A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  The woman crouching at her feet cackled. “The Baron ain’t interested in ole’ Eulie Echo.”

  “The Baron?” Trula’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Baron Samedi is prowlin’ round the district, castin’ his shadow.” The bones in Eulie’s hair clinked together when she moved her head.

  The voodoo spirit of death was in the district? A spark of fear ran the length of Trula’s spine. She shook it off and her hat’s ostrich plumes tickled her neck, causing another shiver. Did Eulie mean that a voodoo loa was behind the recent murders? “You’re sure?”

  The old woman didn’t answer. Her gnarled hands swept more dust onto the bricks, and she hummed something tuneless and eerie.

  “Eulie…”

  Intent on her dust, Eulie didn’t bother to look up.

  Typical. Eulie picked and chose the questions she answered. “Well…if you change your mind, go on round. Earleen or Hattie will find you a hot meal and a bed.”

  “I’ve got three more stoops to dust.”

  Of course she did. With a murderer roaming the red-light district, every madam in Storyville wanted brick dust spread on her front steps. Eulie swore the dust repelled evil spirits. Trula wasn’t sure if she believed her or not. In the morning sunshine, she rather doubted it. In the dark of night with a houseful of women to protect, she was glad the dust was there.

  Eulie’s sightless eyes lifted and stared right through Trula. “There’s an angel comin’ for you.”

  “An angel?” Trula pursed her lips. While she was willing to take Eulie at her word when it came to voodoo spirits, she had no faith in a forecast of angels. “For me? I rather doubt it.” She shook her head in disbelief and made her way up the front steps.

  Eulie’s head bent forward so the tangled locks of her hair and a few ragged feathers covered her face. With the tip of a gnarled finger she drew a stick figure with wings in the brick dust. “He’s comin’.” The old woman stood and tapped her drawing with the knobby cane she used to navigate the district’s crowded streets. “He’s an angel of death.”

  Trula’s foot froze in space, inches above the last step. What did that mean? The old woman scuttled away. Only the crude drawing remained, barely visible in the halo of light cast by the sconces flanking the front door.

  Trula glanced at the banquette. The ghost of a girl who’d died down at Emma’s fiddled with her garters. Live girls leaned out open windows, displaying their wares. Men referred to their Blue Books. Two police officers pushed through the crowd. The breeze carried the scent of the river, rye whiskey, and…uncertainty. Trula swallowed. Hard. There was something prowling in the approaching night, something dark and hungry.

  She clutched Eulie’s gris-gris, hurried up the last step, opened the door. Safely inside, she leaned against its solid length. She’d just left an offering for a voodoo queen, Eulie warned that Baron Samedi roamed the streets, and an angel of death approached, but at least she was home. The tension in her shoulders eased.

  A sharp rap on the front door claimed her attention. Trula rubbed her temples and glanced at the grandfather clock standing to the left of the entrance. What now? It was a good half hour too early for men to knock for entrance. It hardly seemed worth waiting for Hattie to come and answer. Trula pasted on a bright smile and opened the door.

  The two policemen she’d spotted on the banquette stood on the other side.

  Trula resisted the urge to bite her lips, sink to the steps in a heap, or slam the door then run and hide under the nearest bed. What was Ambrose Peake doing at her house? The last thing she needed was a problem with New Orleans police. She made the hand clutching the door handle relax. “How may I help you gentlemen?”

  The younger officer had the eager, lanky air of a large puppy. His hair poked away from his head in odd tufts and freckles covered his cheeks and nose. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, smoothed the lapels of his coat, ran a hand through the mess of his hair, rubbed his chin, grinned at her, then thought the better of it. His partner’s expression suggested his patience neared its end; his heavy brows were drawn, his jowls drooped, and his thin mouth formed a hard line of disapproval.

  “We’re canvassing the district and we need to speak with you, Miz Boudreaux.” The older detective turned her name into an insult.

  Trula mentally reviewed her pay-offs. They were up to date. She’d sent five hundred dollars last Monday. The police shouldn’t be bothering her. In fact, if she received any real value for her money, they should be offering everyone in her house first-class protection. “Oh?”

