Long Night Moon (Bad Mojo Book 1)

by Sharon A. Austin

She still struggled to describe the crime scene using her imagination. The story just didn’t have the right feel to it. BJ agonized over every decision until there was none left to make.

  Had Detective Schein successfully planted seeds of doubt?

  Why would he?

  Hmm, if I go there, do I truly want to waste time trying to guess his motives?

  She had better things to do with her time, and one of those things, whether she wanted to or not, was to see the place in person.

  She hadn’t set a time and date to view the property with the detective. No idea why she’d been reluctant to do so. “Something about this whole situation doesn’t feel right. What appears to be is not.”

  Warning bells. Red flags. A full range of chestnuts to chose from.

  BJ paced the spacious den. Stopped short. She turned in a tight circle and saw the room for the first time. Every which way she turned she saw someone else’s family photos, knickknacks and other memorabilia. She couldn’t think of one logical reason for her to be in Sonnier’s house.

  The hell with this, I’m going home.

  She turned off the laptop, an old ten-inch piece of crap with one broken hinge and no carrying case, she had found online. Slid it into a large vinyl handbag she purchased at Kmart. Hurried to the bedroom to pack her clothes. Stashed her belongings in the trunk of her car.

  Made a final inspection of the house before leaving.

  Too bone-weary to fix dinner, BJ stopped at Wild Capers. Beau, her new maître d’, greeted her with a sincere smile. First Amos, now Beau. She hoped she didn’t have to go through the whole damn alphabet. She ordered her signature dish, and a to-go box.

  The first thing she noticed when she returned home was that Frank had not. No luggage. No dirty laundry in the hamper. No dirty dishes in the sink. Only heavy silence had greeted her.

  >+<|>+<

  Waking up in her own bed feeling refreshed, BJ decided to set aside the boondoggle novel and concentrate on the nonfiction story. She settled on Silhouette for the working title.

  Lingering over coffee made from her own choice blend (not the stale stuff Sonnier had) she decided once and for all to make an appointment with Detective Schein to see the barn. She refilled her cup. Holding it between the forefinger and thumb of her left hand, she carried it out to the back yard. A large raven flew down from a neighbor’s tree, and landed on the bird bath she didn’t remember standing back up. “Be gone, Edapo,” she yelled, “and stop interfering with my business.” She threw the cup at him so fast she missed, but succeeded in sloshing coffee on her shoulder.

  The blasted old bird she’d named after Edgar Allen Poe continued to stare at her.

  BJ stormed into the house, slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows. Furiously paced back and forth in the hallway for several minutes until she calmed down.

  She retrieved the slip of paper with Detective Schein’s cell phone number.

  CHAPTER 48

  “Hello,” said Jeff Wentzel, lowering his tone the moment someone walked in. “Hold on a minute, please, I’ll be right with you.” He slid his thumb over the mouthpiece. Waited for the older cop to fill out some kind of form. Smiled feebly when the guy glanced up at him.

  Jeff had been temporarily reassigned to the evidence locker. His partner, Darrell O’Rourke, had died on the operating table while undergoing surgery following a colonoscopy.

  He felt cheated. O’Rourke survived knee surgery long enough to fill out his evaluation report on Jeff. The big slob up and died, though, before turning it in.

  So Jeff came up with this not-so-bright idea to break into O’Rourke’s house, steal the report, alter it if necessary, then sneak into the captain’s office, and plant it on his desk. The neighbor’s Doberman caught him.

  The officer placed the completed form in a wire basket, nodded at Jeff, and left.

  “I’m back. How can I help you this time, Mrs. Donovan?”

  “You can start by calling me BJ. And I’ve decided you are right. I need to visit the barn in order to write an accurate description.” She lightly rubbed her forehead. “I don’t understand why I can’t visualize the place. Seen one barn, you’ve seen ‘em all, right? Anyway, something blocks the scene every time I try to put it together.”

  He got a notebook out of his shirt pocket. Peered over his shoulder, and saw Northcutt talking to a man Jeff didn’t recognize.

