Long Night Moon (Bad Mojo Book 1)

by Sharon A. Austin

  How dare HE!

  She didn’t know where it came from, but once it arrived, she couldn’t turn it off.

  “Damn you to hell, Franklin Donovan. You love your business, not me, and it’s for that reason alone you work so hard. I sit home alone night after night, while you leave me on the pretext of going on one business trip after the other. Did it ever occur to you I might find out about the little honey you’ve got stashed away in an apartment, an apartment paid for with our money? An apartment that kept me from getting a newer car. Or maybe from hiring a part-time housekeeper. Between the expense of maintaining your job and your girlfriend, I’ve suffered needlessly.” Her body shook hard. There’d be hell to pay later for this confrontation, but for now, she reveled in her victory brought on by her newfound courage.

  “Wh-what are you talking about? Girlfriend?” Nervous laugh. “What girlfriend,” he asked in a weak voice, backing down.

  She didn’t know for sure if Frank had funded his little love nest. She just took a shot in the dark. As apparently he’d done many nights away from home. It didn’t matter. All the hell he had heard was the part about his girlfriend.

  BJ sighed, her mind still racing.

  “It’s been over for us for a long time, but you wouldn’t let me go. And why? Why the hell not? That’s the one thing I’ve never understood. You obviously don’t care anything about me. Tell me, Frank. Have you ever, even just once, treated her the way you treat me?” She began to cry even though, for the first time, she was the one with the upper hand.

  He swallowed hard. Focused on the landscape adorning his hotel room. In a lower tone, he said, “Look, um, this isn’t the time nor the place for this. Besides, we’re getting off the subject here. I want to know what the hell happened.”

  From beginning to end, she told him everything she’d been doing, and why. She told him all about Jeff and Roger, but nothing about Detective Northcutt.

  “I’ll catch the next flight out. In the meantime, knock it off with the Internet antics.” Frank hung up.

  He wondered if BJ planned to do something to ruin his relationship with Isabella Jakson, a long-legged, sunny-blonde flight attendant who could arouse him with nothing more than a smile. Lusty thoughts of her spread warmth through his groin. He knew she’d be at the apartment (he’d gotten for her last year) in a couple of hours. If her flight’s on time.

  He reasoned BJ must’ve only found out about Isabella recently. Otherwise, she would’ve walked out on him by now.

  It’d been very costly, in more ways than one, for him to keep both women. BJ’s the proper wife and hostess at home. Isabella’s simply the best he ever had. However, she lacked the social skills necessary for his type of business. BJ entertained his clients with style and grace. She’d been instrumental in helping him get his business up and running.

  Although he had made a name for himself in the business, for quite a while he still needed BJ’s influence to help him sway the more difficult clients. She just had some sort of knack with people. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she’d put a spell on them.

  Frank realized he was going to have to forego a visit to Isabella’s bed, and head for home. BJ sounded frightened out of her wits, but for now, he decided to let her suffer. It served her right for carrying on in such an irresponsible manner.

  He checked out of the hotel. Headed to his rental car in the parking lot. An earlier thought stopped him. Frank began to see his wife in a new light. Something he hadn’t done since he married her.

  Absentmindedly strapping on his seatbelt, his mind wandered back to the very first time he’d set eyes on her. She was a server at a restaurant in the French Quarter specializing in Italian cuisine. The same restaurant he bought for her. Little did she know he’d bought it more for him than her in the event his business tanked.

  Dressed in a green waitress uniform and black non-skid work shoes, she approached with a no-nonsense look on her face. She picked up a menu, and held it close to her left breast.

  “Smoking or non?”

  “Smoking, please.” He smiled. She didn’t. He wanted to do her on the closest table.

  He’d taken his time with ordering, and later with eating. He watched her, for an hour or so, as she waited on other customers. Her long dark curls were pulled up in a ponytail that swung shoulder to shoulder as she moved about the room quickly and ably. The customers got along with her. Frank had the impression most of them were regulars. He decided her skills and confidence would be useful with the competitive database business he hoped to have one day.

