“No.” She reached over and patted the back of his hand. “It didn’t happen to me.” She glanced at her lap. “Thank you for caring.”
How could he not care? Almost from the first moment he’d met her he’d been possessed by a wholly unwelcome—by both of them—need to protect her. When he heard stories like the one Griselle told, like the one Trula recounted, his heart seized. There, but for a bit of luck and money, went Trula Boudreaux.
Trula poured two fingers of bourbon into a glass and topped it with cold water. “Why are you investigating these murders?” She pushed the glass across the table toward him.
“Someone has to.”
“Why you? Why the occult?” She poured a second glass of bourbon.
He paused, letting the moment stretch, searching for an answer that didn’t paint him as a lunatic. On the surface, there wasn’t one. “I see ghosts.”
Her expression, a study in polite interest, didn’t change. He’d expected dropped jaw or dismissive guffaw. Her only reaction was to top her bourbon with a splash of water.
“You don’t seem surprised,” he said.
“Why would I be?”
“I told you I see ghosts.” He searched her face for shock or surprise or disbelief.
“Do they talk to you?”
Zeke gulped his bourbon. He needed it. Trula accepted his ability without a blink. “A few. One out by the river told me I had the wrong address.” He didn’t add that a ghost promised he’d find the answers he sought next to Marie Leveau’s tomb.
“Have you always seen ghosts?” She brought the glass of bourbon to her lips and took a delicate sip.
Zeke gulped again and fire burned a trail down his throat. He eyed the scantily clad whores who gathered round a table of card players, the pattern on the tin ceiling, the bulge of guns hidden by loud plaid jackets at Tom Anderson’s table. She’d asked a question he didn’t want to answer.
She tapped her slipper on the tiles, beating a light, staccato rhythm against the floor. Despite her perfect face, Trula Boudreaux could be an incredibly annoying woman. Intoxicating, mesmerizing, captivating, and still thoroughly annoying. She tapped louder, reminding him she was still waiting.
“Since I was a boy.”
The tapping stopped. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Happy children don’t see ghosts.” Even in the yellow glare cast by the electric lights in the bar, Trula’s expression looked gentle.
“When I turned ten, there was an accident.”
She waited. Her head tilted, her eyes expectant. He bet her foot was ready to start its infernal tapping again. She could tap her way clear to China. He never talked about the accident. Ever. He sipped his drink.
Her shoulders lifted and fell and then she, too, took a large sip of bourbon. “I saw my first ghost when I turned eight.”
Happy children don’t see ghosts. Trula had been unhappy. He wished for a way to travel back through time and rescue her. Although, he’d bet even a childish Trula would refuse his protection.
“My governess, Madame DuPont, took me to Pére Lachaise Cemetery in Paris to visit Balzac’s grave. She’d read Pére Goriot and wanted to pay homage. A woman stood nearby. She was weeping. I offered her my handkerchief and she looked so surprised. Then Madame DuPont asked why I was waving my handkerchief in the air. My governess didn’t see her.” Trula tilted her head to the side. Something about the taut skin near her eyes suggested there was more to the story. “I haven’t spoken to a ghost since.”
Of course she’d offered her handkerchief to a woman in distress. Trula might pretend to not to care about others but he’d watched her too carefully, he knew how hard she worked taking care of her girls. Trula, the notorious madam, was…kind. “Why were you unhappy?”
She tilted her head toward the tin ceiling, ran a quick finger across her cheekbone. “I had my reasons.”
Reasons that still hurt her.
He averted his eyes, stared instead at the incandescent bulbs lighting the bar. She’d offered him a sliver of her past, he had to do the same. “It was a carriage accident. A boy chased his ball into the street and the driver…” He rubbed his forehead. “The carriage crashed.” Zeke took a swallow of bourbon and welcomed its burn. “My parents died.”
Her eyes looked huge in her face. “I’m so sorry.” Trula didn’t pat his hand and tell him his parents were in a better place. His aunt had done that. Nor did Trula tell him that time healed all wounds. His grandmother had tried that lie. Trula picked up the bourbon bottle and topped off his drink. He almost loved her for it.
