A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  He quirked a blond eyebrow and his turquoise gaze searched the room, landing on Gilcie’s half-exposed nipples.

  Trula swatted at his arm. “Go get into trouble at another woman’s house. I don’t want you here. I’d suggest Willie Piazza’s. It’s round the corner.”

  He chuckled. “You’re not like any woman I’ve met before.”

  “I should hope not. I’d hate to think my little brother spent his time in bawdy houses.”

  “You’re really going to send me away?” His gaze remained locked on Gilcie’s breasts.

  Trula answered with an adamant nod. “Shoo. Off with you.”

  He answered with an irrepressible grin. Then his arms snaked around her waist. He lifted her, spun in a circle, then put her down. “I’m so glad I found you. Noon. Tuesday. Don’t forget.” He bent and dropped a kiss on her cheek, as if he hadn’t created enough of a spectacle.

  Trula scanned the room. Who had witnessed her brother’s exuberant display? A few of the girls tittered. From the doorway, Zeke Barnes scowled at her through narrowed lids. His lips thinned to nothing. His expression made her heart stutter. He looked almost…jealous.

  With the heat of Zeke’s glare burning a hole through her dress, Trula deliberately lifted up onto her tiptoes and kissed Ned’s cheek. “You’d better go. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  “You’re certain there are no girls here I should meet?” His gaze wandered back to Gilcie’s décolletage.

  “Behave yourself.” She stole a glance at Zeke. The Yankee’s stare was hot enough to melt the fabric of her gown.

  Ned laughed and the sound filled the room already crammed with girls and customers. It was the laugh of a man who believed the world was his oyster and pearls were his due. “Behave? That’s rich coming from you, Trula.”

  She fought with a smile and lost. Apparently her brother found her to be a grand adventure and her life a light-hearted escapade. “I promise you, I always behave.”

  “Of course you do.” His turquoise eyes sparkled. He didn’t believe her.

  He strolled out of her house. Most of the girls watched him go. She couldn’t blame them. Ned was handsome, his eyes sparkled, his clothes fit well, and his bearing suggested quality. All things being equal, the girls preferred spending their evenings with young, good-looking men instead of old, ugly ones. Only two things stopped them. As a rule, young men couldn’t afford her prices and, when it came to sex, handsome men often got it for free.

  A vice circled her arm. The heat seeping into her skin told her who held her. “What do you want, Mr. Barnes?”

  “Who the hell was that?” His voice sounded sharp as broken oyster shells.

  She smiled up into Zeke’s flushed face. His eyes shot sparks at her. Where was his sang-froid now? “The Marquess of Huntdale. Of course, that’s just a courtesy title. When his father dies, he’ll be the Duke of Aberdeen.”

  His scowl deepened. “You’re keeping exalted company.”

  Trula sweetened her smile. If he only knew.

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “I don’t, either.” Ned would try to get her to meet with her father. Or perhaps her brother would surprise her. Perhaps he’d accept her as his sister without forcing their father on her. She’d like that. “But I’m willing to give him a chance.”

  “What does he want? Did he offer to take you away from all this?” Zeke waved at the room filled with lovely, loose women and self-indulgent, rich men.

  “From here? I imagine he’d like that.” No matter his nonchalance, her brother couldn’t possibly be pleased that his sister was a madam.

  “I’m sure he has an exclusive arrangement in mind.” Zeke’s sarcasm dripped thick as tupelo honey.

  Trula scrunched her nose. “No. I’m quite sure he isn’t imagining that.”

  “It’s not a good idea for you to take up with strangers when there’s a murderer on the loose.”

  Now she wrinkled her brow and pretended concern. “I’m quite sure the marquess isn’t a murderer.”

  Zeke grumbled.

  The sound warmed Trula’s heart. “Is there a problem, Mr. Barnes? You don’t seem your usual cheery self. I hope it isn’t anything I’ve done.” She widened her eyes.

  The thundercloud on Zeke’s face darkened from deepest gray to ebony.

  She bit her lips to keep from laughing. Now, when his veneer of detached amusement had slipped, might be the perfect time to ask him her questions about the murders. Perhaps he was too angry to obfuscate. “I have a question for you, Mr. Barnes.” She fluttered her lids.

