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

by S. A. Austin

  Hobbling fast, mindful of his gout, he went to the door and jerked it open.

  An abnormally large raven was standing on the walkway. It stared at him for several long seconds. Richard was captivated. The bird cawed three times, frightening the old man.

  Richard swung the door shut. Went back to his desk chair in the den.

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

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

  CHAPTER 38

  BJ returned to her hotel room in New Orleans after having dinner in a little known café in Chalmette. She wanted to put her feet up and relax before the TV, but her mind was in turmoil. She threw the clicker on the bed, paced to and fro in the narrow walkway at the foot of the two standard-size beds.

  The idea popped into her head the way most ideas do. Suddenly and unexpectedly. The idea to try her hand at a nonfiction story began to take root.

  “Let’s see. What kind of story?”

  True crime stories sell. But whose crime? Wait. Any unsolved murder mystery will do.

  “Great. So how do I go about finding this true crime murder mystery?” She looked at the room for a clue. Zoomed in on the telephone on the nightstand between the beds. “Got it.”

  BJ packed her bags. Turned in her room key.

  She drove home at almost breakneck speed. Or it seemed that way.

  Setting her purse on the armchair and her suitcase on the floor beside it, the flashing light on her new digital answering machine caught her eye. She stabbed the button with her index finger.

  Frank’s voice boomed loud and clear. “My flight’s been cancelled. Some sort of mechanical problem. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  She moved her purse out of the way, sat down and pulled the phone closer to her. Dialed the number for the homicide division of the police department.

  “Cantin here.”

  “Hello, Detective Cantin. This is BJ Donovan.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Donovan. If you want to speak with Northcutt, you can’t. He isn’t here.”

  Why would he presume to know why I’m calling? “No, I’m calling for another reason. You can help me just as easily, if you don’t mind.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “There is no problem to speak of.” The guy’s attitude was a bit off-putting. She found it hard to believe this was the same guy she spoke with that day when she left a message with him for Northcutt concerning the cancellation of the writers meeting. She fidgeted with a button on her shirt. “It’s like this. I am a novelist.”

  “Yes ma’am, I know. I can see your book on Northcutt’s desk. I’m sorry, but I’m kind of in a hurry. What is it that you want?”

  BJ kept a lid on her anger. “I’m starting another story. Nonfiction.” Cantin stayed silent. “Well, this is going to sound silly, I’m sure. I’m interested in knowing if there are any unsolved murders in this area you’re allowed to talk about? To someone other than a cop, that is.”

  She grew even more uncomfortable. His continued silence wasn’t helping. She wished she was there to see the expression on his face. Perhaps he objects to a fiction writer profiting off the real-life loss of somebody’s life. She was still new at being a writer. She hadn’t acquired the kind of confidence the more seasoned authors have in seeking a professional’s help with their story.

  “Detective Cantin? Hello?”

  “Hi, Miz Donovan. This is Detective Raynor Schein,” said Jacob Wentzel. “Detective Cantin had to leave. He asked me to help you.” A plan of sorts began to creep around inside his head, but it was hard to pin down. Thinking up a fake name on the spur of the moment was hard enough. He eased into Lucas Cantin’s chair hoping not to draw attention to himself.

  “I see,” she said, angrily. Cantin had made her feel small and unimportant. Pretty much the same way Frank treated her. No. Frank treated her as if she were invisible. “I called to find out if there are any unsolved murders in New Orleans, or the surrounding areas, that I could write about. Any unsolved case that’s really old?”

  Jacob moved closer to the desk so as not to be overheard. “Really old? I don’t understand.”

  “If the case is old enough then the family members might not be around anymore. I don’t want to get permission from anyone in order to write whatever I want to write. I also don’t want relatives or their friends giving me grief over messing with their grief. Understand? Now, is there anything, any case—”

  “Matter of fact, there is. I’d be more than happy to tell you about it.” He forced a smile in his voice. “I’m your number one fan, by the way. Who knows, maybe you’ll consider dedicating your new book to me.”

