A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  She nodded, a short, decisive jerk of her chin.

  He leaned back in his chair. “The first one to die was Cade Simpson, then Hite Denman. Both were killed outside cribs on Robertson. After that, a man from Atlanta named Delmore Tully was murdered. As far as we can tell, Tully was in town on business and didn’t know a soul. Eaton Farris’ body was found yesterday in front of…” He paused then checked a small notebook, “Gipsy Shafer’s house.” He said nothing more, clearly waiting for her to fill the ensuing silence.

  Trula studied a crack in the wall. She couldn’t help him.

  “Well?”

  “I already told you, they didn’t frequent my house.” Peake knew it, too. He’d timed last evening’s visit to disrupt her business. She’d put him off and this was the result. If she’d known she’d end up in an office with Zeke Barnes, she’d have foregone the night’s profits and talked to Peake. Ambrose Peake might be a bully but at least he didn’t delude her into thinking there was more to him than there was.

  When she’d met Zeke Barnes in the cemetery, something in his eyes had tempted her to believe he was different. Next to Marie Leveau’s tomb, he’d seemed different, special. Now that he knew she was a madam, he behaved like every other man she’d ever met. He wasn’t different. Not at all. “Tell me, Mr. Barnes, are you interviewing all the madams on Basin Street or am I special?”

  He glanced at his hands. She did, too. Long tapered fingers, a crescent-shaped scar near the base of his right thumb, sun-bronzed skin. “We both know you’re special, Miss Boudreaux.”

  The small office was suddenly too hot, too close.

  “Will you help me?” His eyes so candid, so sincere.

  Trula didn’t trust those eyes, nor did she trust her voice not to squeak. She stared at her hands crossed neatly in her lap.

  “Do you know a man name Grant Belmain?” he asked.

  Everyone in Storyville had heard of Belmain. The Texan spent most nights at Lulu White’s. His obsession with a sixteen-year-old octoroon named Cora James was the talk of the district. Rumor had it he’d offered Lulu a sizeable fortune for the girl. Thus far, the madam had declined, positive he’d up his offer. “Not personally.”

  “We found his body less than a block from your house this morning.”

  Trula jerked back in her chair and her fingers rose to her neck and the comfort of touching her pearls. “So close? Where?”

  “Around the corner from Mahogany Hall, in an alley off Basin Street.”

  Just a stone’s throw from her house, from her girls. Saints! The room tilted. If only she hadn’t had Ada lace her corset so tightly, she might be able to breathe.

  “Are you unwell?” He actually sounded concerned.

  “I’m fine. Thank you. Please, just give me a moment.” Her gaze bounced around the bare office. She gulped. “Next to Lulu’s?” Her voice was a whisper.

  “You did know him.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I knew of him. He preferred octoroons. The girls aren’t allowed to mix.”

  “Octoroon?” Barnes leaned toward her. Again he was too close. She shifted in her chair.

  “Octoroons are girls with mixed blood. An eighth to be exact. Lulu’s girls are mostly octoroons, perhaps a few quadroons. My girls are white. Belmain never came to my house.”

  “And the cribs where the men died?” He leaned even closer. His scent wafted around her, bracing ocean breezes and the cool depths of a forest.

  “For the most part, the women who work those streets are colored or quadroons.” Trula lowered her eyes and tried to speak without breathing in his scent. It did funny, swirly things to her insides.

  “On Robinson?”

  “On all the streets where dead men were found.”

  He leapt to his feet and stalked to the door. “Peake! Kenton!”

  The men appeared immediately. They’d been waiting just outside.

  “Miss Boudreaux just pointed out the dead men were most likely not visiting white women when they died.” Barnes’ voice chilled the heated southern air.

  Peake scowled in her direction. “What of it? A whore is a whore.”

  He meant her. Trula gritted her teeth, raised her chin, and returned his scowl—with interest.

  Zeke Barnes cleared his throat and for one happy second, Trula believed he meant to reproach Peake for insulting her. Instead he asked, “The race of the women these men visited isn’t important?”

  Peake’s derisive snort was answer enough.

  “You should have told me about this,” Barnes said. “I shouldn’t be hearing about the victims’ preferences from Miss Boudreaux. She suggests the killer is targeting men who visit colored women.”

