“What man would say no?”
Lowering his head, he kissed me, putting all of himself into the embrace. Only later, when we were back in bed, my heart still pounding, my chest still heaving after another bout of exactly what I’d wanted, did I consider his response. Or rather his lack of one. Adam had the habit of answering every one of my questions with a question of his own.
And that wasn’t really an answer at all, was it?
Chapter 17
I awoke to the sun and an empty bed. I tried not to be hurt. This wasn’t a relationship. We’d both made that perfectly clear. So why did I feel as if I’d been screwed in more ways than one?
The only indication that Adam had been here at all were his jeans on the floor and my dry clothes folded on the dresser. My gris-gris perched at the apex. I wondered what he’d made of that. Probably nothing. Having lived here all of his life, he’d no doubt seen a thousand of them.
Would it still work after being soaked by rain, then scorched by electric heat? I had to hope so, since I needed to get through the swamp without being eaten by alligators. I couldn’t believe I was putting such store in a bag of herbs, except I hadn’t seen a gator since Charlie died.
I got dressed and shoved the gris-gris in my pocket. My hair was a mess, or at least it felt that way to my fingertips. I couldn’t find a mirror anywhere.
There was something odd about that but I couldn’t figure out what without coffee. There wasn’t a pot in the house, either.
Maybe Adam was just a guy’s guy—didn’t care to primp. And really, what could he do? He was gorgeous wearing tattered pants, a two days’ growth of beard, and twigs in his hair. I wish I could say the same about myself, minus the beard, of course.
In the kitchen, I pounced at a scrap of paper on the counter, frowning at the map, which detailed a path from the shack to the mansion. There wasn’t a single personal word on the page.
What had I expected? A declaration of everlasting love?
“A little praise would be nice. Hey, Diana, rabbits pale in comparison to you.’ ” I snorted at my own wit. Might as well, no one else would.
The storm was gone, leaving behind a bright blue sky through which the sunshine blazed. Shards of light sparkled off the glistening droplets of rain that lingered everywhere. From the position of the sun, I’d missed not only breakfast but lunch.
In the night the cypress trees had seemed to blot out the moon and the stars. Against the sun, they weren’t any help at all.
I glanced about hopefully, mind cursing my own stupidity when I realized I was looking for Adam. Why would he leave a map if he was going to hang around? Even stupider was my desire to see him. If I wasn’t careful I’d forget every vow I’d made. I’d stop searching for the loup-garou and spend all my time in bed. The idea was far too tempting.
Annoyed with the wishy-washiness of my resolve, I forced myself to march toward the bedroom window to search for tracks. The ground was damp; there had to be something. Unless there’d been nothing.
Coming around the corner of the house, I stopped dead. The earth beneath Adam’s bedroom window had been turned up, as if someone had considered planting flowers or a shrub, then changed their mind.
Except the yard was a swamp. Anything planted there would be overtaken in a month. What would be the point?
There wasn’t one, unless the ground had been dug up to hide the tracks of a man or a beast.
I wanted to see Adam more than ever. Instead, I followed the map, returned to the mansion, changed my clothes, and left for town. I planned to head straight to Cassandra’s. Something weird was going on—in either the swamp or my head or both. She was the only person who’d given me any sort of answers. Bizarro as they might be.
However, as I was trolling for a parking place, I remembered the library and the newspaper articles I’d already paid for, so I swung the car around and made a slight detour.
The clippings were at the desk as Mrs. Beasly had promised, but she wasn’t. When I asked for her, the girl who’d handed me the packet said, “She never came in to work.”
People ditched work all the time, though Mrs. Beasly didn’t seem the type. She was more the type to have fallen and she couldn’t get up.
“Did someone check her house?”
The young woman, who looked nothing like a librarian in the low-slung pants that barely covered her crack and the high-cut shirt, which barely extended beyond her breasts, nodded. “She’s just... gone. Her car, her purse, her suitcase all right where she left them, but no Mrs. Beasly.”
That was new. No animal attack, no death by strangulation. Just poof. Maybe Mrs. Beasly’s disappearance was unrelated.
I glanced at the manila envelope in my hand. But I doubted it.
I thanked the girl and took a chair in the library, then dumped the clippings onto the table.
Local Man Commits Suicide at Home read the first headline. The only thing different about the second was the date—about twenty-two years later. The articles went a long way toward explaining why Adam loathed the mansion. I wasn’t wild about the idea of multiple suicides there myself.
The information was remarkably similar in the two deaths. Law enforcement theories ranged from self-termination to murder and back again. The family was investigated. The angle of the gun, lack of motive, and concrete alibis exonerated them.
“Survived by one-year-old grandson,” I read in Grampa’s obituary, earning a scowl from the student at the next table. If she put her finger to her lip and told me to “shh!” I’d be tempted to shout. I always was.
I searched through the clippings, looking for the obituary of Adam’s father, but there wasn’t one. Odd.
