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

by S. A. Austin

  Bérénice threw her head back and cackled witchlike.

  “Then you planted your little souvenirs on me.”

  “I see you found the little reminder of your own guilt.” Her features hardened. “What did you expect? It was your fault as much as Mama’s for why I was treated so badly. I, I kind of looked up to you, Bernie, but you wanted nothing to do with me. You never came to my rescue. Would you run into a burning building to save me now that we’re together again?” He looked down. “I didn’t think so. If you had acted like a big brother and protected me I wouldn’t have been sent to live with Uncle Jessup in the first place. I wouldn’t have been whipped with a leather strap, dragged by my hair across the yard, then locked in the old firewood bin with wood roaches where I stayed for three days without food or water. I wouldn’t have been stripped naked and forced to kneel on coarse grained salt and peppercorns on the kitchen floor, for hours on end, while the missus read verse after verse from the Bible. Or slapped upside the head if I screamed when she splashed rubbing alcohol on my sores and cuts. Most of all, that smarmy bastard wouldn’t have raped me over and over again! Those two got off easy, just like your papa did.”

  “Why in the hell would I have ever wanted to rescue you? When all you’ve ever done is hurt me? And don’t call me Bernie. I despise that name. It’s Jacob,” he shouted at her.

  Detective Lucas Cantin entered the barn. Aimed his gun at Donovan.

  Wild-eyed, Jacob looked from Cantin to BJ to Cantin. “Shoot her,” he screeched. “Kill the crazy bitch. She’s a murderer.”

  BJ shot Cantin.

  “Shit!” Jacob fumbled with his jacket, hell-bent on moving it out of the way in order to grasp the butt of his pistol. No sooner had he pointed the gun in her direction than she shot him in the forehead. His gun discharged. The bullet whizzed by, narrowly missing her.

  She debated about firing another round into Cantin.

  Ran to Jacob and switched guns. Returned to her place.

  Gary Northcutt rushed in.

  BJ hid the gun behind her back. Burst out crying. “Oh my god, I am so happy to see you,” she wailed. “It was awful. Officer Wentzel was about to kill me. Your partner ran in just in time and shot him. Wentzel’s gun went off. The bullet went wild and hit Cantin.”

  Gary knelt down beside Lucas. Slid an arm under his shoulders to lift him up, then cupped a hand over the side of his neck to stem the flow of blood gushing out of the bullet hole.

  Lucas saw BJ. His body tensed. “Murrr-derrr.” He raised a shaky hand and pointed a finger at her. His eyes stretching wide, blood gurgling in his throat.

  BJ glared at him. Glimpsed at Northcutt to see if he was figuring out what Cantin was trying so hard to tell him. She tightened her grip on the gun, came a little closer.

  “Murrr-derrr.” Lucas grasped Gary’s jacket sleeve, he pleaded with his eyes. “Murrduh....” He let go of his last breath, his arm falling to his side.

  “I know, Lucas. BJ was almost murdered. Thank you for saving her life.” He wrapped his arms around his partner, held him close.

  BJ’s lip curled. She remembered the small gris-gris bag she mailed to Northcutt’s home. The red flannel bag tied with a silver pentagram on a black straw rope holds a secret. Good juju? Or bad, bad mojo? Only time will tell. His fate lies in whether or not he opens the bag.

  SPECIAL PREVIEW

  Moonlight Murder Duology Book 2

  ___________________________________

  SAVANNAH

  JANUARY

  For no particular reason, BJ wanted to get in character.

  She pinned up her long black curls. Pulled on a tan nylon cap liner. Positioned the straw-colored wig on her head. Posed in front of the mirror.

  “Hello, Suite Sue.”

  She raised the volume on the CD player. Refilled a glass of tequila. Drank without fear of ridicule. Loosened the bath towel, let it drop to the floor. Swaying her hips to the seductive song, After Dark, she traced the contours of her curves with her free hand.

  Memories of a sex orgy near a small slow stream clouded her vision.

  South of New Orleans, the evening tide mirrored the silver moon and led her safe and sound to Chalmette. The air was curiously warm for that time of the year. She followed the rhythmic beat of the drums. The swampland teemed with other sounds, as well. Birds fluttering. Insects chittering. Reptiles slithering. Once in a while, she’d hear the splash of water. She shoved aside Spanish moss hanging low on bald cypress trees. The music enveloped her, pulled her in. Thorns snagged the hem of her long, ruffled skirt. She moved forward, uncaring. She was on a mission and would not be deterred.

  Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. She ran her hand up her belly and over her breasts. Revisited the night spent in the arms of Doktè Jon: Her lover, offering freedom of expression. Her beacon, orienting her way in the darkness. Her buoy, bobbing in the Gulf of—

  “Frank.”

  Her eyelids flew open.

  The spell was broken. She set the empty glass on the dresser. Turned off the soundtrack.

  BJ wished she could forget his name along with everything else about him. At least now, whenever she tried to recall what Frank looked like, the only image that came to her mind was him staring up at her as his face sank beneath the surface of the Gulf.

  She knew what she had to do in order to get him and blondie out of her life. She knew that, come what may, it was well worth the effort.