  “Today’s Wednesday,” Jeff murmured, more to himself than to her while he noisily flipped the small lined sheets of paper trying to find the one where he’d written this week’s schedule. “Next two days I work the night shift.” He raised his voice. “They’re finally putting me in a squad car and letting me head out on patrol for the first time. Mm, Saturday I’ve got the day shift. How about Saturday evening? Say around five-thirty? My shift’ll be over at four, but I might want to grab a sandwich or something first. Maybe change clothes.”

  “Works for me. I hope you know I appreciate the help you’ve given me so far, in particular, the story idea. Which do you prefer? For me to meet you at the police department or the café next door?” BJ shrugged, tried to think of a place other than her house. Or her restaurant.

  “It’d be less complicated to just give you the address and have you meet me at the farm. You never know. I might have some unfinished business here at work to take care of.”

  BJ frowned. And I can’t hang around the police station until you’re done? Northcutt entered her mind. She’d rather not run into him. “Okay, go ahead.”

  Not sure if the men were still behind him, and preferring not to look and draw unwanted attention, Jeff whispered the address to BJ.

  She slid a pad and pen closer, jotted down the information. “See ya Saturday.”

  “Bye.”

  Jeff closed his cell phone.

  Reopened it and shut it off completely.

  On second thought, he cut it back on.

  Damn!

  He didn’t want any more calls from her, but he couldn’t risk her calling the department asking to speak with a frickin’ detective named Raynor Schein, either.

  With his shift nearly over, he began collecting his things off his desk, and stuffing them in a knapsack. His mind’s eye went to the gas gauge in his car. Three-quarters of a tank. Good enough. The thought crossed his mind earlier that he better head out to the farm today—his only chance to go since he wouldn’t be on the day shift again until the weekend. He hadn’t been there in a long time. He needed to see if there’s anything BJ Donovan should not see.

  CHAPTER 49

  Evelyn watched him from the bedroom window. It was hard to see his face behind mirrored sunglasses and a ballcap pulled low enough to make his ears stick out. She pressed the left side of her face against the glass. “Tall, muscular, late twenty’s early thirty’s. Jet-black hair.”

  He walked among irregular rows of Joe-Pye weed standing a good two feet taller than him. The hardy plant, with its thick stems and fragrant flowers, had run amok across the entire farm. Up until then, she had always viewed the mass of weeds as a protective barrier between her and the rest of the world.

  She gripped the fireplace poker tighter, wondered what he’s doing.

  To her relief, he angled off to his right and headed to the barn.

  Looking at the barn from the outside, the hayloft doors are on the right, facing the house. Many years ago an elm had been planted between the main entrance and the right corner of the building, most likely to provide much-needed shade in this hot and humid state. Evelyn observed how the branches of the old tree scraped the roof in a light breeze and just about hid the dark rectangle of the loft opening.

  She stepped back. If he goes to the loft, he’d still be able to see her.

  I wish he’d hurry up. She glimpsed at the setting sun. It’s going to be dark soon.

  As if he’d read her mind, he emerged from the barn. Walked over to the elm, propped a hand against the trunk and crossed his legs. He looked directly the bedroom windo
w. She ducked without thinking even though she knew he couldn’t see beyond the dirty white sheers.

  She raised her head to the height of the windowsill and peered down. He was gone. She gasped. Stood straighter. Scanned the yard far as the eye could see without disturbing the sheers. Not wanting to be trapped upstairs, she was about to run for her life when she heard a car engine come to life.

  She raced down the stairs to the front door. Unlocking it, she twisted the knob just enough to crack open the door. Peered out. Couldn’t see the car, only the trail of dust left behind.

  He’s gone. Be still my heart.

  Evelyn Adrian wondered if the boonies were more dangerous than the city?

  Her apartment building in New Orleans had burned to the ground in a raging fire allegedly started by five members of a rival gang. She lost everything. Absolutely everything. Thank God she was at work when it happened. She would’ve lost her life and most likely her only mode of transportation, which quickly became her new home. For now, her car was safely hidden from view on the borrowed property she calls home.

