The Prophet (Graveyard Queen) Read online

  “And sometimes I hear her in my head. I think she can’t move on because her father won’t let her go.”

  “That makes sense. I saw them together a few times. They were very close.”

  “Her mother was trapped in the car, too, but I doubt she’s ready to move on. She has John right where she wants him.”

  “That sounds like Mariama,” he said, his gaze still on the horizon.

  The sound of her name startled me, and I turned to stare at his profile. “You knew her?”

  “We grew up together,” he said, in that strangely hollow voice.

  “Were you friends?”

  “Friends? Hardly… .”

  “Lovers?”

  “Every man who crossed Mariama’s path loved her.”

  “Including you?”

  “For a time. Then I moved to Charleston and discovered that the world didn’t revolve around Mariama Goodwine.”

  “How did she take that revelation?”

  “Not well.”

  “Are you the reason she came to Charleston?”

  “She came because she saw an opportunity and seized it. A man named Rupert Shaw offered to finance her education.”

  “I know Dr. Shaw. He’s a friend of mine.” Fremont paused and I could feel a facture in the air as if something unseen had moved between us. “He used to spend a lot of time in Beaufort County.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Research,” he said. “He was particularly interested in Essie Goodwine, Mariama’s grandmother. She was the most prominent root doctor in the area. He wanted to learn about medicinal conjure, but knowing Essie, she only taught him a few harmless incantations and spells. She wouldn’t cotton to anyone’s use of the root for evil.”

  “Evil? I hardly think that criteria would apply to Dr. Shaw,” I said, remembering my own visit with Essie Goodwine. She’d given me a packet of Life Everlastin’ and an amulet to ward off evil spirits.

  She’d also told me there would come a time when I would need to tell Devlin about Shani’s ghost because he would have to choose between the living and the dead. I couldn’t imagine revealing such a thing to him back then, but last night I had come very close.

  He knows, Essie had said, touching her heart. In heh, he knows.

  He probably did know on some level. The draft, the cold spots…the inexplicable sounds in the middle of the night. The spiny hair at his nape, the icy shiver along his spine…

  I forced my attention back to the ghost at hand.

  Robert Fremont gazed down at me so intently, I wondered for a moment if he could read my thoughts. He had the power to pass himself off as human. What else could he do?

  “Do you know anything about rootwork?” he asked.

  “I only know what I’ve read here and there. You don’t grow up in South Carolina without some knowledge, no matter how rudimentary. It originated in West Africa, didn’t it?” Which naturally made me think of Darius Goodwine.

  “Devotees believe that all things have spiritual essence, a soul even. A knowledgeable root doctor can tap into that universal power through the spirit world and use it for good or ill. Mariama was raised to respect the root. She was meant to follow in Essie’s footsteps. I think that’s why Shaw really brought her to Charleston.”

  “So that he could use her to tap into the spirit world? I suppose that makes sense. He’s always had a keen interest in the afterlife, but not for personal gain or power. His wife was ill for a long time before she died. He tried to make contact through séances, but according to Devlin, Mariama wanted no part of it. She was afraid of what Dr. Shaw was trying to do.”

  “She had a healthy fear of the dead as anyone with her knowledge would.”

  “Because a person’s power isn’t diminished by death?”

  “Because she knew you can’t always control what you bring back,” he muttered.

  A chill wind feathered up my spine. “Did you see a lot of Mariama after she moved here?”

  “Some, but she wasn’t in town long before she met someone new.”

  “John?”

  “He was taboo and that made him all the more irresistible to her.”

  “Why was he taboo?”

  “Old resentments run deep in these parts. Distrust of the white man is still alive and well, and a union with John Devlin was considered a betrayal by some. He wasn’t just white, he was rich. Old-money, Charleston rich.”

  “So, Mariama’s family didn’t approve of the relationship?”

  “It was deeper than disapproval. And much more complicated.”

  I was very curious about Devlin and Mariama’s relationship, but reluctantly I moved on to a new subject. “She lived with Dr. Shaw when she first came to Charleston, didn’t she? Did you know Ethan Shaw?”

  “Well enough to realize that he was in love with Mariama, too.”

  My brows shot up in shock. “Ethan?”

  “It’s like I said—”

  “Every man who crossed paths with Mariama loved her.” But Ethan? “Did Devlin know?”

  “He may have, but most men had blinders on when it came to Mariama.”

  “Do you think anything went on between them?”

  His gaze was scornful. “She wouldn’t have given someone like Shaw the time of day. But she wasn’t above using him if the need arose.”

  “Using him how?”

  He took a moment to answer. “Mariama had an unnatural power over the living. Whatever she wanted…whatever she needed…she could always find someone willing to do her bidding.”

  That didn’t exactly answer my questions, but I suddenly remembered something Devlin had said to Ethan the night before. You told the police you were with me the whole night. You didn’t just give me an alibi. You gave yourself one, too.

  He couldn’t have been doing Mariama’s bidding that night, though, because she was already dead.

  “What’s wrong?” Fremont asked.

  “I’m just wondering why so many smart men fell in love with her. I understand she was beautiful and charismatic, but from everything I’ve heard, she was also selfish and cruel.”