  No longer under his thumb she was growing stronger every day. Her fear of snakes, for instance, ended the day she became one. It was during one of her trips to the swamp when she first practiced shapeshifting. Bérénice Jacquette was pleasantly surprised by her capability. Doktè Jon was also surprised when she allowed him to take the squirming boa constrictor off his neck and place it around hers. It was the night she came to him for the special powder she used on Frank.

  She put on the clothes she’d laid out before taking a shower. Shut down her story-in-progress. Copied the file to her flash drive. Stuffed the laptop in its case while thinking about how there’s no marketing or advertising being done for her even though her debut novel, the first book in a planned trilogy, was on the bestseller list. Through her distracted publisher the best she could hope for was a radio interview with a local station.

  Big effing deal.

  There was nothing he could do for her now that she couldn’t do on her own. She proved it by setting up signings and readings at bookstores and libraries in six cities, with a clear plan to visit six more in the second half of the year. Twelve particular cities, each chosen after she’d spent a considerable amount of time researching real-life murder mysteries in their area.

  Starting with Savannah, Georgia her monthly trips would take her around the country where she’d also gather more true-crime details to form the basis of forthcoming books. The yearlong tour was set to end in December at Wentzel Cabin in Chalmette just in time to celebrate her twenty-eighth birthday under the bright glow of a full Long Night Moon.

  No matter what else was going on in her life BJ Donovan never lost sight of her goal.

  She placed the wig alongside another wig in a clear plastic bag. Lay them on top of the clothes in her suitcase. Hauled three pieces of luggage and her laptop out to her car in the private parking lot of her apartment building on St. Philip Street in the French Quarter.

  Anxious to be on the road, she hurried back inside to make sure everything except the refrigerator was unplugged, and all the windows were locked. She opened the shutters in her bedroom a couple of inches to look at the courtyard below surrounded by a wrought iron cornstalk fence. The place was usually deserted that time of day because many of the tenants were at work. She’d be gone for a while, but she wasn’t overly concerned about someone breaking in. The few possessions that mattered the most were never far from her.

  She was also fairly certain the meddlesome homicide detective named Northcutt wasn’t going to bother her anymore. She hadn’t seen him since t
he last night they were together. The night in the barn when her brother and the cop’s partner both died.

  His phone calls to her went unanswered and unreturned. When he stopped by her apartment she refused to open the door much less let him know if she was even there. She doubted Northcutt knew she’d bought a new car. Or that it was in plain sight. Like her papa’s car, rusting away in an overgrown briar patch near a field of rotted eggplants at Wentzel Farm.

  After leaving a typewritten set of instructions for Gene, her new head chef at Wild Capers, she traveled through the night.

  I can’t believe my kitchen staff never asked me how did my on-air interview with a television host in Saint Louis, Missouri go.

  “Probably because they didn’t give a damn.”

  BJ considered expanding her business.

  Open a restaurant specializing in Cajun cuisine?

  In Chalmette?

  No. That place is hallowed ground.

  * * *

  Crossing the state line into Georgia, BJ stopped to refuel at a service station featuring framed black velvet Elvis paintings slanted against two unequal stacks of used tires. Inside the peculiar little building painted hot pink, four open boxes of individually wrapped pralines and several cans of cashews took up half of the counter space.

  “Dueling Banjos,” said the cashier with steel-gray hair and cat-eye glasses, referring to the music coming out of the old and frayed speakers mounted near the ceiling. “Ooo, Burt. That sexy hunk of manhood can eat crackers in my bed, any damn time. Him or Elvis. I ain’t picky.”

  No idea what the woman babbled on about, she paid for her gas with cash, more than ready to get the hell out of there. Glancing back, she caught the woman licking a praline.

  BJ arrived in the city of Savannah on a cool and breezy Thursday afternoon. Checked in at the Zoysia Hotel wearing a short blond wig and tinted reading glasses, and using blondie’s name and identification. Their features were similar, but a keen eye would’ve caught dissimilarities on the drivers license.

  Before entering her room she put on the thin white gloves Uncle Jessup and the missus made her wear during their fake Christian services in the tool shed every Sunday morning. The same gloves she’d worn the day she was finally able to exact her revenge on Frank and blondie.

  She wiped her fingerprints off the key card, inserted it in the slot.

  BJ unpacked the smallest suitcase. Neatly arranged her toiletries in the bathroom. Placed the luggage next to each other near the door. Thought of something she meant to do earlier. She unlocked the medium-size suitcase. Dug out her mama’s grimoire, the special textbook of dark majick she’d found hidden in the hayloft along with a mysterious box when she was a child. Flipped the pages back and forth until she found what she was looking for. Committed the spell to memory. Buried the book beneath the wigs.

  A quick change of clothes, then she rode the elevator down to the restaurant.

  Dined on a romaine salad with creamy vinaigrette and pimiento, and pasta carbonara. At the end of her meal the waitress arrived on cue with another glass of Sangria and the check.

  BJ spent the better part of the night on foot discovering Savannah’s dark side by taking the Ghost Tour. Entertained the idea of featuring Wrights Square, one of the most haunted places in the city in the first episode of Suite Sue 2.