  He asked her out a week later.

  Her getting pregnant wasn’t part of the deal. He needed her help to get the business off the ground. Kids would’ve been a noisy and demanding distraction. Oh what a relief it was when she lost it.

  Frank turned the key. The engine roared to life. He lit a cigarette, leaned against the headrest. He found out their first night together she had a serious aversion to sex. From then on, she was nothing more than a convenience. She was available when he couldn’t find anyone else to satisfy an energetic libido. He ground out the cigarette after two puffs.

  Doing what she’s told was a sexual high for him. And all he’d given her in return was every reason in the world to leave him. He frowned. If she doesn’t enjoy sex then what the hell’s she looking for in other men?

  He reached in his jacket, and retrieved a small telephone book. Abandoning thoughts of a fun-filled evening with Isabella Jakson and a pricey bottle of scotch he called the airport.

  CHAPTER 35

  BJ Donovan angrily swiped tears off her cheeks. Clicked on her computer.

  She tilted the bottle of tequila and poured the unaged liquid gold into a large glass.

  Drank from the bottle instead.

  She started typing before anger morphed into depression.

  <>

  Alma wiped her tear-streaked cheeks with a wet washcloth. She’d just gotten off the phone with Rex. He was furious with her for her Internet antics, he called them, as if she were a teenager. He never accepted responsibility for his part in their failed marriage.

  She picked up her suitcase from the closet floor in her bedroom, and tossed it on the bed. She had checked out of the hotel (where Detective Boutin left her) in the middle of the night after spending time with a married businessman she’d met in the bar.

  Alma replenished everything in her suitcase. Carried it out to her car, and locked it in the trunk. She got in behind the steering wheel.

  Where am I going?

  So lost in thought, she didn’t hear Boutin pull into her driveway and park behind her. Didn’t see him walk around to the passenger side of her car. She didn’t notice him at all until he bent down and peered through the window.

  Startled, she gasped, reflexively pressed her back against her door, her left hand wildly sought the handle.

  Boutin opened the door. “It’s me, Alma. It’s just me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frightened you.” He slid onto the seat, closed the door.

  “I thought for a moment you were my stalker.”

  “Um, where’re you going? Or not, being you haven’t cut the car on.” Mick reached over and turned the key enough to put down his window.

  “I don’t know. I’m just, going.” She burst into tears. Bowed her head and covered her face with her hand. Her shoulders shook nimbly. Her head hurt.

  She sniffled. “He’s found someone else.”

  Her stalker? Mick wondered.

  “I’ve stayed with Rex against my better judgment. Took his shit. Even helped him build his business. And this is the fucking thanks I get. What hurts the most is that it feels no different than a slap in the face.”

  Mick reached out to comfort her, but she recoiled. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped. Seeing the look in his eyes, she lowered her voice, “Sometimes, it hurts to be touched.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt you for any thing in the world. You don’t ever have to be afraid of me.”

&nb
sp; “I’m not afraid of you,” she screeched. “I’m not afraid of any one. I’m not even afraid of my phantom stalker anymore. Short of being killed, nothing can happen to me that hasn’t already happened. As for you, I damn sure am not afraid of you.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s there to be afraid of? You’re just another...?”

  Alma gripped the steering in both hands. Stared through the windshield at the silver knob on top of the car’s radio antenna. She did what she’d done all of her life. Pulled herself deep down inside, and willed the pain to go away. She was oblivious of everything around her.

  Just another what? Mick picked up the pack of cigarettes from the drink holder between the seats, shook one out and lit it. “Where’s the hostility coming from, Alma?”

  She slid a cigarette out of the pack. Put down her window.

  “Don’t you think you’re a little too uptown for me?”

