A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

“You look as if someone dropped a yardstick down the back of your dress. Why do you do that?”

  “My grandmother was a great advocate of good posture.” How many times had Grandmother told her the difference between a courtesan and whore was the way they carried themselves? A thousand? Ten thousand? At least as many times as she’d explained the difference between a courtesan and a lady was the quality and quantity of her jewels. Grandmother should know. She had a king’s ransom worth of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and pearls locked in her safe. Trula raised a hand to the sapphires in her ears. Who was she to judge? Thanks to John Dupree, she owned enough jewelry to ransom at least a royal duke. There were other, harder lessons. Ladies had the luxury of loving. Courtesans did not. A courtesan who fell in love was a fool. She deserved the pain that came with such untrammeled emotion. Her own mother’s story was a cautionary tale.

  Trula’s heart stuttered. What had she gone and done?

  “What’s she like?”

  “Who?”

  “Your grandmother.”

  “She’s…” Demanding. Autocratic. Cruel. Self-centered. “Beautiful.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Exactly the same.”

  Zeke reached for her hand, curling his fingers around hers.

  “Then you’re just like them.”

  Saints, I hope not!

  She lapsed into silence, too aware of the way Zeke’s hand curled around her fingers. Too aware of the way he made her feel. Had she made the same mistake as her mother? Did she love him?

  She didn’t. Did she?

  Would it be so terrible to be in love with Zeke Barnes?

  It would.

  Theirs was not an affair that might end. Theirs was an affair that would end.

  When the murderer was caught, Zeke would leave. Trula was as delusional as her mother if she let herself imagine a different ending.

  The horse trotted on, carrying her back to reality—a house full of people who depended upon her, a heart-stoppingly high milliner’s bill, and a housekeeper who would pounce like a caged lion as soon as Trula crossed the threshold.

  Enduring one of Hattie’s interrogations seemed too much. If she snuck into the house unnoticed, at least she’d be able to make herself presentable before the questions began.

  Then there was her reputation. She was unattainable. Her customers need not even try. But her appearance made it crystal clear she’d been attained. It was better not to be seen on Basin Street. “Would you drop me at the kitchen door?”

  Zeke looked at the delicate gig, at the pitted alley, then tied up the horse. He held her hand as if it was precious and together they picked their way through the long back alley behind her house, avoiding broken bottles, soiled, discarded linen, and stinking puddles. The morning light barely penetrated the gloom. She shivered as if evil hovered at her elbow.

  “What’s wrong?” His voice was soft, a caress that warmed her skin.

  “Nothing. Someone walked over my grave.”

  His hand tightened around hers and he helped her sidestep a mess of cornmeal. A sharp, acrid scent overwhelmed the other filthy odors in the alley.

  “Wait.” Trula stared at the crumbling bricks.

  Someone had mixed the cornmeal near her feet with gunpowder. It formed a design—a circle bisected with arrows. The arrows pierced crude renderings of hash marks, a cage, wings, and a crab. Black chicken feathers shifted around the pattern on non-existent air currents.

  “It’s a vevé.” Zeke’s voice was raw, shocked. “For Marinette.”

  Trula’s eyes locked on the image that had summoned evil to their midst. “Marinette?” The spirit Bony LeMoyne had mentioned?

  “She’s a loa. She brings violence, retribution, and death.”

  “Can you tell who created it?” Her voice shook.

  “No.” With a swift swipe of his boot, Zeke erased the pattern. “Let’s get you home.” His hand on her arm tugged her away from the place where someone had beckoned evil.

  The squalid alley seemed almost benign once Zeke erased Marinette’s symbol. Trula took a last look at the scattered cornmeal. “Do you think…”

  His mouth tightened. “Let’s get you home.”

  She let him lead her forward.

  They made it only a few yards before Zeke halted. He stared at the ground and tension rolled off his broad shoulders. The hand holding hers tightened. She followed his gaze. A mound of linen too soiled and bloody to be sent to the washerwoman blocked their path. She wrinkled her nose at the smell.

  The misshapen pile was a man, gutted and contorted into a position no living person could hold. The chest gaped open, the heart ripped clean out of the body. The head was barely attached to the bloodied neck. The face was locked in an eternal expression of horror. The world around her dimmed.

