Long Night Moon (Bad Mojo Book 1)

by Sharon A. Austin

  Obviously he didn’t.

  “Dammit.” So typical of him to spoil things for her. Before the signing, she wanted to roam around the bookstore, and observe whether or not anyone showed an interest in her book. “I can’t if I’m late, dammit.” She exhaled, grumpily.

  Calm down. The bookstore is only a taxi-drive away.

  A quick check of the time. Twelve-fifteen.

  She closed her eyes. Concentrated on the car. Whispered a plea to the Ancient Ones, near and far. The engine roared to life.

  >+<|>+<

  Jeff Wentzel retrieved the newspaper from his desk drawer. He’d left the paper folded to the page with her photo. In a couple of hours, he’d meet her face to face. Tearing his gaze from BJ Donovan’s pretty, bespectacled face taken at a short distance where she’s leaning against a tree, he skimmed the article again: Book signing. Wharf’s End Bookstore. Saturday 1-4 PM.

  “Today.”

  He glimpsed at his watch. Marveled again over the good fortune of having the day off. From his bedroom closet, he took down the blue sports jacket he’d purchased for their first meeting.

  Jeff timed his arrival to forty-five minutes before her session would be over. Interested in her not her book, he barely glimpsed at her when he bypassed her table near the entrance, and headed to the café.

  He ordered coffee and a praline. Then chose a table with a clear view of her. With so much blonde hair covering the sides of her face, and large, tinted reading glasses hiding her eyes, there wasn’t much of her to see. But it was she, all right. Exactly like her photo.

  Behind his mirrored sunglasses, he watched her with ease.

  Jeff frowned. Is she wearing a wig?

  To keep from drawing unwanted attention to himself, he moved his head in a different direction every once in a while, and acted as though an author doing a book signing was of no interest to him. His eyes, however, never wavered far from her. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something familiar about her.

  Was it because she’s a lefthander, too?

  Was it the manner in which she tilted her head, the way he would’ve, before asking the name of each and every autograph seeker?

  Was it how she seemed detached, perhaps having more important matters on her mind?

  Or was BJ Donovan just some smug writer with a big ego who thinks she’s entitled to all this attention?

  Jeff shrugged without meaning to, quickly changed positions to cover up the shrug.

  “Mwen grangou,” he mumbled when his stomach growled. “Very hungry.” He took a big bite of the sweet candy patty.

  Sucking the last of his coffee out of the cup, he watched her walk out the door.

  Jeff hurried to his car.

  Followed her to the Armand hotel.

  >+<|>+<

  BJ Donovan dined on Creole onion soup, tossed green salad with bleu cheese, and blackened redfish.

  From a distant table, Jeff Wentzel ordered the same meal.

  After dinner he lit a cigarette, slumped in his seat. He wondered if she realized they were at the same hotel he told her in an email he wanted to bring her for a long night of sex followed by more sex? The old place was classy but affordable. He pushed his empty desert dish aside and pulled an ashtray closer. Saw BJ pay for her meal in cash. Enter the lounge from a side door.

  Inhaling deeply, he tried to wrap his mind around calling her BJ now, and not Sue. He extinguished the cigarette. Withdrew enough cash from his wallet to pay for his meal.

  CHAPTER 20

  BJ was well aware she flirted with danger by coming to the same hotel Jeff wanted to bring her, “for a little huggin’ and lovin’”. A deep sigh. Those days were long gone. She tossed the paper towel in the trashcan. Exited the restroom.

  At six in the evening, the lounge was near empty. She walked to the right side of the smooth and glossy rectangular bar. On the opposite end, three men chatting amiably fell silent. The tall, thin man with a head full of red hair did a low wolf whistle as she climbed up on the barstool.

  Jeff strolled into the lounge decorated in dark red, brass, and dark-colored wood. Winced at the lingering smell of brass polish. He made sure she didn’t see him by taking a seat at a dim lit table in the corner behind her.