“What happened to the boy? The one who caused the accident.”
“He died, too.”
“What happened then?”
“I went to live with my grandmother for the summer. Then William’s ghost showed up. We fished, caught frogs, climbed trees, went swimming down by the river…the things boys do. I didn’t realize who William was or that he was a ghost until it was time for school. He couldn’t come.”
“And?”
“And then I saw ghosts everywhere: the port, at church, in the Commons.”
She shook her head. “What happened to William?”
“I grew up. He didn’t.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but telling her that his closest friend was a ten-year-old boy run down by his father’s new buggy didn’t cast him in a heroic light.
Trula held her glass and gazed at the room through the bourbon. A tendril of hair touched her cheek and she brushed it away. He’d give anything to know precisely what she was thinking. He’d told her his secret and she hadn’t offered him trite expressions of sympathy. She hadn’t questioned his sanity. She hadn’t looked at him like an escaped lunatic. And, most importantly, she hadn’t offered him her pity.
Her gaze, incredibly blue under long lashes, shifted from the bourbon to him. “All the best people in New Orleans see ghosts.”
“You still see them?”
“All the time.” Trula lifted the bourbon to her lips. “I find it best to ignore them.”
Zeke rubbed his eyes. Were they really discussing ghosts like other people discussed the price of eggs? “You make it sound so mundane.”
Her lips curled into a Cheshire grin. “How did a boy who sees ghosts end up working for the government?”
“My college roommate at Harvard had a girl in our room. She was young and pretty and crying. I surprised the hell out of him when I asked how he planned on sneaking her out. He was stunned I could see her.” He chuckled at the memory. “Matthias saw ghosts. As did his father. They introduced me to a government agency that investigates the occult. When I finished school, the agency recruited me.”
Across the table, Trula tilted her head as if she expected him to say more.
“You make it sound common as dirt.” Zeke downed the rest of his bourbon in one gulp. “I’ve met only a handful of people who see ghosts. Five. Maybe six.”
“You don’t believe me? That man, the one over my right shoulder? He’s sitting alone, looking morose.”
“Yes.”
“Ghost. Shot in here six months ago. Tom hates having ghosts hanging about, he says it’s bad for business since no one wants to sit on that stool and ghosts don’t run up bar tabs. Tom had Granny in here to get rid of him. The ghost won’t leave.”
The dead man lifted his face from the cradle of his hands and focused a livid stare on Trula’s back. Blood stained his coat, an enormous crimson blossom near his heart.
“Seeing ghosts might be a rarity where you’re from,” she said, “but in New Orleans, it’s a way of life.”
Zeke poured himself another shot of bourbon and scowled at the ghost at the bar until he shifted his angry glare away from Trula.
“Voodoo is, too.” Her cool voice trickled down his spine like ice water. He lifted his glass and drank. The liquor warmed his throat.
“Oh?”
“Eulie told me Baron Samedi walked the district’s streets. He is Death.”
“Baron Samedi is Death.” She spoke slowly, with exaggerated patience.
He knew that. Ten murders in Port au Prince taught him more than he cared to know about the Baron. Bess’ death taught him the rest.
“Could a ghost help us find him?”
“I already told you, I don’t talk to ghosts.” A stubborn expression settled onto her lovely face. “And, even if I did, they wouldn’t help.”
“Why not?”
“They’ve already met the Baron once. I can’t imagine they want to do it again. Why would they help us and risk angering him?” She swirled the bourbon in her glass. “I don’t suppose it matters too much anyway. Baron Samedi isn’t murdering those men.” She spoke with utter assurance.
“You said he was Death. If it’s not him, who is it?”
“I don’t know. A different spirit? The Baron is following in its wake.”
“Who told you about Baron Samedi?” Zeke rubbed his eyes. Were they really having this conversation?
“Eulie.”
“Who’s Eulie? Will she talk to me?”
Trula’s lips twisted. “Her name is Eulie Echo. She might talk to you, but she won’t tell you anything.” Her brows knit together. “You might try one of the others.”