  She went for a stroll around Wrights Square just to get a feel for the area.

  An hour or so later, she believed she had everything she needed for the story.

  Once again, standing close to the door to hide her actions from the security cameras, she got the gloves out of the front pocket of her jeans and put them on. About to go inside, she cast a glance both ways in the corridor making sure she hadn’t been followed.

  She entered her room, snapped the lock and secured the door with the chain. Kicked off her shoes. Collected the glass and a bottle of tequila she’d unpacked earlier. Her feet sinking into the plush multicolored carpeting, she walked fast to the other side of the king-size bed.

  BJ sat down at a polished dark wood table centered between two midnight blue armchairs in front of a large plate glass window. Turned her chair closer to the table. Began typing in the password for the laptop. “Oops.” She reluctantly removed the gloves. Wearing them added a little mystique to her mission. They added nothing, however, to her typing skills.

  She made herself more comfortable in the chair. Pouring tequila in the glass she reflected upon how much better the silvery kind tasted compared to the gold shit she always thought she loved. She opened January’s part of her new story. Sipped the hard liquor, enjoyed the rush of warmth. Resumed typing.

  Alma LeVeaux hurried across the busy hotel lobby, shoved the thick glass door aside, and stepped out into the cool Georgia night.

  Under the luster of a Wolf Moon she paced to and fro in Wrights Square disguised as Suite Sue, a high-price call girl—who was also an American serial killer.

  She lured married businessmen, men who reminded her of her husband Rex, to ritzy hotel suites where she murdered them with the use of dark majick, thereby killing Rex over and over again.

  It wasn’t a nightly ritual. Most of the time she ignored men. But that time when Rex took his fists to her then went out of town the next day acting as if nothing had happened—nothing to account for the bruises on her flushed, tearstained face—something dark and ugly crawled up from the depths of her soul. Something that became quite lovely when it oozed out of her pores.

  “Hmm.” BJ highlighted the last paragraph in yellow to either delete it or reword it later.

  Turning on the charm, Alma batted her eyelashes at any man who gave her more than a passing glance. She had no idea what sort of creep the escort agency was sending her.

  Last night, Rex was on a drunken rampage. His latest conquest, a pole dancer who worked weekends at a strip club, dumped him after their first date. Rex found a way to put the blame on Alma.

  She could smell the woman’s cheap perfume on his shirt as he beat her nonstop for nearly two full minutes. She didn’t know why he’d spared her face this time but she was glad he had. Makeup doesn’t conceal a swollen black eye.

  A pair of black stockings perfectly covered up the bruises on her legs. And whoever drives her home tonight, figuratively speaking, won’t be telling anyone about the welts on her back put there with a thin leather belt.

  A tall, clean-shaven man with sandy brown hair approached, his smarmy college-boy stare undressing her every step of the way. His features resembled Rex LeVeaux’s enough to be him.

  “Hello. Are you, uh, what is it, Sweet Sue?” Lofty chuckle. “Is that your workin’ name? Are you the gal the fancy hooker service arranged for me to meet tonight?”

  A rush of anger. Asshole. Thinks he can talk to me in the same sarcastic tone of voice Rex uses. Instantly detesting him, Alma struggled to keep her emotions in check. Wondered if she should continue, since he’d managed to put her in a crappy mood?

  “Yes,” she said, ending the word in a hiss.

  He lit a cigarette. No thought to offering her one. Blew smoke in her face, by accident or not. Smiled clumsily, revealing an uneven row of upper teeth yellowed by nicotine. He looked her over.

  “You’ll do in a pinch, I reckon,” he said, staring at her crotch.

  “Ooo, such a chaw-muh, you are.”

  “Yeah, well.” He laughed quietly to himself. “So, what’s next on the agenda? I’ve, um... I’ve never done anything such as this before. Normally, I don’t need to. I usually do just fine on my own.” He scratched the top of his head. “Lately, though, it’s been kind of hard getting out at night.”

  What? Her eyes narrowed in anger and she fought the urge to walk away. Another cheating heart on the prowl? A vision of a unique pair of handcuffs came to her. “I have a suite at the Zoysia.”

  He ground out the cigarette on the pavement with his foot. “Sweet. A real classy place, so I heard.” He jerked his head up. “You don’t expect me to foot the bill
for the room, do you? I’m not a poor man, by any means, but I’m also not a rich man. And there is no way to bury a hotel bill on my credit card statement.”

  “Relax, it’s all taken care of.”

  When she didn’t hear him following her she twisted her head around and looked behind her. He was just standing there taking a long drag off a new cigarette and staring at her ass. “Are you coming or not?”

  He choked on the smoke. Coughed hoarsely. “Yeah, I’m, um, I’m comin’, honeypot. Sort of.” He flicked the cigarette at the ground. Walking alongside her he said “By the way, if you feel the need to whisper my name while we’re, y’know, in the throes of passion, you can call me John. Get it? John. Like a pimp. It’s not my real name, of course, but if you’ve got to call me something, that’ll do.”