A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  “This much money in his pocket?” Peake hocked then spit. “Fifty dollars she charges! She serves a breakfast round one every morning and I hear the food’s good, but hell…a bottle of Champagne sets a fella back fifteen dollars. More if it’s delivered to one of the girl’s rooms.”

  Aside from the Everleigh sisters in Chicago, Zeke hadn’t heard of a madam who charged so much.

  “I can’t afford high-class quiffs on a policeman’s salary.” The officer patted down his pockets, found a tin of tobacco in his pants, then scooped a plug into his mouth. “Anyway, I reckon women are the same no matter how much you pay for ‘em.”

  Were it not for the scissored remains of the man in the alley, Zeke might have been amused. Apparently Peake’s disapproval of prostitution only extended to girls he couldn’t afford.

  Zeke resumed his study of the man in the gutter. “Where will they take him?”

  “The morgue over on St. Phillip.” Peake waved in an easterly direction.

  Zeke nodded. It was the same place the last victim had gone. “I’ll want to view the body once they’ve cleaned it up.”

  The policeman’s skin blanched and he shoved his fists into his pockets. “What’ll you learn from a corpse?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. Maybe there’s a similarity to another crime.”

  Peake’s red-rimmed eyes snapped. “Like Port au Prince?”

  Damn.

  His own fault for mentioning it. He didn’t talk about Port au Prince. Ever. Ten dead—men with families, people who loved them. And Bess. Guilt knifed through him, cutting so deeply he felt as if he belonged in a bloody heap next to the man in the street. Five years and the pain endured. Zeke closed his eyes and jerked his chin.

  The policeman sent another arc of yellowed spit into the empty street. “Did you catch the killer?”

  “No.” Zeke pretended an interest in Mahogany Hall’s brick façade. A curtain on the fourth floor twitched. Someone watched them.

  “What happened?” the detective asked.

  The blasted man wouldn’t shut up.

  Zeke stared hard enough at the window to make out a shadowy figure. “The murders stopped.” The acid in Zeke’s stomach bubbled and he scowled at the lace curtains hiding the watcher.

  “You reckon the murderer moved here?” Peake asked.

  Zeke glanced at the body. His stomach objected. His heart objected. “Maybe.”

  Peake rubbed his chin. “That’s why they brought in a Yankee.”

  Zeke snorted.

  “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Would Drake have sent him if he knew how closely the murders mirrored those in Haiti? Probably not. Drake had warned Zeke against taking Bess to Haiti. Told him the dangers to those without the sight. But Bess had been desperate to escape the chill of a Boston winter. The knife in Zeke’s gut twisted again.

  Zeke turned away from the body and, for the second time, followed the trail of bloody footprints until they petered away. If nothing else, it removed him from Peake’s questions. Besides, William was nearby. Zeke sensed him. Perhaps the ghost knew something.

  Then again, getting William to tell him anything useful was a Herculean task. The ghost spouted some falderal about the importance of the journey. Zeke snorted. The journey be damned, catching killers was the important thing and William’s arcane riddles didn’t help. Go to Marie Leveau’s tomb. Find the woman who can tell you about voodoo. She has what you need. Ha! Zeke had only met one woman at the cemetery, and that lady sure as hell didn’t know anything about the murders.

  The telltale outline of a boy shimmered on the banquette.

  William appeared in stages. First as a nebulous sketch of a boy, then as a vaporous figure and, finally, if he was so inclined, as a bothersome scamp who looked alive and well enough to be playing stick ball.

  Zeke glanced over his shoulder, located Peake half a block away, and whispered, “I could have done without that trip to the cemetery.”

  “You didn’t meet anyone who might help?”

  Zeke preferred working alone. Two policemen were already two helpers too many. Besides, the beautiful woman in the cemetery assisting with a gruesome murder investigation was laughable. She’d probably faint dead away at the sight of Belmain’s body. Or not. The thought niggled. Zeke crossed his arms. “There wasn’t a mambo anywhere inside that cemetery. I looked.”