  BJ’s head twitched for a second. Was she being played for a fool?

  “We can talk about it some other time, I guess,” said Jacob. “The murder mystery I’m referring to happened around twenty-one or twenty-two years ago. But at the time, the cops didn’t view it as a murder.”

  “I don’t understand.” He had her full attention.

  “I know you don’t, ma’am, but if you’ll just bear with me, it’ll all make sense shortly.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem.” Jacob scrutinized the room. Spotted Detective Dirck watching him. “But first, I need to get off this phone. I’m sitting at someone else’s desk, and they want it. If you’ll give me your number, I’ll call you back in just a couple of minutes.”

  Someone else’s desk? Did Cantin return? Does he know I’m still on the phone?

  BJ hesitated.

  Gave him the number.

  “Talk to you soon.”

  Jacob approached Dylan Dirck. Thanked him for answering his questions earlier, and for taking the time to talk with him about the detective squad.

  CHAPTER 39

  “Hello again, Miz Donovan. It’s Detective Schein. I’m sorry it took so long to get back to you. Since I was already off duty, I wanted to wait and call you after I got home and had a quick bite to eat. I wanted to change clothes, too.”

  BJ had waited more than forty-five damn minutes. Her time’s every bit as valuable as those fucking cops. “No problem,” she replied sweetly, or sourly, depending on how the caller perceived the tone.

  Jacob asked “Where were we?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  A moment of dead air.

  “Twenty-some years ago during a particularly hot summer day, three preteen boys, uh... I don’t have the file handy so I’ll just call them Tom, Dick, and Harry,” said Jacob. “Anyway, they sought excitement and adventure by exploring an abandoned farm. Not finding anything to hold their interest for long, they resumed playing catch with a baseball. When the ball was thrown to Harry he missed it by a mile. He ran off to find it. Located it in the tangled mess of weeds and tall grass surrounding an old well. Rough-hewn boards with rounded edges covered the surface. Harry noticed two of the boards weren’t flush with the others. He called his friends over. Well, boys being boys, they had to know if the boards were hiding a secret. They stacked most of them on the ground. Tom started to grab a metal ladle hanging from a hook. Changed his mind and picked up a big rock, extended his arm to the middle of the well and let go of it. The rock struck something metallic instead of water. Standing on tiptoe, leaning over the edge of the mossy stone wall, they stared in awe at the blackness below, they said. Tom was the first to suggest there might be buried treasure. Throwing caution to the wind, Dick, the slimmest and bravest of the trio grabbed hold of the well rope, swung out over the hole and wrapped his legs around the rusty bucket. Hung on tight, as Harry worked the hand crank to lower him. Tom told them to wait a minute. He ran to his bike. Dug around inside his knapsack, gripped the long handle of the flashlight hidden under the sandwiches his mama had packed for him. The sight of the food made him hungry, Tom said, but he knew he didn’t have time to eat. He shoved a candy bar in his hip pocket, and ran back to his friends. Hurry up, Dick told hi
m. He said he didn’t know how long the old bucket could hold him. Tom handed Dick the flashlight, who in turn put it inside the bucket. Harry, more concerned about the old rope than the bucket, slowly turned the crank, resisting speeding up. A loud and steady creak frightened them just a little. Tom ate his candy bar while he had the chance. When Dick touched bottom he yelled it was a shovel they’d hit. A round of cheers went up, as the boys were convinced that meant there really was a hidden treasure. Why else would there be a shovel in a well? Right away he used the shovel to load the bucket with dirt. Harry reversed the crank. Tom emptied the dirt on the ground and inspected it for old coins and gemstones. They continued this process until a thin layer of topsoil had been removed. Sweating profusely, feeling like he might suffocate in the cramped area, Dick called for a timeout. He finished what he planned would be his last load for the time being. A few inches above Dick’s head the rusted bucket handle broke off setting the heavy bucket free. It plummeted, landing hard on its side. The skeletal remains of a human hand bounced out.”

