by S. A. Austin
Her dark eyes and pale golden skin looked strange under the lighter hair color.
She appeared... ghostly.
“An apt description of that thing in the cemetery one foggy Halloween night.”
BJ put on an oversized and dense pair of sunglasses. Applied ruby red lipstick, smacked her lips together. Struck a sexy pose.
“Hello, Suite Sue.”
She drove to the park. Found an empty slot on the outer edge of the lot.
No sooner had she arrived in the area adjacent to the merry-go-round, the flyin’ horses, than she stumbled upon a lawn care crew loading up their equipment, preparing to leave.
She waited five minutes. Pitched the bag in the garbage can he’d specified in his email.
CHAPTER 12
BJ checked her email. Frequently. Uneasy feelings came and went.
Had she done the right thing?
Had her free spirit taken her too far?
“My gosh. I have spent my entire life in a perpetual state of waiting. And for what?”
At the hall closet, she picked up the violin she’d dug out of a cardboard box during one of her nightly stays in the attic when she was little. Over the years, she’d learned how to play it.
Strumming Inner Demons, a sense of peace came over her.
When she opened her email again, the long awaited message was there.
And those few minutes of peace took flight with the angels.
Jacob claimed he didn’t find the bag. He searched every trash container, not just that particular one. Ended up wasting his time digging through stinking garbage, and it was all for naught.
BJ was stunned.
Damn, one of those lawn care guys must’ve seen me acting suspiciously before I tossed the bag. He probably wanted to know what it was.
She became panic-stricken. She told Jacob she did what he said. Put the bag in the garbage can at the shelter situated between the concession stand and the merry-go-round.
Why the hell didn’t he just go where he asked her to go, and stay there until he found it?
Dumbass.
She responded by telling him tomorrow’s trash collection day so she’s on her way to the park to get the damn photo back before it ends up in the landfill, or worse, in the wrong hands.
* * *
Leaving her car in the same place as before, BJ jogged along the pathway. She kept glancing at the sky. Gray clouds blocked the sun. Coming closer to the entrance of the park she grew more agitated. A little league ballgame was in progress.
Having no choice but to wait, she ran to the specified shelter, relieved to see it was vacant. Before sitting down at the faded, red-painted picnic table she needed to make sure the bag was even there. Feigning interest in the game she shoved her hands in her pockets then pressed her shoulder against the wood post supporting the roof, the same post the garbage can was attached to with a loose fitting vinyl strap.
On the pretext of swatting a bug off her leg she bent at the waist and peeked inside the container long enough to see it. The red twist tie. The white bag blended perfectly with the surrounding white napkins and plain paper plates.
If it hadn’t been for the red amongst the white... “Good grief. Must’ve been why Jacob didn’t find it.” She was pretty sure she neglected to tell him about the red thingy. “Oooh. And I forgot to mention that I didn’t use an envelope.”
Okay, calm down. I just have to wait out the damn game.
Too many people moved about with no fixed direction. She plopped down on top of the table, on the end closest to the trash. Worked to appear aloof and peaceful.
Because of the attendant working in the concession stand about forty feet away she couldn’t simply dive into that big ole black rubber can and snatch up the photo. Sometimes a local cop volunteered to be the attendant. He’d notice her odd behavior more so than a civilian would. Particularly if the wig fell off. She was reluctant to explain her actions to a cop. She wasn’t doing anything illegal just, uhm, stupid.
Damn.
BJ just realized he might think she’s there to pick up a little bag of drugs.
It would’ve only taken a few minutes to drive to the store for a damn box of envelopes.
She casually studied him.
Without making any threatening moves, she took a tablet and an inkpen out of her pocket. The writer side of her brain had already begun planning on how to use this misadventure as the starting point for a short story. Concession stand: concrete block walls, white with red trim, blue plywood service counter, faces ballfield same as the shelter. Attendant: thirtyish, attractive, military style haircut, slender build, tall, windbreaker.
Placing the tablet on the table she glimpsed his way again. He smiled at her.
Alrighty then, he’s definitely aware that I’m here.
Plotting a way to use him in her latest novel instead, a distant rumble of thunder broke her train of thought. A strong gust rattled the garbage can against the strap. She grabbed the pen and paper, and crammed them in her pocket.
The temperature plummeted. Wearing thin slacks, short sleeved shirt and sandals, she felt goosebumps raise the skin on her arms and legs. A quick look at the time, she was surprised to find she’d been there for over an hour. She silently prayed for rain to end the game therefore forcing the attendant to shut down and leave.
Outwardly oblivious to the advancing storm, two women and a little girl brought their to-go bags to the picnic table at BJ’s shelter. She walked over and stood by the square white post again. BJ rarely smoked, but her situation seems to warrant having one. She hoped they were nonsmokers. Sure enough, in less than a minute the women packed up their serving of food and moved on.
She was grateful the majority of the people coming to order food were eating at shelters closer to the ballfield. But she was even more thankful that the merry-go-round was farther away than the concession stand, as it was nonstop busy.
