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 a twinge 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.”
“Our Delphine? She…She passed?” she asked in a whisper.
“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Beulah sniffled. “We, erhm, her grandson, Avery…Well, you know Avery. He thinks she was murdered. Well, they know she was murdered. The police confirmed it already.”
“No!” exclaimed Ophelia as she clutched her chest. Her heart sank like it was going to fall straight out of her body.
“No,” she said again as Mrs. Beulah continued to speak.
Ophelia didn’t hear her. She just looked around the room with wide eyes, hoping someone would randomly appear and tell her it was just a bad joke.
Mrs. Beulah’s voice broke through her shock. “It’s just awful to discuss something so horrible on the phone.” Ophelia could hear sniffles on the other line. “I have the coffee pot on. Come on, ovah, sweetie.”
“I’m coming now. I…I’ll be right there.”
In New Orleans, if something happened in the neighborhood, everyone showed up to watch—a pothole being fixed, a new neighbor moving in, the kids from a block over getting chewed out by Mrs. Beulah for running through her garden.
Today was no different. Colorful clothing and frantic expressions harshly separated her neighbors from those in uniform.
Cop cars lined the street as men in black polyester moved slowly in the distance, working on various tasks.
Her neighbors were huddled in front of Delphine and Avery’s house in various states of distress and embrace.
Mrs. Beulah’s waving, crêpey arm caught Ophelia’s attention.
Across the street, equidistant between Ophelia’s cottage and Delphine’s double-shotgun, sat Mrs. Beulah’s immaculate home—a stucco revival with an intricate red tiled roof and a wrought iron gate protecting her garden.
Mrs. Beulah motioned for Ophelia to enter through the gate and meet her on the elevated front porch.
Climbing up the last step, Ophelia was greeted with a warm embrace from the old woman. She was still shocked and confused by the little information she knew, and the hug provided no comfort.
“Please tell me what happened,” Ophelia pleaded as they both moved to sit on a long, wooden bench facing the street.
“Avery found her this morning.” Mrs. Beulah let out a long breath and closed her eyes. Ophelia felt the silent prayer Mrs. Beulah sent up in that one breath. “Her throat was slashed. That’s how they said she died.”
“Okay,” whispered Ophelia. She needed to breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Images of a joyful Delphine filled her thoughts.
She saw her beautiful brown face marked with lines and spots from age.
Her crooked half-smile flashing a silver tooth.
Delphine eating crawfish at the neighborhood boil.
Telling tall tales from her porch about her days as a practicing Voodoo priestess.
Delphine was more than just a neighbor down the street. She was Avery’s grandmother, Mawmaw’s friend, and Ophelia’s, too. She was a piece of Ophelia’s community.
“There’s more…” said Mrs. Beulah, snapping Ophelia out of her reverie. “The murderer wrote something on Delphine’s wall in her blood.”
A droplet of sweat began to travel down her side. “What did they write?”
“‘I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God.’”
Ophelia felt like she couldn’t move. She had heard that phrase repeated to her word for word once before, years ago.
The last time she saw the tiger.
“Avery told me and the other neighbors before he went to the station. Said the police want everyone to keep quiet about that part for now, but he thought that sounded like bullshit.” Mrs. Beulah whispered the curse word, indicating it was Avery’s word choice and not her own.
“Exodus 20. The first commandment,” Ophelia said in shock.
“That’s right. You know your Bible, girl.”
She didn’t, just like most who were raised Catholic. She knew the verse because of what had happened to her in New York, and she had never forgotten it.
After some silence, Ophelia asked quietly, “Why would anyone do this to her? Why would anyone want to kill her? And so violently?”
“It makes no sense, honey.”
“Was there something going on with Delphine?”
“Maybe. You never know what goes on in people’s private lives.”
Ophelia stood abruptly. She couldn’t just sit here. There was too much rolling through her head. “Thank you for calling me,” she said. “I’m so sorry this is happening.”
Mrs. Beulah patted Ophelia’s hand. “Me too, honey, me too. Stay safe.”
From the sidewalk of Mrs. Beulah’s home, Ophelia stared at Delphine and Avery’s house.
All homes in New Orleans were eclectically painted in various bright colors with interesting plants and lawn decor showcasing each owner’s personality, but Delphine’s home stood out.
It was a peculiar-looking home with trinkets and statues in the front yard—a cracked Virgin Mary poured from cement stood about three feet tall at the foot of the porch, while a preserved alligator head, wooden African masks in assorted colors, rare feathers, crucifixes, and aging Mardi Gras beads hung from the rusted metal porch rail.
The wood on the porch was rotted, the blinds in each window had fallen in some form of disarray, and in a spectacular feat of nature, the chimney sprouted a beautiful bouquet of yellow flowers.
Avery rarely gave the house much attention.
He was so busy with Prytania Botanica these days, and Ophelia worried they didn’t have the extra cash to get some of the work done.
Ophelia’s heart sank as a thought occurred to her—what if Delphine’s murder was a hate crime? Obviously, there was hate in any type of murder like this, but she wondered if someone had targeted Delphine because she was a prominent Voodoo priestess.
She remembered Delphine mentioning that she had closed her Voodoo storefront because she could no longer handle the hooligans that would come and harass her holy shop.
Ophelia just assumed she meant tourists.
Avery’s shop had a more modern twist to it that said, “come grab a juice, and pick up a Voodoo candle that you can show off to your friends at your next house party.” Avery’s shop wasn’t inauthentic; it was just more approachable, less assuming.
Ophelia had been in Delphine’s shop once when she was a teen wandering the Quarter, and it oozed magic in a way that she was sure attracted both the curious and the prejudiced.
Just as Ophelia was about to cross the street to her home, a baby-faced cop passed in front of her.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Are there any updates on the murder?”
“No, ma’am. You’ll have to wait to hear anything on the news like everyone else.” The cop continued to walk toward the other police standing around. Great.