  Peake glared at her. She glared back. It wasn’t her fault he was an idiot of the first order, a man with less imagination than a cypress stump. “Miss Boudreaux suggested a theory, did she?”

  “She did,” Barnes said.

  “Well, it’s just a theory. Not a good theory.” What Peake really meant was, She’s just a woman. Not a good woman. “I reckon it’s a coincidence.”

  Trula waited for Zeke Barnes to tell Peake he had the mental abilities of a chicken with its head cut off. Instead, the Yankee leaned against the wall and rubbed his chin, apparently unaware of the insult hidden in Peake’s comment. Or, perhaps he was aware but simply didn’t care that Peake had insulted her. Twice.

  A hiss of displeasure escaped her lips. She’d had enough. Trula stood and shook out her skirts. “It’s obvious you gentlemen have much to discuss. You’ll excuse me.” She took one last look at Zeke Barnes.

  His gaze settled on her face and the left corner of his mouth quirked. Trula knew that look—interested, considering, insolent—the look of a man who thought he could buy her.

  She turned away.

  His voice stopped her at the office door. “I’ll see you again soon, Miss Boudreaux.”

  She swept out of the small office without another word. It would be a cold day in hell before she offered Zeke Barnes or the police any further assistance. Let them look in the cribs and bars all they wanted. Eulie told her the Baron walked the streets. The police needed to talk to voodoo queens and doctors, not madams. She should solve the murders herself just to show them how stupid they really were.

  …

  Turquoise. The clear blue of a tropical sea. The impossible blue of a dacnis feather. Zeke hadn’t been able to make out the color of her eyes the first time they’d met.

  No, the first time he saw her, he’d been rendered idiotic by the mere sight of her. And then the sight of her perfect face had erased any last bit of intelligence he possessed. He’d let her walk away, her skirts shushing like a school marm’s, because he didn’t have time to become involved with a lady.

  This morning, he had sensed her as soon as she entered the room. Even with his back turned, he recognized her. Her scent, jasmine and magnolia, swirled past scarred desks, tipsy chairs, and hard men to tease his nose. A smile had curled his lips. A mistake. With a woman as beautiful as she, the best tactic was to pretend indifference. Instead, he’d grinned like a boy presented with a shiny new bicycle.

  Talking with her had been a new sort of torture. He’d been too fascinated by the straight set of her shoulders, the sweet honey of her voice, and those piercing aquamarine eyes to focus on murder. The need to take her in his arms and kiss her had grown with each second that passed. When she’d taken the corner of her lip between her perfect white teeth, he’d had to grasp the seat of his chair to stay in it.

  Trula Boudreaux. A madam. A woman with whom he might share a few nights’ passion without recrimination or emotion. She was perfect.

  She walked away with a swish of her skirts, her progress through the squad room measured by the silence that followed her. Every man stopped whatever he was doing to admire her luscious figure as she sailed through their midst. His gut tightened, twisted. It was completely irrational. How could he object to other men looking at her? He had no claim. His gut di
dn’t care about being rational, it was too busy urging him to clean the floor with the slavering horde of New Orleans policemen.

  “Who is that woman?”

  “Trula Boudreaux…” Kenton’s voice trailed off as a thundercloud settled on his partner’s face.

  “He knows who she is,” Peake snapped. “He means, who is she? Her people. Her history.”

  Kenton nodded. “No one knows for sure. She’s a mystery. I’ve heard she’s from Savannah. There was a story going round that said she was born south of Broad in Charleston. Others will tell you she’s not even American, that the trace of French accent is real and how her mother’s a French courtesan and her father was Napoleon. Not the short one who lost at Waterloo, the other one.”

  Peake actually chuckled. “Half the women in the district fake an accent. She’s John Dupree’s whore. A girl from a decent family wouldn’t end up as a rich man’s mistress. She’s trash.”

  “Trash?” Something dark and angry coiled around Zeke’s chest. He snatched a pencil from the desk and turned it in his fingers to prevent them from forming a fist and teaching Peake some manners. “Who’s John Dupree?

