by S. A. Austin
“Wh-what are you talking about? Girlfriend?” Nervous laughter. “What girlfriend,” he asked in a weak voice, backing down.
She didn’t know for sure if Frank had funded his little love nest. And it didn’t matter. Because all he had heard was the part about his girlfriend.
BJ’s nostrils flared, her mind still racing.
“It’s been over for us for a long time, but you wouldn’t let me go. And why? Why the hell not? That’s the one thing I’ve never understood. You obviously don’t care anything about me. Tell me, Frank. Have you ever, even just once, treated her the way you treat me?” She began to cry despite the fact that, for a change, she had the upper hand.
He gulped hard. Focused on the scenic painting adorning his hotel room. In a lighter tone he said, “This isn’t the time or the place for this. Besides, we’re getting off the subject here. I want to know what the hell happened.”
Beginning to end, she told him everything she’d been doing, and why. She told him about Jacob and Roger, but said nothing about Detective Gary Northcutt.
“I’ll catch the next flight out. In the meantime, get your shit together. And knock it off with the internet antics.” Frank hung up. Paced the room.
He hoped BJ wasn’t planning to ruin his relationship with Isabella Jakson, a sunny-blond flight attendant who’d turn him on with nothing more than her beautiful smile. Lusty images of her spread warmth to his groin. He knew she’d be at the apartment, he’d gotten for her last year, in a couple of hours.
“If her flight’s on time.”
He reasoned BJ had only learned about Isabella recently. Otherwise, she would’ve already dumped him. Maybe.
It’d been very costly, in more ways than one, for him to keep both women. BJ’s the proper wife and hostess at home. But Isabella was good in bed, simply the best he’d ever had. However, she lacked the social skills necessary for his type of business. BJ entertained his clients with style and grace. She’d been instrumental in helping him get his business up and running.
Although he had made a name for himself in the data business, he still needed BJ’s influence to help him sway the more difficult clients. She just had some sort of knack with people. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she’d put a spell on them.
“Without a doubt, she’s the weirdest person I’ve ever known.”
Frank understood he was going to have to forego a night in Isabella’s arms, and head for home. BJ sounded frightened out of her wits, but he planned to let her suffer a little longer by taking his time going home. It served her right for carrying on in such an irresponsible manner.
Did she ever stop to think about how her actions might affect the restaurant business?
He turned in his hotel key. Headed to his rental car.
Absentmindedly strapping on his seatbelt, he thought back to the very first time he’d set eyes on her. She was a waitress at a restaurant in the French Quarter specializing in Italian cuisine. The same restaurant he bought for her. Little did she know he’d bought it more for himself than for her, in the event his data business tanked.
Dressed in a green two-piece uniform and black nonskid work shoes, she approached with a no-nonsense look on her face. She picked up a menu, and held it against her chest.
“Smoking or non?”
“Smoking, please.” He smiled. She didn’t. He wanted to do her on the nearest empty table.
He’d taken his time with ordering, and then later with eating. He studied her actions and reactions, for an hour or so, while she waited on other customers. Her long dark curls were pulled up in a ponytail that swung like a pendulum. She moved about the room quickly and ably. The customers got along with her. Frank had the impression most of them were regulars.
He reasoned that her looks, skills, and confidence could be very useful to him with the competitive database business he hoped to have one day. He asked her out a week later.
BJ getting pregnant wasn’t part of the deal. He needed her help to get the business off the ground. Kids are just a demanding distraction. What a relief it was when she lost it.
Frank turned the key, leaned against the headrest. Their first time together in bed, he sensed she had a serious aversion to sex. From there on out, she was nothing more than a convenience. She was available when there was no one else to satisfy an energetic libido.
Doing what she’s told was a sexual high for him. It made him feel like a real man. And all he’d given her in return was every reason in the world to leave him.
“Wait a second,” he whispered.
If she doesn’t enjoy sex, what the hell’s she looking for in other men?
He reached in his jacket for a little black phone book. Abandoning plans of a delightful evening with Isabella Jakson and an expensive bottle of scotch he called the airport.
CHAPTER 35
BJ rubbed tears off her cheeks. Jerked the keyboard closer to her.
In the quiet room, she tilted the bottle of tequila too fast and clinked the edge of a highball glass. The noise set her teeth on edge. She poured out a small amount. Emptied the glass. Brought the bottle to her lips, and gulped down two mouthfuls.
Started typing before anger morphed into depression.
Alma wiped her tear-streaked face with a damp washcloth. She had just gotten off the phone with Rex. He was furious with her for her internet antics, he called them, as if she were a teenager. He’s never accepted responsibility for his role in their bitter, loveless marriage.
She picked up her suitcase off the closet floor in her bedroom, and flung it on the bed. She had checked out of the hotel (where Detective Boutin left her) in the middle of the night, after spending time with a married businessman she’d met in the bar.