  “I’m Detective Peake.” The older man jerked his head toward the younger one. “This here is Detective Kenton. We’re here to speak with you about the murders.” Without so much as a by-your-leave, he took a step toward her open door.

  As if she’d ever allow Ambrose Peake loose among her girls. She might as well set a fox in a chicken coop. If—when—the girls refused him a complimentary roll in the sheets or a quick French, he’d run them downtown on some trumped up charge—smiling too brightly or laughing too coyly.

  “I know who you are, Detective Peake. I remember you well.”

  Behind her, a few girls chattered down the front staircase. Their voices died when they reached the foyer. She didn’t have to turn her head to know they strained to hear every word. Trula planted her feet firmly in the center of the doorway. “Of course, I’d be happy to talk to you, but now is the not the best time. Especially seeing as I don’t know anything about those horrible murders except the gossip I hear.” She extended her hands toward the police officers, then clasped them in front of her as if she was praying, and finally she let them drop. The gestures spoke volumes. At least she hoped it did. I don’t know anything. I can’t help you. Please go away.

  The detective scraped his heavy boot across Eulie’s brick dust, the self-same brick dust meant to protect her house and girls from evil spirits. “None of the victims frequented your establishment?”

  She’d read their names in the paper. Murders in Storyville were usually straightforward—fights over cards or women, a knife in the back of a man who flashed too much money near the cribs, or a gunshot through the heart of a woman who stole another girl’s regular. Straightforward deaths motivated by ego or greed or lust made hardly a ripple in the cesspool of the district. Butchering men in the gutter made even the most jaded of denizens take notice. She’d read about the first man, noted the gruesome manner of his death, and mourned him in the general, impersonal way one mourned a stranger. But as the list of dead men grew, so did her dread.

  “No.” Trula squared her shoulders and raised her chin, just a fraction. “I’m sure you both went to a great deal of trouble to come down here this evening. I wish I had time to talk with you tonight but I’m rather busy.” She wanted Peake and his clodding boots out of her dust, off her front stoop, and away from her girls. “I’d be happy to come to the station tomorrow if you still want to talk with me. Does eleven in the morning suit you?”

  The skin on Detective Peak’s face darkened. Except for the lines etched near his mouth, those turned white. “You don’t decide when you’ll talk to the police. I do. Now suits me.” He took another step toward the door.

  Trula ground her teeth behind a placating smile. The policeman was a bully. Men who bullied women were contemptible. Men who accepted bribes then bullied were even worse. She crossed her arms over her chest. Was she imposing enough to keep him from entering the house?

  “We’ll expect you at eleven, Miz Boudreaux. Thank you kindly for your time.” Detective Kenton earned her gratitude.

  Peake glowered at his partner.

  “I’ll be there,” she said. “Good night, detectives.” She eased the door shut, praying the tip of Peake’s boot didn’t force itself inside at the last second.

  The door closed and a wave of piercing voices broke over her.

  “What did they want?”

  “Did they know anything?”

  “Do they have
any suspects?”

  Trula held up her hands for silence. “Hattie,” she called to the woman who’d finally emerged from the depths of the house, “where’s Ada? I need to change. I can hardly welcome customers dressed like this.”

  Hattie shook her head. “Busy. Mr. Roden sent over a note. He wants the Arabian Nights room. Ada’s helpin’ the girls into their costumes.”

  Trula nodded, half pleased and half dismayed. The Arabian Nights room was a recent improvement that had proved wildly popular and profitable. A sportsman could easily imagine himself a sheik spending the night at a desert oasis with an accommodating harem, each girl existing solely to cater to his every whim. The girls’ costumes had little to do with the reality of the desert. Wisps of chiffon, sheer pantaloons, and a few strategically placed beads left just enough to a man’s imagination.

  Of course, getting the girls into the tiny costumes took some doing. They needed Ada’s nimble fingers to fasten tiny hooks and attach the miniature bells that jingled with each move they made.

