Crescent Moon

by Lori Handeland

  “I’m not here to roust you. We don’t usually send detectives for that.”

  “Good point.” I picked up the coffeepot and lifted it in his direction.

  “No thanks. I’ve already had so much I might jump out of my skin.”

  My lips twitched at the thought of this laconic man jumping anywhere. I wondered if he were trying to make a joke, except he just kept staring at me with his curious cop eyes and flat, unsmiling mouth.

  I poured myself a cup, then sat on my sleeping bag, leaving the only chair, a foldout canvas model, for him. He ignored it, choosing to stroll around the room peering into corners.

  “I know you rented the place,” he said, “but why?”

  “I’m investigating reports of a wolf in the swamp.”

  “In Louisiana?” He cast me a quick glance. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll find that out and be on my way.”

  “What do you know about Adam Ruelle?”

  I hid my surprise behind a sip of coffee. Why was everyone so interested in him?

  “According to the locals, he’s dead.”

  Sullivan turned quickly for such a big man. “According to you, he isn’t.”

  He’d been busy this morning, checking my rental status, reading Cantrel's and Hamilton’s report. I slurped more coffee, took my time swallowing, then lowered the cup. “A man who says he’s Ruelle has been around.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Good question. I had no idea where Adam lived. He just turned up wherever I was. Which was downright odd now that I thought about it. “Why do you care?”

  Sullivan kept his dark gaze on my face. “A man was killed.”

  “Charlie. I know.”

  “Not him. Another man. Last night.”

  The cup halfway to my lips again, I had to tighten my fingers quickly before I dropped it into my lap. “Where?”

  “Not far from the incident with Charlie Wagner.”

  I’d sworn I’d heard a growl, seen an animal, but what if I’d killed a person?

  My hands started shaking, and coffee nearly cascaded over the edge of my cup. I set it on the floor and forced myself to think. I’d walked around, hadn’t found anything. Not a person, not an animal, no blood. But it had been dark, and I wasn’t Outdoor Girl no matter how much I liked to pretend that I was.

  “Shot?”

  Detective Sullivan gave me a strange look. An animal had killed the others. To know the man was shot—well, basically I’d just confessed.

  Mentally I ran through the names of everyone I knew. Not a lawyer among them.

  “Not shot,” Sullivan murmured.

  “Another animal attack?” I started to get to my feet, intent on seeing the body, checking the tracks, but his next words had me sitting right back down.

  “Strangulation.”

  Now my mind was really groping. “Strangled? How?”

  “Bare hands are the usual method.”

  I blinked at the repetition of my own thoughts of the night before. Adam had given me his gun. He’d had only his hands for protection. Had he used them?

  “Fingerprints?” I asked.

  “ ‘Bare hands’ was just a figure of speech. A rope was used. Probably gloves. Not much evidence.” He took a deep breath. “There’ve been more disappearances than usual in and around New Orleans.”

  “And you’re starting to think serial killer.”

  “I never said that.”

  He hadn’t said much, including what he was doing out of his parish. But I could figure it out. Tourists and locals disappearing, some of them turning up in the swamp. When St. Tammany police found a body, it was natural they’d call the man in charge of the original case, see if their corpse matched any of his missing.

  “Why do you want to talk to Adam?”

  Sullivan lifted his brows at my use of a first name, but he didn’t comment. “Dead people keep turning up on his property.”

  “The others were killed by animals.”

  “But this one is murder, and despite what you see on television, strangling someone isn’t easy. You have to be strong, and you have to be quick. There’s a bit of an art to it. One someone like Ruelle would know.”

  “I heard he was in the Special Forces.”

  “He was in something,” Sullivan muttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s a block on his file that requires higher security clearance than I have.”

  “Bummer.”

  Sullivan scowled. “Do you know where he is or don’t you?”

  “Don’t,” I answered with complete truthfulness.

  The detective's stoic glare probably worked on most people, but not on me. Eighteen years with my mother was finally proving good for something.

  “Fine.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a card. “If you see him, call me. Better yet, tell him to call. If he doesn’t have anything to hide, we should be able to clear this right up.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Sullivan cut a glance in my direction, but I just smiled as if I hadn’t been being sarcastic.

  “Who was the victim?” I walked Sullivan to the door.

  “We don’t know.”

  “Come on, Detective, the name’s going to get out eventually.”

  “I hope so; then I’d know it. This guy had no ID.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Maybe. But his money clip was still in his pocket. His fingerprints didn’t pop. There isn’t a missing persons report that fits his description.”

  “If he’s a tourist, it might take a while for anyone to notice he’s gone.”

  Sullivan seemed about to say something more, then tightened his lips and kept further comments to himself. Considering this was shaping up to be a murder investigation, I didn’t blame him.

  “If you think of anything that might be useful,” he stepped onto the porch, “let me know.”

  With a nod, I shut the door. I probably should have told Sullivan I’d been in the swamp last night, but I hadn’t killed the guy and I hadn’t seen anything.

  Except a wolf or something like one.

  A lie was a lie, even if it was by omission. However, I didn’t want to be dragged downtown for questioning when I had so many things to do.