  The bartender heard the men snickering. Searched for the source. Surprise rounded his eyes. “Wow, hey. Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  BJ didn’t know where she’d been. “Hi Leonard. Nice to see you again. How long have you been working here?”

  “Too long. Jeez, I don’t think I’ve seen you since we worked together at the mall. I quit a couple of years after you did.” He caught sight of the lone man sitting in the corner. “Hold on a sec, I’ll be right back.”

  Jeff ordered a draft beer.

  The three men held up their empty highball glasses when the barman returned. Leonard collected the glassware, and set them in the sink. Placed three clean glasses in a row on the bar. Filled each with ice, a shot of bourbon, and Coke. Stabbed the center with a thin red stirrer straw.

  The man in the middle of his companions leaned around the barman and called out to BJ. “Hello, you sweet little thing.” He raked his fingers through shoulder-length blonde hair. Rapidly shook his head to disperse the mane he was so proud of, and then rolled up his long sleeves to show off tanned biceps.

  “Are you speaking to me,” BJ asked, coldly.

  “Well, duh. You’re the only sweet little thing sitting here.” He spread his arms wide to encompass the bar.

  His friends snickered.

  She glared at the assholes. “I’m not a thing, and I don’t appreciate you saying so.”

  “Oooh, she’s a hottie,” cracked one of the others, a middle-aged guy with thick black hair combed straight back and held in place with a whole can of hairspray. He and his friends had on a two-piece suit, the jacket hanging on the back of their barstool, opened-collared shirt with a loose necktie, shiny gold wristwatches…

  Shiny gold wedding bands, BJ noticed, narrowing her eyes in anger.

  “You are so right,” said the first man. “I apologize. Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Mason.” He pointed to his companions with his thumbs. “My partners in crime, so to speak, are Bryon and Juan. We’re here on business from California. How about yourself? You got a name?”

  She watched Mason suck his drink through the straw. “Doesn’t matter, you won’t remember it in the morning, anyway.”

  Bryon and Juan burst out laughing.

  Leonard approached BJ with a nod and a wink. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner. What do you want to drink?”

  Bryon the redhead spoke first. “I bet she’s a wine drinker, spelt w-h-i-n-e.”

  “Nah, I say she’s the screwdriver type,” Juan chortled, elbowing Mason in the ribs.

  Before Mason had a chance to add his own smartass comment, they saw the bartender pour two shots of tequila over little square ice cubes.

  “Big deal,” mumbled Mason.

  Bryon and Juan laughed at him.

  Mason, coming out of the funk she’d put him in, joined in.

  Leonard slid a cocktail napkin under her glass. “Don’t pay no mind to those jerks, BJ. They’re just showing off.”

  “I know how to deal with their kind, but thanks.”

  “Hey, congrats on your book. How cool is it that I know a published author?”

  Leonard reached under the bar, and brought up a copy of her book. “Willya autograph it for me? Y’know, I thought about writing a novel. Someday, when I find the time. Maybe you can give me some insider tips and whatnot. Mention my name to your publisher over drinks, maybe.”

  He laid a ballpoint pen on top of the book then slid it toward her.

  She opened the book to find he had taped down the dust jacket flap with one adhesive side of a vinyl bandage.

  “Um, I don’t like for the flap to flap,” he told her, sounding every bit as stupid as he looked. He didn’t seem to care that he had covered u
p part of the synopsis.

  She scrawled her name across the title page, the signature almost impossible to read. Had no incentive to add a personal message. She smacked the book shut. Winced. Set the pen on the bar. Picked up her purse, and walked off in the direction of the restroom.

  Jeff carried his empty mug to the bar. Glared angrily at the trio, while the barmen retrieved a frosted glass from the cooler and filled it. He paid for his beer, returned to his table right before the bathroom door swung open.

  “So, tell us, BeeeJaaay,” Mason continued with his assholiness, “do you do it as good as you look?”

  Juan broke in. “I doubt they call her BJ for nothing. Get it? BJ. Blow job.” He threw back his head and laughed too loud.

