A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  The night passed in a blur of customers, cigar smoke, and bourbon. Every knock at the door sent a flock of butterflies careening through her stomach. Was it him? But hours passed without him. No dangerous smile, no devilish eyebrows. Where was he? Was he investigating without her?

  When the clock struck two, she accepted the pitiful truth. He wasn’t coming.

  What had she expected?

  Zeke Barnes was a hunter. He hunted killers.

  And her. He’d hunted her….relentlessly. She’d predicted this the day Cora disappeared. Once he’d caught her, once the thrill of the chase was over, he found he didn’t want her any longer. For once, she hated being right.

  By three, the girls led the remaining gentlemen upstairs. Trula wandered through the empty rooms. She picked up a dirty glass and fought the urge to shatter it against the fireplace’s marble surround. Instead, she put it down carefully, her hands moving to a crystal ashtray. One explosive throw, a quick release of anger. So tempting. She loosed her fingers and stood straighter. She knew where temptation led. She’d given in to temptation only last night. And look what it got her.

  This time last night she’d been wrapped in Zeke’s arms. His lips had burned a trail down the line of her throat. His hands had caressed every inch of her skin. His tongue had scraped the swell of her breasts. Tonight, a near incomprehensible sadness swamped her. The time for regrets had arrived far earlier than she’d anticipated. Rather than let tears wet her cheeks, she gave her head an angry shake. She’d done fine without Zeke Barnes and she would again. Why then, did her chest feel hollow?

  …

  Zeke was back on the banquette. He couldn’t seem to help himself. Inside, Trula extinguished a light in the parlor. Even from the street, her back looked stiff. It always did when she was hiding something, as if she believed perfect posture could carry her through any situation.

  “Why don’t you go to her?” As if William needed an explanation after what had happened to Bess. He knew Zeke couldn’t risk caring for another woman.

  “Did you find out anything about the murders?”

  The boy shrugged. In the half-light, the movement looked like stardust coalescing. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You didn’t answer mine.” Zeke rubbed at his tired eyes and shook his head. Even if William did answer, it would be framed as some sort of incomprehensible riddle, one guaranteed to annoy him.

  “I don’t have an answer.” William’s shoulders hunched and if ghostly toes made impressions, his would have dug through the banquette. “You better figure it out before it’s too late.”

  The boy’s warning sent Zeke’s thoughts skittering. Was she in danger? He’d protect her. Somehow.

  Before it’s too late.

  He couldn’t claim her. It was too dangerous. His feet remained rooted to the banquette where the scent of rye whiskey and urine mixed with an unexpected hint of expensive tobacco.

  “She’s quite a lady.” Tom Anderson puffed on a fat brown cigar. The Mayor of Storyville had snuck up on him. How? No one snuck up on him. He’d been too busy learning nothing from William, too consumed with Trula, to pay attention.

  Anderson cleared his throat, waiting for a response.

  “She is.”

  Anderson blew a plume of smoke into the night. “She’ll never last here.”

  “Oh?” Zeke cocked an eyebrow without turning his head. He couldn’t let her out of his sight. Trula Boudreaux was the bravest woman he’d ever met. She looked evil in the eye without flinching. She maintained a belief in human goodness in a brothel. Anyone else would be hard, cynical. Trula was kind.

  “Her heart’s too soft. Ain’t you noticed? Little girls she sends to the nuns. Smart boys she sends to college. Now she’s saving girls from other madams’ houses.” Anderson shook his head. “The district will eat her from the inside out because she can’t save them all.”

  Anderson was right. Trula had done what she could to make Storyville better. But no matter how much she did, it would never be enough. The weight of her failure would eventually crush her.

  The parlor went dark and Trula was lost to him.

  “You found out what’s been killin’ those men?” Anderson asked.

  Zeke stilled. The man standing next to him had asked “what” not “who.” “You’ll have to ask the police. I’m only here to advise them.”

  Anderson’s barrel chest rumbled with laughter. “Who the hell you think had you brought down here? I called in three or four favors to get it done. Catching voodoo spirits ain’t nothing Peake and his boys know how to do. Hell, Ambrose Peake couldn’t catch a cold. Now tell me what you know.”

