The Hoodoo Apprentice: Allure Part 16

Drawing a deep breath, I stare at the intercom panel installed next to the glossy, black double door to High Point Bluff, preparing myself for the inevitable encounter to come. An hour ago, when Jack and I hatched this plan as he walked back home from Miss Delia's, and I rode alongside, it sounded brilliant, but now, not so much.

"Are you going to buzz or not?" Jack nudges my side.

"I will. In a second." Gnawing my lip, I adjust my messenger bag across my back, then turn to him. "Maybe we should just forget the whole thing. It's probably pointless anyway."

He narrows his eyes. "Buzz, or I will."

I nod, knowing he's right. We're here on a mission and can't turn chicken now. Taneea's slip about a "friend" teaching her magic raised too many questions. But one thing's for sure. Someone taught her some pretty advanced hoodoo, enough to afford her awesome toys and the freedom she's so desperately desired. If Miss Delia's right and Claude is the one pulling the strings, then he's no ordinary investigator-he's a conjurer with a dark agenda. Is he really dedicated to uncovering the truth about the robbery at the museum, or does he have some other motive for pursuing Miss Delia like a hound on a fox? And why did he push so hard for Sheriff Walker to agree that Missy's death was from natural causes? Could it have anything to do with why he'd sneak into Beau's private study, then threaten me and everyone I know to keep my discovery secret? We can't explain everything to Beau-how does one describe a three-hundred-year-old, soul-s.n.a.t.c.hing curse?-but we can warn him not to trust Claude.

I mash the doorbell b.u.t.ton on the panel. It's one of the new security features Dad put in for Missy after she freaked out about the museum burglars being on the loose.

"Yeah?" Beau's voice crackles from the intercom speaker near the door.

Depressing another b.u.t.ton, I lean toward the speaker. "Hey Beau. It's us. Emma and Jack."

"My sweet, darling Emma!" His voice is even more slurred than usual. "Cooper isn't home. And why are you calling on this contraption anyway? Y'all should just walk in."

Jack steps close. "We're actually here to talk to you if that's okay. We didn't want to a.s.sume you were free."

A moment pa.s.ses before he answers. "Come on in, then. And make it quick. I'm busy." The front door buzzes and the latch clicks, allowing us entry.

The light in the library is on, casting a glow on the buffed hall floor. Heading toward it, we run smack into the scent of rancid meat that hangs thick in the air, proof positive of Beau's presence. My eyes sting as I peek through the doorway. As expected, Beau is sprawled on the sofa, sunk into his favorite spot, the cushions slung low and nearly touching the floor.

He toasts us with his drink, a pint-size tumbler nearly filled to the brim with a dark brown liquid. "Set a while."

Veering as far away as possible, I hold my breath as I steer toward the sofa opposite of him and ease into the red silk fabric, laying my bag on the Oriental carpet. Averting my gaze, I try not to stare at his chalky, gray skin that hangs slack and extra rubbery. Jack plops next to me.

"I barely recognize you without that son of mine in tow." Beau drags in slow, heavy breaths. His chest gurgles like it's filled with chunky globs of mucus. He takes a long gulp of his drink, downing half the gla.s.s.

"Cooper's busy tonight," Jack says.

Beau's thin eyebrow arches. "Really? Without his sweetheart?" His rheumy eyes search mine as if he suspects there's trouble in paradise. "If my boy isn't treating you right, you best tell me. I'll set him straight."

Creepy unease works its way up my spine. "Thanks. But that isn't necessary."

"I mean it." He swats his right hand, but the movement throws him off-balance and causes him to tip onto his left side.

Jack clears his throat. "If this isn't a good time, we could always come back."

I nod. "Yeah, like tomorrow."

"Nonsense!" he bellows. The phlegmy sound bubbles up in his throat, causing him to cough. Pulling a soiled handkerchief from his pocket, he hacks up something dark and chunky, but quickly crumples the cloth in his fist and stuffs it back into his pocket.

Jack shoots me a look. From his pinched expression, I'm not sure whether he's trying not to laugh or puke. I'm right there with him.

"Maybe you've had enough to drink," I suggest.

"On the contrary," Beau says. "This is my elixir of life, the only thing keeping the blood flowing through my veins. Did you know scotch is a vasodilator? My circulation isn't what it used to be."

Judging by the pasty pallor of his skin, I'd say it's barely pumping at all.

Beau chugs another mouthful of the deep amber liquid. With great effort, he lurches forward and points to Jack. "Now listen here, there's something I want you to remember. I may not be around forever, so you've got to make sure my boy doesn't squander his youthful energy and vigor. He's got to live every day to the fullest and take advantage of all that being a Beaumont affords him. Lord knows I did." A smile edges across his wine-red lips as he rubs his gelatinous midsection. "And despite appearances, I don't regret one day being Beau Beaumont. It's been a fulfilling life."

"Oh-kay," Jack says. "Though hopefully you've got plenty more years ahead." His mouth cracks into an uncomfortable smile.

"I certainly hope so. But life can be so unpredictable. Who'd have guessed I would have ended up with four wives? Though none of those delectable plums can hold a candle to our dear Emma." Chuckling, he gives me the once over. "I've got to hand it to that son of mine. He does have good taste in women." He winks.

