A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  Zeke raked his fingers through his hair and grumbled. Trula and Hattie ignored him, bending over Laurelie and murmuring. They didn’t even look up when he grabbed the unconscious man’s ankle and dragged him from the room.

  Gumbo stood in the hallway. His lips twitched when he saw what Zeke hauled behind him. “You gave that man a drubbing he won’t soon forget.”

  “He had it coming.” The man on the floor had beat Laurelie to a bloody pulp. He could have killed her. Zeke’s gut tightened and he blinked back a red haze. “What do we do with him?”

  “He’s got a friend down the hall. I reckon when Mr. Boone and Josette are done, Mr. Boone’ll see him home.”

  “And if he won’t?”

  A grin spread across Gumbo’s face. “Then he spends the night in the gutter.”

  Zeke rubbed his knuckles. They hurt. He grinned back anyway and settled his weight against the wall to wait. There was no way he’d leave Trula’s house while Carter Wayne was still in it.

  Only a few minutes passed before a younger, thinner version of Hattie appeared. A portly white man carrying a doctor’s bag followed her. He paused near the recumbent body.

  “The girl first,” Zeke said.

  The doctor regarded him with pale, appraising eyes then nodded and disappeared into Laurelie’s room.

  The woman smiled shyly. “Gumbo told us what you did. Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

  Why did people keep thanking him? He’d hit a man who was beating a girl a quarter of his size. The woman stared up at him. Apparently she expected a response. “You’re welcome.”

  “Ada, Dr. Montrose wants more towels.” Trula’s voice carried into the hallway.

  “Yes’m.” Ada reached up on her toes and kissed Gumbo’s cheek before hurrying down the hall.

  “You have no idea the trouble you’ve saved us, do you?” asked Gumbo.

  “Apparently not.”

  Gumbo jerked his chin toward the unconscious man on the floor. “If I did what you did, Miz Trula and I’d be spendin’ the night locked up at the station house. In the mornin’, they’d send her home. But, me…I’d be there ‘til she called in every favor she’s owed. Might be that wouldn’t even be enough. So thank you, Mr. Barnes. You saved us all a mess of trouble.”

  “What would you have done if I hadn’t followed Trula up the stairs?”

  “I would have broken down the door, pulled him off poor Laurelie, dragged him down the steps, and thrown him out into the street.”

  “You wouldn’t have hit him?”

  Gumbo tensed. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Not if I could help it.”

  “That’s all? He beats Laurelie and gets thrown into the streets.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No police or charges filed or consequences?”

  “No, sir.”

  Zeke barely suppressed an oath. “Well then, I’m glad I was here.”

  Gumbo grinned. “We all are. Even Miz Trula. Although I reckon she’d walk through a pit of cottonmouths before she’d admit it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Trula swept through the empty front hall. Where was everyone? It was mid-afternoon. Usually at least a few of the girls would be up. She had a sneaking suspicion they were avoiding her. Fine. Let them. She was entitled to a black mood. A customer had beaten one of her girls senseless.

  The dining room was as empty as the hall. She poured herself a cup of coffee and took a seat at the table. She supposed she should be counting her blessings. Laurelie would recover. No police darkened her door. Someone other than Gumbo had taught Carter Wayne a lesson.

  Zeke Barnes. Just because he knocked Carter Wayne clear to next Sunday didn’t mean he was a knight in shining armor. It meant he possessed an explosive temper and threw a mean punch.

  She put her elbows on the table and dropped her head to her hands. She’d behaved like a complete ninny, leaning against him, finding comfort against the chiseled planes of his chest.

  He wasn’t even that handsome. The lines that fanned the tanned skin around his eyes, the dimple in his cheek when he smiled, the wicked sparkle in his brown eyes, and the sheen of his dark hair—taken separately they were nothing special. But added together they created a man that entranced her to her core. Admittedly, his lips were rather extraordinary. They were firm and teasing, they tasted sweet as pralines, and they’d left her wanting more.

