The Journey of B.J. Donovan (Moonlight Murder Duology Book 1)

by S. A. Austin

  Mister Mystical was unique. He amused and intrigued her.

  In his current email he claimed he lived in Louisiana. Said he’s a business consultant. Has a house on Caulfield Lane in New Orleans. His name was Jacob.

  BJ had told him her name was Sue.

  Soon after they’d met online they began sending dirty flirty emails to each other. Her second attempt at writing a novel was about a woman named Alma LeVeaux pretending to be someone named Sue, someone who was searching for love in the wrong places, mainly in chat rooms on the World Wide Web.

  BJ waited every morning for Frank to leave for work. She’d go online and read Mystical’s message, a message Alma would’ve anxiously awaited, as well.

  Halfway into the story the plot seemed too cliché for her. She needed to either find a new twist or scrap the project altogether, especially since she’d already lost interest in finishing the cemetery tale.

  Upon visiting a new chat room she met RXman. They sent private messages to one another. He said his name was Roger. Called her pretty girl based on her description of herself. Joked about selling drugs for a living. Later admitted that he’s a traveling pharmaceuticals salesman who lived in Mobile, Alabama with a wife and a cat.

  Because of him, BJ had a better premise for her new novel. She propped her elbow on the padded armrest of her office chair and cupped her chin in her hand.

  “Now what the hell was it?”

  The plot setup had come to her in the midst of the other shit that had gone on last night.

  The shit that started when Roger sent her an email saying she was on his mind when he drove on I-10 in Mississippi. He had to make a delivery in Chalmette, Louisiana, which took him right past Slidell. He wanted to meet her, maybe have coffee together, but he didn’t have her phone number.

  She had told Roger, and Jacob, she lived in Slidell in Louisiana. She didn’t understand why she’d done that. She could’ve just as easily told them she lived on the Moon.

  Roger’s email made her heart race. The very notion of one of those online men coming anywhere near her home was scary and exciting. The knowledge that one of those men lived in New Orleans was downright thrilling.

  BJ thought more about what had happened last night.

  Shortly after deleting Roger’s email, she laid down on the couch in the living room. Staring at some movie on TV, she mentally created a scene featuring RXman instead of Mister Mystical. She began by having Roger, a married businessman, meet Sue, a sex worker, at some posh hotel for dinner and dancing. BJ had just gotten to the part where Roger was nuzzling Sue’s neck in the privacy of her suite when Frank shouted something and blew the image out of her mind.

  She glanced at him in confusion.

  “You heard me. That online shit’s got to go,” Franklin Donovan exclaimed in a half-assed joking manner. Sitting on the other side of the room in a worn-out recliner, reading glasses perched on his nose, he read an article in the Friday evening newspaper.

  “Listen to this. An unhappy, married woman in Utah met a man on the internet who said he lived in Australia. They chatted regularly for six months. He sent a plane ticket to a post office box she’d gotten earlier in the relationship. She abandoned her husband and their two children, and flew away to meet the man who claimed he’d be her hero. Honestly, how stupid do you have to be to fall for a line like that? If the dumb bitch had been murdered and buried in the Outback wilderness, no one would’ve ever known about her.” He flicked his wrists to straighten out the newspaper, patted the bottom away from his white dress shirt.

  BJ rolled onto her side. Held her hand against her forehead to block him out.

  “Anyway,” he continued, much to her annoyance, “the article goes on to tell about the growing rate of online romances resulting in real-life affairs. Hmph.”

  She focused harder on the movie for fear he’d see the guilt in her eyes. There was also a bit of anger around the edges. Why didn’t he care she’s, supposedly, watching a movie? If she were to disturb him.... “Do you know who that actor is?” she asked, pointing at the TV. “I can’t remember his name.”

  “If I ever catch you flirting with some guy on the internet and making plans to run off to Australia or wherever, you’ll be wishing you hadn’t while you’re lying in the hospital. That, or I’ll just kill your damn cheatin’ ass.” He folded the newspaper in half, tossed it on the end table.

