…” I watched her face turn pale rose, just as Montbard had described it. “… during a moment of emotional instability. I would do anything to make it right again.”
I sat forward in my chair to stress a point. “Ms. Firth, the camera was set up, ready to go, before the man who seduced you arrived. The drinks he fed you were drugged. Same with my goddaughter, same with the women last night. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
“Drugged? I suspected that. I felt so strange… rather giddy and dreamy and…”
“Amorous?” I used Montbard’s word.
The woman looked away. "Hardly that.”
“You didn’t feel unusually affectionate? Or at least behave with an unusual feeling of… let’s say, willingness.”
“I told you how I felt-strange, and not at all myself. That’s all I remember. Excuse me, please, gentlemen.” She stood.
I said, “I’m sorry. I was only trying to discuss the drug they may have used.”
“Not a problem. I’ll be back,” she said, placing her napkin on the table. “Please wait, won’t you? Just need to freshen up a bit.”
Over coffee, I explained what I’d learned about the party drug, MDA, and the effects of similar amphetamine-based chemicals.
The woman and the Englishman listened attentively, but Montbard became interested when I asked, “Have you heard of something locals call Icebreaker?”
“A potion? I haven’t heard of that one, but the locals use all sorts of potions. They don’t talk about it openly, but obeah dominates the culture. I began a personal study, actually, years before I started getting into this blackmail business.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a powerful historical force. The knowledge is useful to me now because I believe the blackmailer uses obeah to control the organization.
“I’ve been able to identify the men you dealt with last night-Richard Bonaparte, Dirk Van Susterin, Clovis Desmond. I have photos of the fourth man, too, Deepak Wulfelund, originally from Suriname. He does the camerawork at the beach cottage, and-” Montbard glanced at the woman. "-presumably, at the rental villa, too.”
Deepak Wulfelund. Wolfie.
“Three of the four are employed by one of the major landholders on Saint Arc, a woman who’s considered an obeah gaje-a sort of fortune-teller, priestess, and witch all rolled into one. Her name’s Isabelle Toussaint. Madame Toussaint has a tremendous amount of power. Money, too. Some people on Saint Arc believe she’s the Maji Blanc-a sort of she-devil in obeah folklore.”
I said, “Do they call her the Widow?” I hadn’t told him about what I’d overheard.
“Sometimes, yes. I’m impressed you know. Years ago, she married one of the wealthiest man in the Caribbean, but he died in an accident. Left her a bundle. More often, though, she’s referred to as the ‘White Lady’ because of the double meaning-it’s considered bad luck to speak the Maji Blanc’s name, you see.
“It’s all an act, of course. Toussaint plays the role, I’m sure, to keep the locals in line. The more I find out about her, the more I’m convinced she’s utterly ruthless. Her late husband, for instance-he was thirty years older than she. A few days after the wedding, he supposedly got drunk and stumbled off a cliff. And Madame Toussaint is… well, let’s just say she’s not the marrying type.” He smiled as he lit his pipe, sending a message about the woman’s sexuality.
“You’re convinced she’s the blackmailer?”
“Yes. I think it’s possible she’s involved with every profitable criminal activity that takes place on the island. Surprised?”
I was. From the beginning, I’d operated under the assumption it was a man. It was difficult to shift gears now and imagine a female extortionist-especially one who made it a point to humiliate her victims.
“I say again, the power this woman has over her followers can hardly be exaggerated. Are you a religious man, Ford?”
“No.”
“Nor am I. So I have no pious illusions of superiority when I discuss obeah. In fact, in many ways, I think it’s a more sensible religion than the major religions. They all use fear, one way or another, to keep believers in line. But obeah is proactive. You don’t simply kneel down and pray for your heart’s desire, you go out and get it by making a potion or paying someone like the gaje to provide you with a lucky fetish.
“Traditional religions tend to be wishy-washy when it comes to dealing with one’s enemies. Turn the other cheek, that sort of nonsense. Not obeah. It encourages believers to take the offensive. A properly done curse can banish an enemy, or even kill him.
“Obeah isn’t about the afterlife. It deals with the here and now. If a believer gets out of line? There are creatures who come out at night and punish-vampire witches and flesh-eating spirits. No waiting for Judgment Day.”
“Adults really believe that?”
Montbard signaled impatience by striking another match. “Are you telling me you have no secret superstitions? Aren’t we all absolutely certain that what we believe is right and real? It’s true of all faiths. I think it’s true of people like you and me, as well. Science is your religion. Archaeology, history-tradition, too, I suppose-are mine.”
I shrugged-Valid point-remembering Ritchie telling Dirk the Widow would punish him for his disrespect.
“Obeah isn’t fantasy-based. It’s as real as blood and bones. I think you’d have a better understanding if you had a chat with Lucien St. John, a man who was employed by my family for years. He was my source for much of what I’ve just told you. Lucien is in his nineties now and doesn’t mind talking about it. Only fair that we share intelligence assets.”
Turning to Senegal, Sir James said, “Last night, Dr. Ford told me that his sources have linked the blackmailer with that spa we were discussing, the one on Saint Arc. The place called the Orchid-so exclusive the waiting list is months. But Ford must have friends in high places, because he somehow finagled a reservation, starting tomorrow. Quite a coincidence, eh, Senny?”
Over drinks at Jade Mountain, Montbard had been poker-faced when I mentioned the spa, but now he was being facetious. I said, “You already knew about it?”
The man was nodding. “Quite. The spa includes the ruins of a monastery that I’ve been interested in for years because of its archaeological importance. The place is ancient. Built by French Carthusian monks-an order that dates back to the eleventh century. The maternal branch of Toussaint’s family has done business in the islands even longer than my own. That’s how she came to own the place.”
Toussaint owned many other properties on the island, Montbard told me, including the beach cottage that Shay had rented, and the mountain villa where they’d entrapped Senegal. The woman used corporate fronts, he said, but he’d finally tracked the titles to her.
“Privately, Madame Toussaint oversees her holdings as ruthlessly as a dictator. Publicly, she’s rarely seen. She raises orchids-has an international reputation in the field-and one of her companies markets a line of boutique beauty concoctions. She also fancies herself a jet-set hostess, even though she seldom attends her own parties. Didn’t you tell me that, Senny? I suppose some people crave any association with power.”
Senegal said, “I heard it from a member of parliament who’s been to the spa-a particularly unsavory member, by the way. Part of the woman’s mystique, I guess. Makes people want to meet her all the more. A year ago, she upped her stock with that crowd when she bought the Midnight Star-among the world’s most famous star sapphires. Had it set as a necklace.”
I said, “An obeah priestess who hosts parties?”
Montbard said, “Oh, she would never admit she practices obeah, just as she would never admit she promotes the rumor she’s the Maji Blanc. Most islanders won’t even acknowledge that obeah exists. Secrecy is one of the religion’s tenets.
“I met the old girl only twice-at an embassy function in Kingston, then again two years ago when I asked permission to spend a day or two photographing the monastery ruins. She looks like a bit of a flake-rouge and lipstick, turbans and kaftans, that sort of business. Her overall appearance is… memorable. And her breath! My God.”