  Zeke stared into eyes as hard as diamond chips. The man was telling the truth. The Mayor of Storyville knew something evil lurked in its shadows. Tom Anderson wouldn’t scoff at the things Zeke suspected. “I’m working on the theory that the killer is a spirit targeting men who abuse women in the district. I’ve spent all day talking to people who can call a loa.”

  “Who you been talkin’ to?”

  “Bony LeMoyne and Mama DeDe.” He’d encountered more foul potions, creepy dolls, dusty gris-gris, and black candles in one day than he ever dreamed existed. Malevolent gazes had sized him in seconds, evil had crept up his legs from the floor boards and slithered down his spine. Even now, the memory of all he’d seen filled him with dread. That Trula spent time alone with Bony LeMoyne was enough to make him want to whisk her away from New Orleans. He’d take her to Boston or New York, where no one had ever heard of a voodoo spirit. He’d keep her safe. He rubbed his eyes. He was letting his imagination run amok. He’d never convince Trula to leave her life and the people who depended on her.

  “Ambrose Peake didn’t send you there. You gonna tell me who did?”

  “Trula.”

  Anderson’s sharp eyes glinted, appraising, as if he sensed the storm raging in Zeke’s heart. “As I said, she’s quite a lady. I reckon you might could be the man to take her outta here.”

  Zeke stared at Trula’s dark windows. The need to protect her warred with reality. He had a dangerous job. A job he loved. A job that didn’t allow for Trula Boudreaux. One night, no matter how perfect, wouldn’t change that. He shrugged.

  Tom Anderson laughed in his face. “A blind man could see how you look at her.”

  “I can’t take her with me. My work, what I do, it would be too dangerous for her.” Zeke knew all too well.

  The mayor of Storyville stroked his chin. “I didn’t meet Trula ‘til after John Dupree up and died. The man left her two moldering houses, everything they bought on their travels, her clothes, her jewels, and responsibility for Hattie, Ada, Gumbo, and Diddy. His son got the money. Most women would have sold the houses and taken off to find a new protector. Trula ain’t most women. She refused to leave Hattie and her kin. Instead she opened her house. Third week it was open, man by the name of Robert Lawton from up Baton Rouge way decides no woman but Trula Boudreaux would do. I heard tell, she told him ‘no’ six ways from Sunday. Story goes as how he hit her. You want a cigar?”

  Zeke’s hands fisted and a near uncontrollable urge to track down Lawton seized him. He could almost feel his fingers closing around the bastard’s neck and his fist connecting with Lawton’s gut. How dare he hurt her? Zeke unclenched his jaw. “No. Thank you.”

  “Gumbo done knocked the man out in one punch then threw him onto the banquette in the rain.” Anderson drew on his cigar and blew a perfect ring into the night air. “That’s when the real trouble started. Fellow goes and swears a complaint against Gumbo. Ambrose Peake took his statement. Peake comes on down to the district, ready to arrest Gumbo for assaulting a white man, and Trula claims he’s innocent, that she’s the one knocked Lawton out and dragged him to the street. Says her girls will swear she’s the one who hit the man and she doesn’t recall any other customers at her house that night. No witnesses.” Anderson chuckled, shook his head in admiration.

  “Made Peake mad,” And
erson continued around the end of his cigar. “He gets himself a list of her likely customers and calls on them, asking questions. Peake was an idiot. Trula’s customers have wives. Not one of them would admit he was at a whorehouse in the district, not if he wanted to maintain a happy home. The kind of men who pass time at Trula’s, they didn’t take kindly to Peake’s questions. To a man, they sent him off with a bug in his ear. So Peake decides to charge Trula. I reckon she might coulda gone to jail for protecting Gumbo. Except the man from Baton Rouge wasn’t real high on folks thinking a woman knocked him flat. Peake had to drop the whole thing. Didn’t do his career any favors.” Anderson puckered his lips and plumed smoke into the night air. “Ain’t one woman in a thousand who’d risk jail for a black man. I reckon she’s the kind of woman who makes puttin’ down roots worthwhile.”

