Black Dust Mambo by Adrian Phoenix Page B

attentive and intelligent. Might be an asshole, but at least he wasn’t an idiot. “For one thing, Gabrielle isn’t even here.”
    “She could’ve hired someone to deliver the . . . poppet.”
    “True, but Gabrielle is beaucoup skilled and one helluva rootworker. She never woulda put her name inside that poppet. She woulda written Dallas’s name a bunch of times on that piece of paper, along with what she wanted to happen to him—”
    “Like drowning.”
    “Yeah, that’s right. But to name herself like that and include it inside the trick? Nah, ain’t done. Ain’t like her, either. She’s a healer for the most part.” Kallie gathered her hair in her hands and tossed it behind her shoulders.
    Augustine’s gaze lit like a fly on the thin, time-whitened scar an inch or so above her left eyebrow and slanting away into the hairline at her temple. “What happened there?” he asked, touching a finger to his own left eyebrow.
    Kallie tried to remain casual. She shrugged. “Fell out of a swing when I was little.”
    “Ah. I see.” Pursed lips. Dubious tone. “Well, then, do you and your aunt get along?” he asked, brushing wrinkles from his slacks and watching Kallie from beneath his lashes.
    “Sure,” Kallie replied, relieved he’d dropped the subject of her scar. “Well, y’know, as good as any niece and aunt.”
    “You said she raised you and your cousin. That’s quite a burden. Did she do it alone? What happened to your parents?”
    A muscle played along Kallie’s jaw. “Yeah, she did it alone. She’s beaucoup strong, Gabrielle. And not that it’s any of your business, but my folks are dead.”
    “My condolences, Ms. Rivière,” Augustine murmured. “That must’ve been hard on you and your aunt. Forced parenthood can take a toll, I’m afraid.”
    Kallie straightened in her chair. “Take a toll? What the hell you mean by that?”
    “You read about it in the papers all the time,” Augustine said, spreading his hands out. “Boyfriend shakes girlfriend’s baby to death. Woman drowns children in bathtub. Perhaps your aunt has had a hard time adjusting to being a parent.”
    “You’ve got your goddamned head up your goddamned ass,” Kallie said, voice flat. Old emotions she thought she’d laid to rest long ago flickered to life. “Gabrielle’s never laid a hand on me or my cousin, Jackson. And even if she had, what would that have to do with anything?”
    Holding up a placating hand, Augustine said, “All right, then, does your aunt hold any grudges against you?”
    “No, dammit. Are you trying to say that my aunt laid that goddamned hex on my bed? Are you loco?”
    “Given the timing of the attacks on you and Mr. Brûler, I’m simply considering all angles, Ms. Rivière. I suggest you do the same.”
    “Listen. There’s no way my aunt is behind any of this. But given the power behind the hex and the poppet, whoever’s doing this is another hoodoo. Not just someone playing at it.”
    “But that’s what I don’t understand. Since your aunt isn’t even in New Orleans, why would this mythical, rogue hoodoo bother to set her up for crimes here and not wherever you live?”
    “Bayou Cyprès Noir,” Kallie supplied. Blowing out a breath, she trailed a hand through her hair, then shook her head. “I got nothin’. I don’t know of any feuds over clients or mojo or who’s been giving love potions to who or anything. None of this makes sense.”
    “I certainly agree with that,” Augustine said. “A few possibilities come to mind, however.” He lifted his right hand and held up the index finger. “First possibility: you and Brûler are working together to frame your aunt for crimes committed by you, perhaps by both of you.”
    “Why the hell would—”
    “Ah-ah. Let me finish, please.”
    Kallie snorted. “Fine.” She leaned back into her chair and folded her arms across her chest.
    Augustine held up a second finger. “Second possibility: you decided to eliminate a few