by Robin Caroll
Tracey stood and pulled Addy up into a quick hug. “Let me know. I’ll see what I can find out about the Axeman, too.”
“Okay. You take care out there, Trace.”
“You take care of you, too. Keep an eye out for crazy stalker fans.” With a wiggle of her fingers, Tracey slung her purse over her shoulder and left.
Addy waited a minute before sitting behind her desk. Tracey was right, of course, although she wouldn’t let her best friend know that. It was time to make a decision about Beau and Dimitri, and she needed to make sure she was positive about who she wanted.
She opened her bottom right drawer and slowly pulled out her old, worn Bible. Her fingers grazed over the smooth leather. A fluttering of her heart echoed against her chest.
Addy let out a slow breath, bent her head, closed her eyes, and started a silent prayer.
7
— Beau
“Coming up, WDSU’s exclusive interview with renowned bestselling author, R.C. Steele.” The newscast faded into commercials.
Vincent had given an interview? To WDSU, nonetheless? Beau reached for his cell and called Addy.
She answered on the first ring. “Hey, Beau.”
“Your dad gave an interview?”
“What? He just said he was thinking about saying a few things in hopes of avoiding a build-up around some mystery. His publicist called and begged him to use any airtime to promote his upcoming release. I doubt that means an interview.”
“Uh, Addy, turn the news on. WDSU.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The sound of the same commercials he was watching sounded in the background over the connection.
“That was the lead-in before they went to commercial break.”
“They said interview?”
“An exclusive interview.”
“Oh my word. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. Warn me.”
The commercials faded and the face of Allison Williams filled the screen.
“Following a lead that skeletal remains had been found hidden in a two-foot space behind a suspiciously built wall at the Darkwater Inn, this reporter went to the hotel to get details. I never expected to come face-to-face with the elusive bestselling novelist, R.C. Steele. Come to find out, Steele is a pen name for Vincent Fountaine, father of the Darkwater Inn’s general manager.”
Addy groaned.
“Steele reluctantly agreed to give WDSU an exclusive interview regarding his appearance at the hotel’s crime scene.”
Beau nodded. “I bet reluctantly is putting it mildly.”
Vincent’s image joined Allison’s on the screen. “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Fountaine. Or do you prefer Mr. Steele?”
“Steele is fine.” Vincent wasn’t smiling. Matter-of-fact, he looked annoyed and on the edge of angry.
“Are you working on a story that relates to the crime scene at the Darkwater Inn? Are you writing a book that has to do with skeletal remains and an axe found beside the body?” Allison shoved the microphone in Vincent’s face.
Vincent pulled back. “As a suspense writer, naturally I’m curious about an uncovered skeleton.”
“But are you working on a book about this?”
“No.”
Allison Williams’s face bunched up as she looked directly into the camera. “Then why were you at the crime scene?” She pushed the microphone back at Vincent.
“Like you, I found it of interest that a skeleton was discovered behind a hidden wall and had an axe beside it. Knowing the history of New Orleans, I was curious to see if perhaps this skeleton had been one of the Axeman’s unreported victims.”
Allison turned to the camera and spoke directly. “The Axeman was a serial killer that terrorized New Orleans back in the early 1900s. WDSU will be running a series of reports on the serial killer, his victims, and how this relates to the skeleton found at the Darkwater Inn.” She turned back to Vincent. “Tell us, Mr. Steele, have you done much research on the Axeman?”
“Not really. I have some old articles that I accumulated years ago, but I only stuffed them in a file cabinet and didn’t pay them any more mind, until the skeleton was found with an axe beside it.” Vincent shrugged. “I write fiction, not true crime.”
“And so you do, Mr. Steele. When will your next book release?”
As Vincent went into his promo pitch for his new release, Beau sat back in his chair. “Addy, you okay?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “I mean, it’s infuriating that Allison Williams ran a story on dad and on the hotel regardless of what either of us said, but we can’t do anything now.” She sighed again.
“I know.” Beau shook his head, even though Addy couldn’t see him. “Marcel and I have feelers out everywhere in the department to find out who keeps feeding information to her. Every time we have a case at the hotel, she seems to know almost as quickly as we do.”
“Maybe I should ask around the hotel and make sure it’s not someone here who gives her the information.” She blew out a loud breath. “I’m so sick of it all.”
“It’ll be okay, Addy. Our CSU is trying to build a DNA profile from the blood on the axe. All we know right now is that it’s a rarer blood type—B negative. We think we might have a partial palm print and a smudged thumbprint. Our tech asked Chandler to assist in trying to clean it up to run it.”
“I know Chandler and Dimitri had Vicky pulling records of guests that were at the hotel for the months following the beginning of the renovations of 1938.”
“Did they find anything?” Beau hadn’t heard anything back from Chandler.
“They were still poring over the records an hour ago when I left. I had to get away from it. I had just gotten up here to my apartment when you called. Now I want to go for a run. Get rid of some of this pent-up frustration.”
He stood in response, even though every muscle in his body protested that the plan had been to enjoy a sub in front of the television and forget about the case, hotel, and—yes, even Addy—for a few hours. Funny how quickly a plan could change. “Now that sounds like an idea. Want to meet at Jackson Square? I’ll race you.”