  Zeke turned his back on the dark windows. Trula deserved more than he had to offer.

  “Not that I want her going anywhere,” Anderson said. “Round about a million dollars a month flows through the district and a right respectable percentage of that money flows through Trula’s house.”

  A murderous spirit wandered the district, endangering Trula’s home and safety, and all Anderson cared about was his cut of her profits? Zeke fought the urge to punch him. “Wouldn’t that be true no matter who ran the house?”

  The light from one of the still-open houses illuminated the white of Anderson’s grin. “Maybe. Maybe not. Trula’s proved she’s discreet. Her girls are the prettiest in the district. Most houses, the madam pressures the girls to service as many men as they can. Not Trula. Man goes to Trula’s, he starts appreciating a slow ride. Her girls make a man feel important, special. Men are willing to pay more, a lot more, at Trula’s.”

  “She deserves more than this.” Zeke’s gaze encompassed a drunk staggering across the street, the butts of soggy cigars littering the banquette and the torn cover of a Blue Book floating in the breeze. Of course, she also deserved more than he could offer.

  “I ain’t arguin’.” Anderson smirked at him. “What you aim to do about it?”

  Zeke wanted to break down the door, sweep her into his arms, and carry her away. Where? To what? “I don’t know.”

  Tom Anderson’s laughter filled the night. “You’re standing in a dark street, mooning over the one woman in Storyville who can’t be bought. I reckon you got more than a murder to figure out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Where you goin’ so early in the mornin’?” Hattie stood at the door, glaring at Trula’s new hat. Layered silk leaves formed the decorative brim. Overblown cabbage roses bloomed on the crown. The hat of her dreams sat on her curls like an ode to floral whimsy. It certainly didn’t deserve Hattie’s ire.

  Trula glanced at the clock. For most of the world, ten wasn’t early. Of course, most of the world didn’t work through the night. “I’m visiting the milliner.”

  Hattie rolled her eyes. “You have plenty of hats already.”

  Trula didn’t explain her meeting had nothing to do with hats. She’d sent Christine Lambert a note and crossed her fingers. Christine’s response had been gratifying. Trula hadn’t been at all certain that Christine, a lady, would meet with a madam.

  The walk to Jackson Square did Trula good. The breeze blew away some of the sadness that gripped her heart. Zeke hadn’t come. She made up a few excuses. Perhaps he had a reason. Perhaps the investigation kept him too busy, but always she came back to reality. Having seduced her, he was done with her.

  Now, sitting in the morning sunshine at a table on the patio at Café du Monde, she sipped her chicory-laced coffee. Carters drove by, their wares barely clinging to full wagons. A child with a hoop and stick ignored caution, good sense, and the admonitions of a frazzled nanny. A motorcar eased through the throng, spewing noise and smoke and scaring the horses.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” Christine Lambert dropped into a chair before Trula had a chance to rise and greet her. The milliner wore a mouthwatering gown of black and white striped silk with a fringed hem. The undersleeves, white with tiny polka dots, puffed from just above the elbow to just below it. No one had ever worn such a gown outside of Paris and the ladies on the banquette slowed their steps and stared.

  It put Trula’s ensemble, a sage green walking suit with cutout blossoms, to shame. She’d donned the bolero jacket, certain she’d be setting fashion. She’d been wrong. Not even the cabbage rose hat could compete. Trula ceded the field. When it came to clothes, she couldn’t hope to best Christine Lambert.

  “Thank you for coming. I do appreciate it.” Trula liked Christine. Her talent was prodigious, and it was a rare lady who found a way to make a decent living. Under different circumstances, they might have been friends.

  Trula couldn’t befriend her girls; running a good house required distance and respect. But when she opened her heart to Hattie, she received unwanted tsks and unsolicited advice. Every once in a while, it would be lovely to talk and have someone listen and understand without passing judgment. She suspected the woman across the table knew a thing or two about difficult choices. Trula also suspected Christine knew a thing or two about ghosts.

  Trula waited until the waiter served the milliner her own cup of chicory then asked, “Would you please tell me about your father?”