  Trula huffed an exasperated breath. The one kiss they’d shared hadn’t even been that good. She hadn’t swooned or traced the devilish triangle of his brow with the tip of her finger or forgotten herself in sensation. She barely remembered it and she certainly didn’t want him to kiss her again. Ever. The spark that tempted her in Laurelie’s room was an aberration, a temporary madness brought on by a display of male strength and her own gratitude. She’d let herself get caught up in the moment. It wouldn’t happen again.

  She set her cup down with a bang and coffee flooded the saucer. Damn the man.

  The doorbell rang and her heart skipped a beat. Was it him? Trula jumped to her feet, inspected herself in the mirror, then scowled at her reflection. What was she doing? She stuck out her tongue and crinkled her nose. Primping for Zeke Barnes? Her? Still, it couldn’t hurt to smooth the loose strands of hair or pinch a bit of color into her pale cheeks.

  She fetched a fresh cup of coffee, returned to the table, and pretended poise and aloof disinterest. It was easy, she’d been doing it every evening for more than a week—she’d just add an afternoon performance.

  Was it disappointment or relief that made her swallow a sigh when Hattie led Detective Kenton through the door? Definitely relief. “Detective, welcome. What may I do for you?”

  Kenton didn’t move from the doorway. He appeared lost in the study of his shoes.

  Trula waited for an answer. And waited. “Are you considering buying new shoes?” She wished the words back when a dull flush darkened Kenton’s cheeks. She hadn’t meant to insult him. She might as well kick a puppy. “I’m sorry, Detective. I didn’t sleep well last night and one of my girls needed…a rest. We moved her this morning. I’m afraid it’s all left me a bit cranky. How may I help you?”

  Kenton swallowed, took one last look at his shoes, and said, “There’s been another murder and a girl by the name of Cora James has gone missing. They told us at Lulu’s she’s friendly with one of your girls. Did she come here?”

  Trula’s eyes sought Hattie’s and they conducted a silent conversation.

  Finally, the older woman shrugged and said, “I suppose it’s possible she slipped in this morning after I went to bed.” She jerked her chin at Kenton. “How long has she been missin’?”

  “We’re not sure,” the policeman said. “Lulu gave her some time off on account of her being upset over Mr. Belmain.”

  “Hattie, would you please ask May to join us?”

  Despite her bulk, Hattie could move quickly. She disappeared from the dining room.

  Trula’s hand tightened on the arms of her chair. “Who’s dead?”

  “Fellow by the name of Knox Iverson.”

  Trula’s fingers turned to ice. She wrapped them around her coffee cup, letting its heat seep through the porcelain and into her skin. Knox Iverson…the name was familiar. “Where?”

  “Near Customhouse and Villiere.”

  She lifted the drink to her lips. She was a horrible person. Another murder. A man dead. And all she felt was relief because he died blocks away instead of down the street.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Kenton glanced over his shoulder toward the empty hallway. “That’ll be Mr. Barnes.” Trula choked on her coffee.

  She gulped for air.

  Kenton pounded her back.

  She spluttered milky liquid across the tablecloth then gasped for breath.

  Kenton thumped her again.

  “Careful there, Detective.”

  Trula’s eyes watered. She glared at Zeke through her tears. Mercifully, Kenton left off his t
hwacking.

  Tears streamed down her face. She wiped them with a napkin. Detective Kenton’s ministrations had dislodged a few bobby pins, and hanks of hair hung around her shoulders as tangled and lank as Spanish moss. Milky coffee spotted the front of her dress, reminding her how very much she disliked having Zeke Barnes watch her. Cats paid less attention to mice, wolves to sheep, lions to lambs.

  She accepted a goblet from Kenton, took a slow sip of water, and surveyed the ruin of her linen tablecloth. Not one but two spilt coffee cups rested on its stained surface. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to look at the mess—or the man in the doorway. The mere memory of last night’s breach in her defenses made her nerves jitter. He’d acted like a hero. She didn’t need a hero. Didn’t want one. Especially not the one who stood in the doorway.

  She met hundreds, maybe thousands, of men every year, and each year at least one of them forced a kiss on her, convinced he was the man who could win the unattainable Trula Boudreaux. Annoying in the way of mosquito bites or running out of cream for her coffee, they made no impression on her. So why did this Yankee make her heart flutter? Why were his kisses so impossible to forget? Why did his arms seem like a haven? Maybe because beneath his good looks and charm he seemed as alone as she was.

