A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  Peake crossed his arms over his chest. “What makes you so sure one of those whores knows something?”

  “You mean besides the body outside the back door? Farchmin was there last night.”

  “And then he left and got killed. The man was a regular at Trula Boudreaux’s.”

  “She banned him.”

  “Why? What’d he do?” asked Peake.

  Every man at the table leaned forward, waiting for Zeke’s answer.

  Damn it. In a murder investigation there was no such thing as privacy, not even for Trula. “He attacked her.” His voice sounded clipped, northern, and cold.

  Peake leaned back in his chair and smirked. “He attacked her and now he’s dead.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting that Trula has something to do with these murders?”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  Where there was smoke, there was an alibi. Trula had been with him when Farchmin died. Zeke preferred not to share that unless absolutely necessary.

  Kenton ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “I don’t see how a woman could’ve killed these men. It took strength and speed and” —Kenton rubbed his chin— “cruelty.”

  “You think women aren’t cruel?” asked Peake.

  “The dead men weren’t poisoned or shot from a distance, Peake. They were gutted.” The captain raised a brow. “You think a man can’t defend himself against an attack like that if a woman’s holding the knife?”

  Peake settled into resentful silence.

  “Maybe one of the girls at Emma’s saw something,” said Kenton. “It’s worth asking.”

  “It’s possible he did something while he was there that led to this death.” Zeke lifted his coffee to his lips and let its bitterness roll across his tongue.

  “You’re saying that what a man does in a whorehouse can get him killed?” Under the umbrella of his mustache, the outer corner of Peake’s lip curled.

  Zeke drew a deep breath and held it. “I’m saying we have to ask.”

  “Do it,” said the captain.

  Peake sneered at the room in general,

  The captain eyed the senior officer then allowed a small sneer to touch his own lips. “Do it, now.”

  They made their way to Emma’s in silence. A state of affairs that suited Zeke perfectly. Formulating a line of questioning required careful thought—and with his thoughts turning to Trula every thirty seconds, careful thought was nearly impossible. Chatter would have only made matters worse. He was investigating a murder. Multiple murders. Thinking about Trula was a luxury he couldn’t afford. “How many girls at Emma’s?” His too loud voice shattered the silence.

  “Twenty,” said Kenton. “Maybe thirty.”

  Peake glowered.

  “We’ll talk to the girls with rooms overlooking the alley first. Then” —his steps slowed— “then we talk to girls with rooms near Serena’s.”

  “Who’s Serena?” asked Kenton.

  “Farchmin beat her last night. Badly.”

  Peake grunted.

  Kenton scratched his forehead. “Why don’t we start with her?”

  “I’m not sure she can talk. And she’s not there anymore.”

  Peake stopped short on the banquette. “Where is she?”

  “Trula took her home.”

  “Then we start at Trula’s.” Peake fisted his left hand then ground it into his right.

  “We start at Emma’s.” Zeke’s voice blew cold as a January wind off the north Atlantic.

  Kenton cleared his throat, shifted his weight from foot to foot then said, “We’re all on the same side.”

  “He’s protecting a whore.”

  The urge to knock Peake’s teeth down his throat was so strong that Zeke stepped backward, away from the temptation. Trula wasn’t a whore. She was…she was everything a woman should be. Peake might not see the woman who hid beneath the madam’s facade but Zeke did. That woman was worthy of respect…and love.

  Not love.

  Never love. Not for him. Zeke shook his head. “We have work to do.” He strode toward Emma Johnson’s, not caring if the officers followed or not.

  He pounded against the madam’s solid front door, the impact radiating up his arm.

  A bald man with a neck nearly as wide as his head opened the door. He gazed at Zeke for a moment then stood away from the door. “We don’t want no trouble.”

  “We” —Zeke glanced over his shoulder and ascertained that Peake and Kenton had in fact followed him— “we won’t cause any. Gather the girls, we’re going to talk with them.”