  She was grateful their Akita, Tomi, scratched the door to go out. Rather than turn him loose in the fenced backyard, she put him on a leash. The scent of rain filtered through the air.

  Returning after a walk around the block, BJ looked at the top of the stairs the moment she and Tomi entered the foyer. The lamp was on in the study. Lightning cast her elongated shadow onto the tiled floor. Thunder rumbled.

  She closed the door. Unhooked his leash, and looped it over the wooden coat rack stand. Her attention still focused on the open doorway of her room she vaguely heard the leash slither off the peg and land on a brass umbrella stand.

  She slowly ascended the stairs. Entered the room without a sound. Stayed a short distance away. Frank had his back to her, hunched over the keyboard typing in various sets of numbers on a spreadsheet. BJ flattened a hand over her mouth, and sagged against the wall with relief. He was on the website for his company, Donovan Database: overseeing the installation and ongoing function of software on a system designed to be used by a number of users.

  At first she was sure he was either trying to get into her email again, or she had forgotten to close her email and he was currently reading one of them.

  It wasn’t too long ago when she came in and caught him attempting to open her email. Without a password he wasn’t able to access the account. She didn’t understand what he was hoping to find. Every message was deleted, more often than not, before she shut off her computer. She didn’t care if he snooped around in her other account, the one used for book-related communications. It wasn’t password protected. Just click and read.

  Is this why he’s so suspicious? Because he can only nose around in one account? Is he really that much of a control freak?

  Frank did come home earlier than usual one evening. She didn’t know he was standing at the entry of the study until he said he needed to use the computer. At the unexpected sound of his voice she nearly jumped out of her skin. She had just finished chatting with Roger online and had entered a writers forum.

  Did he see something he shouldn’t have? Is this why he spies on me? Why he calls me at work for no reason, or shows up there unexpectedly? And why has he never gotten his own damn computer, considering he sometimes uses our address for a business address? And why the hell does he do that when he has an actual business address?

  She silently descended the stairs.

  I truly don’t understand his behavior.

  She automatically glanced at the ceiling when she heard him moving around up there getting ready for bed. Waiting for only a few minutes, she went back to her computer. Logged on to her favorite chat room where she stayed throughout the stormy night.

  Ring!

  The shrill sound of the phone pulled BJ back into that sunny Saturday morning.

  Her head chef said the power hadn’t been restored yet, so they might not be able to open the restaurant tomorrow, either.

  She turned off the computer. Brought the nearly full mug to the kitchen. Poured cold coffee down the drain, rinsed out the mug, and put it upside down on a folded paper towel.

  “Thanks to Frank and that kid I can’t remember what I was going to write this morning. Two story ideas gone because of two inconsiderate bastards. All I kept in mind was dirty water and dirty emails.”

  She opened the junk drawer in the kitchen. Picked up a little notepad to jot down her thoughts. Lay it on the end of the counter near the wine rack. Searched for an inkpen. Perhaps she’d make both of them murder victims in a horror story. Show them drowning in dark green gunky birdwater.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sunday
dawned bright and blue.

  BJ called her chef. He said the electricity was still out.

  Fed up with waiting around for Jacob to come online—in lieu of Frank’s threat and with no longer having a use for him—she sent him an email to end the relationship, such as it was. Sent one to Roger, too. Told them the time had come to say goodbye.

  Jacob replied almost immediately. He said he’s just a normal married guy who wanted to have a little fun on the side. He’s been married for twenty-six years, has two kids, and the romance had gone out of his marriage a long time ago. The woman he once loved no longer excited him. She’s too busy with other things to give him the kind of passionate sex he craved. When the kids were little, the lovemaking was confined to the bedtime hours. Always fearful of making enough noise to wake them up stunted their passion. At this point in time, she’s totally lost interest.