  “Trula, what is it?” Zeke’s arm circled her waist.

  She couldn’t look away from the corpse.

  “Trula!”

  “It’s Andrew Farchmin,” she croaked.

  The color leached from Zeke’s skin but he leaned closer. “You’re right.”

  She covered her mouth and nose with her hand then resumed breathing.

  “Let me get you home, then I’ll go for the police.” Zeke drew her to his side, away from Farchmin’s corpse.

  Don’t ask who, ask why.

  Trula glanced around the alley. They stood behind Emma Johnson’s house. “No. You go. I’ll wait here.” Someone murdered Andrew Farchmin for a reason, and Trula would bet the reason was in Emma’s house.

  “I can’t leave you alone in this alley with a body.” Zeke’s voice was slow and patient, as if he was talking to a young child.

  Trula took a tentative step toward Emma’s kitchen door. “I need to sit down.”

  His dark eyes softened. “Of course you do. Let me help.”

  She leaned against his steady support and they made their way toward the back entrance to Emma’s house. He knocked sharply on the frame of the rickety screen door.

  Seconds later a face appeared and Trula searched her memory for a name. “Willa Rae, I’ve had a shock. May I come in and sit a spell?”

  Trula prayed the unwritten laws of southern hospitality would hold sway. Emma Johnson couldn’t stand the sight of her and Willa Rae might get into trouble for allowing her entrance to Emma’s kitchen.

  With a quick glance over her shoulder, the girl opened the door and beckoned her inside. “You need a drink, Miz Trula? You don’t look so good.”

  “Perhaps a glass of water?” Trula sank into a kitchen chair.

  Zeke crouched beside her. “I have to send for the police.”

  “Go.” She brushed her fingers against his cheek. The bristle of his morning whiskers rasped against her fingers. One last touch before reality doused every spark of the night’s magic. Her hand fell to her side. Last night had been…well, it had been last night. Today was a new day, one filled with new problems.

  He disappeared into the stinking alley. Things would be different the next time they met.

  “Here’s your water, Miz Trula.”

  Trula accepted the proffered glass and sipped gratefully.

  “What happened, Miz Trula?” Willa Rae clasped her hands together.

  “There’s a body in the alley.”

  Willa Rae fell back against the counter.

  You’ve been askin’ who. You should be askin’ why.

  Trula sipped again. “Willa Rae, have any of Emma’s girls been harmed or beaten in the last day or two?”

  The cook gnawed on a knuckle of her left hand and studied a stain on the wall just north of Trula’s shoulder.

  “I don’t want to cause you any trouble, Willa Rae. I don’t mean beaten by Emma’s man.” Emma Johnson kept a hulking brute on her payroll. He beat girls who caused problems. Probably he beat those who didn’t. Willa Rae looked as if she’d met his fists a time or two. A broken nose had healed crooked and one of her eyes held an odd cast. Even without the damage to her
face, she’d never have made it in the front parlor. She was too thin, scrawny even. No doubt Emma worked her like a drudge. Every hour of every day was probably spent cooking, cleaning, fetching, laundering, or mending. “Did any of the johns get rough?”

  Willa Rae’s gaze remained fixed on the stain but her chin jerked a mute yes.

  “Who?”

  Willa Rae’s gaze took Trula’s measure. Her hands, roughened from kitchen work, twisted her soiled apron. “Ain’t sure ‘bout his name. I heard the girls talkin’ about it. Farmer? Farcher?”

  Farchmin. “The girl” —Trula’s fingers tightened around the glass— “what happened to her?”

  “She’s…” Willa Rae swallowed and her gaze slid away from Trula, settling on a bag of rice spilling loose grains onto the counter.

  “Yes?” Trula held her breath.

  “She’s busted up right good.”

  Trula exhaled. “Did Emma do anything about it?” A girl beat too badly couldn’t work. If a john roughed one of Emma’s girls, he might have met her enforcer’s fists.

  Willa Rae shook her head from side to side.

  Trula knew the answer but she asked anyway. “Did Emma know it would happen? Did Farchmin pay to beat her?”

  “Yes’m.” Willa Rae’s eyes avoided hers.

  “How much?”