  Not that shared loneliness would stop him from leaving. He might stay for a night or a week or a month, but eventually, inevitably, he’d leave. She’d seen abandonment first hand. Her mother had held her heart in her hands and begged. If Trula lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget the devastation on her mother’s face when her father left. Such a thing would never happen to Trula. She simply wouldn’t allow it.

  She straightened her shoulders. “Detective Kenton was telling me a man is dead and Cora’s gone missing. I imagine if someone had stayed at Mahogany Hall last night, she’d still be there, safe and sound.”

  His lips twitched. “There was a policeman there all night, Miss Boudreaux.”

  Trula scowled at the coffee remaining in her cup and wished him gone.

  …

  Trula looked mad as a wet cat, utterly adorable. Zeke swallowed a chuckle. She truly was a singular woman. He’d spent a solid week studying her every move. He knew the way her hair reflected the light, how her smile seldom reached her eyes, and how her proud shoulders sometimes slumped with fatigue. He’d never wanted a woman so much.

  He leaned against the door while taking her in. She wore a pink gown that showed off the generous swell of her breasts, her slight waist, and the delicious curve of her hips. Frankly, her hair probably looked better before Kenton’s attempts to help her. It was falling out of its pins and around her shoulders. What would it look like loose, cascading freely across her shoulders? The color of her skin had returned to its usual golden cream, and the annoyed expression she wore whenever she saw him settled back onto her beautiful face. Her lips pursed. Did she realize how kissable those lips looked? Maybe she did. Her eyes narrowed, shooting blue darts across the room.

  “May I get you another cup of coffee?” Zeke asked.

  Something dark and angry flared in her gaze. Without a word he stepped up to the sideboard, poured her a cup, and placed it on the table next to two others. As he put it down, he got the distinct impression she wanted to shoot him…or perhaps stab him with the fork that lay within easy reach of her elegant fingers. Zeke grinned. He liked women with spirit.

  “Are you going to stand there all afternoon?” she asked. “I can’t bear people who hover.”

  Kenton’s head swiveled between the two of them. The detective seemed to have picked up on Trula’s violent thoughts. The young man’s right hand floated over his gun’s holster.

  “You haven’t invited me to sit.”

  “Mr. Barnes, you strike me as the kind of man who regularly ignores a lack of invitation.”

  “If I waited for an invitation, I might not get what I want.” He grinned when the coffee cup shook in her hand. Evidently she wasn’t quite as impervious to his charm as she pretended.

  She muttered something.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Boudreaux. I didn’t quite hear you.”

  She set her cup in her saucer with military precision. “I suspect, Mr. Barnes, the lack of invitation is what intrigues you. Or perhaps it piques your pride not to be invited.” She shrugged. “In fact, I suspect when you were a child and wanted a toy you couldn’t have, it drove you wild. Perhaps it was a bag of shiny new marbles or a set of tin soldiers. Like any boy, you wanted it desperately. And, I bet once you got your new toy, you found you didn’t want it quite so much. Is there a box in your parents’ attic filled with your forgotten toys?”

  As a boy, he’d made the mistake of poking at a wasps’ nest. His prodding answered with an angry, stinging swarm. This conversation was similar.

  She clasped her delicate hands in her lap and leaned back into the comfort of her chair. The anger in her eyes made them glitter like precious stones. “Houses like mine wouldn’t exist if overgrown boys didn’t tire of their toys. If you ever grow up, you’d do well to remember that women aren’t toys.”

  Zeke blinked. Twice. What had he done? “You don’t think much of men, do you?”

  “On the contrary. I make my living off men and their desire for new toys.” Then, as if she suddenly remembered he’d saved Laurelie, she said, “I do thank you for what you did last night.”

  “We’re not all villains.” With the memory of Carter Wayne and Laurelie fresh in his mind, he didn’t sound particularly convincing.

