Avery chuckled. “She iscautiouslyproud. She doesn’t quite understand the concept of this shop. It’s obviously not a straightforward Voodoo shop like you see in the Quarter, all creepy n’ shit. Attracting weirdos looking to curse their enemies.”
“No, not at all. It’s light and magical. Still has that air of mystery, though.”
“Exactly. It’s meant for locals. Not for fetishizing tourists. Plus, I get tired of the rep Voodoo gets of being dark magicpracticed by devil worshipers. This,” said Avery, sweeping his upturned palms around the shop, “combats that stereotype.”
“Well, you’re doing a great job at it,” Ophelia said as she ran a finger over the smooth leather of a hand-painted journal for sale.
“Sha, some days I think I am, and then other days like today, I’m wondering what the hell I was thinking. Like this accounting system I just got. This ish is not my thing.”
Just then, a new customer walked through the door. Avery threw Ophelia a cheeky grin and left the counter to greet the customer. Ophelia wandered the store, filling her basket with a rose and sandalwood roll-on perfume oil, a sage cleansing smudge stick, a book on Cajun folklore, and a fixed candle for a fulfilled life.
Ophelia wanted more, but needed to stop at some point, so she brought her items to the front counter. Avery had returned from assisting a customer and stood hunched over his laptop with his brows creased.
“Accounting troubles?” she asked as she placed her basket on the counter.
Avery groaned. “Ya any good with numbers?” He began taking the items out of the basket and ringing them up.
“Actually, yeah. I used to work in finance. I could probably help you.”
“Oh, I was just messin’. Thanks, though, but I think this is my own cross to bear.”
Ophelia hummed in thought. “How about you come over tomorrow? We can sit on the porch and have a drink while I take a look at the system you bought. Maybe I can help you get it all straight and figured out.”
He looked at her like she was insane. “Girl, who wants to spend their Sunday night doing this mind-numbing chore?”
Ophelia laughed. “Literally no one, but I’m weirdly good at numbers, and you look like you’re struggling. Plus, I’m desperately trying to make friends. So please. Let me help you.”
“Well, you certainly don’t have to help me with this just to be my friend, but I’ll take you up on it.”
“Oh, whatever, yes, I do! And you know it. You’re too busy to make a new friend, so I’ll just weasel my way in where I can.”
“I like you. You’re very aggressive. Some people be passive-aggressive, but you’re aggressive-aggressive, and that’s good.”
Now, Ophelia managed the business’s finances and worked a couple shifts a month when he needed help. Most of Avery’s sales came from spiritual candles and trinkets that promised money, love, faith, and whatever else a human could long for. The shop also had a small juice bar where patrons ordered drinks or shots with clever names like Mango Mood Booster, Panting Passion Fruit with pomegranate seeds, Lavender Kiwi ReLaxative. The remainder of the store held a mélange of local goods, art, and some organic supplements as well. But what Avery never discussed with Ophelia was that he took cash under the table for his Voodoo rituals. As if Ophelia didn’t know. His grandmother was Madame Delphine, the renowned Haitian Voodoo priestess. Of course, she knew Avery was helping people on the side. She just smiled and turned her head the other way for tax purposes.
Even though she was raised staunchly Catholic, Ophelia didn’t find the shop odd. She grew up in New Orleans, after all. In her youth, Ophelia and Jade would get drunk in the Quarter and have their fortunes told, or she’d get high in the woods behind her house with her sisters and attempt a seance. Normal teenage shit. New Orleans just had a mysterious undercurrent that all accepted. And Ophelia enjoyed being in the middle of it.
CHAPTER THREE
Ophelia’s phone buzzed, jolting her away from editing a donations deck. She groaned at the distraction and the caller—Mrs. Beulah, the elderly woman who lived in the purple house across the street. She was darling and meant well, but Ophelia knew this would not be a short conversation. Ophelia decided that she would just cut the conversation short with a made-up work meeting.
“Hello?” Ophelia said, mustering her pleasant phone voice.
“Ophie? Ophie? Ophie, dear, that you?” Mrs. Beulah asked frantically. Mrs. Beulah had a hard time saying Ophelia’s full name. She’d once told Ophelia that she had a very peculiar name and it was too difficult for her to pronounce, so she’d call her Ophie. Ophelia accepted the new name graciously and promised herself she’d never let anyone else call her that. It sounded too close to “oaf.”
“Hi, Mrs. Beulah,” Ophelia said loudly into the phone.
“Ophie?” cracked Mrs. Beulah’s voice.
“Yes, it’s me. How are you?”
“Oh, honey, you haven’t heard yet, have you?”
Ophelia’s senses tingled. She knew instinctively whatever was about to be said was bad. There was deep sadness, fear, and atwinge of excitement in Mrs. Beulah’s voice. She always had the good gossip, but this…this sounded different.
“What happened?”
“Oh, honey. It’s Delphine,” she said with a deep sigh, then an additional pause for drama. “Oh, honey, it’s horrible. She was found this morning in her house.” Another deep breath. “She’s gone, baby. She’s gone.”