  “Like I said, I heard the girls talkin’. They said he paid fifty dollars.”

  Fifty dollars? The same amount Farchmin paid to come to her house. The only reason a man with that much money came to Emma’s house was to buy something Trula wouldn’t sell.

  “What’s her name?” Trula was glad her stomach was empty. The way it twisted and churned, she’d have vomited if it contained so much as a mouthful of food.

  “Serena.”

  “Will you take me to her?” Trula hid her crossed fingers in her skirts.

  Willa Rae regarded her with eyes big as silver dollars.

  “If Emma turns you out, I promise you’ll have a job at my house. You have my word.”

  The girl’s chin moved a fraction. “Follow me.”

  Willa Rae led her up the back stairs to the second floor and opened a door to a tiny, dingy room furnished with a cot and a rickety chair holding a pitcher and basin. There was nothing else, except for the girl. Serena. She was hardly recognizable as a girl. Dried blood darkened her swollen face. Worse, her arm lay at an odd angle. Her shift and the sheet beneath her legs looked rusty with blood. She lay still as a corpse.

  Trula swore under her breath. “Has she had a doctor?”

  “No, ma’am.” Willa Rae backed out of the room.

  Trula looked at the still girl on the bed and her heart lurched. Their hair was the same soft shade of gold. Apparently Andrew Farchmin had found a blonde he could have. “I’m taking her home, Willa Rae. Would you please go to my house and fetch Gumbo?”

  Willa Rae caught her knuckle in her teeth. “You’re borrowin’ a heap a trouble, Miz Trula.”

  Trula didn’t have a choice. “Will Emma spend the money to get her a doctor or will she let her die?”

  They both knew the answer.

  “Please?” She needed Willa Rae’s help. If she left to fetch help she might not get past Emma’s door again.

  Willa Rae twisted her apron. “You’re sure you got a job for me?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The girl rubbed her hand against her mouth then nodded. “I’ll go.” Her retreating steps echoed up the stairwell.

  Trula picked up the chipped pitcher and splashed water into the basin. She wet a frayed towel, lowered herself onto the thin cot, and wiped the blood off Serena’s face. Black bruises appeared beneath the dried blood. Farchmin had done this. He’d raped and beaten Serena because he couldn’t have Trula. She was sure of it.

  The killer had murdered Farchmin for what he’d done to the unconscious girl. She was sure of that as well.

  It had to be. Cade Simpson died after he killed Posey. She bet if she asked around, she’d find girls who’d been killed or beaten by the other dead man. Cora’s diary detailed the ways Grant Belmain enjoyed hurting her. Who had Cora told? Whoever it was might well be the murderer.

  She’d think about it later. Right now she had to move Serena out of Emma’s house, get her a doctor, and pray she lived. And she’d have to face down Hattie because Willa Rae was right. To take Serena out of the sordid little room would be borrowing trouble. No matter her injuries, in the collective mind of the district, Serena belonged to Emma. If—when—Trula took the girl, Emma would be furious.

  Sitting on the edge of the dirty, sagging cot, Trula straightened her spine. It didn’t matter what Emma did. Trula wouldn’t let the girl die in a dingy room in a disreputable whorehouse. Trula rinsed the rag, now red with blood, and daubed at Serena’s cheek.

  Trula’s throat tightened with anger. What kind of man could do this? And Emma! What kind of woman sold him the right?

  Gumbo appeared in the doorway and Trula welcomed him with a brief, angry nod. “You reckon you can carry this girl to our house?”

  Gumbo’s brown eyes took in Serena’s injuries. He nodded then with heart-wrenching gentleness, he bent and scooped the unconscious woman into his arms. “I reckon so. And I reckon this is gonna cause a heap of trouble.”

  “I know.”

  Trouble met them in the kitchen with one hand on a jutting hip and the other curled around a butcher knife. “What the hell are you doin’?”

  Trula raised her chin. “I’m taking Serena.”

  “You ain’t.” Emma Johnson waved the knife in Trula’s direction. “You’re not leavin’ this house with one of my girls.

  “Why do you care, Emma?” Trula kept her voice calm and steady. “She’ll never work again. Look at her.” Serena’s battered face looked white as death against Gumbo’s arm. “She’ll cost you more than she’s worth in doctor’s bills.”