  Jacob went to the kitchen holding the cell phone to his ear.

  He reached inside the refrigerator, snagged a bottle of beer. Held the bottle under his bent arm and twisted off the cap. Downed nearly half of the contents.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said, breathlessly. “I was a little thirsty.”

  A sense of familiarity created a sudden sense of urgency. “Hurry up,” she said, “I’m dying to know what happened next.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Jacob smiled. He never knew he was a storyteller. He might just write a novel someday, too. He drank a little more beer. Stifled a burp. Picked up from where he had stopped.

  “The handle broke off, setting the bucket free. It plummeted, landing hard on its side. The skeletal remains of a human hand bounced out.”

  “Wow.”

  “Dick screamed. Jumped up and grabbed the low end of the slanted bucket handle, brought it down and tied it and the rope around his waist. Shouted for Harry to get him out of there. Working in concert, Harry and Tom turned the crank faster and faster. Dick was nearly hysterical by the time his friends pulled him up to safety. He told them about the hand. Told them, all the time he was down there he’d been standing on top of a dead body. They hightailed it over to Homer’s grocery store a little ways up the state highway. A cashier called the police. The boys were told to go home. Officers were dispatched to the property. Long story short, it turned out to be the body of a woman. The hand belonged to a woman.”

  “I understood the first time,” she said.

  “All right, well, this is the strange part, at least to me. After an extensive investigation they concurred the woman had died accidentally. The detectives believed she’d gone for a walk, stopped at the well either for a drink of water or to sit down on the edge of it and rest, then fell in. The biggest detail the cops failed to deal with, though, was the fact that the body appeared to have been naked. No clothing, or any kind of cloth, was in or near the well. The COD, er, the cause of death, was a broken neck. But, did that occur before or after she went into the well?”

  Cigarette smoke swirled up lazily, stinging his eyes. He had a satisfying gulp of beer. The plan he sought earlier had finally arrived.

  “Sounds plausible to me. Fifteen feet deep? Sitting on the edge, perhaps leaning over to grab the bucket to get a drink of water? Yeah, it’s easy to picture her, or anybody, losing their balance, falling in, and breaking their neck.”

  “Sure, but there were still some unanswered questions. First, where the hell were her clothes? I don’t know why, but I just don’t believe she wandered around the place in the nude, deliberately. Anything’s possible, I guess. The property is fairly isolated. Second, who concealed her body with dirt? Who put the boards in place?”

  “Good questions. Why weren’t they asked back then when it mattered?”

  “My point, exactly. No one’s lived there for years, so any explanation seemed reasonable. By the way, I don’t mean to criticize your theory, but if the bucket had water in it, I doubt it would’ve been hanging in midair. Usually, the bucket is placed on the edge of the well by the ladle. So I doubt she leaned over to get a hold of it. Just thought I’d mention it.”

  “And so you did. That’s why you’re a cop and I’m not. Eh?” said BJ, resisting imitating Barnaby Thomas’s British accent, while at the same time, curious why she wasn’t angry over having another idea of hers being kicked to the curb.

  Unsure how it happened, but the plan was clear as a window. “Other than my job, I’m not doing anything special with my time. How ‘bout I give you a hand with this story? Nonfiction type crime stuff. Right up my alley.” Jacob flinched over the wording of the last sentence.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “It’s up to you, ma’am, but as you know, nonfiction is based on real facts. With fiction, you can just make the shit up as you go along.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop calling me ma’am.”

  She didn’t respond to my offer of assistance.

  A lengthy pause.

  “Okay, scratch that idea,” Jacob said, grumpily. “You clearly don’t need my help to write a book. So how about this? One of these days, and only if you’re truly interested and only if I have as much time on my hands as I do now, I’ll drive you to the farm so you can view the crime scene firsthand.”