“The others?” He regretted the second slug of bourbon, or maybe it was the third… The alcohol made an impenetrable maze of Trula’s conversation.
Trula nodded. “Voodoo spirits don’t just show up. Someone has to call them. Bony LeMoyne told me there are only a few people in New Orleans who can call a truly powerful spirit.”
The dead man at the bar lanced her with a malevolent gaze. Zeke glowered at him.
“Who’s Bony LeMoyne?”
Her soft mouth pursed. “You’re investigating the murders. Shouldn’t you already know about these people? Surely Peake gave you their names when you told him why you’re here.”
“He doesn’t know about the agency. It’s a…secret.”
“You told me.” She crossed her arms over her perfect breasts.
Zeke pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need your help.” He needed her. And, more importantly, he didn’t want her investigating on her own. The piercing image of Bess’s lifeless body flashed against his eyelids. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow Trula to put herself in danger.
“I’m sorry. I don’t believe I heard you correctly. Would you please repeat that?” Tiny laugh lines had gathered at the corners of her eyes. She was enjoying this far too much.
Zeke looked up at the elaborate tin ceiling and wished there was an alternative. There wasn’t. “Not one woman on Robertson would admit to having heard of Simpson when the police questioned them. You discovered more in five minutes than Peake or Kenton or I learned in weeks.”
She tilted her lovely head to the side. She reminded him of a robin in springtime, curious and fearless. “The girls don’t like Peake. He treats them like they’re no-count trash. If there’s a dispute with a john, it’s guaranteed Peake will take up for the man, no matter the facts. Why should they trust a man like that?”
She was right. After what had happened to Posey, how could he doubt her? The police hadn’t responded. The girls in the district didn’t trust Peake or any other policeman. As officers of the law, they’d sworn to protect the citizenry. Zeke’s jaw clenched. Apparently the citizenry didn’t include whores.
Trula’s delicate shoulders rose and fell. “Don’t tell Peake and Kenton you’re considering a spirit as a suspect. Tell them the murders are related to voodoo. Peake will give you a list of doctors and mambos.” Her cheek twitched and he suspected she was fighting a grin.
“You already have a list.”
Her curls bounced as her chin bobbed. “I do.” The irrepressible curve of her pink lips suggested he might have to fall on his knees and beg before she showed it to him.
“Tell me,” he said.
She quirked an eyebrow, bit her lip. She was laughing at him. “Do you catch many flies with vinegar, Mr. Barnes?”
“Please?” Please counted as honey. He’d asked nicely. He ought to close his hands round her shoulders and shake some sense into her pretty head. A murderer roamed the street and she teased. How could he keep her safe when she addled his wits with a smile and a throaty laugh?
He could ask Peake for the list. A growl almost escaped his throat. He didn’t want to ask Peake. He wanted her to cede…something. Would that all it took was a nicely phrased please.
Trula studied him. Generally, women found him attractive, but Trula Boudreaux seemed unaffected by his charms, more interested in the state of her feathers than the passion of his kisses. He reached across the table and took her dainty hand in his. Did she see him as a conquering hero, a man who would save her district from the terror of a vicious killer? Or, did she see a jackleg, a man who trifled with her? Her voice, smooth and sweet, disturbed his musings. “Doctor John, Big Daddy Boog, Desdemona, and Mama DeDe.”
“What about the man you mentioned? Bony LeMoyne.” His thumb rubbed against the sliver of flesh between glove and her sleeve. The smoothness of her skin was enough to make him forget all about loas and ghosts and murderers.
She shook her head, a sharp, definitive movement and reclaimed her hand. “It’s not Bony. If it was, he’d be extorting money from the madams to make the murders stop.”
“And the others?”
She shrugged. “I only know them by reputation.”
“Will they talk to me?” he asked.
“Probably not.”
“But they’ll talk to you?” Zeke wanted her hand back. Could he lift it from her lap? He leaned toward her, and her scent of magnolias and jasmine swirled around him.
