“I’m going to have a bunch of shot-up tourists on my hands soon enough,” Deerfield said, looking a bit like a disgruntled bulldog.
They saved Selena Duarte for the next to the last and planned on visiting Julian Henri’s property last. Quinn hopped up on the dock at Selena Duarte’s rustic wood home on the water. He knocked at the door several times, peered in the window, and knocked again.
No answer.
He headed back down to the dock to speak with Beauchamp and Deerfield.
“She’s not there,” he said.
“Selena’s there,” Deerfield said. “She’s just being an old pain in the ass.”
Deerfield hopped to the dock and left Beauchamp and Quinn to tie up the boat.
“Selena, you ornery cuss. It’s Detective Deerfield. Open the damned door.”
To Quinn’s surprise, the door opened.
Selena Duarte was white haired and wrinkled to the nines, and she appeared to be older than the earth itself.
“What the hell you doing out here, bothering an old woman? You know damned well I ain’t guilty of a damned thing. What, you think I could even wield some kind of a weapon hard enough to do in a big man or a woman for that matter? And you think I got good teeth all of a sudden? My dentures barely bite through butter.”
“Not out here to accuse you of anything, Selena. We came here to find out if you might have seen anything,” Beauchamp told her.
She pointed at Quinn. “What you doing out here, football-blow-it-all boy? Heard you went military, cop, and then P.I. in New Orleans. You’re a far cry from the city, Quinn. You know nothing about these swamps.”
“I did grow up in the area, Mrs. Duarte. I’ve been out here often enough,” Quinn said.
She sniffed. “So they called you in, huh? Thinking that you could catch the rougarou. They’re wrong. The rougarou belongs to the swamp. When the rougarou is hungry, people are going to die. That’s all there is to it. When the rougarou has had his share of killing, then it will all stop. And that’s the way it is. You go work your mumbo-jumbo in the city, young man.” She pointed a long, bony finger at Quinn. “You watch your step. The rougarou knows about you.”
“Is that a threat, Mrs. Duarte?” Quinn asked. “If so, the rougarou will have to get in line.”
She sniffed loudly and looked at Dirk Deerfield. “We both know, don’t we, Dirk? They didn’t catch no one last time, and they’re not going to catch anyone this time. The rougarou will do what the rougarou wants.”
“Just like the honey badger,” Beauchamp murmured.
Selena turned her sharp gaze on Beauchamp. “That some kind of a joke, boy?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Selena,” Deerfield said. “All I want to know is have you seen anything?”
“Yeah, I seen something. I seen it moving through the thick trees. It’s big. Can’t say as I saw the face clearly, but seems to me I kind of saw it in my eyes. Teeth like you wouldn’t believe. Ugly face, ugly as sin. I heard something in the back, looked out there, and saw it running through the trees. I shut my door and lit a few candles on my altar. I got out my poor dead husband’s shotgun and I sat there with it all night, though I knew if the rougarou wanted me, the shotgun wouldn’t matter none. But, like last time, the rougarou isn’t after an old woman who spent her life working and just wants to be left alone.” Selena looked at Deerfield. “The rougarou is after the innocent and the sinners. None of us in between folk. You mark my words, you’ll find out those people you ain’t identified yet were sinners, or maybe a priest and a nun. Don’t know which. But there will be somethin’ about them.”
“Selena, which way was the rougarou running?” Quinn asked her.
“Away from my place, heading for the highway. Maybe he hitchhiked his way into New Orleans. What do you think? Maybe he can fly. Don’t know, don’t care. I intend to keep to myself, like always.”
“Selena, if you see or hear anything, anything at all,” Deerfield began.
“What? I’m going to call you? I ain’t got no phone out here, Dirk. No cell phone, no house phone. Maybe I can send up some smoke signals.”
And she laughed.
“I’ll be back by,” Deerfield promised.
“You be careful, Dirk Deerfield. You’re just the kind of man the rougarou may want.”
“Mrs. Duarte,” Beauchamp said politely, “you really are mean as dirt.”
“You go on now. All of you. Ain’t nothing here for you. You’re spinning wheels, just spinning wheels. The rougarou will take what it wants, and if you leave it alone, the damned thing will go back to sleep and by the time it comes back again, I’ll be dust and ash in the cemetery. Go on. Git.”
Quinn was certain that if she’d been holding a shotgun, she would have pointed it at them. He turned and headed down the dock with the other two men.
But Beauchamp couldn’t let it go and turned back. “You’re sad, Selena Duarte. A sad old sack of a woman. Sorry to say, I’ll probably be the one picking up your bones when you die, holed up in your shack all alone, without anyone to give a damn.”
Selena stared after them, startled and in silence.
“Unless the rougarou gets you first,” Beauchamp muttered.
They continued to the boat.
Little else to do.
* * * *
“Danni?”
She was down in the “basement” of the shop, in her father’s office, sifting through page after page in his book, hoping for another reference to the rougarou.
The voice was Jake Larue’s.
“I’m down here,” she called out.
Larue descended the stairs and said, “You’re not alone down here, are you?”
“Hardly.”
Wolf lay at her feet.
