Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  Chapter Nine

  Gabriel wanted to find the child. If the coroner claimed Anne had given birth, then it was possible the child had been stillborn. Or died shortly thereafter. But if the child had died at birth, or some point after, there would be birth records. Assuming that Anne hadn’t given birth before the age of fifteen, Gabriel had ordered the birth records for children with the surname Donovan for all of New Orleans for the years 1841-1849. He didn’t think it was possible that Anne had given birth the year she had died, because he had known her most of that year, but it wouldn’t hurt to scan the results.

  While Sara was off getting coffee, he sorted through the results, which had been emailed to him. Since he didn’t need to see the actual physical birth certificates until he found a viable name, he could just search and scroll through the list of names.

  It was possible that if Anne had actually had a child, it had been left behind in Ireland, but Gabriel doubted that. Anne had told him she was thirteen when she’d made the trip across the Atlantic, and he had no reason to doubt that. Though he supposed his next search should be passenger lists to verify her arrival, along with her name and age. He had no birth certificate for Anne, only her word at the time that she was twenty-three.

  Donovan also was her unmarried name, and Gabriel wondered, if she had given birth to an illegitimate child, what name it would have been given. Most likely Donovan, but it was also possible that the child had been adopted, or given to friends to raise.

  It was a long shot, but something told him it mattered. Or maybe he just wanted there to be a child. Maybe he wanted to know that a piece of Anne had continued, that she hadn’t died before really living, before leaving a legacy.

  There were fifty-five children born with the last name of Donovan in New Orleans Parish during the eight years in question, some listed solo, others with birth parents. Those who were listed alongside their parents’ names had their mother listed by maiden name and married name, then the father next to them. Three had mothers named Anne, though one was spelled without an “e” on the end. Then one was listed simply as A. Donovan, with no married name and no mention of a father.

  Gabriel flagged those four and sent an email ordering copies of the actual birth certificates for all four.

  Then he changed his mind. He didn’t want to wait. If he went to the library himself, he could view them on microfilm, then order copies as needed.

  He would just leave a note for Sara and leave the door unlocked.

  The idea of waiting for her, and walking over to the library together was appealing, but he had felt her withdrawal from him earlier. He had done or said something wrong, obviously, though he had no idea what. But she had definitely bolted. Which was just as well. He had been severely tempted to touch her, and that was an extremely bad idea.

  So he would stick with the note and give her some space. They’d known each other less than a week, yet their relationship felt intense, advanced, for the time span. It made sense to back off, to limit the time they were together.

  Even if he didn’t want to.

  * * *

  Sara went in to the same coffee shop she had a few days earlier and ordered an iced coffee to go. She was too restless to sit and drink it. Gabriel had nicked at her calm, and she felt the need to walk, to burn off the nervous energy.

  She had wanted him to kiss her. Badly. She had wanted him to talk her into modeling, then she had wanted him to put down his sketchpad and make love to her, touching her everywhere intimately, his lips on her body. It wasn’t why she had come to New Orleans, and while part of her felt like it would only end in utter disaster, another part of her kept whispering why not? Why couldn’t she have a hot affair that reminded her of the pleasure of being alive?

  It wasn’t why she’d made the trek from Florida, but it could be a serious fringe benefit.

  Of course, she had also come to New Orleans to try to discover bits of her mother, the way she had been in life, as opposed to death. To try to understand the girl she’d been, the careless woman she’d become. As Sara walked back down Royal Street, she realized it was a futile effort. Her mother had been emotionally distant, and in death she wasn’t going to give what she hadn’t in life.

  But Sara knew that her grandmother’s death had altered the course of her mother’s life. She had been only sixteen when her mother had been murdered. And Jessie Michaels had been the one to find her mother, stabbed to death in their suburban home. It was only six months later that she had run away from her father and taken up dancing on Bourbon Street.

  None of those radical choices had ever been explained by her mother. She had never elaborated anymore than her standard, “I didn’t like rules.”

  On impulse, Sara cut up Orleans Street towards Bourbon. The sun was relentless on her bare shoulders, and she pushed her sunglasses up, checking for sidewalk holes. It amazed her that every street in the Quarter shared the same basic characteristics, the narrow thoroughfare, the buildings flush to the sidewalk, the wooden shutters and doors, and wrought iron railings. Yet each street took on its own personality, its own tone. Some were seedy, others elegant, some quiet, some boisterous. Orleans was calm and reserved, with a hotel that extended for most of the block to Bourbon, which suited her. This was truly her first stroll around the Quarter on her own, and while she wanted to like it, enjoy herself, she could never seem to shake the sensation that she didn’t belong. That she was vulnerable. A target.

  It was important to confront those feelings, to recognize that she was just outside of her comfort zone, and nothing more. There was no danger, and no one was out to get her.

  She debated which way to go on Bourbon, but opted for left, figuring there was more in that direction. The club her mother had danced at no longer went by the same name, but the night she’d died, her mother had been drinking a steady stream of margaritas at dinner with Sara and Rafe and she had suddenly started reminiscing about her days dancing. She had mentioned the club was in the four hundred block of Bourbon where there were several gentleman’s clubs. Then she had told Rafe it was a shame he hadn’t seen her table dancing, because to quote her mother, she had been hot shit.

