by S. A. Austin
* * *
Lucas figured it was time to pay a visit to the café next door to the police department.
He had a lot to mull over in his mind. Might even bounce a few things off the other cops. Things such as why was Donovan trading her big house for a little apartment? Where’s her husband? When’s the last time anyone’s seen her husband?
Upon entering the café he was inundated with bits and pieces of idle conversations, the flavorful aroma of dirty rice and Po-boys, the clink of ice in drinks served in tall and skinny glasses, and the sound of a familiar voice calling his name. Lucas hunted through the faces in the crowd. Gary Northcutt waved him over to a table near the back.
He chose the red padded wooden chair directly across from Gary. Scooted closer to the table. “Hey. You just get here?” Lucas asked, seeing only a glass of iced tea and silverware rolled up inside of a paper napkin.
“About five minutes ago.” He raised a menu out of a metal holder, handed it to Lucas.
“Thanks. What’d you order?”
“I’m in the mood for a big ole bowl of gumbo. You?”
Lucas absently rubbed his chin, unaware he’d picked up Gary’s old habit. “Did you know BJ Donovan was moving out of her house today?”
Gary blinked. Lucas had personal information he should’ve had first. He became defensive. “She didn’t say anything about it the last time I spoke with her.” His face grew warm. “How do you know?”
“It’s no big deal. I just happened to see her when I was in the French Quarter earlier today. I saw her car in the private lot of an apartment building. She had several cardboard boxes in her back seat. She is married, right?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. Just strikes me strange I’ve never seen him out and about.” Lucas avoided eye contact. “I mean, I’ve seen her a time or two, so you’d think I’d see him sooner or later.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Hunger’s affecting my brain.” He watched the frown deepen on Gary’s face as he was staring out the window. Damn, why’d you have to go and tell him? Lucas was relieved to see the waitress working her way to their table. “I’ll have a Po-boy with nuttinonit, and sweet tea,” he told her when she arrived with Gary’s food.
“Have you had a chance to speak with the captain about Wentzel?” Gary asked.
Lucas wasn’t expecting him to change the subject. “Talk to me.”
Gary swallowed a mouthful of tea. “It, uh, it was weird, you telling me about BJ moving, perhaps skipping out on her husband.” A deep sigh. “I came home for lunch today. Half of the furniture was gone, half of the bank account was gone, and my wife was gone. Never saw it coming. Not much of a detective, am I? I knew, or thought I knew, she was seeing someone else, but there were no indicators that it had gotten this serious. Serious enough for her to leave without so much as a phone call or a kiss-my-ass note stuck to the fridge. And you want to know why I had no idea? Because all my attention was on another woman.”
“I guess that old saying is what keeps me single.”
“Old saying?”
“Don’t marry the one you’re with, marry the one you love. That saying.”
Gary shook his head in confusion. “And this applies to my shit, how?”
“Beats the hell outta me. I’m just trying to cheer you up, man.” Lucas glanced at the window in time to see Officer Wentzel walking by with a scowl on his face.
CHAPTER 62
“Why the hell hasn’t she called me, er, Detective Schein?”
Bored with cruising the same uneventful section of the city, Jacob made a sharp turn, almost collided with an oncoming vehicle. His heart thumped hard enough to pop out of his chest. The image of a jack-in-the-box popped into his head.
“All right already, get a grip.”
It was truly nice not having a partner anymore. Most of the time. Other times, he would’ve enjoyed having someone to shoot the breeze, as O’Rourke liked to say.
As in now, when it’s way past mealtime.
Eating alone was something he never cared for.
Maybe because of my days in service or incarcerated. I got used to eating with my body hunched in, since there was always someone sitting very close on either side of me and—
“Oh my gawd, shut the fuck up! Stop talking to yourself, you dumb stupid idiot.”
Jacob punched the window with the side of his fist, scaring the passenger in the car beside him at the traffic light.
“Jeebus Christ.” He sat up straighter. “I need a friend.”
He had heard that the blond dancer, the one he had sex with that one time, had left town. Made him sad thinking about how they’d gotten along pretty good before....
Another turn, he drove to the stop sign at the end of the street, unintentionally entering the French Quarter. Driving slowly, he passed by BJ’s new place.
Pretty nice digs.
He loved the Old Square. Loved the New Orleans style of architecture.
Rounding the corner onto St. Charles Street he spotted a bright yellow ‘For Rent’ sign.
Fate?
“Aye, matey!”
He searched the area for other police cars. Concocted a lie for why he wasn’t in his vehicle in case another cop saw where it was parked. He rushed across the street to the house with the sign. Thumbed the buzzer.
A gorgeous woman with dark hair, hazel eyes, and a sweet smile answered the door. He recognized her from an old sitcom on TV. She opened the door wider, invited him in.
Jacob exited the building a few minutes later with a signed lease agreement in his hand. She told him she’s going to California to play the lead role in an upcoming movie, and since her husband, who’s also an actor, was in Australia filming his new movie, she didn’t want to leave their home empty for an indefinite length of time.