  “What?” His hand tightened on her arm.

  “The first man murdered, Cade Simpson, who had he visited?”

  “What?” He squinted at her as if both she and her question were unclear, as if his mind was still occupied with the peck she’d brushed against Ned’s cheek.

  “It’s a simple question, Mr. Barnes.”

  Furrows appeared above his nose and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “The first man killed in front of the cribs on Robertson Street. Who was he with before he died?”

  “We never found her.”

  “Imagine that.” She didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in her voice. The police exploited prostitutes, especially the poorer ones. Certain policemen demanded their cut of the girls’ profits, sampled favors without paying, and made bloody examples of girls who didn’t cooperate. Why would any girl with half a brain in her head step forward to link themselves with a murder? She wouldn’t. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must greet the senator.” Trula turned her back on him.

  Zeke’s hand still clamped her arm. “What are you up to, Trula?”

  She looked into his eyes. “I’ll solve your murders.”

  He tightened his hold on her and the thunder cloud on his face threatened lightning. “You what?”

  “Do you honestly think any girl in the district would tell Peake anything? The girls might talk to Kenton, but only to tease him. And you? You’re a stranger and a Yankee to boot. You’ll never solve these murders without me.”

  His scowl disappeared, replaced by an expression so bleak she shivered. “You can’t.”

  Annoyance stuck in her craw. She couldn’t? Did he think her incapable? Of course he did. To Zeke Barnes she was nothing but a whore. With a tremendous yank, she pulled her arm free. “I most certainly can. Watch me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The heels of Trula’s half boots rang against the banquette. The left corner of her upper lip curled into a sneer. Men. Ridiculous creatures motivated by money, power, or lust. Who needed them? Not her.

  She’d stopped by Tom Anderson’s bar and asked who the murdered men visited before they died. If anyone in Storyville knew, it was Tom, the unofficial mayor of the district. He’d pushed his coffee cup aside, leaned across the table, and patted her hand! Patted her hand, then, with a patronizing smile, told her to leave the murders to that handsome Yankee. As a final insult, he’d winked.

  Trula kicked at the hem of her skirt and scowled at a ghost lingering in her path. Most days, she’d at least pretend not to see the phantom. Today she was too angry. The damn spook didn’t move and she braced herself for the chill that accompanied walking through a specter. The sudden cold raised goose pimples on her skin and she rubbed her arms to warm them. She huffed. For all his Yankee know-how, Zeke Barnes had accomplished exactly nothing. Well, nothing if you didn’t count bedeviling her.

  The murders remained unsolved.

  Zeke remained in New Orleans.

  The investigation needed a woman’s touch. She’d bet her favorite hat that women held the clues. They’d never share their information with men. And who could blame them? Saints knew she didn’t.

  Trula swept into the shop, her favorite in all of New Orleans.

  “Good morning, Miss Boudreaux.” A freckled-faced girl bobbed a curtsy. “Miss Lambert will be with you in a moment. Would you care for tea?”

  “No thank you, M
olly.” The tension in Trula’s neck loosened. Shopping for hats was therapeutic.

  She took a deep, calming breath of the shop’s hushed, floral-scented air. Tall bronze hat stands, each topped with an elegant flight of fancy, studded the Oriental carpet. A gray velvet toque trimmed with goura feathers drew her like a moth to flame. Her fingers traced the delicate edges. It was far better to admire a smart hat than acknowledge the ghost who leaned against the wall. If she ignored him, maybe he’d leave her alone.

  “The style would suit you but not the color.”

  Trula looked up from running her finger along the hat’s soft brim. Christine Lambert was right. Gray did terrible things to her skin tone. Even if Christine was wrong, Trula would still take her advice. The milliner was the best-dressed woman in New Orleans. Today she wore a silk suit the color of ripe wheat with an embroidered panne velvet collar. The color brought out the gold in her amber eyes. Trula experienced a jolt of envy. It was a suit she’d love to own. She smoothed the seam of her skirt, glad she’d worn the green dress with the scalloped hem. “Can you make it in blue?”

  “For you, of course.” The genuine warmth in Christine Lambert’s smile washed away more of Trula’s ire. “Your hats are in the private salon.”