  Sara had been appalled, but Rafe had just smiled and told her she still was. Then he had mildly suggested maybe another margarita wasn’t wise if she wanted to be able to walk to the car. If Sara had said that, her mother would have torn into her, and defiantly kept drinking, but she hadn’t been offended by Rafe’s comment. She had just laughed and said maybe he was right, but that it was still a shame that he had been in diapers when she’d been dancing.

  And just four hours later, her mother was dead.

  Sara was walking right past strip clubs, posters plastered all over their exterior walls, advertising barely legal girls and world famous sex acts. None of the pictures looked very appealing to her, and the one with a woman sitting aggressively on a bike seat look downright painful. The pictures went on and on, smiling women, naked and airbrushed. Sara had never been inside a strip club, and for some reason, she paused in front of the door of one after spending a few minutes perusing their posters, wondering how the dancers themselves compared to the cheerful images on the wall. Were strippers really that happy and perky? She wanted to see inside, wanted to know, wanted to picture how her mother had been bold and sassy enough at sixteen to lie about her age and dance partly naked in front of men.

  “Are you looking for work?”

  Glancing over at the doorman, Sara willed herself not to blush. “No.”

  “Are you sure?” He smiled at her, a man in his mid-thirties, attractive, and wearing a suit. “The money’s good, and we could use a blonde. One of our best customers already saw you and asked about you. You’re guaranteed fifty a night in tips from him alone if he likes you.”

  “What do you mean he saw me? I just walked up.” Sara hadn’t seen anyone on the sidewalk but her and the doorman. Though admittedly she had been busy studying the pictures with morbid fascination.

&nbs
p; “A minute ago. He saw you when he was going inside.” He tipped his head to the door, giving another charming smile. “Come on in and watch a few of the girls, see what you think.”

  It amazed her that dancers were on stage at noon on a Monday, but it was Bourbon Street, after all. Bars were advertising three for one, and karaoke was going. “No, thanks.” Though she couldn’t prevent herself from glancing in the open door. All she could see was a dark hallway, and a woman’s legs on the stage.

  And she suddenly had the feeling that someone was watching her. From inside the club.

  Sara shivered, rubbing her hands over her arms. Maybe the customer the doorman had referred to was still checking her out. Which she didn’t like at all.

  “Well, have a good afternoon then, and if you change your mind, stop on back.” The guy waved and diverted his attention to two men passing by on the street.

  Giving one last backward glance into the club and seeing nothing noteworthy, Sara started down the street, returning the way she had come. She wanted to go back to Gabriel’s apartment, to the security of his courtyard. Finding pieces of her mother’s motivation on Bourbon Street wasn’t going to happen. She had to accept she was never going to have answers to those questions. Hell, maybe she wouldn’t want them if she did have them. Ultimately, she and her mother had been diametrically opposed to each other in the core of who they were.

  Funny that she had never given much thought to her biological father. It would seem logical that if she were nothing like her mother, she must be like her father, yet she had never been interested in finding him. Only once had she asked for his name, and her mother had told her she didn’t remember his last name, only his first, which had been Brian. The last name “started with an S” but beyond that her mother couldn’t recall. Sara had never asked again. Who Brian S. had been and why he had been a bouncer and what he had seen in her sixteen-year-old mother had never really mattered to her.

  Maybe because it was her mother who had driven her life, not him. It was her mother who had raised her, her mother who hugged her and yelled at her, who had vacillated between effusive in her affection and stone cold remoteness. Her mother had influenced her psyche on every level, and now she was left alone to deal with the mess of her life.

  It made her angry. At her mother. At the world.

  Sara walked faster, dodging sidewalk holes and avoiding further doormen and one aggressive bartender already hocking shots in plastic tubes in the open doorway. She needed to let it go. Let it all go. Start over right here, right now. Yet it was so damn hard to start over when she physically felt the past following her. It was there in the Anne Donovan case, it was there in the email she’d gotten suggesting her guilt, it was there in the book Gabriel was writing, it was in the disturbing sensation that even as she walked someone was watching her, following her.

  For a minute, she panicked, forgetting which cross street she wanted to turn down, and certain she’d gone too far, but then she saw the sign for Dumaine and realized that was the street Gabriel’s apartment was on. Glancing behind her as she turned onto Dumaine, she scanned the street for a clear indication of someone following her, but she only saw several women together in a cluster wearing summer business skirts, and a man hosing the street down.

  God, she was totally paranoid. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling, and she walked faster and faster until she got to Gabriel’s gate, which was open. Then she jogged down the enclosure, and up the stairs to his apartment, looking forward to seeing him, hearing his reassurances. There was a note on the door.

  Went to library. Back soon, go on in. G

  Sara ripped it off the door and turned the knob. He’d left the door open. And the gate. Plus a note indicating to anyone who happened by that he wasn’t home and everything was unlocked. He was afraid of nothing, and she was paranoid enough for the both of them, and one extra person besides. Sara went in and locked the door behind her, heart pounding from her aggressive walking.