“Someone is playing tricks on us,” he said. “Those footprints at your place, the substance. It’s blood. Human. It came from the second victim, the young woman Quinn found in the swamp. I’m beginning to wonder if there is a rougarou running around.”
“A very athletic rougarou,” Danni said. “How does the creature make its way into the city? Does it have a chauffeur? In which case, we’re still looking for a living, breathing man. Has forensics determined the type of blood that was found in Byron Grayson’s office?”
“They’re still trying, coming up with gator, raccoon, fox, and wild boar.”
“A mixture?”
“Hard to analyze, or so I’ve been told.”
“Has anyone found Byron Grayson?”
“No sign of him.”
“But,” she asked, her words slow, “no more bodies, right?”
“No more bodies. I tried to get Quinn. He must be out of phone range. I just wanted to tell you to make sure that you were careful. Someone, or something, was in your courtyard.”
“I have Wolf,” she said. “But I promise, I’ll be careful.”
He said good-bye and she returned her attention to the book. But no answers were there. She closed the cover, called to Wolf, and locked up the basement. Heading up to the shop, she told Billie she was going to the library. Wolf would have to stay at the house.
She also shared what Larue had told her with Billie.
“I’ll be on the lookout. And Wolf is the best alarm system in the world. He’s got an instinct that puts you and Quinn to shame,” he added with a grin.
“Yes, he does. Anything from Natasha or Father Ryan?”
“Natasha called a bit ago. She’s put some feelers out among her community. People are scared. Most believe that there is a monster out there, rougarou or other.”
“And Father Ryan?”
“He said that he’s checking into local records. No word among his parishioners that anyone knows anything about what’s been happening.”
“I’ll be at the library on Loyola,” she said.
She headed into the courtyard and across to the garage. Twenty minutes later, she was sitting in the public library. The librarian had been a tremendous help, supplying her w
ith stack upon stack of information dealing with the Wolfman murders of twenty years ago. She was deep into her reading when she jumped, startled to see that someone had taken a seat in front of her.
Father Ryan.
She let out a sigh and sat back, smiling. “You startled me.”
“What have you found?” he asked her.
“Did you ever hear of or know a man named Jacob Devereaux?”
“Sure. He was a realtor in town. Died years ago, though.”
“Did you know that he was interviewed about the murder of Genevieve LaCoste?”
“I did. He was a frequent visitor to her shop, if I recall. The supposition at the time was that he had a crush on her. But he also had an alibi. There was nothing that suggested he’d pulled off the crime. The police were looking everywhere. I think the belief at the time was that the murderer had been transient, and that he’d moved on. Either that, or he was a rougarou, and his appetite for blood had been sated.”
“This guy didn’t happen to be a parishioner of yours, did he?” Danni asked hopefully.
He shook his head.
“They haven’t found Byron Grayson,” she told him. “All they found was a pool of mixed up blood in his office. What if he’s out in the swamp? What if he’s gone a little crazy, wanting to buy property, determined to make it so bad for David and Julian that they have to sell?”
“Danni, if you brought this theory into a court of law, they’d laugh at you.”
“I know, but you said Jacob Devereaux was dead. Here’s the thing. Go back to the beginning. Count D’Oro brutally killed Melissa DeVane because he wanted her and her magic. More powerful than the magic his own wizard possessed, even though the magic of his supposed wizard was strong enough to keep him alive as a monster. Let’s say that twenty years ago, this Jacob Devereaux was in love with Genevieve LaCoste, and she wanted nothing to do with him. He knew about the legend, maybe he even knew about the power that was supposed to be in Count D’Oro’s cane. Somehow he knew where the cane could be found. Once he had the cane, he thought he was all-powerful. So he killed the young women and then he died.”
Father Ryan rose and walked over to the counter and the helpful librarian. A few minutes later, the librarian produced an old book. Father Ryan didn’t come back to the table. He flipped through the book, returned it to the librarian, then came over to where Danni was sitting.
“Jacob Devereaux died twenty years ago. A month after the last murder,” he said. “Now, I warn you, that doesn’t prove anything.”
“I still think we should call Quinn and Larue. Someone who was in love with that young woman, who was found in the swamp, might be worth investigating.”
“Danni, they haven’t identified her. How are they going to find someone who might have been in love with her? And the first person killed was a man.”
“Yeah, I know,” Danni said, frustrated.
Her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID.
Quinn.
“You’re all right,” she said, answering.
“Yeah, and you?”
“I’m with Father Ryan.” She smiled across the table at the priest.
“I thought I should check in,” Quinn said. “Also, we have an ID on the man whose body was discovered first. Abel Denham. New Englander. A realtor, planning on relocating to Southern Louisiana.”
“Realtor?” She looked at Father Ryan. “Quinn, I think that’s it. He might have been out there looking at property. Byron Grayson remains missing, but he might be out there too. In that swamp.” She gripped the phone tighter. “Killing people.”
“We’re at Julian’s property now, by the boat slip. It’s the departure point for their tours. I’ll call you back if I find anything. What’s up on your end?”