  Trula followed the milliner down a mirror-lined hallway, stepping around the phantom who now lounged against a different wall. Christine opened the door to a jewel box of a room filled with an artistic jumble of feathers, bolts of velvet, ribbons, tulle, fur, and silk flowers. She waved Trula toward a damask-covered slipper chair next to a full-length mirror edged in gilt. “I can’t wait to see you in the roses.”

  Trula couldn’t wait, either. She’d described her dream hat and Christine Lambert had sketched it then created it. She settled onto the chair and unpinned her emerald velvet walking hat.

  “I’ve always been partial to this one,” said Christine. She took the hat from Trula’s hands. “Of course, I simply adore a double brim.” She settled the swirl of satin and tulle atop an empty stand before carefully lifting a wide brimmed confection of pink cabbage roses and velvet leaves of darkest sage. She gently settled the hat onto Trula’s curls, tilted it ever so slightly to the right, brushed a stray lock of hair behind Trula’s ear, then stood back to admire the affect. “What do you think?”

  Trula ignored the shadowy man eyeing her in the mirror. Encouraging ghosts, even a dapper ghost with silver hair and a charming smile, was a mistake. With the last of her anger fading in the presence of so many lovely hats, she smiled. “Caroline Reboux should worry. Your hats are far lovelier than hers.”

  Christine flushed at the compliment. Reboux was reputed to be the best milliner in Paris. Perhaps the world.

  Trula gave her reflection a brief nod of approval. Christine was every bit as good as the famed designer. She made a slight adjustment, adding a shade more tilt. “It’s perfect.”

  A gentle tap on the door claimed Christine’s attention. Molly stood in the doorway, her lower lip caught in her teeth. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mrs. Rowe is out front an’ she insists on seein’ you right away.”

  The milliner’s eyebrow arched as elegantly as the swoop of an ostrich feather. “She doesn’t have an appointment.”

  “That ain’t never stopped her before.” Molly bobbed her head. “Pardon me for interruptin’, Miz Boudreaux.”

  A woman swathed in violet pushed the girl out of the doorway. A halo of lovely chestnut hair softened her long nose and aggressive chin. Pretty hair couldn’t soften the dissatisfaction gleaming in her eyes.

  Maybe the woman wouldn’t recognize her. The newspaper had taken to publishing her likeness with accompanying captions: New Orleans’ loveliest lady of the night or Trula Boudreaux the toast of the Crescent City. The publicity was good for business but bad for her forays into the city’s better shops. The curl at the corner of the woman’s thin lips suggested she knew full well who Trula was and that she didn’t appreciate waiting.

  “Christine, I require your assistance immediately.” The lady in the doorway sniffed as if she smelled something rotten.

  Christine ignored her, tilting the hat on Trula’s head back to its original angle. Trula squared her shoulders, schooled her features into a polite mask, and clasped her hands in her lap. She liked Christine Lambert and didn’t want to cost her an influential customer. Besides, the ghostly man looked outraged enough for both of them. His brows drew together and his hands fisted. Trula edged forward to the lip of her chair, ready to take flight. Saints only knew what the specter planned.

  “I need a hat retrimmed.” The lady held up a hatbox. “Now.”

  “Molly would be happy to make an appointment for you.”

  “I don’t care to wait.” The woman dismissed Trula with a jerk of her pointy chin. “You can deal with this…this woman later.”

  “Miss Boudreaux has an appointment. You do not.”

  The nostrils of the long nose flared.

  What was Christine thinking? If she insisted on serving a madam instead of the irate lady in the doorway, she’d lose the St. Charles Street ladies’ custom. Trula shifted but Christine’s fingers on her shoulder kept her in the chair.

  “Molly, fetch the appointment book,” said Christine.

  The girl disappeared in a swirl of skirt.

  A tight smile flitted across the woman’s face. Order was restored. The madam would be turned out and she’d find a new bow or ribbon or feather for whatever the hatbox contained.

  Seconds later Molly stood in the doorway, her freckles somehow darker against the white of her cheeks. She held up a book bound in blue leather.

  “Thank you. Please make an appointment for Mrs. Rowe.”

  Mrs. Rowe gasped and her skin mottled with anger. “Are you sure you want to put me off, Christine?” Her tongue twisted the milliner’s name into an insult.