My stomach churns. Where's Miss Delia's Semi-Invisibility powder when you need it?

"Oh, now darling, don't be shy." His eyes swim in their sockets. "I know you care for the boy. And that's a good thing. Because I've got my legacy to think of. I'm counting on you two having a long and fruitful relationship. Together, you'll combine forces to build an immense empire. He can't squander his chances with you."

"Uh, sure. But you know sometimes stuff doesn't work out." I hug my arms, uncomfortable with the whole empire-building thing.

He coughs out a laugh and wobbles back against the cushion. "Whatever that boy's busy doing now, it'll end the moment he comes into his manhood."

My gut clenches and my mouth turns dry. That phrase. It's exactly what Sabina said when she worked the Beaumont Curse. Does Beau know that, or is he just repeating an old island expression?

Beau laughs. "Your daddy and me? We got into our share of messes back in the day. But once we turned sixteen, everything changed. The same will happen to Cooper, no doubt. You'll be amazed at the change in him." He guzzles the rest of his drink, then smacks his lips. "Now, I doubt you came here to get relationship advice from a broken, old man. To what do I owe the pleasure of your clandestine visit?"

Sitting up straight, I remind myself of our task. Though considering how impaired Beau is, he probably won't remember a thing we say. This is a waste of time.

Beau's brow furrows. "Spit it out, girl!"

I gulp. "Jack and I wanted to talk to you about Claude Corbeau."

"Ah, good man!" He raises his empty gla.s.s in salute.

"Actually we're thinking maybe he isn't."

"What? He's the best investigator either side of the Mississippi."

Jack leans forward. "There are some things you ought to know-"

Beau raises his hand in protest. "Believe me, boy. I did my homework." He digs his finger into his chest. "Examined his credentials myself. Corbeau's the man for the job." A thunderous belch works its way up Beau's throat and a puff of something truly foul floats out of his mouth and across the room. It's like rotten eggs mixed with day-old roadkill topped with liver-fried onions. Oblivious, Beau yammers on, pinching his fat forefinger and thumb together, then squints at his hand. "Besides, Claude is this close to uncovering the burglary ring that stole from the King Center. Would you believe it was one of our donors? A little old Gullah lady in a wheelchair, no less. Can you imagine that?" he whispers as his eyes goggle.

I lean forward slightly. "That sounds pretty impossible if you ask me."

He nods, slow and lazy like his head weighs a hundred pounds. "She's just the mastermind. But after we're done putting the screws to her, she'll roll on her coconspirators, lickety-split. Then we'll find out what they did with my Beaumont ruby." His words are slurred and peppered with a whole lot of sh's that aren't normally there. His eyes close and his head bobs forward, lifeless. The empty gla.s.s slips from his grip and clanks against the bottle on the floor.

The room is silent except for the ticking of the clock on the mantle below Lady Rose's portrait. The first mistress of High Point Bluff stares down at us, her crazy bug-eyes appear trained on her unconscious, soulless descendent.

"Is he dead?" Jack asks.

My pulse races, jumping in my neck as I stare at Beau's motionless body. "I don't know."

"We should check." He nudges my side with his elbow.

"We?"

"Well, you." Shrugging, he attempts a pathetic smile.

I narrow my gaze and toss him my best reproachful look. "Baby." Gathering my strength, I stand and gingerly step around the coffee table between the two sofas, then clamp a hand over my mouth and nose. His smell is even more putrid up close. I doubt he's showered in the last week. Maybe two. Holding my breath, I lean toward his mammoth arm and give it a shake.

He doesn't move.

My heart gallops against my rib cage. I shove him again, this time a little harder. "Beau?" My voice quivers.

His lids pop open as he starts and gasps for air.

I squeal, the sound so high and piercing, it nearly ruptures my eardrums.

He clutches my hand. "I need my ruby," he rasps. Then his eyes roll back into his head as he slumps onto his side and snores.

My pulse sputters to a trot. He's only pa.s.sed out, unconscious from his copious consumption of alcohol. Surveying Beau's vast, ashy-gray body, I listen to his labored breathing and can't help but agree that he's probably on his way out. He's abused his body for too long, indulging in every vice known to man, the likely consequence of losing his soul. I almost feel sorry for him.

An image of Cooper, distorted and corrupt zooms across my mind. Shaking my head, I force it from my brain. I can't let him turn into his father.

Glancing at Beau again, I notice the chain that's affixed to his belt loop. The other end is tucked into his pocket, attached to the key to his private study. An idea forms.

"Hey, Jack. What if we found proof that Claude is a liar? That would be enough to get Beau to turn on him, right?"

"Sure but how are we going to do that? It's not like he's going to admit being a conjurer."

"Beau said he checked Claude's credentials himself. That they're the best in the business."

"Uh-huh?"

"What if they're fake? I Googled him but couldn't find anything before he was hired at The King Center. I'm guessing the resume he gave Beau is full of lies. If we can prove it, Beau will toss him out on his b.u.t.t."

"Yeah, but where are we going to find it?"