  It took a while for her to get used to the quiet of the farm after living in The Project where drugs were bought and sold daily, heated arguments between couples spilled out into the parking lot, occasional gunfire, loud music, weekly visits from the cops usually late at night, little kids running wild with no adult supervision, and day by day racket from across the street where the older side of the apartment complex was being demolished for reconstruction.

  She had found the farm by accident. One night when she got off work from Agate Novelties gift shop on Decatur Street she came home to find she no longer had a home. She drove around the city, in no particular direction, and tried to figure out what to do other than feel sorry for herself. Stopping at a truck stop to refuel, she noticed several cars were parked on the opposite side of the big rigs. Inside the building were a shower, a restaurant, and even a laundromat.

  Evelyn didn’t have any friends she could rely on. A year ago, her new husband brought her to New Orleans. Deserted her six months later. Leaving her with bills to pay and no money to pay them, moving to her sister’s house in Maine was her only option. She’d need a lot of money to make the long trip, though, and all she had was a part-time job making minimum wage.

  No longer burdened with rent and utilities, she found she could live at the truck stop for free and save her money. Spending the night Monday through Friday went unnoticed by the manager. Spending the whole weekend did not. She wasn’t politely asked to leave. She was threatened with a pending phone call to the authorities and a possible charge of vagrancy and loitering.

  At the same time, forecasters warned of a fast-approaching and dangerous Category-4 hurricane. Trying to get out of the city at night she got lost. The entire time she’d been in New Orleans, she had never ventured farther than the area where she lived and worked. Driving through an unfamiliar section, she panicked. Tried to find her way back to the truck stop. In the midst of a heavy downpour while caught in heavy traffic, she took a wrong turn. Ended up on the road leading up to the farm.

  The house sat in complete darkness. Easy to assume power lines had come down. She grabbed a flashlight and got out. Ran up to the door. About to knock and ask for directions, the door screeched open… all on its own. Was it the wind? Evelyn didn’t want to think about the place being haunted.

  She waited, apprehensively.

  When nothing ghostlike reached out and grabbed her, she entered the boxy area at the foot of the stairs. Shined her light high and low. To her left was the living room. A hallway separated it from the stairs. A quick inspection of downstairs revealed no one lived there. Not for a very, very long time.

  Being a hoarder, though, was not to her liking.

  Seriously paranoid for the first couple of nights, jumping out of her skin over every unusual sound, she kept thinking the cops were going to bust down the door (any minute now!) and haul her skinny white ass off in shackles.

  Who’d come and bail her out? No one. That’s who.

  Several months have passed. Her situation hasn’t improved much. Between buying food and gas, and weekends spent in movie theaters to ease her boredom from not having a television much less the electricity to run it, she still lacked the necessary funds needed to make the trip to Maine and to find a place to live other than her sister’s house full of kids and cats.

  Evelyn had grown accustomed to peace and quiet and solitude. With a heavy heart, she felt quite certain that was all about to change. Her one and only safe haven was on the verge of being taken away. The man had such a familiarity with the place she sensed he belonged there.

  CHAPTER 50

  BJ attached the slip of paper, with the address Detective Schein had given to her, inside her notebook with a paperclip.

  She called Wild Capers. Turned dinner service over to her competent staff so she could get back to work on the continuation of Suite Sue languishing on her computer.

  She frowned.

  “Wait just a cotton pickin’ minute. Ray-nor. Schein. Rayn-or-schein. Rain or shine?” Deep inhale, short angry exhale. Okay. I’m being played. But by whom?

  The phone rang. The unexpected sound made her heart jerk. She let the answering machine take the call. “Hi, BJ. I haven’t had a chance to come home. Obviously.” Nervous laugh. “I’m currently in Denver, but I just got a hot tip about a couple of wealthy investors. One lives in Houston, the other’s in Japan. I’m supposed to meet both of them at the Duges Hotel in Houston in a couple of days. In the meantime, I need to wrap my arms around my current project and get ‘er done. Um, I hope everything’s okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  He hopes I’m okay. Guilty conscience? We all know who, not what, the current project is he wants to wrap his arms around and get ‘er done. I’ll deal with him and his girlfriend later. Right now, I have more important business to take care of.