“They might. They won’t talk if Peake’s around.”
“Will you help me?” He had no choice. He needed her. “Please?”
She laughed, a husky, smoky sound that drew the eyes of every man in the bar. Her voice held a hint of mockery when she said, “I already told you, I plan on solving your murders, Mr. Barnes. But there’s no reason you can’t help me.”
Chapter Seventeen
What had she done? Trula propped her elbows on her desk and let her head fall into her hands.
She’d agreed to help Zeke Barnes. Well, she’d agreed to let him help her.
Why, why, why?
She blamed the bourbon. It had to be the Old Forrester and not the image of a lonely boy who carried the weight of his parents’ death on his shoulders.
Saints! She couldn’t afford a soft heart. Especially not when it came to Zeke Barnes. She couldn’t afford to care about him. She shouldn’t. She wouldn’t. Except she did.
Occasionally, when he looked at her, she could almost believe he saw her as a woman, not a whore or a madam. Every so often, she imagined the desire to spend more than one night with her flickered in his dark eyes. How many hopeful, misguided women had convinced themselves of the same? Ten? Twenty? She bet he quirked a devilish eyebrow or flashed a dangerous grin and women fell like dominos. Trula refused to be one of his toys.
If only she could solve the murders without being near him. At Tom Anderson’s bar, with his sincere plea for her assistance and several swigs of Old Forrester, she’d discounted the way her body responded to his. But how had she overlooked the way he made her heart beat faster? The mere touch of his thumb on her wrist sent heat swirling in places it had no business swirling.
Spending time with Zeke Barnes was pure folly. He’d solve his murders, or she’d solve them for him, and then he’d disappear—with her heart if she allowed it.
She stared at the open ledger on her desk but the numbers mixed together like the ingredients for gumbo. She studied the green grocer’s bill. Was it higher than usual? She took a sip of coffee. It was stone cold. How long had she been sitting at her desk accomplishing
nothing? She needed a distraction. She needed to get Zeke Barnes out of her mind.
She pushed away from the jumble of bills on her desk. Standing, stretching her back, and rubbing her nape brought no relief from the tension.
Perhaps if only Zeke plagued her she wouldn’t feel so agitated, but if he stepped out of the limelight of her thoughts, her brother and father quickly stepped in.
If she took her father’s money, would he think he’d bought a daughter? Did she want a father? She rubbed her eyes. She would never consider leaving her girls for a man who’d once betrayed her.
Her footsteps traced a path back and forth on the carpet. Pacing. She was pacing? She halted in front of the window. Raindrops streaked the glass, rain that brought no relief from the heat that lingered too late in the year.
Trula groaned and gave up. She’d find herself a cup of hot coffee then tackle the hopeless jumble of digits and the mess that was her life.
The kitchen’s lemon yellow walls looked cheerful despite the dripping skies. For once, it was completely empty. Trula put the kettle on the stove, filled the coffee press with hot water, and sank into a chair at the table.
The shrill sound of raised voices carried from the depths of the house. Two of the girls fought and she couldn’t find it in herself to care. She laid her head on the table and didn’t lift it until the kettle whistled. She hauled herself out of the chair and doused the flame.
Tap, tap, tap.
Corner Joe stood on her back stoop, grinning at her through the screen.
What business could the street sweeper have with her staff? Trula unhooked the latch. “Come on in, Joe.”
Corner Joe looked taller in the kitchen than he did on the street. Or maybe it was the height of the black silk top hat with the bedraggled turkey feather in its brim that he wore on his grizzled head. He leaned his broom against the counter and shook like a wet dog. Droplets of water darkened the plank floor. “How you doin’, Miz Trula?”
The word “fine” formed on Trula’s tongue. She swallowed it. “I’ve had better days, Joe. You?”
“Can’t complain.”
Seemingly unaware that she waited for his reason for knocking, he studied the kitchen. His eyes skimmed over the shining porcelain stove, the gleaming counters, the baskets heaped with onions and peppers, and the old pine table. The coffee press caught his eye and he rubbed his lips together.
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