And that comment Mrs. Beasly had made about the lack of girls born in the last century, I should determine if that was true—though what it had to do with anything, I couldn’t decide. I checked it out anyway, and unless someone had managed to birth a girl at home and keep the child off the records completely—a Herculean task even without the practice of assigning Social Security numbers in the nursery—there hadn’t been a Ruelle girl born in over a hundred years. I couldn’t find any obituary for Ruelle senior, either.
Which was weird. But not impossible.
I hadn’t asked Adam about any of this. When was the appropriate time to bring up an unfortunate tendency toward suicide in the family or their strange genetic anomaly? When he was making me come the first time? Or maybe after the third?
I left the library, hurrying toward Cassandra’s, dodging tourists, every one seemed to be headed in the opposite direction. The wail of a saxophone hovered on the humid air, the mournful sound drawing me along with the crowd to Jackson Square.
Located near the river, Jackson Square had once been a military parade ground. Now it was a civilized garden spot, bordered by shops, restaurants, and the towering St. Louis Cathedral. Artists had set up booths to sell their wares, but a good share of the tables belonged to psychics and Tarot card readers as well.
In front of the cathedral, there appeared to be a party in progress. Musicians played, and if they weren’t playing they danced, while tourists tapped their feet or tossed change into the open instrument cases placed strategically on the street. Everyone was having so much fun, I wanted to. Inching closer, I let myself be carried away.
I’d never been much for jazz, but this was something special. How could they make such spectacular music when people appeared to join and leave the band at will?
“Does this happen every day?” I asked the man next to me.
“Pretty much. The players change—whoever can make it does. Isn’t it amazing?”
Definitely.
Two police cars were parked right behind the musicians. The officers listened to the music, too, but they were also watching the crowd.
“What’s with them?”
“Trying to keep the drug dealing to a minimum. Puts off the tourists.”
Such a pretty place, such beautiful music—of course there was some
thing rotten beneath the surface.
One of the officers separated from the others and strolled toward Muriel’s, a famous local restaurant, complete with the requisite ghost. A preppy couple was engaged in conversation with a grubby young man. When he caught sight of the cop heading his way, he took off. The couple’s eyes widened, and they disappeared almost as fast as the dealer had. The officer didn’t even spare them a glance.
Though I would have liked nothing better than to walk into Muriel’s, take a table on the terrace, sip a glass of wine while I waited for a glimpse of their ghost, I wasn’t on vacation. I was working.
I glanced at the sky. While I’d been listening to the music, the sun had fallen down, leaving dusk in its wake. I’d lost an entire day and gotten very little accomplished. Nevertheless, I really should check in with Frank.
As I exited Jackson Square, headed for Royal Street, I pulled out my cell phone. Before I could dial, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face walking toward me. I froze.
How did one greet a dead man?
Chapter 18
My stopping in the middle of the sidewalk had screwed up the flow of people, but since this was New Orleans no one shoved or cursed me. Most of them had drinks in their hands, and at this time of the day were mighty mellow.
Except for Charlie, who took off like the drug dealer had only a moment ago.
I wasn’t much for running, but I leaped into the narrow street, dodging cars, horse-drawn carriages, and people who’d gotten sick of stumbling along the crowded, broken cement.
I might have been mistaken about the identity of the last dead man I’d seen walking. Him I hadn’t known personally. Besides, why would Charlie run if he didn’t have something to hide?
And being a zombie? Big secret.
I couldn’t believe I was even considering such a thing, but hey—this was New Orleans and he was a dead guy.
As I ran, I reached for my zombie-revealing powder, sending up a murmur of thanks when I found it in my pocket. Now all I had to do was catch him.
Easier said than done. My chest tight, my lungs burned. I might be able to kick ass in a self-defense class, but jogging I sucked at. Charlie was pulling away from me. He turned a corner several blocks ahead. By the time I got there, he was gone.
I’d chased him out of the touristy section and into a slightly run-down area where small jazz clubs lined the street. Mostly empty now, a few stood open as employees prepared the places for the evening. They all had interesting names like The Spotted Cat.
A thin, elderly black man swept dust out the front door of a building. As I passed he nodded, smiled, and murmured, “Ma’am.”
“Did anyone run through here just now?”
He shook his head but kept his eyes on his broom. I frowned. He had to have seen Charlie. Unless my quarry could just up and disappear.
I retraced my steps to Jackson Square, where the party continued. I no longer had any desire to linger. The sun was completely gone.
At Cassandra’s, I burst in, then stared. Detective Sullivan appeared as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
“Ms. Malone. What are you doing here?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I have questions for Ms.—” He turned to Cassandra. “What’s your last name?”
“Priestess Cassandra is good enough.”
“I am not calling you Priestess.”
“Cassandra’s fine, too.”
Detective Sullivan’s face got so red I was tempted to help him loosen his tie. I didn’t think he’d appreciate the gesture. The man probably slept in a suit.
My gaze lowered to that tie, imprinted with a tiny Lucy holding a football for a clueless Charlie Brown—I was starting to think Sullivan wasn’t as humorless as he pretended to be.
“You two know each other?” he asked.
“Yes,” Cassandra and I said at the same time.