  She stared at the men. All she had done was come into a bar and order a drink. Same as any man was allowed to do. She shoved her hand inside her purse. Pushing aside a votive candle and a few dried chicken bones, she clutched her wallet. Counted out enough cash to cover the cost of the drink and a modest tip. Walked at a fast clip toward to the exit.

  “Humph, screw her,” Mason mumbled.

  “Not tonight, apparently,” Juan quipped.

  Bryon laughed, as though it were expected of him.

  Leonard approached the trio. “Look, the women around here ain’t interested in being manhandled. Specially BJ Donovan. You’re not going to get anywhere talking to her that way. Hell, you’re not going to get anywhere with her, period. She’s married.”

  “You know her personally, or are you just speaking in general? You two seemed pretty cozy,” said Mason.

  Leonard wrinkled his forehead as if thinking so what? “Yeah, I know her,” he said with care. Then realized he had serious bragging rights. He puffed out his chest. “Yep, we’re old friends. Good friends. She’s somewhat of a celebrity around here. She’s a published author. Not only that, she said she’s going to help me write a novel and get it published, too.”

  Jeff Wentzel shook his head in disbelief.

  “No shit,” said Mason.

  “No shit. Got her book right here. It’s called Suite Sue.” Leonard held up the hardcover book and opened it. “See, it’s autographed and everything. I think it’s a thriller.” He looked at the artwork on the jacket. Shrugged. “I’m not sure. I haven’t read it yet.”

  Mason reached for the book. Leonard lurched back, stowed it under the bar. “This one’s mine. You’ll have to get your own.”

  Mason smirked. Aimed his attention at a new arrival to the lounge. A big-chested bleached blonde smiled at him, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. He sighed, crossly. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We can find a better bar than this.” He fished his car keys out of his pocket. Shrugged off Juan’s attempts to take them away from him. “Leave me alone, damn you, I can drive.”

  “He’s okay, Juan. C’mon, let’s go and find us some naked wimmin,” said Bryon, staggering to his feet.

  >+<|>+<

  Two patrolmen stood before the smoking wreckage of a dark blue minivan. They watched paramedics drag out the mangled dead bodies of three middle-aged men.

  A little ways back from the intersection Jeff swallowed the chewed remains of two breath mints. He lit a cigarette with one hand, put the gearshift in drive with the other. His gaze swept across the California license plate once more before he pulled away from the curb.

  CHAPTER 21

  BJ read the note Frank scribbled on a sheet of paper and attached to the refrigerator with a plastic banana magnet, one of several shitty gifts her mother-in-law had foisted on her. The same mother-in-law who introduced BJ to people as, “Frank’s old standby”. Thank goodness she lived out-of-state. She couldn’t bear to see the woman on a daily basis.

  She read the note again: Gone two weeks. Miami. Will call.

  She balled up the paper and threw it in the trashcan under the sink. He couldn’t wait around until she got home from work? Of course not. He’d have seen the disgust in her eyes.

  A check of the contents in the refrigerator, she settled on leftovers. She unwrapped the dish, and set it in the microwave.

  “I have got to finish the new story.”

  BJ poured coffee in a cup depicting the chalked outline of a dead body, which she called her writers mug, and carried it to her office. The spaghetti was forgotten.

  Facing the computer in the shuttered room, she reread the last few lines she’d typed the day before. She couldn’t think what to write next, so she typed random and meaningless sentences while her mind searched for the start of the new chapter.

  The quick brown fox did the lazy dog.

  The cow ate the moon.

  Little boy blue tied his shoe.

  Come diddle my fiddle.

  Frank.

  BJ leaned against her chair, and took a sip of coffee. She met Franklin Donovan when she was a cook-in-training and a waitress at a restaurant serving Italian cuisine. The same restaurant she now owned.

  Cooking’s the only skill she’d gleaned from her mamma—who tried hard to prep her for a life of servitude.

  One week later, Frank asked her out to dinner. Eager to try the hottest new restaurant in town, at someone else’s expense, she accepted his invitation.