  “She wasn’t always like that. She was wild and impulsive and more than a little dangerous. But not cruel. Not until Darius changed her.”

  I marveled that, even dead, he was still quick to defend her. “Darius Goodwine? What was their relationship?”

  “First cousins, but they were raised as siblings.”

  “How did he change her?”

  “He knew how to use her Achilles’ heel against her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “John Devlin was her weakness. There was a part of him that Mariama couldn’t touch, couldn’t own. His resistance drove her mad. She would have done anything to weaken him. So Darius exploited her vulnerability.”

  “How?”

  “He persuaded her to run off to Africa with the child. It took Devlin weeks to find them. He brought Shani back home, but Mariama stayed on with Darius. By the time she finally returned, Darius had made the transformation.”

  “What kind of transformation?”

  “From shaman to tagati.”

  “What’s a tagati?”

  “The closest translation would be sorcerer. Or witch. Someone who uses medicinal conjure for evil purposes.”

  Medicinal conjure as in gray dust? I wondered.

  “The most powerful thakathi are female and Darius convinced Mariama that with his knowledge and her power, they could be an invincible force. He followed her back to Charleston and his influence had a profoundly negative effect on her.”

  “Because she started to believe him?”

  “Because she knew it was true. It’s not easy for an outsider to grasp, but in our community, the concept of magic is as accepted as the concept of God. There is an old saying that we practice one religion openly on Sundays and another in secret every other day of the week.” He’d been gazing out over the water, but now he turned to stare at me. “A lot of people don’t belie
ve in ghosts, but that makes me no less real to you.”

  I could hardly argue with that logic. “You say Darius followed her back to Charleston. Is that when he brought in gray dust?”

  Fremont said in a hushed voice, “What do you know about gray dust?”

  “It’s a hallucinogenic powder that stops the heart.”

  He glanced around as if afraid someone might eavesdrop. Which, when I thought about it, was pretty strange. The only one who could be overheard was me, and people would likely take me for a nutcase and keep their distance.

  “Who have you been talking to?” he demanded.

  “No one. I’ve just been doing some research. That is what you expected of me, isn’t it? That I should be more resourceful?” I didn’t give him a chance to reply. “If you were investigating Darius at the time of your death, then he’s our most likely suspect.”

  “I wasn’t just investigating him,” Fremont said. “I was trying to stop him.”

  “From drug smuggling?”

  He paused. “Yes.”

  Something in his voice drew another shiver. “Were you working with Devlin?”

  He murmured something so low I couldn’t make it out. I had the troubling notion it was a chant or incantation.

  “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Why is everyone afraid of Darius Goodwine?” I demanded. “He can’t possibly be a threat to you now.”

  The ghost didn’t reply. He was already starting to fade and in another moment, he was gone. I stood at the railing alone and trembling as a cold gust cut through me. My foreboding grew with the wind. The harbor sparkled with sunlight but somewhere in the distance, darkness gathered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Normally, I would have continued along the Battery to Murray Boulevard and then up Rutledge Avenue past Colonial Lake Park to my house. This morning, however, I cut through White Point Gardens, striding past the Civil War monuments and cannons and giving a wide berth to the lovely white gazebo where a sunrise wedding had just taken place.

  Casting a longing glance at the happy couple, I stopped briefly to admire a bed of purple asters, then headed up King Street where the restaurants and bakeries were just starting to come alive. The smell of fresh coffee and pastries wafted on the cool breeze, and I was sorely tempted to stop at one of the outdoor eateries and treat myself to a leisurely breakfast. The streets were filling up, too, and I could sit there and people watch while I nibbled on vanilla French toast or a peach almond muffin and reflect on my conversation with Fremont’s ghost. But I’d done enough dwelling and obsessing over the past two days. What I needed was a diversion.

  So I continued on past the trendy cafes and gourmet coffee shops and didn’t break stride until I reached Cumberland. Then I slowed, searching for The Secret Garden. I spotted it just ahead on my right, a quaint little shop with a metal awning over the front door and, as I remembered, a walled garden and fountain in the back where one could sit with a book and a cup of tea.

  I was disappointed to find the shop closed, though I could have hardly expected otherwise at this early hour. Still, a cup of exotic brew and a pleasant chat with Clementine Perilloux would have been just the thing to take the chill off my meeting with Robert Fremont. I had to admit that, despite the circumstances, I’d enjoyed my visit with her. And I was glad that I’d felt that way even before I discovered that she was the sister and not, in fact, Devlin’s brunette.

  I supposed my impromptu trip to the shop so early in the morning was a testament to my loneliness. I’d had so few close friends over the years. There really was no one I could call on the spur of the moment to have coffee or lunch. No one I could talk to about books or movies or Devlin.

  Devlin. No matter how much time or distance I tried to put between us, my thoughts always came back to him.

  I didn’t believe for a moment that he’d had anything to do with Fremont’s murder, but he was somehow connected. Everything was connected. I was more certain of that now than ever. Shani’s drowning, Devlin’s disappearance after the accident, Ethan’s alibi to the police.

