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“Is he in love with Carrie?”
She adjusted her smock and smiled. “Every boy on this campus is in love with Carrie.”
I handed it back. “What is she like?”
“Very confident.” She gently touched her hair, making sure it was in place. “I only had her for two semesters. I haven’t seen her this year.”
“What about this?” I showed her Victoria’s photograph of the sketch in the dirt of the murder scene, my original motive for coming here.
She ran finger across it.
“Where did you find this?”
“At the scene of a murder.”
She drew in a breath. “Oh, my.”
“Any help you could give me would be appreciated.”
She strode over to a bookshelf and pulled out a folio, carried it to her desk, and paged through it, licking her index finger as she went.
“It looks like this.” She swiveled the folio so I could see the image.
I said, “It looks exactly like that.”
“It’s a ‘veve’ symbol,” she said. “Voodoo. I’m not an expert, but I believe it symbolizes Baron Samedi, ruler of the graveyard and death.”
So much for kids playing around.
“I went to college at Tulane, in New Orleans,” she said. “One saw a lot of voodoo art in Louisiana. I came here for my asthma. I do hope this isn’t connected to Carrie.”
“Unfortunately, it is.”
And Frenchy Navarre was from Louisiana.
* * *
Back near the Old Main, four young mugs wearing Bulldog football jackets were admiring my Ford a little too intimately, one sitting in the driver’s seat, a cigarette between his teeth.
He eyed me with a smirk. “Hey, Pops, how about you hand over the keys so I can give this baby a spin?”
I reached in and grabbed his earlobe. Hard. He let out a squeal as I dragged him out by his ear, tripped him, and watched as he and the nail tumbled to the concrete.
“How about you get out of my car?”
“Owww, son of a bitch! You can’t do that!” He got up but kept his distance. “We’re gonna be teachers. We’re the future.”
“Maybe the future in prison, kid.” I slapped Carrie Dell’s photo on the hood.
“Do you know her?”
After a few sullen moments, the boys looked.
“Yeah, what about it? You a cop?” This came from a broad-shouldered kid with dark hair. I let his imagination answer the question as much as I wanted to let my blackjack do the talking.
“Her name’s Carrie. Carrie Dell. She’s T-Bone’s girlfriend.” He nodded toward the lug I had dragged out of my car.
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his earlobe. “Cute dish.”