Restocking everything in her suitcase, she hauled it out to her car and locked it in the trunk. She got in the driver’s seat. Stared blankly at the folded newspaper lying on the front sidewalk.
Where am I going?
So lost in thought, she didn’t hear Boutin pull into her driveway. Didn’t see him walk around to the passenger side of her car. She didn’t notice him at all until he bent down to look in the window. Taken aback, she cried out in surprise, frantically felt around for the door handle without taking her eyes off his face.
“It’s me, Alma.” Boutin opened the door. “It’s just me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frightened you.” He slid onto the seat, closed the door gently so he wouldn’t startle her again.
“I-I thought for a moment you were my stalker.”
“Uh... where’re you going? Or not, seeing how you haven’t started the car.” Mick turned the key to open his window.
“I don’t know. I’m just, going.” She burst into tears. Bowed her head, and hid her eyes with her hand. Her shoulders shook lightly. Her head hurt. “He has someone else.”
Her stalker? Mick was confused.
“I’ve stayed with Rex against my better judgment. Took his shit. Even helped him build his business. And this is the fucking thanks I get. What hurts the most is that it feels no different than a slap in the face. Jeebus Christ. I’ve been lied to all my life.”
Mick reached out to comfort her. She recoiled. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped. Seeing the expression on his face, she softened her voice. “Sometimes it hurts to be touched.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world. You don’t ever have to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid of anyone,” she screeched. “I’m not even afraid of my phantom stalker anymore. Short of being killed, nothing can happen to me that hasn’t already happened. As for you, I damn sure am not afraid of you.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s there to be afraid of? You’re just another....”
Alma gripped the wheel with both hands. Focused her attention on the silver knob on top of the radio antenna on the hood of her car. She did what she’d done her whole life. Pulled herself down deep inside, and willed the pain to go away. For a very short time, she was oblivious of everything around her.<
br />
Just another what? “Where’s the hostility coming from, Alma?”
She put down her window. “Don’t you think you’re a little too uptown for me?”
Mick’s brow furrowed. “Why do you say that?”
“I saw your wife at a ritzy country club. She was sipping cocktails, and hobnobbing with the rich and famous.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I assumed you’re both a member. I have to say, I think snobs are uglier than homely people, and that kind of lifestyle is too phooey for me.”
“We’re not members of anything, particularly country clubs.”
Mick put his window all the way down, stuck his elbow through the opening. Recalled the wild look in Alma’s eyes. A look of fear and pain. He had a good idea she’s well acquainted with both. Not just from her husband, but also from a horrific childhood.
He glimpsed sideways at her. She’d probably been to Hell and back so many times she had her own revolving door. Living a hard life had made her very intense. More than likely, she felt things more profoundly than most people did.
However, despite all that she had been through, she was a warm and sensitive person. He looked her way again. Okay, most of the time she’s a warm and sensitive person.
From his law enforcement experience, he knew it could’ve gone the other way. Alma LeVeaux had all the makings of a serial killer.
Mick was grateful she’d resisted his embrace. Now’s not the time. The key to her heart can only be obtained through trust. Rex LeVeaux probably never knew what he had. He’s married to the mere shell of a woman. Mick bet she’d been forced to play so many roles for so many people that she didn’t know who the real Alma was or could’ve been.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off the deep end.” She sniffled. Dried her face with her hands. “It’s Rex. He’s got someone new in his life. I bet he’s with her this very minute.” She started crying, quieter this time. “I need to go someplace else, for a few days. So much has happened. I told him everything on the phone this morning. He’s furious with me. But it’s out in the open now.”
“I am so sorry. Is he coming home?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. At any rate, I won’t be here to greet him. I don’t have anywhere to go, but I can’t stay here, either. Not if he’s coming home. I think I’d like to go to another hotel. Stay long enough to sort out this mess. We’ve never been through anything like this, so I don’t know how he’s going to act when he sees me.”
“All right. We need you nearby, anyway, until your stalker has been apprehended,” Mick said, lamely. Truth was, he didn’t want her to leave. She meant the world to him. At one time he held the same feelings for his wife. Didn’t take long after they were married for them to drift apart. He bent over backwards to hang on to her. Mick Boutin’s a one-woman man, and if he loved his wife once, he just assumed he’d love her again.
A thought just occurred to him. Once Alma realizes she can run, she won’t stop running until there’s nowhere left to go. And that might be thousands of miles away. He remembered what she’d said about not knowing what Rex’s reaction would be when he came home. Mick wasn’t about to turn a blind eye while her husband harmed her, physically and emotionally.
“The more I think about it, Alma, the more I agree with you. You need to be someplace other than here. A hotel room ought to be safe enough.”
Alma looked away. He didn’t ask how I know his wife. Jeebus.
CHAPTER 36
Franklin Donovan hit the end-call button on his cell phone before anyone at the airport answered.
He drove directly to Isabella’s apartment.