  Then she pulled out her phone in case she needed to call 911, and walked through his apartment, checking to make sure she was actually alone with the door locked behind her. She went through every room, even throwing open his bedroom closet and peeking behind the shower curtain. She ended in his office, and collapsed on the sofa, feeling on the verge of tears.

  She fought them, hating to cry, knowing it meant she wasn’t better, despising that she was not totally and completely in control. Popping back up to distract herself, she went over to study the spoons that hung on the wall by Gabriel’s computer. She thought they were vintage, but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t even sure if they were technically spoons since they had holes in them, and oblong ends, more like a pie server than a spoon.

  Agitated and restless, Sara knew she should just go back to the file folder of research documents she had with her. She hadn’t brought her laptop with her, and she didn’t feel comfortable using Gabriel’s computer without asking him first, but she could write out long hand all the questions she had. She wanted to find out more about John Thiroux, where he had come from, and where he had gone after his acquittal. Newspaper articles at the time hadn’t seemed to delve into his past at all. Everything she had read concentrated on his artistic endeavors and his drug problem. No one mentioned his family, his education, where his wealth had originated from, and how he might have strayed down the path of alcohol and opium.

  But instead of working she found herself looking at the various objects lying around his desk. Never a nosy person, she wasn’t sure why she was standing there filled with rabid curiosity, eyes roving over an old loving cup used as a pen holder. The abandoned water bottle turned on its side, crushed, and stuck with paper clips that had been twisted open and straightened out to reveal their ends. Stacks of books with criminology titles. Gabriel was messy, but not dirty. There was no dust, no food wrappers, no indiscriminant sticky spots.

  A file folder was open next to the computer and it was impossible not to see the copy of the sketch sitting on top. It was a woman in profile, sitting on the edge of a bed. She thought it was Anne Donovan, but it was hard to tell from the side. But it was signed in the corner JT. Sara stood there staring at the sketch, telling herself not to do it, but she couldn’t stop herself. Sliding the first copy over, she revealed a second one behind it. This was Anne on her stomach on the bed, nude, head lying on her arms, looking more sleepy than sexual. Like she’d woken to discover her lover had been sketching her for quite some time.

  It was an intimate image, and Sara felt a profound sense of sadness for Anne, for the life she had led, and the brutal, untimely end to her existence.

  But at the same time, going on pure instinct, Sara felt as though the man who had drawn that picture had respected the woman before him. There was a tenderness to what he had captured. The artist didn’t seem interested in her nudity for titillation, but as a display of her total beauty, her curves and soft feminine form.

  There were three more sketches in the pile. The first showed Anne at her dressing table fussing with a pot of powder. Another of Anne smiling, an intense devotion to the artist on her face, revealing, in Sara’s opinion, that she had loved John Thiroux. Or at least had desired him, admired him, been grateful to him. There was intensity in her eyes, not disgust or boredom or tolerance. The third sketch was one of her neck, curls tumbling over her shoulders, the graceful lines of her muscles and bones delineated. A pearl necklace was resting above her décolleté, and her fingers played with the beads. Her face wasn’t visible, but she had slender fingers, and neatly manicured nails.

  The final two sketches had Sara pulling back in shock. “Jesus.” Both were copies like the others, the first a rendering of the crime scene. It was appalling, brutal. Sara’s stomach roiled at the image of a woman, on her back in bed, her face and upper body mutilated, the bed sheets darkened to depict pools of blood, the stain descending to the floor and collecting in a puddle. It was only a pencil sketch, with lines blurring and details of the wounds hard
to decipher, yet it conjured up memories of her mother’s death, of the crime scene photos they had briefly showed in court, and the utter violation of what had been done to her.

  The final sketch was a close up of Anne’s arm, graceful and delicate in the moonlight, her fingers dangling over the side of the bed. It was a Xerox copy, but there were dark streaks across the paper, slashing through Anne’s wrist, and smattering across the right hand side of the sketch. When Sara saw the faint outline of a fingerprint, she realized that the dark spots made from the copier were originally blood, Anne’s blood, and that whoever had picked up the drawing before the blood had dried had embedded their fingerprint in it.

  John Thiroux’s maybe. The police. Or another unknown killer. That fingerprint belonged to someone who had been there, seen the body soon after Anne’s death. Sara dropped it back onto the desk, tossing the sketch on top of the other one, not really wanting to see either any more. Though the second she dropped them, she found herself picking them both right back up. Whether she wanted to or not, she had to search for answers. She had to know who had killed Anne Donovan.

  And who had killed Anne’s daughter.

  And Sara’s mother and grandmother.

  * * *

  From The Court Records of the Willful Murder Trial of Anne Donovan, State of Louisiana vs. Jonathon Thiroux

  Statement of one Marguerite Charles, January 7, 1850

  Prosecutor: Before me, James R. Jackson, prosecutor for the Parish of Orleans, sits Marguerite Charles, who is acquainted with the defendant, Jonathon Thiroux, and has been duly sworn and charged to answer all the questions the court presents before her in this case. Mrs. Charles, how long have you known the defendant?

  Charles: For one year.

  Prosecutor: In what capacity did your relationship originate?