Love Can Be Murder

last year."
    "Last year?"
    "During the festival," Penny added.
    Hazel winced. "My memory isn't what it used to be, but let me take a look." She pulled reading glasses from her pocket and studied the flyer, but shook her head. "I'm sorry—I don't remember her. So many people come through here in a year's time, I can't remember them all."
    "I understand," B.J. said. "Thank you. Do you mind if I look around? I'd be glad to pay for a tour."
    Hazel gave them a conspiratorial wave. "Go ahead. Penny knows her way around." The woman then turned her attention to another group of people who had come in.
    Penny smiled up at B.J. "Do you want the nickel tour or the full-blown experience?"
    He grinned. "Full-blown."
    She took him from room to room, describing the murals and the exhibits of costumes, implements, a few wax figures and a few stuffed goats and chickens (compliments of Lewis Taxidermy). The voodoo displays told the stories behind the myths of the voodoo of Africa and Haiti—the black magic, the human sacrifices, the zombies—but always left the door open for the idea that any dark, horrific thing was possible in the underworld of voodoo.
    Penny had read the story of voodoo dolls many times, but she scoured it again. The voodoo doll, to be effective, had to be made of something close to the subject—hair or clothing, for instance. And the person delivering the good or bad "pricks" with a pin had to believe in what they were doing: it was mind over matter, the sign explained. If the person believed deeply enough, then their wish would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Penny's heart thudded against her chest as a horrible thought seeped into her brain: Had she somehow caused Deke's death just by the bad vibes she had put out into the universe?
    "You okay?" B.J. asked, breaking into her dark thoughts.
    She startled and looked up at him, wondering how crazy he'd think she was if he knew the things going through her head.
    She nodded and tried to shake the heebie-jeebies—hard to do in such an eerie place. They descended to the musty, moldy basement, where they listened to a tour guide talk, in macabre detail, about the chair of nails, the human stretching machine, and the contraption that prepared sausages mixed with ground glass, which were then fed to victims.
    Dark stains on the floor suggested blood and other body fluids, but they were probably motor oil and mildew, Penny noted. A myriad of whips and chains hung on the walls, and headless mannequins modeled pain-inflicting clothing—spike-lined vests and garments of barbed wire, necklaces of knife blades and bracelets of wax that would have been set afire.
    In the background, a sound track of human screams and other spooky noises played. The tourists shifted from foot to foot, and Penny, as always when she heard the stories, was awash with horror for the people who had been subjected to the sick minds of the masters of torture.
    The tour guide led his group out of the room. "Let's go," she murmured to B.J., eager to end their tour. But when she looked back, B.J. was staring at one of the spiked whips on the wall.
    "What's wrong?" she said, walking back to join him as she prayed he wasn't into S&M.
    "Maybe nothing," he said quietly, then reached up to pull out a long, white-blond hair that was coiled around the end of one of the spikes. "And maybe everything."

Chapter Twenty-one

    Store in a dark place...

    PENNY’S BLOOD RAN COLD as she stared at the long, blond hair B.J. held. Imagining people being tortured was one thing, but seeing the proof of their existence and their suffering...that was another thing entirely. "D-Do you think the hair was left there recently?"
    B.J. sighed. "It's hard to say—hair breaks down very slowly over time. It could be decades old...or left last week. A laboratory could probably date it to some extent by examining the follicle."
    "Should we call the police?"
    "Don't go jumping to conclusions," he murmured, then he held the twisted hair up to the light, his eyebrows knitted. "Let's see if your friend Hazel can explain why it would be here." He pulled a small plastic baggie out of his jacket pocket and gently placed the strand of hair inside. "Without raising any red flags."
    She nodded, and they retraced their steps back to the first floor, although Penny couldn't bring herself to touch anything—not even the handrails. Suddenly every stain on the floor, every peculiar odor, every taped scream took on a new meaning. Chills ran