“Who better to have here than a cop?” Her long dark eyelashes swept the air automatically when she smiled.
Just like Mama’s.
He made a plan to pick up a sprig or two of Joe Pye weed, and a nice little planter to put them in. Feeling rather nostalgic, he wanted, no, he needed something familiar and comfortable in his life.
Jacob was suddenly curious why BJ had moved.
He put the key in the ignition, dropped his hand on his lap. “Why’d I do that? I already have a home.” He merged his car into the traffic.
Because you’re so damned desperate for a little attention or some small act of kindness, you’ll go to any length to not only get it but to hang on to it. That’s why.
“No. It’s because I’m cruising around the city on an empty stomach because I spent my dinner hour spying on Donovan. I am so damn hungry, I’d eat a—”
He skidded to a halt, the front end of the car shifting to the left. The driver behind him swerved to avoid a rear end collision. The sound of a blaring horn echoed into the distance.
Jacob stared in disbelief. Long black curls bounced with each footfall as she walked purposely along the sidewalk in the French Market on Decatur Street with a dark green canvas tote bag tightly clutched in her fist.
“Mama?”
CHAPTER 63
DECEMBER
BJ collected the computer printed pages, and arranged them in numerical order. Gently tapped the bottom edges on her desk to straighten them.
Are five pages too many for a critique?
“Not if they’re compelling enough to hold everyone’s attention. Besides, it’s my conference room the writers group uses free of charge. Well, so long as they continue to pay for the food in the restaurant instead of bringing their own, it’ll be free.”
She laid the papers flat on her desk. Brought her chair closer, put on her reading glasses. A quick sip of coffee to wet her throat. At the last second she decided she has read the excerpt out loud long enough to catch errors and improve the flow. Leaning back comfortably in her seat, she mouthed the words.
Alma knew that the family l
awyer, Richmond Grande, was in possession of certain information that would prove damaging to one party if he were to have a little chat with Detective Boutin.
She entered the lawyer’s house with ease by means of an unlocked back door, careful not to catch her long black cloak with the red satin lining on anything.
BJ drew a red line across the rest of the sentence after the word door. “Readers might think she’s a vampire.”
Alma heard a faint noise further up the hallway. She crept toward the room, sneaked a quick look through the narrow opening in the door. The room appeared to be a den. Grande stood by the TV with his back to her. Something was familiar. She nudged the door open a few inches. Recognized the voice of the evening news reporter.
Grande raised the volume on the TV as if for her benefit.
“Yes, we have a multiple homicide on our hands,” said Captain Orly Foret. “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. That’s all we have for you at this time. G’day, ladies and gentlemen.”
Obviously angered by the sudden loud voice of a salesperson in a commercial Grande cut 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.
Alma stared angrily at him. He knows too much.
She squatted down. Set a little decorative box on the floor. Raised the lid. Jumped out of the way. Its tongue flicking in and out of its mouth the coral snake eased over the edge of the box slower than pus oozes from an open wound.
An involuntary moan. BJ used the red pen to slash everything after the edge of the box.
The small but deadly creature slithered alongside the baseboard on its way to Grande’s desk. Stopped beside a tall wicker wastebasket, and coiled its body tight. Alma was pleased the creature had gone where she wanted it to go.
Red on yellow kills a fellow. Alma moved quickly toward the front door. Same colors as the handcuffs I used to tame those cheating hearts in hotel suites.
“Red on black, venom lack. Too bad Richmond Grande didn’t know the difference.”
CHAPTER 64
Homicide Detective Gary Northcutt entered the conference room at Wild Capers to find the place crowded with members of the Lieu du Crime writers group.
He soon learned there were several writers there that were not local residents. Since the release of BJ Donovan’s debut novel, aspiring writers from around the region had come to meet her and, Gary guessed, to glean a few insider tips useful to the publishing industry.
Okay, so that’s why I’m here. Along with an invitation to join her at the chef’s table.
He was taken aback when she finally followed up on her offer of a get-together over coffee. Dining at her restaurant was way better than drinking coffee at Benyay’s. There was only so much coffee he could consume in a day, so their time together would’ve been limited. Not to mention he’d be bouncing off the walls from the caffeine.
He sat on a black metal fold out chair against the back wall.
Smiled when his roving gaze fell on her.
A red dress, and a matching red headband on pale yellow hair covering her shoulders. She folded her hands neatly on top of several sheets of paper. Paid close attention to Secretary Epps as she read the minutes of their last meeting.
Loud round of applause.
The secretary moved out of the treasurer’s way, and returned to her seat beside the podium. The microphone squeaked horribly when the short man tried hard to adjust it down to his height.
Snickering and whispering arose from four young people sitting close together.
Gary shook his head in disappointment of their behavior.
The treasurer droned on and on about facts and figures.
Gary gave up following questions asked and answered about an upcoming joint book signing. He had too many other things on his mind.