  The bald man blinked. “I…um.”

  “Now.”

  “Emma—”

  “Miss Johnson’s opinions are irrelevant. Do what I said. Now.”

  “What do you want?” Emma Johnson crossed the front hall and glared at Zeke.

  “He wants to—” the giant began.

  “We’re here to interview every girl in this place.”

  Emma, the woman who’d threatened Trula with a knife, laughed. The sound was mirthless. “Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Gather them or I’ll close you down.” It would be a pleasure to put this awful woman out on the streets.

  “I got powerful friends.”

  Zeke snorted. “So do I.”

  She glared at him. Would she call his bluff? He waited.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “Otis, go round up the girls.”

  “We’ll need a room to conduct interviews.”

  Her lips pulled away from her teeth and her eyes narrowed. “Just down the hall. I’ll take you there myself.”

  They followed her to a parlor of sorts. There were couches and chairs and side tables. There were also whips and riding quirts and handcuffs displayed on a wall. Kenton stared at the wall, a flush rose to his cheeks then his gaze fixed on the carpet.

  Peake licked his lips.

  “I’ll send the first girl in,” said Emma. Her tone made the words sound obscene.

  Not more than a few seconds later, a blonde tripped into the parlor. A plump, barely dressed blonde. She wore a kimono that gaped open revealing far too much flesh. She brought with her the scent of rye.

  She claimed a chair, fixed a surprisingly bright blue gaze on him, hiccupped, and then said, “What do you want?”

  “We have questions,” said Zeke.

  “Questions? Is that what Yankees are calling it now?” She loosened her robe.

  “Questions. How long have you been working here?”

  The girl shrugged, retied her kimono, and hiccupped again. “Going on two years.”

  “Did you know Andrew Farchmin?”

  “The man dead in the alley?” She rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. “He only came in the one time.”

  “And he was with Serena?”

  “Yes.” One word, but spoken as sharply as a New Yorker in a hurry.

  Zeke studied the girl more closely. She fidgeted and worried at the collar of her robe. Her brazen gaze fixed on the wall of whips and stayed there.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “He beat her near to death.”

  There was something more. There had to be. “How did he pick Serena?”

  She wiped her mouth again. “Emma had all us blondes line up and he picked.”

  “Picked?” asked Kenton.

  “Picked,” she repeated. “He wanted the one who looked the most like Trula Boudreaux.”

  Kenton asked another question. The officer’s lips moved but the blood pounding in Zeke’s ears made hearing impossible. His skin seemed an uncertain vessel to contain the rage that coursed through his body. Farchmin had beat Serena near to death imagining Trula’s face with each blow. Too bad the man was dead. Killing the bastard would have been a pleasure.

  “Barnes,” said Peake. The way he barked suggested he’d already said Zeke’s name more than once.

  “What?”

  “She says Farchmin left out the back way.”


  Zeke turned his gaze back to the blonde, drew a deep breath, forced his fisted hands to relax then asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Edith.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “It’s not,” she countered. “But it’s mine.”

  Another deep breath. “Why do you think Farchmin went out the back?”

  “Because Emma would have made him pay extra for what he done to Serena.” She shook her head. “I swear, when we saw her, we thought she was dead.”

  Every muscle tightened. Every nerve leapt to attention. Every instinct urged Zeke to violence. It was a crying shame Farchmin was already dead—the man had wanted to beat Trula to death. The bastard had made do with a substitute.

  Serena was equally deserving of Zeke’s outrage and anger. He knew that. But the rage, the fury, and the desire for retribution that fisted his hands and clenched his teeth were on Trula’s behalf. He’d lost one woman to savagery. He wouldn’t lose another.

  Zeke stood—the chair, the room, Emma’s house suddenly too small to contain his emotions. “I need air.”

  He strode out of Emma’s house and down the banquette. Dawn’s shining promise had turned gray. A soft, cool rain wet his hair, dampened his suit and trickled down the back of his neck. Not that he noticed—much.