She strolled in two hours later wearing a tight red garb that put emphasis on her curves. Absolutely delicious. He took his time unzipping the back of her dress, stopping every so often to taste the sweetness of her.
“Candy apple lusciousness.”
She turned to face him. Glided her hand over his sandy brown hair. Pushed full, ruby red lips tenderly against his. He wanted her so badly he got where he was going in three minutes flat. Didn’t even have time to remove his socks.
She stretched out beside him, closed her eyes. Slept with her head on his chest. Frank idly stroked her arm with his fingertips. It dawned on him how crazy he was about her. And how the lovemaking had always been nothing short of mind-blowing.
BJ didn’t move her ass the way Isabella did. Never even tried. Hell, she always acted like having sex with him was some unpleasant chore she’d been forced to do. He sometimes imagined himself humping away and her making a ‘To Do’ list in her head, waiting for him to get done. Other times, he imagined her lying under him with her hand up in the air, admiring her nails. He’d swear he heard her say “ho-hum”.
Frank grinned.
“Nah, that woman wasn’t BJ. Probably some nobody I picked up in a bar, long before I met the lovely Miss Jakson.” Isabella stirred, but stayed asleep. He rolled toward her. Brushed aside a short ringlet of hair that had fallen across her mouth. Lightly kissed her.
He knew the only thing he’d ever seen in BJ had been business-related. He also knew he was a lousy husband, but so what? “I got her away from that damn waitress job, didn’t I? Hell, I gave her the whole damn restaurant,” he whispered.
Franklin Donovan was a class-A jerk, but it suited him. He got what he wanted, and that’s all that ever mattered to him. Just looking out for Number One.
He hunkered down under the covers, cuddled up with Isabella, and closed his eyes. Before drifting off to sleep, he made the decision to let BJ get out of that mess by herself.
She didn’t need my help to get in it, in the first place.
CHAPTER 37
Attorney Richard Gravois, nearing retirement and hard of hearing, lifted the remote control off his desk and raised the volume on the television set in his den to better hear the evening news.
Captain Ory Fortier was outside the police department in front of a group of reporters, a couple of uniformed police officers, and a few casual bystanders. Homicide Detectives Gary Northcutt and Lucas Cantin flanked both sides of Fortier, and kept reporters at bay.
Richard zeroed in on the man standing next to Northcutt. Virgil Wentzel’s son, Bernard Jacques. The spitting image of his father. Same handsome face. Same deadpan expression. Same lifeless eyes. Not a trace of his mother’s softness.
“Yes, we have a multiple homicide on our hands,” said Fortier. “There are no suspects in custody at this time. However, DNA analysis has given us a significant clue, and we are acting on it as we speak.” He held up both hands. “That’s all we have for you at this time. G’day, ladies and gentlemen.”
Angered by the sudden high-pitched voice of a car salesman on a commercial, Richard shut off the TV. He sipped brandy. Stretched out his other arm to press his hand against the edge of the fireplace mantle. Stared down at the unlit logs on an iron grate.
Do the police really have a clue?
Was Captain Fortier simply trying to quell the public’s fears?
Richard Gravois had been the Wentzel family’s attorney for more years than he could remember. At least three generations, he believed.
He was surprised to learn from a friend of his at the police department that someone was living in Virgil’s house on Caulfield Lane. He thought about the other place, the old family farm on the outskirts of New Orleans. Richard hadn’t seen the place in years. Virgil wasn’t so receptive to visitors as his father had been.
Far as he knew, Virgil’s still the sole owner of both properties. Richard never gave much time or consideration to the house in New Orleans. It was that old farm that held the memories.
The senior Wentzels had made a small fortune in the cotton business. He didn’t understand why Virgil didn’t follow their path to success.
Another sip of brandy.
Virgil’s wife, Marie Alma, was a pretty young thing, he recalled. It was a terrible shame when she lost her third child. Richard received a letter from V
irgil asking him for his advice and guidance in selling both properties. Virgil told him he wanted to live somewhere else. Like a quiet mountain home by a lake where he’d while away the hours fishing.
Richard was curious why Virgil didn’t mention his wife in his plans. He called to arrange a meeting, but the Wentzel’s phone had been disconnected.
It was upon his unannounced arrival at the farmhouse that Richard was informed Marie had become so overcome with grief after the miscarriage she had committed suicide. Asked why he hadn’t been invited to the funeral, Virgil simply replied there wasn’t one. He had her body interred, and that was that. The evasiveness in Virgil Wentzel’s voice contradicted his statement.
Richard shuffled over to his vintage rolltop desk. Hooked his cane on his arm. Had a little more brandy. He put on his reading glasses. The moment he picked up BJ Donovan’s book he heard the familiar squeak of the front door opening.
Gripping his cane tightly, he limped out into the hall in time to see the door closing. Heard the click of the catch. Knew for a fact it wasn’t the housekeeper. She was visiting her mother at the hospital in Gretna.