  “Our very own Midas, local man made good after the war. Everything he touched turned to gold. One day he decided to travel the world. Said he wanted to see it all. Gone for years, he was. When he came back, he had Trula in tow.” A dark smile twisted Peake’s lips. “That set tongues waggin’ up and down St. Charles Street.”

  “Where is he now?” Zeke’s voice sounded sharp in his ears.

  “Dead.”

  Zeke exhaled and the coil released. He’d met dozens of beautiful women and not one held a candle to Trula Boudreaux. To stroke his fingers along the velvet of her skin, lingering at the hollow where her delicate throat met her collarbone, to catch her scent long enough to determine how she could smell so sweet, would be heaven. Even now her perfume, light, floral, and seductive, lingered in the air.

  “He’s been gone going on three years now.” Kenton’s voice cut through Zeke’s fantasy of Trula wrapped in his arms, her lips exploring his earlobe while he buried his nose against her neck to inhale the fragrance of her skin.

  “He died of old age.” Peake snorted. “The man was seventy if he was a day.”

  “And she was his mistress?” A rich old man, a beautiful young woman—nothing surprising there. Yet he’d assumed Dupree would be young. After all, she deserved a man who could match her vitality, a man who could make those turquoise eyes darken with passion. Instead, she’d played mistress to a man old enough to be her grandfather. Wrinkled fingers caressing her soft flesh? It made his skin crawl. She deserved better. She deserved him.

  “Most people figure she was about fifteen or sixteen when they met,” said Kenton.

  “What happened when he died?” Zeke asked.

  “Boudreaux got the house, a passel of paintings, the furniture, and her jewels. Everything else went to his son.” Peake settled his bulk on an empty chair.

  “There were two houses,” Kenton said. “She got both of them.”

  “Why did she stay in New Orleans? You’d think she’d sell the houses and move on to greener pastures.”

  “Who knows how a whore thinks?” Peake’s sneer matched his ugly words.

  Every muscle in Zeke’s body tensed and the pencil in his fingers broke in two. The sharp snap of lead brought him to his senses. What was wrong with him? Trula was a madam. Why did it rankle so when Peake reduced her to worthlessness in a sentence? Zeke took a deep breath and asked, “She runs a good house?”

  “Trula’s a fine woman,” Kenton replied. “She doesn’t take virgins, her girls are clean, and she doesn’t allow them to have fancy-men.”

  “Fancy-men?” Zeke’s gaze traveled from Kenton to Peake and back again.

  “Pimps. If a girl works at Trula’s, she works for Trula.”

  “Who sells virgins?”

  Peake’s laugh sounded bitter as day-old chicory. “Emma Johnson auctioned off a pair for $750 just last week. They were twelve-year-old trick babies.”

  Twelve? Zeke swallowed his disgust. “Trick babies?”

  “It’s just another name for a whore’s child who’s raised in a house.” Peake sucked on his teeth. “’Course, those two were in Emma’s shows for a few months before she sold them.”

  Zeke didn’t want to know. His eyebrow rose of its own accord.

  “Some men like to watch women together. I guess there are some who like to watch little girls. Anything a man wants, he can find it at Emma’s.” Peake lifted an admonishing finger. “Don’t go thinking Trula Boudreaux a saint just because she won’t sell virgins. She isn’t any better than the rest of them. She makes her money off her girls’ backs same as Emma Johnson.”

  Kenton ran a hand through his messy hair. “Now, Peake, you have to admit, we’ve never had any complaints from Trula’s girls. No failing to pay them. No beatings. Nothing. They stay with her. Hell, the ones who left got married.”

  “That’s hokum,” Peake snapped. “Who’d marry a whore?”

  Kenton’s grin lit his face. “Lots of fellows. The girls are pretty. I reckon ranchers and wildcatters from Texas get lonesome out on the range.”

  Peake snorted and Zeke held up a hand to silence any further comment. “All that aside, what if she’s right? What if the killer is targeting white men visiting octoroon prostitutes?”

  “If we put watches on the quadroon cribs and octoroon houses, we could catch him.” Excitement fired Kenton’s young voice.

  Zeke nodded, his mind still occupied with the madam. In a few moments, Trula Boudreaux had discovered an angle the police had missed entirely. What else did she know?

