Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [139]
I blinked. “You mean because the mambo has fled?”
“Because matters have progressed toward their inevitable climax, despite a number of discouraging set-backs. Some of which you caused.”
My heart started to beat more heavily. I remembered my first visit to this room, dressed as I was now. The mambo wasn’t the only Vodou expert at the foundation who’d become acquainted with me in these clothes.
“It’s strange about the poppet.” The words popped out of my mouth unbidden, surprising me. It was only in that moment that I realized it was strange. “I was told the mambo doesn’t approve of voodoo dolls being sold in Puma’s Vodou Emporium, where she buys her supplies.”
“She was a rigid woman,” said Catherine.
“Was?” I said.
“But rigidity can be its own kind of strength.”
“Why would someone so strict about Haitian tradition adopt a custom from another branch of voodoo?” I wondered. “A custom she thought gave the wrong impression of the religion? A custom she berated Puma for humoring?”
“That seems a minor deviation from her traditions, compared to the things Dr. Zadok described when he phoned me earlier,” Catherine pointed out dryly. “But all people have private desires and deep yearnings which can’t necessarily be met in the conventional ways they’re most comfortable following.”
“I’m wondering . . .” I felt uneasy. Anxious. “Those practices I saw last night, in that room.” I heard my phone ring, but my gaze remained locked with hers. “How could that have gone on in your own building without your knowing about it? You and Celeste were close. How it is possible that you didn’t—”
“Your phone is ringing,” Catherine said. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”
Feeling tension spread through me, I reminded myself that there were other people in the building. I didn’t really have any clear suspicions yet, just doubts. I tried to organize them rationally as I fumbled in my purse for my phone, glad for an excuse to get out of this room.
“I’ll take this outside,” I said.
“No need. Please stay seated.”
I looked at my phone and saw with relief that the caller was Lopez. “No, you’re busy. I’ll leave. I just wanted to apologize for . . . you know. Downstairs.” I flipped open the phone, as eagerly as if the static- filled communication with Lopez was a protective charm.
Catherine opened a drawer in her desk and reached inside. “Stay,” she said.
I tried to rise and found that my legs felt too weak to support me. My knees buckled. I sat back down with a thud.
“Esther?” Lopez said. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I said faintly, staring into Catherine’s cold, dispassionate eyes.
Out of the blue, I recalled that I had once heard evil described as an absence of empathy. Why had looking at her made me think of that?
“Please tell me you’re not still at the foundation,” Lopez said, his voice faint. “This is a bad connection. Can you hear me?”
“I’m here,” I said, anxiety welling up inside me.
“You left me a message asking about Celeste’s husband. He’s alive and well and running a plumbing supply store in Philadelphia. I checked on Friday.”
“I’m at the foundation,” I said to him.
“I want you to get out of there,” he said. “I’ve been checking on Catherine Livingston, too. When you told me she’d been sleeping with Darius, it got me to thinking. Two men dying of natural causes. Sure, it happens . . .”
I tried to rise again. My legs felt as if they didn’t belong to me.
“But three? And all within a decade?” Lopez said. “That’s just too much coincidence. Especially given their ages.”
“Three?” I said faintly.
Catherine smiled.
“Her first husband died not long after she met Martin Livingston. Same scenario as Martin and Darius. Unexpected death from sudden, catastrophic natural causes in a man previously thought to be in good health.” Lopez said, “It’s the sort of death that could be arranged by someone who’s an expert in exotic folk medicine and ritual poisons—and Dr. Livingston is exactly such an expert. It was the focus of her research before she started working at the foundation.”
“What?