“How?”
“I came in to shop.”
“For what?”
“What are you, a cop?”
He blinked, a confused expression replacing his annoyance. “Well, yeah.”
Cassandra laughed, then turned the sound into a cough. I took pity on the man and answered his question—kind of. “I heard this was an interesting place. Came in, looked around, and—”
“We bonded,” Cassandra finished.
“Bonded,” he repeated.
“I liked her; she liked me. Pals.” Cassandra crossed her middle finger over her index finger. “We’re like this.”
Now I was the one who choked on a laugh.
Sullivan didn’t appear convinced, but he let the matter drop. “I’m investigating a missing person.”
I thought of Mrs. Beasly. The New Orleans PD was really on the ball.
“Well, not exactly a person,” the detective said.
Cassandra and I exchanged glances.
“At least not anymore. There’s a body missing from the morgue.”
I started, but the detective was staring at Cassandra and not at me. He didn’t notice my reaction. Cassandra did, but she was savvy enough not to ask why that information disturbed me.
“Whenever that happens,” Cassandra said, “the voodoo priestess is always the first suspect.”
“Because?” I asked.
“Zombies.” Cassandra rolled her eyes. “What else?”
“You can’t believe Cassandra is raising zombies,” I demanded, even as my mind raced. I’d come here halfway believing I’d chased a zombie out of Jackson Square. I should tell Detective Sullivan, but I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth.
“I don’t believe it,” he muttered.
“He’s from out of town,” Cassandra said.
I didn’t bother to point out that she was, too. Cassandra seemed as much a part of New Orleans as the humidity and the jazz.
“His superior ordered him to come,” she continued.
Sullivan made an impatient sound. “I don’t understand this place.”
“You’re not supposed to.” Cassandra patted Sullivan’s arm. “Since you didn’t find the body in my closet, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No.” He headed for the door, stopped with his hand on the knob. “I was going to come and talk to you tomorrow, Ms. Malone. Have you seen Adam Ruelle?”
“Yes.”
“And you gave him my message?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t call.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t have the manpower to beat the swamp for him. All I want to do is ask a few questions.”
“You really think Adam strangled a perfect stranger with his bare hands?” I asked.
“Someone did.”
True.
“Funny that you should call the victim a stranger,” he continued.
“Funny ha-ha? Or funny weird?”
Sullivan’s lips didn’t even twitch. “The victim had no ID. He doesn’t match any missing persons report; no record of anyone of his description entering town by public transportation; fingerprints don’t pop in the FBI files.”
“Maybe it was a plain old robbery on Bourbon Street,” Cassandra said, “and someone dumped the guy somewhere else so they’d have enough time to get out of Dodge.”
“Tourists have hotel rooms, rental cars. One thing they don’t usually have is a fully automatic rifle.”
My mouth opened, then shut. “Isn’t that illegal?”
“Extremely.”
“How do you know the gun was his?”
“His fingerprints were all over the thing. Besides, if it was a robbery, why leave a gun like that lying around? Thing has to be worth some money, even without the weird bullets.”
“What kind of weird?” I asked.
“Silver.” He opened the door. “Who uses silver bullets?” Without waiting for an answer, the detective left.
Cassandra and I stared after him, then looked at each other. “Uh-oh,” we both said at the same time.
“I am now.”
“You should be careful. Someone doesn’t want the beast found.”
“Seems to me like someone doesn’t want the beast killed.”
Cassandra’s lips pursed. “You’ve got a point.”
I shook my head, gave a little laugh, even though I didn’t find much of this funny. “Is everyone around here nuts?”
“That’s rhetorical, right?”
“Silver bullets, missing bodies, zombies.”
“Welcome to New Orleans.” She tilted her head. “You look like you haven’t slept at all. Did something happen in the swamp?”
I’d planned to tell her of Charlie; I’d forgotten about the wolf and Simon.
“It was probably just a dream.”
Cassandra’s eyes sharpened. “Dreams have meaning. Tell me.”
So I did.
“The wolf sounds like a dream.”
“My dead husband at the window doesn’t?”
“In this town—not so much.”
A chill passed over me that had nothing to do with the overactive air conditioner. Simon was dead. I’d buried him years ago. I didn’t believe in ghosts or zombies or werewolves. Really.
“You said there weren’t any tracks.”
“There could have been. The ground was all turned up.”
Cassandra frowned. “Maybe it was like that even before your dream.”
Maybe. But I doubted it.
“You’re intent on finding a loup-garou,” she continued. “You see one at the window. Simple wish fulfillment.”
“And Simon?”
“Could be the same thing. You miss him, he’s there.”
I wrinkled my nose. “His ghost?”
“Why not?”
“Why now?”
“Guilt?”
I hadn’t told Cassandra about doing the horizontal mambo with Adam Ruelle, but from the lift of her brow, she knew anyway.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty, Diana. Your husband’s gone; you’re not.”
“I understand that here.” I pointed to my head. “But here?” I patted my chest “Not so much.”
Crescent Moon Page 11