  Chapter Five

  Trula wasn’t the descendant of a long line of successful courtesans for nothing. When it came to men, she’d learned all she ever needed to know at her mother and grandmother’s knees. She’d recognized the expression in Zeke Barnes’ eyes. He believed she was his for the taking. Now that he knew who she was and where to find her, he would come. Probably tonight. Her heart hiccupped.

  The evening called for a special dress—one that would lend her confidence. She pulled one from the wardrobe, hung it on the back of a door and stared, considering. The gown was inspired by the dress Virginie Gautreau wore when she posed for Sargent as Madame X. The voluptuous New Orleans beauty who’d sat for the famous portraitist had scandalized tout Paris with her blatantly carnal attire.

  Ada laced her into a corset and Trula slipped the gown off the hanger. The satin poured over her like cool water, the jeweled straps almost cold against the warmth of her skin.

  The midnight blue gown suited her every bit as well as it had the Creole beauty. Perhaps better. Unlike the chalk white Virginie, her skin glowed a healthy hue. Battle armor. Camouflage. A sleight, not of hand but of dress. Zeke Barnes would be unable to shift his gaze from the swells of her breasts or the curve of her hips. If her traitorous attraction shone in her eyes or smile, he wouldn’t notice. She didn’t want to examine her attraction to him. Yes, he was tall and dark and handsome and, at least in New Orleans, exotic. But a modern-day Prince Charming? Saints no. He proved that when he let Peake’s slights go unanswered.

  She stared in the mirror and inventoried her assets: blond hair, full lips, and a figure as perfect as a tightly laced corset could make it.

  Zeke Barnes would soon discover she couldn’t be bought…or charmed. She wouldn’t melt at his feet just because the curve of his lips made her long for the impossible. She smoothed the dark fabric over her hips, raised her chin, and smiled at her reflection.

  Trula stepped into the hallway. She ignored the girls’ curious stares. It was none of their business if she wore a particularly daring gown.

  The girls sparkled brilliant as jewels against the soft color of the pekoe room’s walls. The bright hues of their dresses reflected in numerous mirrors and the windows’ glass.

  Hattie appeared at the door in a stiff black gown covered by an en
ormous white apron, ready to welcome the evening’s callers. Her gaze trailed from the perfect pompadour Ada had created to the exposed slope of Trula’s breasts. The housekeeper chased away twelve girls with one sweeping, piercing stare and closed the door behind them with a thump. “What are you up to?”

  Trula raised an eyebrow.

  Hattie planted her hands on her generous hips and gave Trula a fierce scowl. “That look won’t work on me.”

  “I’m not up to anything.” Trula couldn’t quite bring herself to meet Hattie’s suspicious gaze. She hid her hands behind her back so Hattie wouldn’t see them shake. Nerves. She needed a cordial to settle her nerves.

  Hattie barked a short, disbelieving laugh.

  Trula wandered over to a console and fiddled with a bouquet of white lilies. Her hands barely trembled when she plucked the tight anthers out of a just-opening bud.

  “Since when do you dress so the men won’t bother to notice the girls?”

  Trula lowered her face and sniffed the lilies’ perfume. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She glanced back up at the housekeeper, hoping Hattie couldn’t see the flush of her cheeks.

  Hattie’s eyes narrowed so tightly Trula doubted she could see anything. “I’m not a fool.”

  Hattie was as far from being a fool as anyone Trula had ever met. “Let’s just say I want to prove a point.”

  Hattie snorted. “To who?”

  The question gave her pause. To whom? To herself? Did she need to prove she could overcome her charged attraction to the Yankee? So what if she did? “A man.”

  Hattie hissed her displeasure. Trula could hardly blame her. As answers went, it didn’t answer much. She turned her back and shifted a few stems in the vase. The lily blooms desperately needed arranging.

  “You turn on round and talk to me.” Hattie tapped her foot until Trula complied. “What man?”

  Trula ignored her question. “I know what I’m doing. Now, we’d best let the girls back in.”

  “Not ‘til you tell me who.”

  Hattie was stubborn enough to block access to a parlor all night long just so she could glare her displeasure. Trula swallowed. “His name is Zeke Barnes.”