  Married twenty-six years, huh?

  That would be all of her life. Which meant Jacob had to be in his fifties. BJ calmed down a little. Skimmed over the rest of his longass email.

  He, too, was bored with his marriage and his life.

  Mm-hmm.

  He wanted a friend and a lover, not someone who’d complicate things. Married women had as much to lose if their spouses found out about him. Single women would become attached, and end up making his life a living nightmare.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  BJ felt she’s being played. By another man. The first three letters in manipulated.

  “Sometimes I hate men. Seriously.”

  She deleted Jacob’s email without replying.

  Highlighting all sixteen pages of the first novel she’d attempted to write, she hit the delete key. Closed the file. When the seascape wallpaper on her computer came into view, she felt hot sand between her toes then cool waves lapping at her heels.

  Thought about death and dying, like she had ever since she was five years old.

  “I see bad people, everywhere.”

  With her second novel, Suite Sue, still a work-in-progress, BJ wanted very much to complete a rough draft of a third standalone novel, already titled Silent Conflict, but the subject matter continued to allude her.

  She blinked.

  “I’ll be damned. It was there all along. Two men. One murder. Whodunit?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Early Monday morning, BJ stared at the blinking cursor on the white space beneath the new chapter heading of her story.

  Something’s missing.

  Instead of highlighting the previous text and hitting the delete key she did a cut and paste, moving a large portion to a new folder where she saved it. She couldn’t believe she’d thrown away the cemetery tale.

  “Sixteen pages. A good start toward a short story. I even had a good title.”

  She thought she ought to check email once more before shutting down the computer for the rest of the day. Jacob’s newest message made her frown. She was done with him, and wished he’d just go away. But a curious nature kept her from deleting the email unread.

  He said he wanted to know what she looked like beyond the twenty-six, petite, blue eyes, long blond hair description she’d given him in an earlier note. One side of her mouth curved upward. Jacob had managed to tap into her adventurous side.

  Her physical description was false. Same with her place of employment. Some things were off limits. Rather than tell him that she’s the executive chef and owner of a five-star restaurant, purchased for her by her husband after she graduated culinary school, she confessed she lived in New Orleans but kept up the lie that she worked downtown at Vieux Carré department store.

  She skimmed over the first part of his email again.

  He said he stopped by Vieux Carré last night hoping to see her. Saw a short blond talking to a woman wearing identical clothing: tan slacks, white shirt, purple vest. The blond had her back to him so he wasn’t able to see her face or a name badge. He waited in his car. But he never saw the blond leave the building. He assumed the employees have a separate entrance. He’s intrigued, but if she’s not ready to meet in person yet, how about—

  BJ glanced at her watch.

  “Time to go.”

  The first Monday night of every month the Lieu du Crime writers group held their meeting in the conference room at her restaurant from five till nine, breaking for dinner at seven. Tonight was special. She planned to personally oversee all of the preparations.

  A NOLA Homicide Detective named Gary Northcutt had recently joined the group, the president informed her. He was working on getting his first novel published. He’s also their guest speaker for the night.

  She composed a brief response to Jacob saying that she’d get back to him later with details regarding… “Regarding what?” She didn’t finish reading his message before deleting it.

  * * *

  Driving to the French Quarter BJ did her damnedest to pay attention to the traffic, but something kept stirring in the back of her mind and distracting her.

  Did she dare meet Jacob in person? Pretending to be Suite Sue?

  I’ve got bigger fish to fry, right now. Head chef Owen will start bitchin’ a fit when he realizes I’m late. I swear if he weren’t so damn good at what he does, I’d fire his fucking ass in a heartbeat. I’m tired of reminding him who’s the boss.

  When she arrived at Wild Capers she was in for a bit of a shock. The lot was completely empty, as where the lots of the surrounding businesses. The power wasn’t on, and Owen hadn’t bothered to tell her. He also didn’t let her know that the restaurant sign and entrance awning were a total loss.

