Long Night Moon (Bad Mojo Book 1)

by Sharon A. Austin

Returning from a stroll around the block, BJ immediately looked at the top of the stairs the moment she and Tomi entered the foyer. The lamp was on in her writing room. Her heart thumped wildly. She closed the front door. Unhooked his leash, and tried to hang it on the wooden coat rack mounted to the wall. Her attention still focused on the open doorway of her room she vaguely noticed the leash slither off the peg and land on an umbrella stand.

  She climbed the stairs slowly. Entered the room without a sound, and stood behind Frank. He sat hunched over the keyboard typing various sets of numbers and letters. BJ flattened a hand over her mouth, backed away, and sagged against the wall with relief when she saw he’s only on a stock market website.

  She thought he was trying to access her email again. Not too long ago, she caught him clicking the mailbox icon. Her Internet connection showed a New Orleans address. She had used her maiden name to set up the email account reserved for chat room matters. She didn’t understand what Frank thought he might find. Every message in the account was deleted the moment it was read. Without a password he couldn’t get in there anyway.

  There’s always the possibility that, one day when she thought she was alone in the house, she left the room without deleting an embarrassing email. He came in and found it. Probably didn’t understand it since most of her emails were written in code, kind of like his stock market stuff, but understood enough to know that it was something worth remembering.

  She didn’t care if he snooped around in her other account, the one used for book-related communication. It wasn’t password-protected. Just click and read.

  Is this why he’s so suspicious? Because he can only access one account?

  “Is he really that much of a control freak?”

  Frank did come home earlier than usual one day. She didn’t know he was standing there until he said he needs to use the computer. She damn near jumped out of her skin. She had just finished chatting with Roger and had entered a writers forum. She couldn’t believe the timing.

  Or was it believable? Maybe he saw a few dirty words before...?

  No, he would’ve bitched a fit.

  She was a successful short story crime writer. Gathering material for the novel about Sue, BJ went where her research took her. Sometimes it took her from bars to bayous. Sometimes it took her to chat rooms. And sometimes she said things to other men she’d never say to her husband.

  In the long run, her research paid off. After receiving more than seven hundred rejection letters for her psychological thriller novel she was offered representation from a New York City literary agent.

  So she felt she had nothing to hide.

  But she’d been noticing lately that Frank sure as hell seemed to have something to hide.

  She thought he had just been teasing her all night about the Internet until he said, “By the way, if I ever catch you flirting with some guy on the Internet and making plans to run off to Australia or wherever, you’ll be wishing you hadn’t while you’re lying in the hospital. That, or I’ll just kill your goddamn cheatin’ ass.” He folded the newspaper in half, and tossed it on the end table. She let the threat sink in until she figured out how to use it in her new story, the sequel to the first one.

  BJ’s thoughts returned to the present.

  She turned off the computer thereby ridding herself of last night’s memories. Carrying the mug by the handle, she went to the kitchen. Poured the cold remains of coffee down the drain, rinsed out the mug, and set it on the counter.

  “Thanks to that fucking teenager across the street I can’t remember what I was going to write this morning.”

  She opened the junk drawer in the kitchen, moved things around until she found what she was looking for. She picked up a little spiral tablet. Placed it on the end of the counter, and laid an inkpen on top of it.

  Thought about making the teenager a murder victim in a short horror story. Maybe she’d show him drowning in dark green gunky birdwater.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sunday dawned bright and blue.

  BJ called her chef. He said the electricity was still out.

  Tired of waiting around for Jeff to come online so she could break up with him—in lieu of Frank’s threat and with no longer having a use for him—she sent him an email instead. Sent one to Roger, too. Told them the time had come to say goodbye.

  Jeff replied almost immediately. He said he’s just a normal married guy who wanted to have a little fun on the side. He’s been married for twenty-six years, has two kids, and the romance had gone out of his marriage a long time ago. The woman he once loved no longer excited him. She’s too busy with other things to give him the kind of passionate sex he craved. While the kids were little, the lovemaking was confined to the bedtime hours. Always fearful of making enough noise to wake them up stunted their passion. At this point she’s totally lost interest.

  Married twenty-six years, huh? That would be all of her life. Which meant Jeff had to be in his fifties. BJ sighed, skimmed over the rest of his longass email. He, too, was bored with his marriage and his life.

  Mm-hmm

  He wants a friend and a lover, not someone who’d complicate his life. Married women had as much to lose if their spouses found out. Single women would become attached, and end up making his life a living nightmare.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  BJ felt she’s being played. By another man. The first three letters in the word manipulated.

  “Sometimes I hate men. Seriously.”

  She deleted Jeff’s email without replying.

  Highlighted the sixteen pages of cemetery crap she’d written, hit delete, and closed the file. When the beach scene on the desktop wallpaper on her computer came into view, she imagined waves lapping at her feet, felt hot sand between her toes. Thought about death and dying.

  “I see bad people, everywhere.”

  BJ wanted very much to write another novel, but the subject matter continued to allude her.

  She blinked.

  “I’ll be damned. It was right in front of me all along.”