  Christine took a delicate sip of the bitter brew. “I wondered if you’d ask.”

  “How long…?” Trula’s voice trailed off.

  “How long has he been haunting me?”

  Trula nodded, grateful Christine had defined a relationship that left Trula baffled. The hat maker didn’t seem to let phantoms bother her. Blithe disregard might be the best way to describe it. Even now, the ghost of a well-dressed woman scowled with envy at Christine’s dress. Unconcerned, the milliner busied herself with soaking a sugar cube into her chicory.

  “Since December of 1898. He was shot in a card game.”

  “Why is he here?” Why did ghosts interfere with the living? What made the dead linger? Trula leaned forward, eager for answers.

  “When he was alive, he lacked a certain…parental responsibility.” Christine stared into her coffee. “He gambled. He couldn’t stop. I suppose it would have been one thing if he was good at it.” She shrugged and the black peacock feathers on her hat shivered. “He wasn’t. It was an addiction. And, of course, he lost everything. The plantation, the house on St. Charles, every dime he ever rubbed together. The only reason I still have the building on Royal is because my mother held the title. When she died, she left it to me.” Her lips quirked. “I’m afraid I was rather hard on him.”

  Trula could hardly blame her. “But you forgave him?”

  Christine laughed. “I had to. After he died, he near drove me crazy apologizing. He’s around most all the time and staying angry cost me more than it did him.”

  Trula took a deep breath and asked the important question. “If you forgave him, why is he still here?”

  “He says he has to make amends.”

  Ned’s words reverberated through Trula’s mind. He needs your forgiveness. I swear he’ll haunt you and New Orleans until you can find it in your heart to forgive him. Her father was very much alive. But if something happened to him, would he haunt her, begging forgiveness for his sins? She loosened her too tight grip on the ear of her cup. It was a wonder she hadn’t broken it off. “Ghosts are evil, but your father is charming.”

  “Oh, he’s definitely got an evil streak,” Christine said with a rueful grin. “You saw him push Sissy. And he still sneaks off to gamble.”

  Trula coughed on a sip of chicory. Warwick Lambert’s pushing Sissy Rowe to the floor was what had convinced her that he wasn’t evil. And just how did a ghost gamble?

  Christine’s eyes tracked the progress of a lady wearing a lemon yellow gown trimmed with crimson braiding. The woman’s hat choice was equally unfortunate. Rather than opting for the sweeping elegance of a wide brim or the subtle sophistication of a toque, the hat on her head rose ve
rtically, a mass of dyed feathers, bright red berries, and garish flowers. The milliner sighed. “Poor woman.”

  Trula agreed but refused to be sidetracked. “Your father protects you?”

  Christine dragged her gaze away from the nightmare of a hat. “He says he’ll be here until I’m happily settled.”

  Trula sat back in her chair and a whoosh of air escaped her lips. What if her father did the same? She knew good and well she’d never be happily settled. She closed her eyes and Zeke Barnes’s image played against her lids. If she waited for the Yankee to make her happy, the duke would be with her forever. She put her coffee cup down with too much force.

  Christine regarded her with a tilt of her pointed chin and a raised brow.

  “My father says when good people die, their souls can move into the light,” the milliner said. “Some are too afraid to enter. Others have something they must accomplish first.”

  “And those who aren’t so good?”

  For the first time since sitting down, Christine paid attention to the ghosts milling on the sidewalk and hovering near tables where other customers ate beignets. She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “Bad people don’t have the option of the light. Either they linger on earth or they go to a very dark place. Most of them linger.”

  Trula closed her eyes against the brightness of the sun, against the ghostly woman on the banquette who glared with envy at Christine’s dress, against the fear mixing with blood in her veins. She’d been right to spend her life scared of ghosts. Warwick Lambert was an exception to the rule.

  “I ignore the bad ones,” Christine said.

  “How do you tell the difference?” Trula leaned forward, eager to hear the answer.

  “My father tells me.”

  Trula sat back. Christine’s personal ghostly barometer was undoubtedly useful, but her response was less than helpful.

  “May I ask you something?” Christine seemed suddenly fascinated with stirring more cream into her cup.