  It had taken the city utility company a full week to restore the electricity the last time a storm tore down the power lines. She lost all of the perishable food.

  Twisting the key too hard she almost broke it off in the lock. Smacking the door aside, she entered the restaurant. Amidst the staleness of an un-air-conditioned building she also detected a faint odor of garlic and onion. Missing was the mouthwatering aroma of her award-winning signature dish: Allemande caper sauce with spaghetti.

  She hurried to the kitchen. Wrenched open the freezer door. Slapped a hand over her nose. Everything, absolutely everything, had to be replaced. Along with the lost revenue she would have gotten from the writers group.

  Dammit.

  She went straight home. Called the utility company, and was informed they were scheduled to work in her area later in the afternoon. It was the first time she’d heard that an F1 tornado had touched down in New Orleans, causing moderate damage.

  Next, she called her suppliers to put a large order on hold.

  She planned to also call Owen and fire him, but she needed to get back to the restaurant to take pictures for her insurance company, and she wasn’t in a mood to deal with him.

  Oh hell. The writers.

  She searched the pages of her notebook for the phone number of the group’s secretary.

  Felicia Epps told her she had sent the members an email last night after hearing on the five o’clock news that there were still a few homes and businesses in the dark.

  BJ refused to allow the woman to make her feel guilty for not having taken charge of the situation herself since it was her restaurant. The attitude was extended to include Owen.

  “I don’t know who has electricity and who doesn’t. I called the four members who don’t have an email account,” Felicia explained. “We can only hope everybody received the message one way or another. See you next month.”

  The woman hung up before BJ had a chance to ask her if Detective Gary Northcutt had been notified. She located his number. A detective named Lucas Cantin told her Northcutt wouldn’t be in until later, but he’d make sure he got the message.

  She set her camera on the passenger seat of her car.

  After doing what needed to be done at the restaurant to satisfy the insurance company, she drove over to Frank’s office to ask him if he wanted to have lunch with her to discuss the damage. His receptionist said he’s gone for th
e day.

  “He didn’t say where he was going.”

  CHAPTER 11

  What a day it had been. And it was only one o’clock.

  The last thing BJ needed or wanted was another message from Jacob.

  She read his email anyway. He wrote that he gets it, that she’s uneasy about meeting him in person. So he was confident he’d come up with a good plan when he suggested she put a picture of herself in an envelope, write his name on it, and leave it near the flyin’ horses in the park. But she didn’t say yay or nay in her reply.

  The 1300-acre park in New Orleans was one of the most visited parks in the United States.

  What the hell was he thinking?

  Having a photograph of herself just lying around where someone other than Jacob might find it was unnerving as hell.

  A sharp intake of breath.

  The story idea she struggled with last Saturday, after the horn-honking boy and her husband both killed it, suddenly reappeared in her mind.

  I needed an angle. This photo in the park business might just turn out to be the little something that’s missing from my new novel.

  Standing on a step stool before her bookcase, she gripped the spine of a thin album, pulled it down off the top shelf. Removed a wallet-sized photo she wanted to use on the dust jacket of her debut novel, someday.

  Uninterested in going out just to buy a box of envelopes, she settled for cutting off a corner of a white plastic trash bag. Used a black marker to write the letter J on both sides. Sealed the photo inside the makeshift bag with a red twist tie.

  She was as frightened as she was excited.

  “File it under Research.”

  She sent Jacob an email.

  He responded a little too fast to suit her. Said he’d be in her area later that afternoon. Ended the message with: I’ll be seeing you. Literally.

  On the spur of the moment BJ chose to get in character. She lifted the lid on her cedar chest, picked up the straw-colored hairpiece she’d worn to Voodoo Fest. Standing in front of the dresser mirror she pinned up her long black curls, pulled on a tan nylon cap liner. Positioned the wig on her head.