A sudden roar of applause.
The moment they’d all been waiting for was upon them. The critique hour. The time when everyone, published and non, was encouraged to read an excerpt from his or her work-in-progress and receive feedback, positive and non.
BJ, the thirteenth writer to stand before her peers, exuded a great deal of confidence. She read slowly and clearly. A hush fell over the room. Everyone seemed captivated by the tone of her voice and her soft-spoken accent.
Gary leaned forward in his seat, clasped his hands and let them hang between his knees. He tilted his head near the end of her piece. Then his jaw dropped.
Odd-colored handcuffs? Red on yellow? Seems a little strange she’d use a critical piece of evidence, attached to a real-life murder investigation, in her novel.
She’d read something else from her excerpt he could’ve sworn was confidential information. Couldn’t remember what. Gary studied her interaction with the writer beside her.
Is someone in the department whispering in her ear? If so, why?
His chest tightened.
If word gets around Donovan’s using this information in her unpublished novel, will people think I am her whisperer? Damn. Not people, Lucas Cantin. He’s been acting strange, here lately. Kind of secretive. What’s he got he doesn’t want me to have?
CHAPTER 65
BJ called Detective Schein’s home from her office phone at Wild Capers. Left a message saying she wanted to see the farmhouse tomorrow afternoon.
The tires on her car squealed a little when she turned on Caulfield Lane off of Claude Street. She thought she’d never get rid of the cop after the writers meeting.
Why the hell did he question me about the contents of my excerpt? Handcuffs? Really? Who the fuck does he think he is?
She drove to the end of the short road where Virgil Wentzel’s house was cloaked in silence. Veered off the driveway toward a cluster of trees. Still angry, she managed to close the car door without breaking the window.
Walking fast to the front door she dug around in her purse for the house key she’d taken off a corroded nail in the kitchen wall at the farmhouse. Gasped. Frantically hunted everywhere, including her car.
Did I leave the damn key in the desk drawer at Sonnier’s house?
If she did she was out of luck. Sonnier lived in a large neighborhood. She’d surely be heard or seen if she were to break into his house.
Dammit all to hell. Why did I give Sonnier’s key back to the cop when I did? He seemed to have forgotten that I had it.
BJ observed the broken dormer windows.
I wonder?
She jogged around to the back yard. Withdrew the penlight in her purse, shined it on each window. Examined the bathroom window more closely. The outdated slide lock faced in the opposite direction of the other windows.
She checked the others, just to be sure.
At the bathroom window she put the penlight in a tight pocket of her skinny jeans, dropped her purse on the ground. Equally spaced her outstretched hands against the pane. She pushed upward, but was met with resistance.
She guessed that over the years the foundation might have shifted the windows out of rectangle. Or the sash and tracks had become swollen or cracked making a tighter fit. Or…? She traced the wood frame with the beam of her penlight to learn whether or not the damn thing had been painted shut.
A rustling swish. She shut off the light. Strained her hearing to catch the sound again. BJ crept to the end of the house, and poked her head around the corner. She sneezed, suddenly and loudly, sending unknown critters skittering back into the darkness.
I don’t have time for this.
She guided the light down one side of the bathroom window again. No paint. Too bad, in a way. Paint would be easy to remove. Nothing she could do about structural damage. Keeping the light on, she tucked the handle of the penlight in her pocket.
Standing on the tips of her toes like a ballerina, she flattened her hands against the glass and pushed hard with an upward thrust. A short grunt, e
ither from her or the wood frame, the window rattled upward a couple of inches. Her hands hurt, but after several more tries she had the thing opened wide enough for her to squeeze through. Good thing she was small-boned.
She remembered the bathtub was directly beneath the window only after she fell in and lightly thumped her head against the inner edge. “Ouch, dammit.” Knew nothing at all about a spider until it fell off of, or out of, the faucet. It quickly disappeared.
“Where did it go?”
Was it desperately trying to crawl up the slippery porcelain to reach its hiding place?
“Or did it hitch a ride on me?”
BJ scampered out of the tub. Twisting, turning, squealing with the sound of a piglet, she thwacked her body repeatedly in an effort to knock off the spider she was positive had gotten on her. She grabbed the wig off her head, and shook the living daylights out of it. Quickly snatched the penlight out of her pocket and accidentally turned it off. Repeatedly clicking it before it finally came back on, she rushed to the grimy mirror over the sink.
“Ova da zinc,” she’d heard her sous chef say a time or two. She stopped checking her reflection. A smirk lifted the corner of her mouth. The fear drained out of her.
Sink? Drain? You’ve taken this madness to a whole new level.
She examined the tub with the light. There it was. A big ole hairy thing, hiding near the bottom of an old brown striped shower curtain that had been shoved to the end by the faucet. She closed the window as best as she could while avoiding the spider.
Leaving the penlight on, she wandered into the living room. Tried not to let the sounds of things scurrying in all directions unnerve her. Tried not to turn on the houselights.