  “If any of those pictures show anything worthwhile, I'll take them directly to the police station.” I put my hand over my heart. “Swear.”

  Since there was no one to hear my vow, it wasn’t really binding, but I felt better anyway. I only hoped my camera wasn't busted and any photos I'd taken junk.

  I took a sponge bath, brushed my teeth in a bowl. I didn’t mind camping, but the lack of a shower was a definite drawback. I’d have to rent a cheap hotel room once, maybe twice a week, or I wouldn’t be able to stand myself.

  Grabbing the gun and my camera, two things I did not want to lose—though from the age of the garbage I’d removed from the inside of the house, no one had stayed there for months—I went out the door.

  What could have spooked the homeless away from such a good flop spot? Had word gotten out that people were dying?

  After tucking the pistol into the trunk with my computer, I headed for town. I probably should have unloaded the weapon—I wasn’t exactly clear on the local rules for the transportation of firearms—but the idea of having the bullets in one place, the gun in another, a rabid wolf or even a serial killer chasing me around and around and around ... I decided I’d take my chances with the police.

  I found a camera repair and left the camera, minus the memory card, which I took to a one-hour photo shop, then I headed to the library for a little research. This early in the morning the place was cool and deserted. Just the way I liked it.

  A quick trip through the search engine netted me nothing. Unless the Ruelles had written a book or had one written about them, that usually didn’t work, but it was always a good place to start. My next stop was the desk of the reference librarian. When in doubt, ask questions.
r />   “I’m looking for information on a local family.”

  Short, thin, ancient, with granny glasses, clunky shoes, and—wait for it—a shawl, the woman’s nameplate read Mrs. Beasly.

  “Are you researching your family tree?”

  Since she seemed so excited about the prospect I said, “Sure.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Ruelle.”

  Her bright, helpful smile faded. “Oh, no, dear, you must be mistaken.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “There hasn’t been a female born to the Ruelles for at least a century.”

  I didn’t miss a beat. “My connection is much older than that.”

  If I was going to lie, I might as well lie big.

  “I see.”

  Mrs. Beasly contemplated me over the top of her wire rims. I wondered if she’d been an English teacher with a penchant for rulers before she’d migrated to the library. I hid my knuckles behind my back and tried to appear angelic, always difficult with my devilishly red hair.

  “Isn’t that a bit strange?” I asked. “No females.”

  "That isn’t the only thing.”

  “Oh, really?”

  She glanced around as if someone might be listening, but we were still the only people in the library. To help her out, I leaned over the desk and craned my ear in a conspiratorial manner.

  “The poor family,” she whispered. “It’s as if they’re cursed.”

  Cursed? As in... cursed to run as a wolf beneath the crescent moon?

  Couldn’t be. Because I didn’t believe in werewolves or curses. However, I didn’t believe in coincidence, either.

  How many curses were there around here?

  Chapter 13

  “What kind of curse?” I asked.

  “Oh, not a real curse.” Mrs. Beasly laughed, veiny white hand pressed to her concave breast. “Just extremely bad luck. Or maybe insanity.”

  Insanity? Well, this kept getting better and better.

  “You’re talking about Adam?” She cut me a sharp glance and I shrugged. “I read some before I came here. He was in the army. Flipped out.”

  “So they say.” Her lips went prim. “But I wasn’t referring to him.”

  I resisted the urge to shake her until all the secrets spilled out. Mrs. Beasly was the type of woman who wouldn’t talk if you pissed her off—kind of like me. I’d bet my next hot shower that the info she would impart couldn’t be found in any book. So I held my breath and I waited.

  After another glance around the echoing, cavernous library, she lowered her voice until I practically had to crawl over the desk to hear her. “Suicide.”

  The word seemed to slither across my neck like Lazarus.

  “Who?”

  “Both Adam’s father and his grandfather.”

  No wonder Adam had escaped to the army. “The police were certain it was suicide?”

  “They both...” She paused, uncomfortable. “Well, there’s really no other way to say this except straight out. They blew their heads off.”

  “Both of them?”

  She nodded. “There was an investigation. But the angle of the gun pretty much told the tale. The sons were always suspect, of course.”

  “Sons?”

  “Adam’s father was a suspect for his father’s death, and Adam for his.”

  “Why?”

  “The police thought there was money.”

  “But there wasn’t?”

  “Not only are the Ruelles cursed with insanity and sons, but everything they touch...” She spread her hands.

  “Turns to shit.”

  Her mouth pruned again. “If you must be vulgar.”

  I must.

  “They’re land-poor,” she said. “The mansion, the swamp. Keeping that in the family takes a lot of money.”

  “Why is there a mansion near the swamp anyway?” That had always bugged me.

  “The first Ruelle came to Louisiana from France by way of Canada.”

  Acadian. I’d thought so.

  “Those people, the Cajuns, they kept to themselves. But the Ruelles even more so. They bought that land for a song, and they refused through centuries of bad luck to let it pass out of the family.”

  I’d never understood the obsession with land, but wars had been fought, countless lives had been lost, over just that.

  “Was there any indication of why the senior Ruelles killed themselves?” I asked. “A note?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’d like to read the articles on those deaths, but...” I glanced at my watch. First I needed to pick up my pictures.

