Grave Intent by Deborah LeBlanc

sure. It’s this . . . you know
how the weather gets right before a hurricane? How the sky turns
this funky gray-white color, and the air gets too still?”
    Theresa nodded.
    “That’s sort of how I feel inside.”
    “Well, that’s understandable, don’t you
think? With Wilson back in the picture? He’s always been bad news
one way or another.”
    Janet glanced over at the top of the bureau
with its lace doily, bottle of Passion perfume, pink keepsake box
in the shape of a heart, and a silver frame that held a picture of
Theresa, her husband, Mitch, and Heather.
    “You’re probably right,” Janet said after a
while.
    But it didn’t feel right. Not at all. Her
internal barometer measured something a hell of a lot bigger than
Wilson Savoy. Something much, much bigger.
     
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER TEN
    Michael elbowed his way through the people
sandwiched together in the lobby of the funeral home, all of them
waiting to pay their last respects to the Stevenson girl. Around
shoulders and above heads, Michael watched helplessly as Sally and
Chad tried to stop Agnes Crowder, his cleaning woman, from
barreling her way out of the building.
    He couldn’t blame Agnes for wanting to leave.
It was barely past noon, and the place looked like a disaster area.
Hordes of people had rotated through the building all morning, most
of them puffing on cigarettes. Some carried in kettles of stew or
platters of roasted meat, and rum, tequila, and high-dollar bourbon
had been hauled in by the case. Men, with hairstyles and clothes
more suited for the ‘70s, brought guitars, tambourines, and musical
contraptions that resembled large wooden fruit with strings, which
they played in drunken harmony.
    Control became impossible as the multitude
grew. Everyone Michael spoke to about maximum occupancy laws or no
smoking ordinances either couldn’t understand him or could and
didn’t care.
    Michael reached the back hall just as a
cornered Agnes shoved a finger in Chad’s face.
    “You better back yourself up, little man, or
else!”
    “But you can’t leave,” Chad said
desperately.
    “For heaven’s sake, Agnes, all you have to do
is pick up the trash,” Sally said. “It’s not like we’re asking you
to sanitize the place.”
    The buxom black woman slammed her hands on
her hips and glared at Sally. “And who died and made you queen? You
best take that smart ass mouth and—”
    “Don’t you talk to me like—”
    “That’s enough,” Michael warned. Fortunately
the women’s sparring ground was near the embalming room, the one
area the Stevenson group seemed to have little interest in
exploring.
    “She started it,” Sally fumed.
    Agnes’s nostrils flared. “Why you
skinny—”
    “Stop,” Michael demanded. He lowered his
voice. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got a viewing going on. You
want everyone to hear you?”
    Agnes glared at him. “It ain’t gonna make no
difference if they do ‘cause not a damn one of them gypsies speaks
American anyway.”
    “Shows what you know,” Sally said. “Their
name’s Stevenson. Gypsies don’t have names like that.”
    “Look here, Miss Thing.” Agnes held up a
warning finger. “It’s you don’t know nothin’. They just usin’ names
like that so nobody turns ‘em out. But wait, you gonna see. Juju.
That’s what they workin’ in here, plain and simple. I can feel
it.”
    Chad grimaced. “Really? How—”
    Sally huffed. “Agnes, the only black magic
going on around here is you trying to disappear from work.”
    Michael pushed himself between the women just
as Agnes’s hands curled into fists. “I said enough.” He glanced
behind him to make sure no one else was close enough to hear, then
turned back to his employees. “I don’t care if the Stevensons are
pygmies from Zimbabwe. We have a job to do.”
    Agnes folded her arms, tucked them under her
huge breasts, and snorted. “Doin’ my job don’t mean pickin’ up no
dirty diapers, a mountain of paper