  Their first year together was nothing to write home about. Near the end of the second year, Frank participated in some sort of fraudulent scheme, which ultimately led to his arrest and conviction. Three years. BJ didn’t know why she waited for him. The year he got out of prison she got pregnant. Lost the baby soon after. Lacking any and all maternal instincts it was easy for her not to feel any remorse. She couldn’t give what she never had.

  Two years later, Frank obtained enough financial backing to function as a database administrator in his own company. Word on the street was, his old boss fronted the new business as payment for Frank taking the fall on the fraudulent scheme.

  Frank Donovan always had visions of grandeur. He worked an eighteen-hour day trying to build up his list of clientele. Making money was his prime objective. Spending money on something big and flashy was his secondary objective. He was also consumed with the desire to make enough to retire at an early age.

  Frank wanted a bigger house, too, just not the big family to fill it. The house was a phallic symbol, he said, something to shove up the collective asses of all the naysayers in his life. More flash for the cash. Whenever they went somewhere together in the car and he saw the kind of house he wanted, he’d say, “That’s what I’m getting when I get rich. Who knows… maybe I’ll win the lottery.”

  But it was all taking longer than he planned.

  And he wasn’t getting any younger.

  Frank mistreated her worse than ever. He took his frustrations out on her when something went wrong at work. And, somehow, it was her fault he’d never been able to get his big fancy mansion or boat or private jet or some other toy his little boy heart desired.

  Eventually, he neglected her more and more.

  BJ spent many nights alone in the house.

  He never lost the need to possess and control her, though. He’d grown adept at manipulation. He knew how to blackmail her emotionally to make her live her life his way. He constantly told her what to say, where to go, how to dress, and how to act. And if she ever found another man? He’d shred her with his bare hands, he told her. Frank thought he’d bought himself a little paper doll.

  BJ scoffed at him behind his back. He didn’t want her but he didn’t want anyone else to have her either. Serious eyerollery stuff, she thought.

  Making money and becoming completely independent of him was her main objective. Writing books assured her of an income in the event her restaurant went belly up. Or vice versa. She refused to entertain the notion both careers might go to hell.

  Frank told her more than once that she’s weird. “No, I’m not. I’m just different from other women,” had always been her response, even though her thoughts were all over the place.

  Is this how dementia starts?

  Or has Fran
k succeeded in making me crazy?

  Roger and Jeff came unbidden to her mind.

  And there it was. The plot she sought. A new twist on an old story.

  She wrote the six-page chapter surprisingly fast. Saving the text, she cut off the computer and the lamp. “I’m ravenous.”

  CHAPTER 22

  BJ was pleased to discover almost every single table was filled with customers when she stepped through the entrance of Wild Capers as a dinner guest, not the boss.

  Amos, the maître d’, was nowhere to be seen.

  She chose a deuce over a four-top table because it’s closer to the kitchen. She spread a cloth napkin across her lap, and wracked her brain for an idea for the next chapter. Idly scanning the room for the maître d’ she spotted a customer waiting to be seated. Where the hell’s Amos? She hurried to the entrance.

  “Bonswa! Welcome to Wild Capers. How many in your party, sir?” She craned her neck and took a quick look behind him.

  “Just me.”

  When the man placed a hand on his hip, she saw a gold badge clipped to his belt. “You’re a... detective?”

  The man frowned, glimpsed down. “Oh.” He smiled. “Yeah, I’m Gary Northcutt. You must be BJ Donovan.”

  She instinctively took a step backward. Her eyes flicked left then right as though planning an escape route. “What…?”

  “I’m a member of Lieu du Crime Club. Remember? I was supposed to be the guest speaker back when a storm knocked out the power here at the restaurant. It’s nice to finally meet you.” He extended a hand. Smiled warmly. “Really nice.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.” Her handshake was as limp as a wet noodle. “It just so happens I’m dining alone, as well. I’d love it if you’d join me for dinner. Perhaps I can pick your brain on law enforcement terminology and procedures.”

  “Certainly. I’d enjoy the company along with the chance to dine in five-star luxury. And I might just pick your brain for a few writerly tips and suggestions.”