  That left Hattie to help Trula dress. While the housekeeper was unsurpassed when it came to managing the kitchen, the cleaning staff, the boys who ran scotch or Champagne to the girls’ rooms, and the professors or bands who played nightly, she left something to be desired as a ladies’ maid. There was nothing for it. With a resigned nod, Trula asked, “Well then, will you please help me?” She hurried down the hallway toward her suite of rooms. Hattie’s footsteps echoed her own.

  A few minutes later, Trula gazed into the mirror and approved her reflection. The gown she’d chosen was as different from her earlier ensemble as a dress could be. The plain dress allowed her to pass unnoticed on New Orleans busy streets. For the evening’s labors, she’d donned battle armor. A black lace overskirt covered ice pink satin. Narrow straps spanned her shoulders and drapes of lace swept from her upper arms to the bodice’s plunging neckline, exposing the tops of her breasts. The fabric clung to her body, revealing curves, promising hidden delights. Men drooling over a daring décolletage didn’t notice her policing the way they treated her girls.

  Trula searched for Hattie’s eyes in the mirror. The wrinkles fanning her housekeeper’s eyes looked as if they’d been carved with an awl.

  “The murders are gettin’ closer. The first few were on Robertson. This mornin’ they found a body on the corner of Customhouse and Villiere outside Gipsy Shafer’s house. I’m worried.”

  Trula was too. So much so, she’d braved a ghost-infested cemetery near twilight. “Why do you suppose the police are asking questions here?” Although separated by only a few blocks, the difference between the whores who worked out of cheap cribs, ramshackle rooms that held little more than a dirty cot, a dirtier sheet, and a bedside table, and the girls in her house was as wide as Lake Ponchartrain.

  “Turns out the dead man had a pocket full of cash.”

  “Who was it? Do we know him?” Trula held her breath. It was awful when anyone died, but somehow knowing one of the victims made it much worse.

  Hattie sniffed. “He wasn’t one of ours.” The housekeeper labored under the assumption that theirs was the only worthwhile house in all of Storyville. Any man who could afford to spend his evenings at Trula’s but frequented Josie’s or Lulu’s was soft in the head. If he went to Emma’s, he had vile predilections.

  “He died the same way?”

  Hattie picked up a lock of Trula’s hair. She coiled and twisted and played with where to place it. “Ripped apart and left in the gutter.”

  Trula shuddered. Hattie’s reflection frowned and one of her hands rose above Trula’s head with a hair pin, its sharp point aimed at her scalp. The housekeeper wasn’t exactly gentle in her placement of pins and Trula cringed in anticipatory pain.

  “Like an animal had at him,” Hattie said. She sucked in her cheeks and jabbed the pin through Trula’s hair, grazing her skin. “If you jerk round like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs every time I place a pin, we’re never gonna finish.”

  Trula endured the placement of more pins in stoic silence. Complaining would only earn her sharper jabs. “Does he select the men he kills or are the murders random?” Enduring such a horrible death just for crossing a corner at the wrong moment seemed particularly obscene.

  Hattie’s lips thinned to the width of a hairpin. “You visited Marie?”

  “I did.” Her memory conjured distracting images of the Yankee.

  Hattie jabbed another pin past the slight protection of Trula’s hair, grunted, then dropped the remaining pins into a silver-lidded jar. “And?”

  A flippant response tickled the end of Trula’s tongue. She swallowed it. Hattie was more of a mother to her than her own had ever been. Like a mother, the older woman had a way of seeing things. Trula dropped her gaze to her lap. “I left the rum.”

  “Did you ask Marie for protection?”

  “Of course.” Despite her best intentions, an edge of annoyance lurked in her voice. As if she’d brave the cemetery and forget her errand. Not likely. Neither ghosts nor a distracting Yankee could keep her from doing whatever possible to protect her girls.

  Hattie nodded with grim satisfaction then glanced at the windows where night pressed against the panes. “Pray she heard you. Whatever evil is out there, it’s comin’ closer.”

  Chapter Three

  The sour odor of last night’s whiskey hung in the humid air, mixing with the sickly sweet smell of urine and the metallic tang of fresh blood.