  “Positive, Sissy.”

  “Need I remind you…” Behind her the dapper ghost flexed and released his hands. His mouth tightened to a grim line and his eyes glowed with malice. “…you owe your livelihood to…” The ghost shoved her. Hard. She squealed like a stuck pig, flew forward, tripping over the toes of her pointy shoes, and landed in a heap on the floor. The lavender ruffles of her hat slid forward to cover her eyes. They clashed terribly with the furious red of her cheeks.

  The ghost snickered, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

  Trula goggled.

  “Oh dear, did you trip?” Christine’s eyes shot daggers at the ghost but she moved toward the incensed woman. Obviously, the milliner saw the ghost. And obviously, she wasn’t the least bit afraid. If anything, she looked exasperated.

  With the aplomb of a five-year-old boy, the spirit stuck out his tongue at Sissy Rowe. Trula covered her mouth with her hand and hid the strangled guffaw threatening to erupt from her throat. She’d done it now. The ghost looked right at her. He knew she’d seen him.

  “Of course I didn’t trip. Someone pushed me.” Mrs. Rowe shoved her hat away from her eyes. She searched for the culprit.

  Christine raised a brow and nodded at the empty doorway. Well, empty except for a mischievous ghost. Trula was willing to bet a night’s profits that Sissy Rowe couldn’t see the spectral man. “By whom?” Christine asked.

  Mrs. Rowe’s ruddy cheeks paled and her hands rose to cover them. “I’m not feeling well.”

  Christine leaned over and offered the lady a helping hand.

  Looking as if she’d rather accept a bucket of turned shrimp, Sissy Rowe took Christine’s hand and hauled herself off the floor. She resettled her hat and sniffed. “Have your girl make an appointment for me tomorrow at one o’clock.” She disappeared, a study in prickly anger and poorly hidden fear.

  Christine sighed. “I apologize. Sissy Rowe’s nose is so high in the air it’s a wonder she doesn’t drown when it rains.”

  Trula’s throat tightened. Unexpected kindness always made her watery. Why had the milliner risked so much for her? “I don’t want to cost you bu
siness.”

  “You won’t.” Christine rolled her eyes. “Sissy is a second cousin twice removed on my mother’s side. She wouldn’t shop anywhere else. Another store might not give her a family discount.” The milliner scowled at the ghost in the doorway. “On the other hand, he might scare her away.”

  “If she’s going to wear hats that don’t suit her, you ought to charge her double,” the ghost said.

  Christine shrugged. “She wouldn’t listen. It’s completely wrong for someone with her coloring. She looks jaundiced.” Christine conversed with the ghost as if it was an ordinary, everyday occurrence.

  The blood pumping through Trula’s veins slowed to a trickle. Acknowledging ghosts was dangerous, maybe cataclysmic.

  “I know you can see him,” Christine said. “You pulled your skirts away from him in the hallway, you avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror and…he made you laugh. Or at least he tried.”

  “Who is he?” Trula’s voice snuck through the warm air, quiet as a mouse in a snake-filled room.

  “Trula, meet my father, Warwick Lambert.” An indulgent smile flitted across Christine’s pretty face. “He attempts to protect me. Daddy, this is Trula Boudreaux.”

  The ghost doffed an imaginary hat and bowed in Trula’s direction.

  “Charmed.” She barely choked out the word. Being haunted by your father might be the one thing worse than being abandoned by him. Nothing good came of interacting with the dead—with the possible exception of a snooty St. Charles matron landing in an undignified heap at her feet.

  “Likewise.” A smirk played across his ghostly features.

  “You should be flattered,” said Christine. “He doesn’t often let people see him.”

  “I didn’t let her do anything.” Warwick Lambert winked. “She can see me.”

  “Really?” Christine tilted her head to the left. “Do you see other ghosts as well?”

  Trula didn’t know how to respond. Should she admit that for her New Orleans teemed with the departed? “Do you?”

  “Leave her be, Christine. She obviously has sense enough to ignore shades.” He gave her half of an ironic bow. “Only a few of us linger for selfless reasons, the rest cause trouble.” He finished the bow. “I mean you no harm, my dear. I shuffle round this mortal coil to protect my daughter.”