  I could only imagine how Devlin must have been suffering that night. Out of his mind with grief, he’d said. It would have been understandable if he’d turned to drugs to numb the pain. But gray dust wasn’t a tranquilizer or a sedative. It was a powerful psychedelic. How could something like that help him cope with his loss?

  But according to Devlin, gray dust wasn’t just any hallucinogen. It stopped the heart and people died. And some of the ones who came back suffered terrible side effects. Eyes frosted like a corpse, shuffling around all slumped over as if they’d dragged something back from hell with them.

  The images conjured by that piece of the conversation were disturbing and way too macabre for a sunny morning. I tried to shove the grimness aside as I peered into the shop window. A cup of tea really would have hit the spot.

  I don’t know how long I’d been standing there when it came to me that I was being watched. Not by a ghost this time. I felt no frigid breath at my collar, no icy fingers skimming along my spine. No, this was the sensation that anyone might experience when being secretly observed.

  Turning, I surreptitiously scanned the sidewalk as I pretended to check the time on my phone. From my periphery, I took note of a man across the street. I couldn’t tell much about his appearance, only that he was white, a little shorter and wider than Devlin. He wore khakis with a madras blazer and a straw fedora pulled low over his face. Typical attire for Charleston. The nondescript appearance would blend seamlessly with tourists and locals alike. But the sidewalks here were still sparse, and so he stood out.

  When I lifted my head to casually view the traffic, he turned away quickly and strode through the open gateway of a private alley.

  I didn’t panic. For all I knew, he might have been nothing more than an admirer. I didn’t attract attention the way a woman like Mariama would have. I was hardly the type to inspire such passion. But I was young and blond and in good shape from the physical labor of my profession. I caught a male eye now and then.

  Still, I couldn’t shake the notion that he hadn’t just been staring at me, but watching me.

  Turning back to the bookstore window, I pretended to peer inside the store. Another face appeared in the glass, that of a handsome black man. He stood right behind me, but when I turned, no one was there.

  Palmettos rustled in the rising wind and a paper cup rolled along the sidewalk in front of me. I had the notion once again that a storm brewed on the horizon even though the sky was clear. I lifted my face as something dark scuttled across the sun. A bird, I told myself. Nothing more ominous than a raven or a sparrow.

  Across the street, the man in the hat emerged from the alley and I could have sworn I saw him cast his gaze in my direction. His lips were moving, but there was no phone to his ear and no one else was around. No one that I could see.

  Fear blossomed, but was I just being paranoid? I’d yet to pose a single question about Fremont’s murder to any living person. No one could possibly know of our investigation and I was certain the man outside Devlin’s house last night hadn’t seen me. So why would I be under surveillance?

  I started walking, slowly at first, pretending to window-shop so that I could keep track of him. But either he soon realized I was on to him or he really was just some innocent pedestrian because he turned on Market Street, losing himself in the traffic, and I didn’t see him again.

  Stopping at an open-air market, I purchased a bundle of fresh flowers and some sage and headed straight home. Angus, as always, was excited to see me. I put him on his leash and gave him a quick stroll around the block, and then we had breakfast together in the garden.

  For the rest of the day, I puttered around the house, cleaning out summer closets, working on Digging Graves, chatting with my mother and my aunt Lynrose on the phone. The busywork distracted me for a few hours, but by mid-afternoon, I was starting to get antsy. After a phone c
all or two, I made sure Angus was settled in the house and then I drove over to the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies to meet with Rupert Shaw.

  * * *

  The Institute was located on the ground floor of a beautifully renovated antebellum on the fringes of the historic district. It was a plantation-style house with long, graceful columns and fern baskets swaying from three stories of shady piazzas. I parked in the back, and as I came around to the side entrance, I noticed as I always did the house across the street with the neon hand hanging from the porch. Madam Know-it-all’s.

  I’d always been curious about the place and secretly amused by its proximity to the loftier Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies. Now that I knew the palmist had a connection to Devlin, I was even more fascinted. Clementine had said Devlin and Isabel were very close friends, but I’d seen the way he’d held her in the twilight. I’d heard the intimacy of their soft murmurs. They were more than friends. But how much more?

  As I stood gazing over at the house, a blue Buick pulled up to the curb and sat there for a moment, idling. The driver wore aviator glasses that covered the upper portion of his face. That and the angle of the sun made his features nearly indistinguishable, but a glimmer of familiarity had me wondering if he was the man I’d seen earlier.

  He didn’t get out of the car but sat there gazing up at one of the balconies. I didn’t think he spotted me. I was concealed by a thick rhododendron bush. My heart accelerated as I watched him. Was I being followed?

  “Amelia?”

  Years of living with ghosts had schooled my nerves, and I turned casually at the sound of my name. Ethan Shaw had come up behind me, so stealthily I hadn’t heard his footfalls.

  “I thought that was you.” He smiled then, his eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure as he closed the distance between us. He was a tall man, well-dressed and well-spoken, with an easygoing demeanor that I’d always found attractive. But I’d glimpsed another side of him last night at Devlin’s house. As the overheard conversation reared its ugly head, I felt a disquieting ripple along my spine. Had he really been in love with Devlin’s wife? Had he really been willing to do her bidding?