  “I’ll find them for you,” Mrs. Beasly said. “I can make copies. A dollar a sheet. Ten should do it.”

  “That would be great.” I handed her ten dollars.

  “I’ll leave them at the desk. If I’m not here, someone will be. What’s your name?”

  “Diana Malone.”

  She gave me her English teacher stare. “I never heard that the Ruelles had Irish relatives.”

  “Wrong side of the blanket,” I said. “Hush-hush.”

  For an instant I thought she might refuse to help me, and why? She was a librarian, paid to impart information. What difference did it make who I was?

  I guess not much, because she pocketed the money and said good-bye.

  I hurried outside, surprised at what I’d learned. However, the real surprise awaited me at the photo shop. I paid for the prints, drew them from the envelope, sighed. They were exactly the same as what I'd seen last night on both the camera and the computer. Grass, water, night.

  I nabbed the clerk and shoved one under his nose. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Since he was about ten years younger, four inches shorter, and twenty pounds lighter than me, he got that deer in the headlights look as his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed. “I... uh... what?”

  “There’s nothing here.”

  “But—” He peered at the picture. “There is.”

  “I don’t mean the swamp, the grass, the trees. There was something else there.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know!” I practically shouted. “That’s why I took the picture.”

  The kid appeared more confused than ever. “You took a photo of something, and it isn’t on the print?”

  “Yes. Is that defect in the camera or the memory card?" Or me. Though I'd never had a problem with that camera before.

  "Neither. If you got anything on the picture at all, which you did, they're both fine. If there was something there, it’d be,” he pointed to the lovely image of nighttime in the swamp, “there. Unless it was a vampire.” He shook his head. “No, that’s a mirror. Vampires don’t have a reflection. It’s werewolves that don’t show up on a photograph.”

  I blamed the shiver that passed over me on too much air-conditioning for a steamy autumn day. “What did you say?”

  My voice must have alerted the kid that I was not amused, because he stopped snickering and retreated behind the counter. Like that would keep me from following him if I wanted to.

  “Werewolves don’t show up in pictures,” he repeated.

  “And you know this why?”

  “I’ve lived in New Orleans all my life,” he answered, as if that explained everything.

  “There’s no such thing as vampires or werewolves.”

  “No?” he murmured, the word taking on a faint French twist. “Maybe you should spend some time alone in the Quarter after midnight. Or walk through the swamp under a full moon. You know why there are no cemetery tours after dusk?”

  “People get robbed.”

  “Sure they do. And the dead also rise.”

  I stared at the young man who’d seemed so harmless, almost shy. Now he just seemed nuts.

  “Ooookay.” I backed toward the door.

  “The only way to tell if a wolf is a werewolf is to shoot it with silver.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “Thanks for the tip.” Was this guy for r
eal?

  I fumbled with the door, got it open, and fled into the heat.

  It was only a coincidence that my photos showed nothing but grass, and werewolves didn’t show up in a photo. Because there was no such thing, no such thing, no such thing.

  And maybe if I clicked my heels together three times I’d be in Kansas and not in the middle of this mess. I was tempted to try, but I was fresh out of ruby slippers.

  Instead I picked up my camera--they'd found nothing wrong with it, surprise!--and bought a new memory card, telling myself the airport X-ray machines had ruined mine, then headed for the swamp. Not until I’d parked in front of the mansion did I remember the articles I was supposed to pick up at the library.

  A rumble of thunder in the distance turned my gaze to the west. Huge, dark clouds billowed on the horizon. Looked like we were in for a doozy of a storm. Since I was used to wussy midwestern thunderstorms, rather than Southern hurricane-force winds, tomorrow seemed as good a time as any to return to town. Besides, if I dug out some soap, I could take a shower right in the front yard. Considering the heat index of the last couple days, the idea had too much merit to pass up.

  I locked my camera and photos in the trunk with the gun, then hurried inside and grabbed what I needed, along with my gris-gris. I shoved the latter into the pocket of my pants. I left the zombie-revealing powder behind, afraid the stuff would disintegrate, or worse, if wet.

  The sky opened up when I stepped onto the porch. Though the rain was warm, steam rose when the drops hit the ground. I dragged off my jeans, socks, shoes, and through an acrobatic maneuver managed to slide my bra from beneath my tank top. Then I walked into the storm.

  I was drenched in an instant, my top and underwear plastered against me like a size 4 Lycra bodysuit. Quickly I made use of the soap and the shampoo. Needles of rain washed everything away; rivulets of water ran down my face so fast I could barely see. When I was done, I continued to stand under the clouds, lifting my hands to the sky as I let nature cleanse me.

  Deesse de la lune.

  My eyes snapped open. I turned a circle in the yard. Why did I keep hearing those words murmured in French as if they were the whisper of the wind? Was I losing my mind?

  I frowned at the Ruelle Mansion. Did everyone who lived in that place eventually eat lead?

  Refusing to be spooked, I stalked to the porch, rubbed the towel over my body, and stepped into my jeans. I lifted my head, glanced toward the swamp, and saw someone watching me.