  Had he done the unthinkable? Had he fallen in love?

  Zeke stopped in front of Trula’s, staring up at its gleaming windows and neat stoop as if they might give him answers.

  “You love her.” William leaned against a lamp post and smirked.

  “Go away.”

  “You love her,” the ghost repeated.

  “I can’t.” Zeke’s blood seemed too cold to flow through his veins. “I can’t keep her safe.”

  “Sure you can. Just catch the murderer.”

  Was that a figure in the window? Trula? Zeke slit his eyes. “There’ll always be another murderer, William. If she’s with me, she’ll be in danger.” Didn’t the ghost remember what had happened to Bess?

  “Look around.” The ghost waved toward the block of mansions. “Do you think she’s safe in a red-light district?”

  What would William have him do? Zeke grunted.

  “Catch the killer.”

  “You already said that.” Zeke ground his teeth.

  William shifted his gaze heavenward and shook his head. “Then do it.”

  “Then what?” He was asking advice from a ten-year-old ghost?

  “Then tell her how you feel.” A high level of sass was clearly evident in William’s tone.

  Zeke wiped the rain from his face. “The women I love die.”

  “So? Everyone dies.” The ghost crossed his arms. “They didn’t die because you loved them.”

  William was wrong about that. “I put them in harm’s way.”

  “Your mother’s death is my fault.” They’d argued the point before. William never ceded an inch. Neither did Zeke.

  “What about Bess? I took her with me. I should have left her at home.”

  “The person who actually killed Bess is the one responsible. Not you.”

  The point was not debatable. If he hadn’t taken Bess to Haiti, she’d be alive. If he’d done a better job protecting her, she’d be alive.

  Zeke turned away from Trula’s house. She was better off without him.

  Was he better off without her?

  …

  Trula donned the midnight blue gown, the one she’d worn that first night, then she paced.

  “You gonna wear out the carpet,” Hattie said from the front stairs. Her brown eyes twinkled. “Ain’t never seen you bothered over a man.”

  The bell rang, and Trula rushed to the door, slowing at the last second to smooth her skirt and take a deep breath.

  “You want me to open that?” Hattie asked.

  Trula scowled over her shoulder.

  She turned the handle and opened the door to Ned. The welcoming smile she wore fell away. Thank goodness her brother didn’t notice. She wouldn’t have hurt his feelings for the world. He burst into the foyer like a spring storm.

  Ned grabbed her around the waist and spun her in a circle. He restored her to her feet and said, “You get prettier every day.”

  She’d slept less than two hours, discovered a vevé and a body, then rescued a battered woman. The skin beneath her eyes sagged and her face was as pale as raw shrimp. She looked like death warmed over. Her brother was buttering her up. “What do you want, Ned?” She expected him to ask her for a night with Gilcie.

  He coughed and pulled at his collar.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “I have a question.” The poor man looked ready to expire from embarrassment. “The house, where we’re staying… Where did all those children come from?”

  “Didn’t your mother tell you about the birds and the bees?”

  He scowled at her.

  “They belong to the girls.”

  “The girls?” Ned tilted his blond head.

  “The girls. Gilcie and Josette and Ginger…” Her voice trailed off.

  Ned looked absolutely horrified. His mouth hung open.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re housing us with your doves’ children?”

  Trula bit back a sharp retort. If Ned wanted to be a part of her life, he had to accept its realities. She was a madam. Twenty-four women lived in her house. And, sometimes, despite their best efforts, they got pregnant. “Is there a problem? They’re usually quite well behaved.”

  “They are. It’s just…”

  She was tired. She was tense. She was not in the mood for a man who passed judgment on women who had no choices, or children who couldn’t help their circumstances or their parentage. She’d been one of those children. “What, Ned? What’s the problem?” Her voice was sharper then she meant it to be. “Children have no business in a whorehouse. I have nurses and governesses for them. They can act like children at the house in the Vieux Carré. They can’t here.”