  She read the last chapter of her story: Alma has sex with Mick.

  “BJ has sex with... the cop.”

  Hm.

  She got in her car, and drove straight to the house on Caulfield Lane.

  BJ was quite pleased, and a bit surprised, to discover her computer was just as she’d left it. She didn’t see a reason to send herself another box of Joe-Pye weeds but she definitely needed to send another threatening email.

  She booted up the clunky, old, beige-colored computer. Smoked a cigarette for Alma.

  Dear Suite Sue,

  You ignored my warning about pursuing the nonfiction story. Now you’re going to visit the crime scene?

  BJ glimpsed at her watch. “Going to be dark soon. And this email sounds stupid.” She typed several variations. Printed all but one. The one she emailed to herself.

  >+<|>+<

  Detective Lucas Cantin decided to swing by the house on Caulfield Lane on his way home, as he’d done a couple of times before. He and Northcutt had purposely left everything the way they’d found it for Virgil Wentzel. They knew he’d disappear the second he noticed that the computer was gone. Problem was, with so many other important cases taking precedence over this one, they weren’t able to keep the house under continuous surveillance.

  Nearing the end of the street he was shocked to find a car parked in the driveway on the right side of the house. He slowed down, scanned the area. Not seeing anyone, he veered off to the left, drove in behind a cluster of trees. Silenced the engine.

  Within minutes he saw BJ Donovan walk out the front door, then get in the car. Instead of backing out onto the street she cut her wheels sharply, backed onto the grass, spun the steering wheel, and drove forward out of the driveway.

  Lucas waited a couple of minutes. Certain she wasn’t returning any time soon, he opened his door and stepped out. About to walk toward the house, another car approached. The male driver pulled into the driveway and parked. He got out. Stood beside the open car door. Observed the surrounding area.

  Lucas crept a little closer. The guy lifted his ballcap l
ong enough to scratch the top of his head. He recognized him. Rookie Wentzel? Putting another foot forward he accidentally cracked a tree limb.

  Wentzel heard the sound. He got in his car, made a crazy U-turn, and sped away.

  Lucas walked to the driveway, no longer concerned if anyone saw him. He spotted a sheet of paper on the ground. A printed email addressed to someone named Suite Sue. Who dropped it? And what the hell’s going on? Why would Donovan be here? How’d she get in the house? Then again, what the hell’s Wentzel doing here?

  “Wait. He’s a cop.” Who desperately wants to be a detective.

  It’s possible he’s moonlighting. Okay. I’ll buy that.

  Lucas hurried around to the rear door. Wentzel. I’ll be damned. Someone named Wentzel owned the house. Using a lock pick set, he opened the door. Went straight to the computer and flattened a hand over the vent holes on top of the monitor. Warm to the touch. He stared at the table, and tried to remember what was there before and what was new.

  One thing stood out above everything else. A sheet of copy paper had: To-Do List For Suite Sue AKA BJ, handwritten across the top. Six items had been listed then heavily blacked out with a marker. Line seven only had the word Send. He pondered the meaning. In BJ’s novel, Alma LeJeune AKA Suite Sue is a serial killer.

  He ignored the bugs and the muck and booted up the computer. Clicked each file on the desktop until he found what he thought he might. The first fifty pages of a novel. He scrolled down. Highlighted in yellow on page fifty-one were many disturbing details about the murders of three businessmen in Louisiana.

  A file named N.O. contained descriptive notes of two recent New Orleans murders. BJ Donovan’s the alley murderer? Or had Gary Northcutt foolishly shared a few bedroom secrets with her? Secrets he, Gary, and Foret had withheld from the press. Either way, Donovan clearly planned to use the murders as material for the sequel to Suite Sue. How would she explain having intimate knowledge of certain details? Lucas looked forward to asking her.