  She lifted her chin. “In my profession I tend to meet villains. Heroes don’t frequent whorehouses.” He saw each night he’d spent in her parlor tallied in her eyes. Before he could argue or point out that he’d never climbed the front steps behind a pair of swinging hips, she turned away from him. “Detective Kenton, I believe May will be here any minute. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you talk to her without my interference.”

  She rose, the folds of her dress outlining her perfect hips. It was Kenton who had the presence of mind to ask, “How do May and Cora know each other?”

  “I believe they’re from the same town, or perhaps they just worked in the same house in Baton Rouge. I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask May. They came to me about six months ago.”

  “You hired May but not Cora?” Zeke asked.

  Her hands fisted at her sides and the pink of her cheeks faded to chalk. “Can I count on your discretion, Detective Kenton?”

  She’d ignored him. Did she assume she couldn’t count on him? After last night, was her trust too much to ask for? She stared up into Kenton’s candid face. Apparently she approved of what she saw. “May can pass. Cora can’t.”

  She glanced at Zeke. Her face had lost its annoyed cast. Instead the corners of her eyes drooped and she rubbed the back of her hand against her forehead. “If you share that, you’ll cause a nice girl a world of trouble.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The smile that touched her lips was sad. “May can pass for white. Cora can’t.”

  She stepped away from the table, then, rather than walk by him on her way to the hall, she opened the pocket doors that led to the parlor and slipped away. All the energy in the room left with her.

  A moment later, Hattie entered with May. At night in a parlor full of likely customers, May’s dark eyes flashed sultry promises. Fresh out of bed, the pretty brunette looked pink and raw, as if she’d just scrubbed her skin clean. Her hair hung down her back like a horse’s tail, held back by a simple clip. The girl clutched the folds of a modest baby blue kimono over her chest. How old was she? Zeke guessed eighteen.

  When she spoke, her voice was ancient. “Cora’s gone?”

  “She’s missing.” Detective Kenton pulled a small pad out of a pocket and sat down at the table to take notes. “How long have you known her, Miss May?”

  “Round a year or so, I’d say. We met up in Baton Rouge and decided to come to New Orleans together. Has something happened to her?” She
twisted a lace-trimmed handkerchief in her fingers.

  “Is it possible she ran away?” asked Zeke.

  The girl shook her head. “I doubt it. Where would she go?”

  “Miss Boudreaux told us you and Cora arrived together. How did you end up in different houses?”

  May used the handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “Miz Trula wanted to take us both on, only she couldn’t keep Cora. She’d tried to send her to the convent.”

  “And Cora didn’t want to go?”

  “Cora was eleven when her uncle messed with her for the first time. She might be young, but she sure wasn’t innocent. She didn’t want anything to do with nuns.”

  “Miss Boudreaux didn’t try and send you?”

  The girl flushed. “I’m too old to go to school. Besides, it’s the young ones and the virgins Miz Trula tries to keep out of the life. We both knew it was too late for me.”

  “How old are you?”

  “You aren’t supposed to ask a lady her age.”

  The girl had spunk. He smiled at her. “Do you like it here?”

  She helped herself to a beignet from a platter on the dining table. “I reckon this is the best house in Storyville. Miz Trula treats us all real good. No one beats us. Girls at other madams have to give it away to the men who work there. That doesn’t happen here. The doctor comes every Thursday, regular as rain. Most girls in the district are lucky to earn a dollar or two a trick. We get ten. Means we don’t have to work so much. One or two johns a night and there’s plenty of money. Half the girls even send money home.” She sank her teeth into the pastry.

  “Did Cora like it at Lulu’s?” Zeke asked.

  May’s brown ponytail bounced with her chin. A dusting of powdered sugar fell like snow upon her robe. “She did. Lulu doesn’t pay as much as Miz Trula, but she’s fair. The dead man, Mr. Belmain, he said he’d set Cora up on her own, but Cora didn’t want to go.”

  Zeke paused next to the carved mantelpiece. His fingers ran along its polished edge. Of course, they came away clean. Not so much as a speck of dust dared defile Trula’s house. The only thing to touch its surface was a crystal vase holding a bouquet of pink roses and white lilies. Their scent sweetened the air. “Why not? Didn’t she want a home of her own?”