  “A mambo? I never told you to meet a mambo.”

  He most certainly had. Zeke remembered William’s directive exactly: Go to Marie Leveau’s tomb. Find the woman who can tell you about voodoo. She has what you need.

  William shook his ghostly head hard enough to trail wisps of ether. “I told you to meet a woman. How did you come up with a mambo?”

  The nauseating somersault in Zeke’s stomach had nothing to do with the corpse in the alley and everything to do with the realization that William was right. Again. The ghost had said woman. He’d heard woman, Marie Leveau, and voodoo and come up with a mambo on his own.

  “I saw the woman who has what you need buying rum for Marie Leveau’s grave. Did you see her at the cemetery?”

  “I met a woman.”

  “Excellent. She’s the one who can help you.”

  An unsuspecting, empty liquor bottle lay next to a heap of cornmeal. Zeke kicked it down the alley. The glass shattered against a building wall. “I didn’t get her name.”

  William rolled his eyes.

  “Besides, she couldn’t help with this.”

  William, growing more solid with each passing second, gazed at the bloody body. The sight wiped the levity off his exasperating face. “Look who knows so much.”

  Zeke fisted his hands. “Where do I find her?”

  “This time finding her is up to you.”

  “William, this isn’t a game. Men are dying. Where is she?”

  The ghost ignored his question, approached the body, crouched, and sniffed. Whatever he smelled made him stand up and back away. His face, usually a grinning mish-mash of freckles and impudent expressions, was serious. “The killer stole this man’s soul.”

  Zeke’s guts plummeted as if he’d confidently stepped forward to find the ground had disappeared beneath his feet. “How do you know?”

  William directed his opaque gaze toward the heavens. “Sometimes I just know things. The killer steals souls. You need the woman.”

  Zeke ground his teeth. He wanted William to say something unambiguous. “Go to Anderson’s Bar. The man sitting on the third bar stool from the door is the murderer.”

  “That’s it?” Zeke hissed. “The killer steals souls. The woman can help you.”

  William nodded. “I don’t know anything more.”

  “Can’t you ask the locals?” New Orleans ghosts probably knew exactly who shredded Grant Belmain.

  “They’re not saying a word.” William shifted non-existent weight on his ghostly feet and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Leastwise not to a Yankee.”

  So the city’s dislike—or rather distrust—of Yankees extended to the ghost world. Who would have thought?

  The sounds of a wagon rumbling down the street reached them and William faded from view.

  Detective Kenton, looking much better for having escaped the corpse for a quarter hour, sat with the wagon’s burly driver.

  With the carter’s help, they loaded Grant Belmain’s bloodied remains onto the wagon. The wagon disappeared round a corner and Zeke glanced at his watch then up to the window with the twitching curtain. “Would it do any good to knock on doors now?”

  “Doubtful. It’s too early for the whores. If you do wake ‘em, they aren’t likely to be helpful. Besides, Trula Boudreaux is comin’ to us this morning.” Peake’s mouth twisted into something that might be a bitter smile. Or perhaps it was a sneer. What had the madam done to earn the detective’s narrow-eyed animosity?

  Chapter Four

  Trula stood just inside the doorway of the police station, waiting to be noti
ced. It was only a matter of time before the conversations dotting the room died quiet deaths. After all, she’d dressed to achieve that effect. The bronze gown displayed every curve she had. She’d even awakened a grumpy Ada to do her hair. It billowed and curled and framed her face like a halo. Her hat was perfection with a wide brim. A bronze satin ribbon wrapped the crown from which jaunty ostrich feathers sprang.

  If she had to be at the police station, she needed every bit of confidence a lovely dress, well-coiffed curls, and a smart hat could give her. Unfortunately, they weren’t enough. Her nerves still jumped like grease in a hot skillet and she needed several deep, calming breaths before stepping forward.