“Realtors. Lots of realtors,” Danni said firmly. “Are you with the Pearl River police? Ask Detective Deerfield if he remembers interviewing a man named Jacob Devereaux. He was suspected to have had a crush, some kind of longing, for Genevieve LaCoste. If so, this could all tie in.”
“Will do,” Quinn said. “Stay safe, okay?”
“Absolutely,” she promised, ending the call.
She repeated the conversation to Father Ryan, who stood. “I’ll head up to the Garden District and see what people can remember about Genevieve.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“Public record. I’ll find out who’s still in the same area and then I’ll knock on some doors.”
“And they’ll just let you in?”
He smiled and shrugged. “This collar can open a lot of doors. Keep in contact.”
She promised that she would and he left. For several seconds, Danni drummed her fingers on the table. Then she picked up her phone and called Larue.
He answered her second ring.
“I was just thinking,” she said. “Does anyone know yet why Abel Denham was relocating to New Orleans?”
“I guess he fell in love with the city. People do,” Larue said.
“We need to find out why he was relocating, Jake.” She hesitated. “I believe it was because of a young woman. He was coming here to be with someone, because she’d moved to New Orleans. Maybe his girlfriend was a student or a teacher. Maybe she was coming down to work at or go to one of the colleges. I don’t know. But I think that’s a possibility.”
“Okay, we’ll move in that direction,” he said. “We’d figured the victims had been random.”
“Twenty years ago, only young women were killed. And look into anything you can find about Jacob Devereaux.”
“He’s been dead for years.”
“Humor me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
They hung up and Danni stood. Quinn and Father Ryan had been by Victoria Miller’s tour company headquarters, but she hadn’t. She didn’t know Victoria Miller. Maybe it was time to check her out.
She thanked the librarian, headed to her car, then back to the French Quarter. She didn’t want to be seen at the shop, so she parked at the public lot by the river, then headed to Crescent City Sites, intent on meeting Victoria Miller herself. The woman wasn’t a realtor, but she had tried to buy Julian Henri’s property on the swamp.
The front doors were open to the street, as were those of many businesses in the area. The tour desk was just about eight feet back from the entry, but there wasn’t anyone manning it. Danni wandered in. There was an office in the back. Perhaps the woman was there. Before she could go in, she heard a voice whispering with anger.
“You were supposed to be gone. I paid you good money. You were supposed to be gone.”
“Hey, I like the city. No one but that idiot knows who I am.”
As Danni stood there, another man came in from the street. He had an air of authority about him, as if he belonged there. He paused, aware of the whispered conversation too.
“Can I help you?” he asked her.
“Yes, I’m actually living in the city,” she said. “But there’s so much I haven’t seen and so much I don’t know. I was thinking of taking some tours.”
She spoke softly, hoping to hear more of the conversation going on in the office, but that wasn’t to be the case.
A man emerged from the back.
He appeared to be about thirty with shaggy, unkempt hair, wearing dungarees and a faded plaid shirt. He looked at Danni, caught her eye, smiled, and then exited the front doors.
“I’m Gene Andre,” the man who had first come in said, stepping behind the desk. “I’d be delighted to help you. What are you thinking? French Quarter, Garden District, ghost tour, vampire tour. You name it, we do it all. And, of course, all our guides are completely licensed. We’re good here in New Orleans. Lots of stories that may or may not be true, but the city asks that we have our facts right.”
Before she could reply, a woman came bursting out of the office.
Attractive, smartly dressed, and furious.
“Don’t talk to her, Andre. I know who she is. That’s Danielle Cafferty.
She’s with that bull-sized P.I., Quinn. She’s here to try and make it look like we’re guilty in all this somehow. Get out, Cafferty. Get out now, before I call the police and issue a restraining order against you and Quinn for harassment.”
“I was really interested in your tours.” Danni lifted her hands. “But that’s okay. I’m gone.”
She left the office quickly, thinking that her ruse hadn’t gone well. On the street, she paused for a minute. A prickling sensation seemed to rip along her spine. She turned quickly and saw that the man who’d been arguing with Victoria was just across the street, by the old Jax Brewery.
He was studying her.
He realized that she saw him, then hurried off.
* * * *
Julian Henri met Quinn and the Pearl River detectives at his property.
A new wooden sign with the words Legends Tours rose high on a pair of wooden piles at the side of the property, visible from the swamp and from the old gravel road that led in from the main highway.
“This is it,” Julian said. “And why the hell anyone would want it, I’m not sure.”
He opened the front door and led them in.
There was a large living area filled with comfortable chairs and a sofa. Just beyond, a counter with an open area led into a functional kitchen where there was a large coffee pot and a bowl with offerings of various kinds of snack bars.
“We thought we had it just right,” Julian said. “A bus to bring people out here, and then they could mill around a bit while we gave them some history and allowed for anyone who wanted to head here by their own transportation to arrive. We tried to make it homey and comfortable. We wanted it to be like you were on an adventure with friends.”
“Nice,” Quinn murmured. “And back there?” he asked, pointing down a hall.
“Two bedrooms. If we had to, or needed to, for any reason, we could stay out here.” He shrugged. “I grew up in this house. My parents had the left room. I had the one on the right. The back door leads to the docks.”
Blood on the Bayou Page 7