  Breakfast had been a mistake. The bacon and eggs Zeke devoured an hour ago churned in his stomach and bile burned his throat. Then again, the nightmarish scene in front of him was enough to sicken the strongest of stomachs. The body at his feet had been eviscerated. The dead man’s intestines spilled out onto the banquette like a jumbled pile of pink and red ribbons. Ribbons dotted with flies. Their buzzing blended with the unmistakable sound of Detective Kenton losing his bacon and eggs farther down the alley. The young officer wasn’t yet inured to the sight and smell of gore.

  A sheen of sweat glistened on the gray pallor of Peake’s skin. The detective looked as if he’d breakfasted on spoiled oysters. “How you reckon he died?”

  Zeke bit back a retort. For God’s sake, the man’s guts were spread across his body like jam on toast and his heart had gone missing. Although, the grinning red gash at his neck might have killed the poor bastard. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and ignored the detective’s question. “Who is he? Do you recognize him?”

  The policeman bent his pallid face over the body and stared. “He ain’t local.” Peake’s raw voice made it sound like a crime.

  “Has he been robbed? Is there any identification?”

  Peake located a stick and pushed aside the bloodied folds of the man’s coat. Inside, a purse peeped out of a pocket. With tentative fingers, he removed it and stepped away from the body. Blood splotched the fine suede wallet. It looked…sticky.

  “Open it.” Zeke’s voice was harsh. He swallowed a wave of nausea and added, “Please.”

  Peake scowled. “Give me a minute.” With the tips of his fingers, he cracked the wallet and whistled through his teeth. “Hellfire. Have you ever seen anything like this? There must be six hundred dollars here. More than I make in a year.”

  The detective ruffled through the bills, pulled out a card and read, “Grant Belmain of Houston, Texas.” Peake whistled again. “Who kills a man and leaves the money behind?”

  Detective Kenton stumbled out of the alley. His skin looked as green as old bronze and he kept his arms crossed over his belly. “Ain’t no regular man did this.” His brown eyes dared them to argue. “Have you seen murders like this before? In New York or Boston?”

  “Port au Prince.” Each word stuck in Zeke’s throat. “You should go for the wagon, Detective Kenton.”

  Kenton nodded and ducked his head, his relief at escaping the macabre scene barely hidden. The sound of Kenton’s boots receded and Zeke studied the ground near the body. Som
eone had walked through the blood that seeped onto the banquette. A set of footprints suggested they stopped and looked. The delicate prints surely belonged to a woman. The toe was pointed and the heel a half-moon. A second set of prints danced through the blood, twirling and waltzing into the street in a crazy pattern. Those steps petered out after a few yards.

  “Who runs these houses?” He jerked his chin toward a row of mansions.

  Peake pointed to one with a turret. “That is Mahogany Hall, Lulu White’s resort. The little place next door belongs to Martha Clarke, her girls specialize in the French. The big house with the cupola is Josie Arlington’s, she’s Tom Anderson’s mistress. Round the corner is Trula Boudreaux’s. Man like this, lots of money in his pocket, I’m betting he spent his night at Trula’s.”

  “A better class of girls?”

  Peake’s drooping mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. “A whore’s a whore. It costs a man a month’s pay just to cross the threshold and that doesn’t include liquor.”

  “Why so much?”

  “Most men’ll tell you how Trula Boudreaux is the most beautiful woman in New Orleans.” He sniffed. “Some might say she sets the stage for her girls.”

  Most men were wrong. Zeke had seen the most beautiful woman in New Orleans in Saint Louis Cemetery. The mere memory of their brief touch set his fingers to tingling. He’d let her walk away with a swish of cotton skirts and an unfamiliar pang of regret. Of course, he’d been right to let her go. A glance at the mangled corpse at his feet reminded him he didn’t have time to be distracted by a woman. And yet, here he was, standing over a corpse, still thinking about her.

  Peake stroked his chin. “He could’ve been at Lulu’s. The prettiest octoroons in the city work at Mahogany Hall.” The detective licked his lips. Given the gutted body in front of them, the gesture was obscene.

  “But you believe Belmain went to Trula Boudreaux’s.”