I point the chain. "In the study. Where else?" I turn and maneuver around Beau's splayed legs to scoop up my bag, then head toward the door.

He pushes off the couch. "Hey, you forgot the key."

I spin around. "No I didn't. You're up." I waggle my eyes and thumb my hand toward Beau's expansive waistline.

Jack's eyes goggle. "You want me to take it from his pocket?" His voice trembles.

I shrug. "You made me check if he was dead. I'd say it'll make us about even."

He shoots me the evil eye. "Fine." He grumbles to himself as he tiptoes around the couch and sidles up to Beau. Swallowing hard, he extends his long, skinny fingers and skillfully detaches the chain from the belt loop. Beau doesn't stir. With the free end in his grasp, Jack draws a deep breath and tugs on the other, pulling it ever so slowly from Beau's pocket. Finally, it's free. Jack thrusts a victorious fist in the air.

"Congratulations. Now let's go," I whisper and point to the hall. "We have no idea how long he'll be out."

We race from the room and head to the study. The key turns loose and easy. We slip inside and shut the door behind us, pocketing the key in case we might need it again. My pulse thrums as I take a moment to absorb the room. This is Beau's private sanctuary, off-limits to us and Cooper for as long as we can remember. It almost feels like we're in someplace sacred. Which is kind of weird because from the looks of it, it's nothing special. Just an average office, furnished with a desk, leather wing chairs and a sofa, filing cabinets, and a wall of built-in shelves. No big whoop.

"So what are we looking for?" Jack heads toward the desk.

"Files, I guess. Anything he might have used to hire Claude. There's got to be a resume or a list of references or something." I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and spin it around my back.

Jack gets to work, opening the desk drawers and leafing through whatever papers he finds, while I head for a file cabinet across the room, situated beneath the window. As I grab the handle on the top drawer, the nearby gla.s.s-enclosed shelf catches my eye. A squat, antique bottle twinkles in the sunlight. It's just like the one we found on the beach at the beginning of the summer except this one is green. So much has happened since I stumbled on that first bottle, both good and bad, though lately, it seems like there's been more bad.

Stepping toward the shelf to get a better look, I notice the other objects arranged with the bottle. There's a yellowed beeswax candle, a jeweled hair comb, a cracked silver spoon, and a pewter mug, along with a broken piece of faded china, and a slew of other unrelated historical items that appear to date back to the 1700s. It's kind of like a museum exhibit without a unifying theme. The shelf below has more of the same, though the artifacts look slightly less old, maybe from the nineteenth century. Among the nearly hundred objects is a lacy linen handkerchief next to a pocket watch, a fan with ivory handles, and a hand-painted picture of a landscape, some bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, and a toy soldier figure. There's also a long sword that looks like it was used in the civil war. On and on the shelves go, like densely packed time capsules of every decade of High Point Bluff's history.

"Hey, are you going to get to work?" Jack asks, poised above a stack of files on Beau's desk.

"In a second. Come look at this stuff. It's amazing. It's like a private museum."

Jack scoffs. "I think we've had enough museums this summer, don't you think?"

I chuckle. "Maybe. But this stuff is so cool." Bending down to the look at the last shelf, I squint at a b.u.t.ton from the last South Carolina governor's election and a very modern iPhone in a bedazzled case.

My stomach seizes and the air rushes from my lungs in a gush.

"Jack," I try to call but my mouth is suddenly so dry I barely produce a sound. Swallowing hard, I force the words from my throat. "Come here. Now."

Perhaps it's his twin sense, or the fact that I'm trembling and fighting for breath, but he charges across the room.

I point to the last item in the case: the pirate's dagger, encrusted with a dried, black substance.

The color drains from his olive skin. "Dang."

I nod, in total agreement.

"What's it doing there?" His voice is tinged with panic.

"I don't know." My mind races about a thousand miles a minute, calculating the knowns and unknowns. After considerable mental acrobatics, I come up with a whole lot of nothing. But one thing is for sure-the knife is here, among Beau's private belongings, smattered with strange dark stuff, just like Missy.

A jolt of electricity shoots straight from my feet to my brain. I'm on to something, though exactly, what I'm not sure.

I open the gla.s.s case, lean close and take a whiff. The odor is faint, but the lingering scent is familiar. "See this black stuff? I think it's the same gunk that was on Missy's body."

He peers at the knife. "But she didn't have any injuries. So it couldn't have been used to hurt her."

"No, but it means it was with her in the bathroom when she died."

Jack gawks. "Do you think Beau killed her?"

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't wondered the same thing. Heck, I even told Cooper as much. Finding the knife here in Beau's study certainly does seem to implicate him. But still, one thing doesn't make sense. "Why would Beau put it here with that stuff on it? Wouldn't he have wiped it off first?"

Jack nods. "Good point." His eyes light up. "Hey, I know it sounds crazy but what if someone planted it to frame Beau?"

"Who would do that?" Then I recall the morning of Missy's funeral and a chill tap-dances up my spine. "Claude was here, all by himself. He totally could have done it. But that would mean he killed Missy."

Jack rubs the scruff on his chin. "If only there was a way to know for sure."