Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [138]
I made a shrill sound of discomfort and spread my arms, helplessly watching the shake melt stickily into my clothes.
“Miss?” one of the boys prodded.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. Just a little . . . cold. But the happy part of this accident, of course, is that nothing got on the floor.” Every drop of the shake seemed to be on me.
Uncomfortable and filthy now, I realized that, although it was far from ideal, I did at least have a change of clothing with me. I’d have to don Jilly’s costume in another couple of hours anyway, if D30 persisted in its determination to film the rest of my episode tonight. And at least I had a rain slicker and an umbrella to keep the costume dry while I was in transit. So I got my duffle and went into the ladies’ room. I removed my cold, soggy, dirty clothes and put on Jilly’s costume—except for the cruel boots. Though my roped-soled canvas shoes didn’t go with this outfit, they were comfortable and still clean, so I kept them on.
The gris-gris bag was so messy and sticky, I gave up trying to clean it while it hung around my neck. I felt considerable anxiety as I removed it, but nothing burst into flames. I tried wiping it off, but the milk shake had seeped into the bag and soaked all the ingredients. Apparently the thing had not been designed with this sort of mishap in mind. I wondered if it even had mojo anymore. Either way, I couldn’t put it back on, especially not while wearing my D30 costume. So I wrapped it in some tissues and stuck it in my purse. I still had it with me, I assured myself. And, after all, the mambo’s altar was destroyed, and I had burned the remnants of my poppet before going to bed last night.
Now that I was presentable again, in a manner of speaking, I went to see Catherine.
Her cool gaze assessed my appearance with ironic detachment, and she gave no response at all to my awkward explanation about why I was once again dressed as a prostitute.
Instead, she said, much to my embarrassment, “Goodness, what are those marks on your neck?”
I put a hand self-consciously over my throat, realizing I should have used makeup to cover up the marks Lopez had left on me. I had chosen a blouse with a high collar today, so I hadn’t expected my skin to be this exposed before I met with D3’s talented makeup artist.
She smiled. “So the detective can lose control, after all? I had wondered.”
I stiffened, taking offense. Since Catherine had seen us together on Friday, right after the chaos in the lobby, I supposed it was natural for her to assume that Lopez was the source of these love bites. But I scarcely knew this woman, and what had happened in my bedroom was private.
Catherine added, “Perhaps the spirit trance that he experienced at yesterday’s ritual unleashed something inside him?” Seeing my surprise, she smiled again. “Yes. I heard about it. How I wish I had been there to see it.”
“Why weren’t you there?” I asked baldly, trying to change the subject. I didn’t want to talk about Lopez with her, let alone discuss what had happened to him that evening. “It seemed like the sort of thing that interests you.”
“Other things needed my attention.”
Since she obviously didn’t intend to say more, I moved on to the reason I had sought her out. “Did Max—Dr. Zadok—speak to you about last night?”
Her face wrinkled with distaste. “Yes. His tale was quite extraordinary.”
“Where do you think Mambo Celeste is now?”
Catherine shrugged indifferently.
I found her casual attitude odd, given that a trusted employee had been found practicing black magic in her basement, as well as endangering innocent people. I wondered how much Max had told her. Considering Catherine’s academic approach to magic and mysticism, Max might have lost all credibility if he had talked about Celeste raising zombies from the grave.
“You and your friends left quite a mess downstairs,” Catherine said to me. “Still,