  Where was Peake? She scanned the room, its white walls browned to sepia by the smoke of a thousand cigars. The irascible detective stood with Kenton next to a battered desk. The two were deep in conversation with a man whose broad back worried at Trula’s memory. He leaned against the desk as if it existed to support him. Where had she seen him? She wished he’d turn his head.

  Kenton noticed her and grinned a welcome. Peake followed the direction of his partner’s gaze. The detective’s jaw snapped shut and his brows drew together. He positively glowered. Refusing to be intimidated, she smiled and waggled her fingers. Her reward was a further darkening of his choleric features.

  The man perching on the corner of the desk glanced over his shoulder and Trula forgot about baiting Peake.

  She forgot how to breathe.

  It was him, the man from the cemetery. Did the shock that singed her limbs reflect in her expression? She pasted on a tight smile. One man in all the world had thought her a lady. Now he knew better.

  What was he doing here? She could spot a policeman at a hundred yards. He wasn’t one. Although…she narrowed her eyes and examined the width of his shoulders, the fall of his hair, the stark planes of his cheeks, and the way he blinked in surprise at her arrival. No. He wasn’t the latest addition to New Orleans finest. She’d be able to tell. Now all she had to do was tear her gaze away. Every man in the room watched her stare at him. Her hands rose to her cheek and pink heat burned through her gloves.

  A slow smile rose from his lips to his eyes. Those eyes settled on her face and her own traitorous lips attempted a smile. She pinched them together. Her left foot betrayed her. It took an eager step toward him. Her right foot had better sense. It stayed rooted in place.

  She’d spent too many years establishing her unavailability to forget herself over an enticing smile. No good came from finding such a smile—or such a man—attractive. Whoever he was, he worked with the police. That made him doubly unavailable. Trula took a slow, deep breath, raised her chin an inch, and swanned toward them.

  “You’re late.” Peake scowled at her.

  The stranger still smiled.

  Trula ignored him. At least, she tried. The planes of his face and the adorable lock of hair that refused to stay put were as she remembered. She fisted her hands, hiding them in her skirts, and forced herself to focus on Peake. The police detective’s droopy eyes, his droopy jowls, even his droopy mustache quivered with outrage. He resembled nothing so much as a dyspeptic basset hound. She drew a deep breath and offered the cantankerous detective a nod. “I don’t believe I am.”

  “You said ten o’clock,” he said.

  Trula added a healthy dose of sugar to her tone. “You’re mistaken. I said eleven.”

  “She’s right,” Kenton said, earning a freezing look from his partner. The young man shrugged. “She said she’d be here at eleven.”

  The stranger leaning on the desk pulled out his pocket watch. He needn’t. She knew exactly what time it was. A quarter after eleven. She was late by either measure.

  She reminded herself to breathe. Inhale. “Do you wish to argue about this, Detective Peake? I was under the impression you wanted me to answer questions more important than the time of my arrival.” Exhale. The stranger wasn’t that handsome. Liar. He was that handsome. What was wrong with her? He was with the police.

  Peake scowled and grunted. “This way.” With Kenton at his side, he led her further through the maze of desks. The men in the office didn’t bother to hide their hungry stares. A low whistle sounded. Did he watch her as closely as the rest? The temptation to steal a peek was terrible. No. She wouldn’t do it. She kept her eyes locked on Peake’s bristling back. Arriving at a small, empty office was a relief.

  “May I get you anything, Miss Boudreaux? You want some coffee?” Kenton asked.

  Peake rolled his pale eyes. “We aren’t runnin’ a restaurant and you don’t have to treat her like a lady.”

  Trula’s palm itched with the urge to slap Peake’s disagreeable face. If she did, she’d spend the rest of her day locked in a jail cell. She offered Kenton her sweetest smile. “No, thank you. It’s kind of you to offer. Real southern gentlemen have such lovely manners.”

  Peake snorted.

  Trula ignored him.

  The office held a desk and a few chairs. Trula selected one, sat down, and made a show of arranging her skirts, wasting long moments fussing with the fabric. She could practically hear Peake grind his teeth. Good. She hoped she made him howl in frustration. It was the only means she had to pay him back for being so rude to her.