“You’re on, Savoie.”
Beau quickly changed into a pair of shorts and tee and sneakers, then drove through his city. He’d lived in New Orleans all his life and loved the Big Easy. Even though he loved the city, he had no disillusions of the ugliness lurking in the dim backways and passages. Still, he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.
He parked on Decatur Street and slipped out of his car, taking long strides as a form of stretching as he headed to the square. As always, when he was near the hub of the Quarter, his pulse throbbed. Inhaling deeply, he drew in the essence of the Crescent City. Even with the stench of crime and discord, Beau loved being a New Orleans detective, just like his father before him.
Addy smiled as he moved up to join her at the bronze statue of Andrew Jackson. “About time you got here. What’d you do, stop for coffee?”
He shook his head. “Some of us live a little further away, you know.”
“Let’s go.” She started them off, running toward the circle within Jackson Square. She moved fast, as if she were trying to outrun the issues of responsibility burdening her down.
Two figures moved in the shadow, catching Beau’s attention. Probably nothing.
Beau kept up with her, and after a few moments, his muscles loosened and his body leaned into the run.
They rounded the first lap, Beau matching Addy’s smooth stride. They ran in silence, their sneakers hitting the pavement in a steady cadence. Theirs was a comfortable silence, created from years of running together and just being together and not needing to fill the space with conversation. It was familiar and unstrained. Beau appreciated the ease in which they related to each other.
Those figures shifted in the shadows again. Beau wanted to turn and get a better look, still, they kept their distance, so he had no reason to approach them. But he kept his guard up.
Another lap, and Ad
dy hadn’t slowed. Beau kept even pace with her, letting her outrun her demons. He could only imagine how she felt. As they rounded the square, Addy veered off on St. Ann Street, keeping her speed steady.
“Uh, Addy? Maybe we should stay in the Square.” The shadows hid figures too easily out of the square. If Addy was being followed, she’d be an easier target.
“I just…need…to…run…straight.” She sped up a little and kept heading down St. Ann.
His imagination must be working overtime. There wasn’t anyone in sight as they ran.
Beau understood Addy’s need to run, even if he didn’t like where they were heading in the dark. He kicked up his pace to stay with her. He caught movement of where many pagan devotees who told fortunes and read tarot cards lined the outside of the square. He maneuvered himself between Addy and the street people.
She made the block, turned alongside the wrought iron fence surrounding the square, and slowed a little.
Beau glanced at his watch. They’d been running, not jogging, for over half an hour. No wonder he was a little winded. He slowed even more, trotting a few feet behind her, giving her space, but still close.
She turned left on Chartres Street behind the St. Louis Cathedral and slowed further. Beau let out a breath. She’d most likely end their jog with this block and they could head back to their cars on Decatur.
As she made the turn onto St. Peter Street, the other side where those dealing in witchcraft and the like congregated, he caught sight of two men in black hooded robes. It looked like they wore…were those pig and sheep masks they wore?
Before Beau could process their creepy attire, two others in black hooded robes emerged from behind the two masked figures, holding two glass jars.
In that split second, Beau grabbed Addy’s arm and tugged her back while coming to a full stop. She jerked back against his chest.
The glass jars burst on the concrete in front of them, where Addy would’ve been had he not pulled her back. Red liquid splattered on the ground and also splashed up on them both.
The four robed figures ran off down St. Peter Street, disappearing into the night.
Beau held tight to Addy. “Are you okay?”
“I-I’m fine.” She shook her hands. “What is this? Is it blood?”
He already had his cell phone out. “Hang tight. I’m calling it in.” He kept an arm around her shoulders as he quickly called Marcel and gave him the details. “Call Nolan personally and see if he can come. They weren’t wearing gloves so he might be able to get a print off some of the bigger glass shards.”
He could feel Addy trembling as he slipped his phone back into the pocket of his shorts. “Marcel will be here soon.”
She turned and buried her face in his chest. “Is this blood? Who would do this, Beau? Why?”
He held her tighter and kissed her temple. He didn’t know what was going on, but he’d do everything he possibly could to figure it out.
— Dimitri
“These are all the guest ledgers from the time the remodel was started in August of 1938 and when it ended in January of 1939.” Dimitri waved at the stack of a half dozen books Vicky had delivered to the conference room this morning.
Chandler grinned. “I guess it’s too much to hope for that there was some flashing note that guest such-and-such went missing, huh?”
Dimitri laughed and shook his head. “We couldn’t get that lucky. Adelaide’s assistant went through them all and put sticky notes on the only entries that don’t have a date the guest checked out. She figured those might be more likely to have gone missing during their stay.”
“Smart lady. Sounds logical to me.” She took a seat on one side of the table. “Beau said they should get back the notes about missing persons reports during this time sometime today.”
The casualty in which she referred to Detective Savoie gave Dimitri pause. “You spoke with Detective Savoie?”
She nodded as she flipped open the first ledger. “I did. Yesterday. Gave him and Addy an update on our forensic artist’s work on reconstructing the victim’s face.”