Because of the changing weather, the time to strike was upon her. She couldn’t have any witnesses. Someday her picture, possibly this picture, would be on her book covers. She didn’t want anyone recognizing her who might later cause trouble for her.
A customer approached the concession stand, and placed a large order. Finally. Many people had come and gone but they’d ordered something small, too small for her to have time to make her move. She got up. Ten steps to the post. Glimpsed down, got a fix on the location of the bag.
The moment the attendant turned his back and while the crowd cheered a homerun, she shoved her arm in the garbage can. The photo was near the bottom. She bent down far enough the wig swept the side of the nasty receptacle. With having only one chance to retrieve the bag, she was surprised she had it on the first attempt. Tucking it in the pocket with her wallet and keys, she moved fast toward the entrance, no longer caring if the attendant had seen her.
She slid the bag part of the way out of her pocket long enough to confirm that’s what it was.
“Unfuckingbelievable.”
When she was fifty feet closer to her car the sky opened up.
“Now it rains.”
She drove home slowly, concerned about flash flooding.
Forget using this story idea. Who’d believe it?
Shivering when she hurried through the garage door and into the utility room, she pulled off the wig and cap liner. Emptied out her pockets. Grabbed a folded bath towel off the top of the clothes dryer, draped it over her shoulders. Removed her sandals and slacks, piled them on top of the washer beside the soggy hairpiece. Wrapped another towel around her waist. Passing through the kitchen, she tapped the button on the coffeemaker she had prepared earlier. Rushed upstairs to take a hot shower.
Dressed only in a red full-length terrycloth bathrobe and matching slippers, BJ sipped the steamy brew. Waiting for the old computer to boot up, she let her gaze flow over her writing room. Listened to wind and rain lashing the side of the house.
She was anxious to give Jacob a piece of her mind.
> Not only had he pretty much called her a liar after not finding the photo, but he’d also insinuated that she hadn’t even taken it there in the first place. The whiny remark about wasting his time was over the top.
Typing fast, she told him of her own miserable experience, and how she’d wasted more than two hours of her life trying to get the photo back.
The photo was exactly where I said it was, damn you. And if you’re so fucking mystical, Mister, you would’ve already known that.
His response was short and shitty. Okay. I understand. He stupidly punctuated the sentence with a computer generated smiley face, irritating her so much more.
You understand nothing. She made herself calm down before continuing. Look, my husband will make my life a living Hell if he ever learns about you, but I think you’re a decent enough guy you wouldn’t want that on your conscience.
He simply wrote, You have nothing to worry about, Suite Sue.
His dim-witted response reignited her anger. “Suite Sue? Really?” BJ tried not to scream. “And just what the crap does that mean, I don’t have anything to worry about?”
CHAPTER 13
When BJ came home after a tough day at the restaurant, made worse after she fired the head chef before putting the kitchen in the capable hands of the sous chef, the red flashing light on her answering machine instantly grabbed her attention. She pressed the play button on her way to the living room. Stopped short.
The message was a line from a song. “And this loneliness won’t leave me.” She let the tape continue running, thinking she’d hear a personal message at the end. Other than a soft whirring sound there was nothing.
Jacob? She told herself it was just his way of saying hello.
Her hair stood on end.
“How, when, and where did he get my phone number?”
She rushed upstairs to her computer. Wasn’t the least bit surprised when she brought up a new email from him. He asked if she had gotten the cool message he’d left on her machine? Used another obnoxious smile face emoji. Then said he’s not going to keep her in suspense.
I went back to the playground, too. Saw a short blond digging around in the trash. Knew it had to be you. Hard to tell what you look like with those bigass sunglasses. After you shoved the photo in your pocket and ran off, I followed you to your house. Using your address, I got your phone number out of a criss-cross directory.
BJ became fearful. Not of Jacob, but of Frank finding out about Jacob.
“How could I have been so careless? And why didn’t it occur to me to make arrangements for him to leave his photo some damn place?”
Being scared made BJ Donovan angry.
Keep away from me, you little creep, she wrote.
* * *
Gathering material for the novel about Sue, BJ went where her research took her. Sometimes it took her from bars to bayous. Sometimes it took her to chat rooms. And sometimes she said things to other men she’d never say to her husband.
All that research gave her a realistic crime story.
Week after week she mailed a batch of query letters, along with the first five pages of her story and a self-addressed stamped envelope, to literary agents from the west coast to the east coast and everywhere in between.
After receiving enough rejection letters to wallpaper her writing room (distastefully), her psychological thriller novel finally found a home with a small press in New York.
The publisher, Max Mateo, was a young upstart who had gotten her letter prior to him leaving the literary agency where he had worked for the past year.
He sent an email requesting that she send him the full manuscript, if it was still available, via an email attachment which would be faster than sending it by means of the postal service. The very next day he emailed an offer of representation. He said he read her novel in one sitting.
“Thoroughly enjoyed it,” he told her. “So let’s do this. We’ll set the book world on fire.”
After accepting his offer, they discussed the details over the phone.
She was all aglow. Too bad she had no one to share the news with.