  Ned shut his mouth with an audible click. There was nothing he could do about the ruddy flush on his cheeks.

  It was time Ned understood a few things about her world, her life. She refused to apologize for the children. It was hardly their fault they didn’t possess fathers. The Duke had asked for a place to stay where she would be welcome and she’d provided it. If he couldn’t be grateful, then he could damn well leave. She owed him nothing.

  “And Laurelie?”

  “What about her? She’ll be moving back here in a few days.”

  “She’s a dove.”

  “And I’m a madam. Laurelie needed a place to rest while she healed.” Trula widened her stance, ready for a fight. “Do you think the women who work for me have choices? What would you do if the only thing you had that was worth anything was your body? Would you sell it for food and a roof over your head? How dare you pass judgment?”

  Her brother’s eyes softened. Hers narrowed. She hated it when anyone looked at her with pity.

  “He didn’t know what would happen to you,” Ned murmured.

  Hattie chose that moment to harrumph. “I reckon I oughta check them biscuits.” The housekeeper never checked biscuits. Earleen didn’t let Hattie anywhere near the oven. Hattie gave Ned a sympathetic nod then hurried away.

  “He didn’t know what would happen? That’s his defense? He tossed my mother aside. What did he think would happen to me? Finishing school in Switzerland? A fabulous marriage? I was the daughter of a courtesan.” Trula snorted. “When he left, he took my choices with him. Did he ever once think of that?”

  Ned’s mouth hung open.

  Her brother didn’t understand what it was like to live with women who reminded her how they earned every bite of food that disappeared into her mouth. Selling her to John Dupree was her grandmother’s idea of recouping a bad investment. “Don’t you dare make excuses for him.” She waved her finger under her brother’s nose.

  Ned took a step back in the face of her anger. “You�
�re right. You are. But I told you, he made provisions…”

  “Provisions?” she squeaked. “Fat lot of good his provisions did me when my grandmother sold me to an old man at fifteen. Where were his provisions then? Where were they that first night when I climbed into John Dupree’s bed? Where were they all the years I spent with a man who made my skin crawl? Provisions.” She snorted.

  “He’s truly sorry. He…he needs your forgiveness. I swear he’ll haunt you and New Orleans until you can find it in your heart…”

  She stopped him with a hand raised in front of her face. Her father had come to New Orleans and seen for himself what she’d become. He was staying in one of her homes. The man could have no illusions about the women and children staying there with him. “He doesn’t mean a word of it. He’s rejecting those children the same way he rejected me.”

  Ned rubbed his eyes. “I…um…” He swallowed. “Father likes the children. It’s me that has the problem. They’re boisterous.”

  Trula eyed her brother. Was he telling the truth?

  “You should see him.” Ned shook his head. “He pretends to be a horse and lets them ride on his back.”

  That Trula would not believe. The Duke of Aberdeen playing pony? But a long-buried memory niggled. She wrapped her arms around strong male shoulders and the man beneath her galloped around the house to her mother’s laughter. She shook her head sharply. She didn’t want fond memories of a father who’d professed to love her, then abandoned her on the whim of another woman.

  “I didn’t mean to make you so angry.” Ned held up his hands in surrender. “I apologize.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” It wasn’t Ned’s fault her temper was so short. “I’ve had a long day. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  Her brother looked as if he was going to respond, but Gilcie’s arrival at the top of the stairs stilled his tongue. She was outfitted for the evening in a form-fitting gown of champagne lace. Her hips swelled from an impossibly tiny waist and her considerable breasts risked spilling over the top of her dress if she took a deep breath. Seeing his tongue hang out, Trula had the sudden urge to grab him by the ear and twist. He’d just complained about Gilcie’s son.

  “It’s time for you to leave.” She grabbed his elbow and pushed him toward the door. He didn’t object. The sight of Gilcie in a gossamer dress had apparently erased his ability to do anything more than drool.