  Trula left off fiddling with her skirts. Peake should be good and mad by now. She looked up. No Peake. Instead, he stood in front of her. Her breath caught and she prayed he didn’t notice.

  He must have. A knowing light glowed in his eyes. “May I?” He gestured to the chair across from her.

  She inclined her head, not trusting her voice. The man across from her brought to mind the moments before a lightning storm. There was something electric about him, a sense of anticipation. The air crackled between them and the tension made her nervous.

  She twisted her ring then touched the pearls at her neck. Damn her nerves. She settled her hands in her lap. Where were Peake and Kenton? They’d disappeared while she’d fingered the pleats of her skirt, leaving her with a man who left her unsure of what might happen next.

  Apparently unaffected, he leaned his chair back on two legs. “Tell me, Miss Boudreaux, have you noticed Detective Peake is not a patient man? Did you mean to annoy him?” The timbre of his voice, low and strong, vibrated through her. She closed her eyes, wishing she could close her ears as well. She was a madam. The temptress, not the tempted.

  A moment passed before she dared open her eyes wide, pretending an innocence long since lost. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Exactly. Why would a smart business woman deliberately goad a man who has the power to make her life difficult?”

  Because Peake went out of his way to remind her she was just a woman, and not a good one. Because he showed up on her doorstep and disrupted her business. Because Peake received a portion of the payments she made to the police each month and then treated her like a bastard at a family picnic. But mostly because she refused to be cowed by an angry, bitter policeman who nursed his grievances better than he would his ailing momma. She bit the corner of her lip. “When you put it that way, it does sound rather absurd.”

  The front legs of his chair crashed against the floor and he positively glared at her. Why? She’d ceded his point. A full moment passed in deafening silence. Finally, he asked, “What were you doing at the cemetery?”

  It wasn’t a question she was expecting. “The same thing anyone does. Visiting someone who has passed on.”

  “Who?”

  Lands, he was arrogant. He might not be so high-handed if he understood anything about voodoo. The girls needed protection and Marie never let her down. She folded her hands in her lap and let her shoulders rise and fall in a delicate shrug. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  He stared at her with eyes as hard as river stones. “Zeke Barnes. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t think it’s relevant.”

  His mouth tightened. “You went to the cemetery t
o visit Marie Leveau. You left the rum by her tomb.”

  “So what if I did?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What can you tell me about the murders?”

  “Nothing.” Why did he think she could?

  “You don’t know anything?” One of his eyebrows rose to a disbelieving peak.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “So Peake wouldn’t come back to my house,” she snapped.

  Something flared in his eyes. “I’d think you’d want the murders solved.”

  “Of course I do.” It was only a matter of time before the gruesome deaths in the district affected her custom. The girls couldn’t afford to sit idle. Half of them sent money home. Others supported siblings or children. “But I don’t know anything.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “The men are torn apart as if a beast had at them.” She allowed herself a small smile. “The police are baffled.”

  Again something shimmered in the depths of his eyes. “As are you.”

  She shrugged. “Isn’t it your job to catch the killer?”

  Seconds ticked by without a response. Trula made herself look into his eyes. They were a deep, rich brown. Her nerves jittered.

  “Detective Peake tells me you have a house in the district,” he said.

  She wished she’d taken Kenton up on his offer of coffee. At least then she’d have something wet to relieve the desert in her mouth. She nodded.

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, far too close. “I mistook you for a lady, Miss Boudreaux.”

  Trula pushed her chair back, away from him, sat ramrod straight and clasped her hands in her lap as proper and genteel as the ladies of St. Charles Street, ladies who chatted and lunched and poured perfectly steeped tea from their grandmothers’ silver services into delicate Haviland or Spode cups. Ladies whose husbands frequented her house when they grew bored with their tea-pouring wives. “That’s hardly my problem. As I said, I don’t know anything about the murders. I read the victims’ names in the paper. I didn’t know any of them.”

  His face looked hard. “You’re sure?”