  “I know you mean well. I’m just not too wild about the thought of going out there.” BJ twirled her hair in her hand, something she hadn’t done in a long time. She felt uneasy.

  Jacob had grown weary of her whining and indecisiveness. Before, she seemed so much older and wiser than a lot of twenty-six-year-olds.

  A throaty wheeze. “It’s up to you, Miz Donovan, but if you ask me, I think the story would read a lot better if you described the place using firsthand knowledge rather than relying solely on your imagination. But then, I’m not able to walk around in your imagination, so there’s that.”

  BJ frowned. What?

  Jacob finished the bottle of beer. Hurried to the kitchen for another one.

  “From your perspective, I guess, it does make more sense. How can I write effectively about a place I’ve never seen?” Or have I? Something hiding in the dark corners of her mind refused to reveal itself.

  “Good. Let me know when. Maybe I won’t be tied down with a new case.”

  “I realize that, but you see, I’m not quite ready to visit the place. I mean, I need to outline the story. Do some research. Have a general plan for what I’m doing.” BJ looked at the wall, unable to believe her own bullshit. “I’ll get back to you, ASAP. Is this good?”

  “I’ll be waiting. In the meantime, I’m not sure what else I can tell you about the place. If you need any other information, police procedurals, that kind of stuff, feel free to call me.”

  “I do have one question. I’d like to know what type of firearm a police officer carries. One of my new characters is a cop, you see. I want to get the facts right, even though it’s fiction.”

  “Sure. I have a Glock.”

  “Thanks, Detective Schein. You were far more helpful than Detective Cantin.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine.” Said the spider to the fly.

  CHAPTER 41

  BJ brought Tomi along for a stroll around the neighborhood. The day was crisp and clear.

  She planned to work the evening shift at Wild Capers. Until then, she wanted to complete another chapter in her new novel. Out of habit, she read her email first.

  Dear Suite Sue,

  There’s something going on that troubles me. I believe it’s this story you’re working on, the nonfiction one. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be poking your nose in places where it doesn’t belong. Drop it. You’re a writer. Find something else to write about. Heed my warning, or else you might just find yourself floating in the Mississippi in little bits and pieces.

  When should she mention the email to Detective Northcu
tt?

  Her door buzzer sounded. Catching her by surprise, she accidentally splashed coffee on her desk, narrowly missing the keyboard. She tiptoed down the stairs.

  On the other side of the peephole stood a tall deliveryman dressed in a tan uniform. He held a long white box in his hands, and a clipboard tucked under his arm.

  BJ signed for the package, thanked him, locked the door.

  She knew it was flowers, but from whom?

  Frank had never given her one flower, much less a dozen.

  The cop wasn’t close enough to her. Yet.

  Jacob? Doubtful.

  No one else knows her address.

  She sat down on the couch. Slid the red ribbon, which bound the box, down to the end by her lap. Lifting the lid, she breathed in a vanillalike fragrance. She set the lid beside her. Not a dozen roses, but several stems of Joe Pye weed.

  CHAPTER 42

  Detective Northcutt spread the newspaper open on his desk. Read the brief article on page two about the death of Attorney Richard Gravois. His housekeeper had found him slumped in his chair. “Bitten by a snake,” she told the authorities.

  Gary never had the opportunity to question Gravois about the house on Caulfield.

  “And now I never will.”

  Many years ago a friend of his died of a snakebite when they were on a camping trip. There was no forgetting how the guy’s body looked when Gary found him in the woods lying on the ground next to a pile of leaves.

  He pulled his mind away from the gruesome death that easily could’ve been his own if he had been the one who’d gone to collect firewood instead of staying to assemble their tents.

  It’d been a long time since he talked with BJ. But first, he needed to come up with a valid reason for calling her other than saying he just wanted to hear her voice.