  Emma shrugged. “She can work them off.”

  “With a ruined face?”

  “I’ll put a bag over her head. Half the men who come here won’t care.”

  Trula swallowed her disgust. Emma would do it. The woman was pure evil.

  “You think you’re so high and mighty.” Emma held the knife lightly, as if it was an extension of her hand. The sharp blade wagged in Trula’s direction like a finger pointing out her sins.

  “I don’t,” Trula said softly.

  The madam affected a posh accent. “Trula Boudreaux don’t sell virgins. Trula Boudreaux don’t beat her girls. Trula Boudreaux don’t hold with drugs.” Emma stepped closer and the knife whistled through the air. “Trula Boudreaux don’t know what trouble is.”

  Gumbo, his arms still cradling Serena, moved nearer. Trula waved him away. She didn’t want Serena to suffer any further harm.

  “You ain’t taking her.”

  Trula squared her shoulders. “I am. You let Andrew Farchmin beat her. You took money for it.”

  “So what if I did?” Emma raised the knife and sliced through the air near Trula’s face.

  “If the girl dies, you’ll be charged with murder.” Zeke stood in the doorway, his arms crossed across his chest, his eyes blazing.

  “Who the hell are you?” Emma pointed the knife in Zeke’s direction.

  “Zeke Barnes, I’m a government investigator on assignment with the New Orleans Police Department.” His face was chiseled by anger. Trula had never been so happy to see anyone.

  Emma paled.

  Good. Let Emma worry, then maybe she’d let them go.

  “You could hang.” Zeke examined his finger nails as if Emma’s fate held no interest for him.

  Emma’s knife clattered to the floor. “I ain’t killed nobody.”

  “Maybe not. How about I take you down to the station anyway? From what I heard, the corpse in the alley is one of your customers.”

  “Corpse?” Emma’s small eyes darted from Serena’s unconscious form to Trula to Zeke and back again.

  “I’m sure it’ll only take a d
ay or two.”

  “A day or two! Tomorrow is Friday!”

  “At least a day or two, maybe three or four.” Zeke’s expression was arctic. “Of course, if you’d allow Miss Boudreaux and Gumbo to take that girl with them, things might go faster.” He rubbed his chin. “And if she doesn’t die, I can’t charge you with her murder.”

  “Go,” Emma spat. “Get out of my house and don’t ever come back.”

  Trula didn’t need to be told twice. She slipped into the alley with Gumbo right behind her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hattie waited for Trula in the kitchen but whatever scolding she had planned died on her lips when her gaze lit on the woman in Gumbo’s arms. “Who’s that?”

  “Her name is Serena. She’s one of Emma’s girls.”

  Hattie’s eyes slitted. “If she’s one of Emma’s girls, what’s she doin’ in this house?”

  “Hattie, look at the poor girl.” Trula scrubbed at her eyes and swallowed past a lump in her throat. She was a madam in a red light district. The sight of a prostitute who’d been beaten beyond recognition shouldn’t make her teary. It did. “Emma hadn’t called a doctor. She was going to let her die.”

  Hattie crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Trula. “How many strays you plannin’ on takin’ in?” The housekeeper hadn’t really looked at Serena and Trula knew why. If Hattie looked, if she saw the girl’s bruises, the blood that crusted her face, the way her arm hung limp and awkward, then Hattie wouldn’t be able to scold or argue anymore. Her heart would melt like ice on a July afternoon.

  Hattie didn’t look at Serena. Instead, she glared at Trula.

  Trula glared back. Hattie wouldn’t help? Fine. She’d take care of Serena without her. “Please take her to my room, Gumbo.” She followed him down the hallway with Hattie at her heels. “Is Dr. Montrose due today?”

  “This afternoon.”

  Serena needed a doctor immediately. As it was, Trula wasn’t sure the girl would last until the doctor arrived. Trula had catalogued the bruises and cuts and broken arm. Bruises and cuts healed. A broken arm could be set. What about the injuries she couldn’t see? Was Serena bleeding internally? Had Farchmin done lethal damage? They couldn’t wait hours for a doctor. Trula shook her head and a loose hairpin careened into the wall. “Send Diddy to fetch Dr. Montrose right away.”