  In her second novel, the one that had gotten published, she turned an abused married woman named Alma LeJeune into a high-priced call girl named Sue—who’s also an American serial killer. Whenever her husband, Rex, was out of town Alma became Sue. Wearing a blonde wig and large sunglasses, she lured married businessmen to posh hotel suites where she murdered them with the use of black magic, thereby killing Rex over and over again.

  The story was titled Suite Sue.

  BJ Donovan refused to be a one-hit wonder. She could see the potential for a series. She also understood what she needed to do in order for her to write the wrongs in Alma’s world.

  CHAPTER 10

  Early Monday morning, BJ stared at the blinking cursor on the white space beneath the new chapter heading of her story. Something’s still missing. Instead of highlighting the previous text and hitting the delete key, she did a cut and paste and moved a large portion to a new folder and saved it. She couldn’t believe she’d thrown away the cemetery crap. Sixteen pages. Would’ve been enough for a short story.

  She decided to check email once more before shutting down the computer for the rest of the day. A note from Jeff made her frown. She was done with him, and wished he’d just go away.

  But a curious nature kept her from deleting the email unread.

  He said he wanted to know what she looked like beyond the twenty-six, petite, blue eyes, long blonde hair description she’d given him in a previous email. She felt one corner of her mouth go up. Jeff had managed to tap into her adventurous side.

  Her physical description was false. Same with her place of employment. Some things were off limits. Rather than tell him she’s the executive chef and owner of a five-star restaurant, purchased for her by her husband after she graduated from culinary school, she said she worked out of the stockroom at Vieux Carré in downtown New Orleans. Three days out of five, she had written, she had to load a flatbed cart with heavy cardboard boxes filled wit
h apparel to replenish the hangware and folded tableware in the softlines section.

  She scanned the first part of his email again.

  He said he stopped by Vieux Carré last night hoping to see her. Saw a short blonde talking to a woman wearing identical clothing: tan slacks, white shirt, purple vest. The blonde had her back to him so he couldn’t see her face or nametag. He decided to wait in the parking lot. Never saw her leave the building. He assumed the employees have a separate entrance. He’s intrigued but if she’s not ready to meet in person yet, how about

  BJ glanced at her watch.

  “Time to go.” The first Monday night of every month the Lieu du Crime Club held their meeting in the conference room at her restaurant from five to nine, breaking for dinner at seven. Tonight was special. She planned to personally oversee all of the preparations. Homicide detective Gary Northcutt had recently joined the club. He was trying to get his first novel published. He was also their guest speaker.

  She composed a brief reply to Jeff. Confessed that she lived in New Orleans not Slidell. She’d get back to him later with details regarding… “Regarding what?” She didn’t finish reading his email before deleting it, and didn’t have time to retrieve it.

  >+<|>+<

  BJ tried to pay attention to the traffic while she drove to the French Quarter, but something kept stirring in the back of her mind.

  Did she dare meet Jeff in person... pretending to be Suite Sue?

  M’kay, better not. She glimpsed at the digital clock on the dashboard. I’ve got bigger fish to fry, right now. Head chef Owen will start bitchin’ a fit when he realizes I’m late. I swear if he weren’t so damn good at what he does, I’d fire his fucking ass in a heartbeat. I’m getting tired of reminding him who’s the boss.

  She pulled into the parking lot, unable to believe her eyes. The lot was completely empty, as where the lots at the surrounding businesses. The electricity still hadn’t been restored, and Owen hadn’t bothered to tell her. He also didn’t let her know the restaurant sign and front entrance awning were a total loss.

  She sighed in an angry huff, recalling how it had taken the city utility company a full week to restore the electricity the last time a storm tore down the power lines.

  Twisting the key too hard she almost broke it off in the lock. Shoving the door aside, she entered. Amidst the staleness of an un-air-conditioned building she also detected a faint odor of garlic and onion. Missing was the mouthwatering aroma of her signature dish: Allemande caper sauce with spaghetti.

  She went straight to the kitchen. Pulled open the freezer door. Everything would have to be replaced. Along with the lost revenue she would’ve gotten from the writers.

  Another heavy sigh. Dammit.

  She went straight home. Called the electric company, and was informed they were scheduled to work in her area later that afternoon. It was the first time she’d heard that an F1 tornado had touched down in New Orleans causing moderate damage.

  Next, she called her suppliers to place a large order.

  She planned to also call Owen and fire him, but she needed to get back to the restaurant to take pictures for her insurance company and she wasn’t in a mood to deal with him.

  Oh hell. The writers.

  She searched through her spiral phone book until she found the number for the club’s secretary. Felicia Epps said she’d sent the members an email last night after hearing on the five o’clock news that there were still many homes and businesses in the dark. BJ refused to allow the woman to make her feel guilty for not having taken charge of the situation since it was her restaurant.

  “I don’t know who has electricity and who doesn’t. I called the members who don’t have an email account,” Felicia explained. “We can only hope they all got the message one way or another. See you next month.”

  The woman hung up before BJ had a chance to ask her whether or not Detective Northcutt had been notified. She called his office. A detective named Cantin told her Northcutt wouldn’t be in until later, but he’d make sure he got the message.