In her first completed and polished novel, the one being published, she had turned an abused married woman named Alma LeVeaux into a high-price call girl named Sue who was also an American serial killer. Whenever her husband, Rex, was out of town Alma became Sue. Wearing a pale yellow wig and large sunglasses, she lured married businessmen (aka cheating hearts) to classy hotel suites where she murdered them with the use of dark majick, thereby killing Rex over and over again.
The novel was originally titled Crimson Kiss. She later changed it to Suite Sue. The fact that the story found a publisher was enough reason for her to believe she had done the right thing by changing the title, albeit the first name meant more to her.
BJ Donovan refused to be a one-hit wonder. She loved her main character, and she could see the potential for a trilogy. She also understood that she can dispense justice on the page in order to right the wrongs in Alma’s world.
CHAPTER 14
The woman continued to pace back and forth outside of Vieux Carré, a ritzy department store on the west end of Decatur Street. The angry expression on her face deepened.
“Never again,” she said, as if the person who’d upset her was standing there.
She shook her head to toss long blond hair out of her way, and unzipped her purple uniform vest. Hiked the purse strap up higher on her shoulder. Made an about-face, and started walking toward her apartment twelve blocks away. She glanced around when she heard people talking. Two men, holding hands and moving slowly on the opposite side of the street, passionately quarreled about the intrinsic value of a movie they had just watched.
She stopped all of a sudden at the entrance of a dark alley.
* * *
Rookie cop Jacob Wentzel sat alone in a corner booth in the longstanding neighborhood pub, sipping draft beer out of an icy mug. About to set the glass down, he saw a drop of blood on his shirt sleeve. Quickly rolled up his cuffs.
The moderately quiet street sprang to life with the wail of sirens.
A customer sitting close to the entrance jumped up and opened the door, unconcerned whether anyone else cared what was going on out there. He stood transfixed as swirling red, white, and blue lights gently flogged him.
“Shut the fuckin’ door,” someone hollered with the slurred voice of a drunkard.
The man stepped out far enough to pull the door closed.
A young couple, who had their hands under the table playing touchy-feely, seemed to become conscious of where they were. They went out and stood on the sidewalk next to the man.
Jacob followed.
Two police cars were parked against the curb by an alley, two blocks up on the same side of Decatur. An ambulance pulled up to the rear of a black sedan.
Stimulated by the excitement, the couple kissed and fondled one another.
“Get a room, for chrissake,” Jacob snapped.
Laughing, they ran across the street, and disappeared inside a novelty gift shop.
Adjusting to being a cop, and unsure of what his role would be if a situation arose while he’s off duty and leisurely getting drunk, Jacob remained where he was.
A tall man dressed in a gray suit talked interchangeably with two men.
Witnesses?
Jacob strolled in their direction acting relaxed but interested. Just an innocent bystander. Drawing nearer, he recognized the man questioning the couple. Detective Gary Northcutt. Jacob scanned the faces in the gathering crowd. Northcutt’s partner, Detective Lucas Cantin, tucked his cell phone in the pocket of his suit coat and set his sights on the trio.
Jacob moved close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Like we told you, we were on our way home from the movie theater when we heard a strange noise up ahead of us. It sounded like, oh you know, like how an aluminum bat might sound if someone accidentally kicked it against a brick wall. No more than a second later, some
one wearing a dark blue hooded sweatshirt tore out of the alley, and ran around the corner of the vacant office building. There,” Chris Smithe said, pointing to the brownstone.
“And that’s when we found the body, and we called the police,” said Dewey Rees, Smithe’s life partner.
“Thank you. We still need both of you to go to the police department, and give us a written statement,” said Northcutt.
“Kounye-a?” Smithe shrieked. “Now? We already told you everything.”
“Twice,” Rees pointed out.
“And we appreciate it.” Cantin signaled to a uniformed officer. “He’ll take you.”
A rookie cop, Jacob knew at the academy, hurried out of the alley with an arm outstretched. He held a white name badge between his thumb and forefinger. The black letters were large enough to be seen at a distance: SUE.
Jacob’s hands trembled when he searched his pockets for his lighter.
* * *
Homicide Detectives Northcutt and Cantin lingered in the poorly lit alley staring at the remains of a woman whose body appeared completely covered in boils. Her tan slacks and panties were bunched up around her ankles. Her white pullover shirt and bra had been sliced up the middle, signifying she may have been raped. Something purple was just barely visible underneath one side of the slashed open shirt.
“Damn,” said Lucas Cantin. “Are we supposed to believe she was raped with those things on her face?” A deafening clap of thunder rattled him.
Gary Northcutt shined his light over the surrounding area. “I’d prefer not to have that image permanently etched in my mind. If she’d just gotten off work, she was almost certainly carrying a purse. That’s a big assumption to make, I know, considering I don’t see it anywhere. The name tag may’ve been torn off in the struggle. The killer probably heard somebody coming, possibly Rees and Smithe, and ran out of here without trying to find it. On the other hand, the name tag could just as easily belong to somebody else.”