  Mick frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  She took a long drag off the cigarette, blew smoke out the window. “I saw your wife at a ritzy country club, sipping cocktails, hobnobbing with the rich and famous.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah. I assumed you’re both a member. I have to say, I think snobs are uglier than homely people, and that kind of lifestyle is too phooey for me.”

  “We’re not members of anything, particularly country clubs.”

  Mick put his window all the way down, propped his arm through the opening. Recalled the wild look in Alma’s eyes a short while ago. He saw fear and pain. Had a good idea she’s well acquainted with both. Not just from her husband, but also from a horrific childhood.

  He glimpsed at her. She’d probably been to hell and back so many times she had her own revolving door. Living a hard life had made her very intense. More than likely, she felt things more profoundly than most people did.

  However, despite all she’d been through, she’s a warm and sensitive person. He glimpsed her way again. Okay, most of the time she’s a warm and sensitive person.

  From his law enforcement experience, he knew it could’ve gone the other way. Alma LeJeune had all the makings of a serial killer.

  Mick was grateful she’d resisted his embrace. Now’s not the time. The key to her heart could only be obtained through trust. Rex LeJeune probably never knew what he had. He’s married to the mere shell of a woman. Mick bet she’d been forced to play so many different roles for so many different people that she didn’t know who the real Alma was or could’ve been.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off the deep end.” She sniffled. “Its Rex. He’s found someone else. I bet he’s with her this very minute. I have to get away from here. So much has happened. I told him all about it this morning on the phone. He’s furious with me. At least it’s out in the open now.” She started crying, quieter this time.

  “I am so sorry. Is he coming home?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. At any rate, I won’t be here to greet him. I don’t have anywhere to go, but I can’t stay here, either. Not if Rex is coming home. I thought, for the time being, I’d go to another hotel. Stay long enough to sort out this mess. We’ve never been through anything like this, so I don’t know how he’s going to act when he sees me.”

  “Good idea. We need you nearby anyway, until your stalker has been apprehended,” Mick said, lamely. Truth is he didn’t want her to leave. She meant the world to him. At one time he thought the same about his wife. Didn’t take long after they were married for them to drift apart. He tried to hang on to her. Mick Boutin’s a one-woman kind of guy, and if he loved his wife once, he could love her again.

  He idly ground out his cigarette in the ashtray, and thought: once Alma realizes she can run, she won’t stop running until there’s nowhere left to go. And that could be thousands of miles away. He remembered what she’d said about not knowing what Rex’s reaction would be when he saw her. Mick wasn’t about to turn a blind eye while her husband beat the hell out of her.

  “The more I think about it, Alma, the more I agree with you. You need to be some place other than here. A hotel would be as good as any place.”

  Alma smiled, inwardly.

  She couldn’t believe he didn’t ask how did she know his wife.

  CHAPTER 36

  Franklin Donovan hit the end-call button on his cell phone before anyone at the airport answered. Drove straight to Isabella’s apartment.

  She strolled in two hours later wearing a tight red garb that put emphasis on her curves. Absolutely delicious. He took his time unzipping her dress, stopping every so often to taste the sweetness of her. She faced him. Ran her fingers through his sandy brown hair. Pressed ruby red lips tenderly against his. He wanted her so badly he got where he was going in three minutes flat. Didn’t even have time to remove his socks. She stretched out beside him, closed her eyes.

  Frank stroked her arm with his fingertips, as she slept beside him with her head on his chest. He realized how crazy he was about her. And how the lovemaking had always been nothing short of mind-blowing.

  BJ couldn’t move her ass the way Isabella could. Never even tried. Hell, she always acted as if having sex with him was some chore she’d been forced to do. Many times, he pictured her lying under him with her hand up in the air, admiring her nails. He’d swear he could hear her say, “Hohum.”

  He grinned.

  Okay, that wasn’t BJ. Probably some nobody I picked up in a bar long before I met Isabella.

  His mind wandered farther back in time. He realized the only thing he’d ever seen in BJ had been business related. He knew he was a lousy husband, but so what?

