That Old Black Magic by Mary Jane Clark

he played his clarinet. “Cecil over there claims it’s some sort of voodoo-hoodoo thing. But I’ll tell you this much—whoever did it is one mean, angry bastard.”
    â€œHave any clues?” asked Aaron.
    â€œNone that I’m going to share with you,” answered the cop.
    â€œBut at least you’ll investigate this one, won’t you?”
    The officer looked quizzically at Aaron. “What do you mean ‘this one’?”
    â€œI mean the victim is white,” said Aaron.
    â€œYeah? What of it?” the policeman challenged.
    Aaron shook his head with skepticism. “Let’s face it. You guys are more likely to pull out the stops to try to find the killer of a white guy. You don’t bother as much for anybody else.”
    The cop paused, biting at his lower lip. Aaron noticed his hand clenching at his holstered firearm.
    â€œI don’t know where you get your information from, brother, but you’re dead wrong. Now, get on out of here.”
    Aaron smirked, but he did as he was told. He looked across the street but didn’t approach the musician. Cecil would be out there another day if Aaron needed him. He was always out there.
    Aaron walked back down the block to his apartment. He went upstairs, drank a cup of black coffee, and scanned the headlines on his computer. Then he went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He sang as he soaped his fleshy stomach, knowing the subject of tonight’s show. It would draw the callers and boost the ratings for sure.
    He wasn’t even going to get into the racial subject. He had something that was much fresher, something that hadn’t been talked to death. Aaron was really going to stir things up when he nicknamed Muffuletta Mike’s murderer for his audience.
    The Hoodoo Killer.

Chapter
27
    I feel
guilty saying it after the awfulness down the street, but we’ve had a good day,
haven’t we?” asked Ellinore as Sabrina got ready to leave the antique shop. “We
sold that console table with the cabriole legs, the settee with the scrolled
arms, and the lamps with the Murano glass stems. The table and settee we took on
consignment, so we made fifty percent on them, and the lamps were from my house.
Those are pure profit for us.”
    â€œAnd don’t forget the antique lanterns,” said
Sabrina as she pushed strands of red hair behind her ear. “Those came from your
house, too, didn’t they?”
    Ellinore nodded. “That’s right. They did. Those
once hung at the plantation.”
    Sabrina looked at the older woman. “Does it bother
you, Ellinore?” she asked gently. “Selling things that are part of your family’s
history?”
    â€œI guess it would bother me more if I’d been born a
Duchamps instead of marrying one. It’s not like I have children who’d want all
the things for sentimental reasons.”
    Zipping her purse closed, Sabrina was very aware of
the pain that Ellinore must still feel at the loss of her daughter, even decades
after the child’s death. Sabrina couldn’t imagine ever getting over something
like that. She greatly admired Ellinore’s ability to keep going.
    â€œWhat about your nephew, Falkner?” asked Sabrina.
“I bet he’d be happy to have your things.”
    Ellinore laughed. “I know he would. And it makes my
head spin to think how quickly he’d sell everything to some dealer. He’s not the
sentimental sort, my nephew.”
    â€œYou sure? Somebody who is doing his doctoral
thesis on nursery rhymes would seem to have a gentle side.”
    â€œYou’d think so, Sabrina, wouldn’t you?”
    Ellinore didn’t add anything else, but Sabrina saw
the shop owner’s brow furrow and she began twisting the old wedding band on her
wrinkled hand. Sabrina had learned that was a signal Ellinore was troubled about
something. Sabrina was troubled, too.
    â€œEllinore, I