patched spread on the bed. “Tell me about the table and what it looked like that morning—the small one beneath the window.”
Gentry blinked. After the money on the counter, that table had been the next-oddest thing about the crime scene. Funny that she would home in on that.
He shifted to look at it, remembering how it had looked about this time five days ago. “The main thing I remember about the table was that it didn’t appear to have been touched. It was one of the few places that hadn’t been disturbed. Everything else was . . .” Hell, she knew what it was.
“A bloody mess, I know.” Ceelie’s storm-cloud eyes seemed to almost glow from the darkened corner where the bed sat. Gentry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone quite so striking. He’d like to just sit and look at her, which was . . . pathetic. “What was on the table?”
Gentry glanced again at the small piece of furniture. “The two wide candles were on there, although they were farther apart, at opposite corners of the table. They were both lit.”
“And there was a pile of sticks on the table,” Jena added.
Ceelie nodded. “Not sticks. Bones.”
Gentry jerked his gaze from the table back to Ceelie. “What kind of bones? So your aunt really was a, uh, practitioner?”
Ceelie smiled, but Gentry thought it was more ironic than amused. “Chicken bones. And do you mean was Tante Eva really a voodoo queen? Or did she follow the ways of the native mystics? Don’t worry—I’ve heard the stories. Maybe so. I don’t know what a voodoo queen is, really. Do you?”
Gentry opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut and shook his head. He didn’t know a damned thing about voodoo or mysticism except that it was creepy and there was more of it out here in the dark corners of the parish than most people thought. His were a superstitious people. And their superstitions and beliefs weren’t the type of “spells” and paraphernalia tourists bought at shops in New Orleans.
“I do know she believed in some of it,” Ceelie said. “Maybe more than some. Anyway, do you remember anything else about the table?”
Gentry walked over to it and looked down. It was a small wooden rectangle with simple, straight legs attached by what looked like hand-cut dovetail joints. Which meant it was old and probably twice as strong as most of the pressboard crap being made today.
He studied the items on the table. “This piece of leather or hide was underneath the candles and bones that morning, placed just like it is now. The bones were in the middle, and the candles at two corners. There was no blood on the table, which is what struck me as odd. I don’t remember anything else.” He looked at Jena. “You?”
“No. Why is the table important, Ms. Savoie—Ceelie?”
She shook her head. “I just thought it was weird that the table hadn’t been disturbed when everything else in the room had been dumped out or torn apart. Seemed like my aunt’s
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