  I got her away from that shitty waitress job, didn’t I? Hell, I gave her the whole damn restaurant.

  Frank was a Class-A-Jerk, but it suited him. He got what he wanted, and that’s all that ever mattered to him.

  He hunkered down under the covers, cuddled with Isabella, and closed his eyes. Before drifting off to sleep, he decided to let BJ get out of the mess by herself.

  She didn’t need my help to get in it, in the first place.

  CHAPTER 37

  Attorney Richard Gravois, nearing retirement and hard of hearing, lifted the remote control and raised the volume on the television set in his den to better hear the evening news.

  Captain Oliver Foret stood outside the police department in front of a crowd of reporters, several police officers, and several casual bystanders.

  Homicide detectives Gary Northcutt and Lucas Cantin stood on either side of Foret. Kept reporters from getting too close.

  Beside Northcutt stood Virgil Wentzel’s son, Bernard Jeffrey. He was the spitting image of his father. Same handsome face. Same deadpan expression. Same lifeless eyes. Not a trace of his mamma’s softness or kindness.

  “Yes, we have a multiple homicide on our hands,” said Oliver Foret. “There are no suspects in custody at this time. However, DNA analysis has given us a significant clue, and we are acting on it as we speak.” He held up both hands. “That’s all we have for you at this time. G’day, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Angered by the sudden high-pitched tone of a salesperson, Richard shut off the TV. He sipped brandy. Pressed the other hand against the fireplace mantle, and stared down at the unlit logs on an iron grate. He wondered if the police did in fact have a clue or was Captain Foret trying to quell the public’s fears?

  Richard Gravois had been the Wentzel family’s attorney for more years than he could remember. At least three generations.

  He was surprised to learn, from a friend of his at the police department, someone was living in Virgil’s old house on Caulfield Lane.

  He thought about the other property, the old family farm on the outskirts of New Orleans. Richard hadn’t seen the place in years. No reason to. Virgil wasn’t as receptive to visitors as his father had been.

  Far as he knew, Virgil’s still the sole owner of both properties. Richard never gave much thought to the house in New Orleans. It was the old farm that held the memories.


  The decades-old three-story house stood on the right side of a dirt road, three miles in from a state highway and far enough away where traffic couldn’t be heard. Behind the house was a large barn, and beyond that a field stretched as far as the eye could see. The senior Wentzels made a small fortune in the cotton business. He didn’t know why Virgil didn’t follow their path to success.

  He took another sip of brandy. Thought about Virgil’s wife. Marie was a pretty young thing, he recalled. It was a terrible shame when she lost her second child. Richard received a letter from Virgil Wentzel asking for his advice and guidance in selling both properties. Virgil decided he’d enjoy living somewhere far away. Another country, maybe.

  Richard called him to arrange a meeting. Discovered Vigil’s phone had been disconnected.

  Upon his unannounced arrival at the farmhouse, Richard was informed of the miscarriage. Virgil said Marie had become so overwrought with grief she’d committed suicide. Ask why he wasn’t invited to the funeral, Virgil replied there wasn’t one. He had her body interred, and that was that. Something in Virgil Wentzel’s voice contradicted his statement.

  Richard walked over to his roll top desk. Hooked his cane on his forearm. Poured more brandy. He put on his reading glasses. The moment he picked up BJ Donovan’s book he heard the familiar squeak of the front door.

  He stepped into the hallway in time to see the door close. Heard the click of the catch. Hobbling as fast as his gout would allow he went to the door, and jerked it open.

  An unusually large raven stood on the walkway. It stared at him for several seconds. Richard didn’t move. Unexpectedly, the bird cawed three times, then flew off. The hoarse raucous sound frightened the old man. He slammed the door shut.

  Richard returned to his chair in the den.

  Didn’t see the coral snake until after it bit him.

  The phone rang three times before the answering machine clicked on. Detective Gary Northcutt voiced an urgent message.