  She set her camera on the passenger seat. Drove back to the restaurant. After doing what needed to be done to satisfy the insurance company, she drove over to Frank’s office to ask him if he wanted to have lunch with her. His secretary said he’s gone for the day. Said she didn’t know where.

  CHAPTER 11

  What a day it had been. And it was only two o’clock. The last thing BJ needed or wanted right now was a message from Jeff. She clicked on his email anyway. He wrote that he gets it, that she’s uneasy about meeting him in person. That’s why he thought it was a good idea when he suggested she put a picture of herself in an envelope, write his name on it, then hide it near the flyin’ horses in City Park. But she didn’t say yay or nay in her last email.

  She slumped in her chair. What the fuck? The 1300-acre park in New Orleans was one of the most visited parks in the United States. What the hell is he thinking? The thought of a photograph of her just lying around willy-nilly where someone other than Jeff might find it.

  The story idea she struggled with last Saturday before the horn-honking asshole blew it away, sprang forward in her mind. I needed an angle. This ‘photo in the park’ business might just turn out to be the little something that’s missing from my new story.

  She rifled through the mess in her desk drawer, and found the wallet-size version of the photo she’d submitted for her debut novel. Not finding a small bag anywhere, she settled on cutting off a corner of a white plastic trash bag. Used a black marker to write a large J on both sides, then dropped the photo inside. Sealed the bag with a red twist-tie.

  She was as frightened as she was excited.

  “File it under Research.”

  She sent Jeff an email.

  He responded a little too fast to suit her. Said he’d be in her area later this afternoon. Ended the message with: See ya. Literally.

  On the spur of the moment BJ decided to get in character. She lifted the lid on her cedar chest and retrieved the blonde wig she’d worn to Voodoo Fest. Standing in front of the dresser mirror she pinned up her long black curls, pulled on a nylon wig cap liner. Positioned the wig.

  Her dark eyes and reddish complexion looked odd under lighter hair. She thought she appeared otherworldly. Much the same as the strange thing she’d seen in the cemetery that foggy Halloween night. She put on an oversized and dense pair of sunglasses. Applied red lipstick, smacked her lips together. Struck a sexy pose.

  “Hello, Suite Sue.”

  She drove to City Park. Left her car a good distance from the entrance.

  No sooner had she arrived in the section of the park by the merry-go-round, where Jeff had suggested, she found a lawn care crew loading their equipment, preparing to leave.

  She waited all of five minutes. Pitched the bag in the trashcan she’d specified in her email.

  CHAPTER 12

  BJ checked her email. Constantly. Uneasy thoughts came and went. Had she done the right thing? Had her free spirit taken her too far?

  Around five, the long-awaited message appeared.

  Jeff said he couldn’t find the bag. He checked all of the trashcans, not just that particular one. Ended up wasting two hours of his life digging through garbage and fighting rush-hour traffic, all for nothing.

  BJ was stunned.

  Damn, one of those lawn care guys must’ve seen me acting suspiciously before I tossed the bag. He probably checked to see what it was.

  She became panic-stricken. She told Jeff she put the bag in the trashcan next to the first shelter near the merry-go-round just like he asked. How the hell hard was that?

  God, he is such a dumb ass.

  She sent him an email telling him that tomorrow is trash day, so she’s on her way to the park to get the damn photo back before it ends up in the landfill.

  BJ parked in the same spot she’d parked in earlier that day. As she hurried along the pathway she kept glancing at the sky. Gray clouds had devoured the sun. C
oming through the entrance to the park she grew more agitated. A little league ballgame was in progress. And they were playing in the area adjacent to the first shelter!

  She had no choice but to wait. Before sitting down, she needed to make sure the bag was even there. Feigning interest in the game, she propped her shoulder against the wooden post supporting the roof over the shelter beside the trashcan. On the pretext of swatting a bug off her leg she bent at the waist and peered in long enough to see it. The red twist-tie caught her eye. The white bag blended very well with white napkins and paper plates. Hadn’t been for the red amongst the white... Ah. Could be why Jeff didn’t find it. She couldn’t recall whether or not she’d told him about the red thingy.

  BJ drew in a deep breath, released it slowly. Okay. Calm down. We’re good to go. Just have to wait out the damn game. Too many people moving about with no fixed direction. She plopped down on top of the picnic table, five feet diagonally from the trashcan.

  Because of the attendant working in the concession stand about forty feet to her left she couldn’t simply dive in, snatch the photo to her right, and go. Sometimes a local cop volunteered to be the attendant, and he’d notice her odd behavior more so than a civilian. Especially if the wig fell off! She was reluctant to explain her actions to a cop. She wasn’t doing anything illegal just, um, stupid. She nonchalantly checked him out. Without making any threatening moves, she slid a tablet and an inkpen out of her pocket. The writer side of her brain had already begun planning how this misadventure could be used as the starting point of a new short story: the concession stand—a small rectangular building with three cinderblock walls painted white with red trim, and an open front with a blue plywood service counter—faced the ball field same as her shelter did. Can only see the man’s profile, most of which is hidden behind a ballcap and sunglasses. Thirty-something, maybe. Military style haircut, and slender build.