“What is the status?”
Chandler smiled. “He’s glued in the teeth that were loose in the skull, then placed a tiny amount of cotton in the temporomandibular joint and glued the jaw shut. He used cotton and drafting tape to pad the eye orbit and nasal aperture to protect the fragile bones. I believe he’ll be placing the eyes and setting the tissue depth marker lengths, and gluing them in place later today.”
Dimitri found it fascinating. “Then what?”
“Well, probably Monday morning, he’ll build up the clay to the depth of each marker, doing the nose last to avoid damage by bumping. He’ll place the hair, basing it on the style of young men around 1940, because we’ll split the difference between our guesstimated timeline of 1938 or 1958. After the hair, he’ll place the finished skull on a wire armature for neck and shoulders. He should finish it all by Tuesday…Wednesday at the latest.”
“And then?”
Chandler grinned. “Then we photograph it from every angle, then strip off the clay and return the skull to the coroner’s office here.”
“Wait, after all that work, you just tear it apart and send the naked skull back?” To go through so much work and then just remove it all…
Again Chandler smiled and nodded. “Once he finishes and takes pictures, the New Orleans police can run it through their system and see if there are any connections. If so, we’ll run the dental records against the imprints we took and see if we get a match. Beau is hopeful we’ll find a match.”
“You two seem to communicate easily.” Dimitri didn’t know if it bothered him because of his and Beauregard’s ongoing conflict for Adelaide’s interest, or if it had something to do with Dr. Broussard herself.
She transferred information from the ledger into her tablet. “Why wouldn’t we? He seems nice enough. So does Addy. They were both very eager to help when I saw them yesterday.” She shrugged. “Am I missing something?”
“Oh. No. I just wondered if perhaps there was maybe…interest other than professional involved.” He drew himself up, mentally kicking himself. He sounded as jealous as he often felt, and he didn’t like that about himself.
She grinned. “Uh, no. He’s not my type.”
He smiled against the heat warming his face.
“Besides, I think there’s something between him and Addy.”
Dimitri’s heart skipped a beat. “Really?” Could it be that obvious there was something between Beauregard and Adelaide, but not he and Adelaide? What did that mean?
“Yeah. The way the two of them look at each other. The easy way they are together—at least what I saw of them yesterday.” She shrugged and grabbed the next ledger. “I don’t know. I just get the sense that there’s something between them. I could be wrong, though.”
Oh, how he wished she were.
1931
“Happy thirteenth birthday, William.” Sister Benedict handed him a box wrapped in plain brown paper.
He tore open the package, disappointment flooding him as he recognized the Westminster Version of the Sacred Scripture.
“I noticed your Bible had some torn pages, so I thought you might like a new one.” She smiled.
“Thank you, Sister Benedict.” He forced the words and the smile.
She turned and left him in the room alone with George and James. He waited until she left, then dropped the new book onto the bedside table.
“It was nice that she got you something. I didn’t get anything on my birthday.” George crossed his arms over his chest.
“Stop whining. It’s just a Bible.”
“Can I have your old one?” James asked.
“No. You can have the new one.” He reached for his old Bible, the one Sister Rosemary had given him. “This one is correct.”
“Correct?” James asked.
He nodded. “I won’t let any demon or spirit enter my mind, even by reading. I tear those pages out so not to
give the devil a foothold into my life.” Ever since he’d learned about a demon possessing a man who killed his mother, he refused to even read the word demon.
“Oh.” James stood up and automatically straightened the covers on his bed. He was such a rule-follower. Heaven forbid he leave a wrinkle in his blanket and one of the sisters call him out. They could make him cry with just a look.
“Hey, have either of you seen Harold today? He wasn’t at breakfast.” Even though Harold was a year older than the other boys, he always ate with them when he could.
Both James and George shook their heads.
One of the sisters rang the bell, signaling it was time for morning classes. James ran for the door. George followed, but waited on William. “Are you coming?”
“I will in a minute.”
“Don’t be late. Sister Agnes is giving us our spelling test.” George rushed after James.
William sat on his bed and opened his old Bible, the one Sister Rosemary had given him. He flipped to the back, to the envelope she had sealed for him six years ago. He’d resisted reading it, keeping his promise to her. But it was his thirteenth birthday today, and he could finally read the letter.
He carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. He slowly unfolded it and smoothed it on his lap, then read.
August 6, 1918
To the Daughters of Charity nuns,
I leave to you this sweet seven-month-old boy named William Lowe whom I affectionately call Willie. He is a bright and happy baby, having brought me much joy in the short time that he has been on this earth.
It is with great sadness that I must leave him in your care. You see, he is not my son, although I love him as if he were. I am only eighteen, still living with my own parents, without any means to raise him. I have been blessed to watch and love this child for nearly all seven months of his life.
His mother, Harriet Lowe, was unwed. I’m sorry to report that she refused to state little Willie’s father’s name on his birth certificate. I came to babysit him soon after his birth, and never knew who his father was. There was never a man who came forward, as far as I know, and claimed Willie as his son.
