The Satyr's Curse (The Satyr's Curse Series Book 1) (13 page)

She reached for his hand and lowered it from her face. “Most men are usually aloof and distant with their emotions. They never want to let you know how they feel or where you stand. But you…from the moment we met, you’ve been open with me about your feelings and intentions.”

He gripped her hand. “I want you, Jazzmyn. I’ve wanted you for a very long time, and I’ve told you before, I don’t play games.”

“Son of a bitch!” Kyle yelled from the kitchen.

Jazzmyn let go of his hand. “I’d better go and see what that was about.” She stood from her stool.

Julian reached for his glass of wine, smirking. “I think I already know.”

Jazzmyn grinned with happiness as she walked away from Julian. She reached up and patted the gold figurine necklace. This was starting to get interesting.

***

Friday morning, an exhausted Jazzmyn slowly made her way into the back door of the restaurant. When she entered the kitchen, Ms. Helen was in her usual morning spot by the prep table, chopping up vegetables for the day.

“Did you make coffee this morning?” Jazzmyn asked as she rested her hip against the stainless prep table.

Ms. Helen nodded. “Out front by the bar, where it always is.” She eyed Jazzmyn up and down. “You didn’t get any sleep again? That’s two nights in a row. What’s up with you, child?” Ms. Helen put her knife down and placed her hand on Jazzmyn’s forehead. “You gettin’ sick?” 

Jazzmyn shook her head. “I’m just not sleeping well. As soon as I fall asleep, I start having these nightmares about this funny looking forest where the trees are made of stone and I’m being chased by something I can’t see. It’s always the same dream, and it wakes me up every time.”

“Perhaps you got some bad spirits floatin’ ‘round you. You want me to give you a juju?”

Jazzmyn held up her hands. “God, no. I don’t need one of your stinky amulets around my neck, Ms. Helen. I think it must be stress. The way Kyle and Julian keep going at each other every night when Julian comes by is probably starting to get to me.”

“That dark man’s just protectin’ his property. That’s why he’s spendin’ so much time here.”   

“I’m not his property,” Jazzmyn scoffed.

Ms. Helen picked up her knife and pointed it at the gold satyr figurine around Jazzmyn’s neck. “He’s marked you. You’re his property, all right.”

Jazzmyn placed her hand over the figurine. “It’s a token of affection, Ms. Helen.”

“It’s bad juju and you know it. The man’s marked you for somethin’ and I can guess he’ll be wantin’ to make you his real soon.”

“Make me his?”

“Take you to bed. When a dark spirit wants to possess you, that’s how they do it. They get you to commit to them body and soul.”Jazzmyn paused for a moment. “Did you put some rum in your coffee again this morning?”

“That ain’t got nothin’ to do with this,” Ms. Helen balked. “You just be careful with him, ‘cause I have a feelin’ he’s gonna make his move real soon.”

“God, I hope so. He’s driving me crazy. The more I’m around him, the more I want….” She stopped when she saw Ms. Helen’s eyes go wide. “I’ll just go and get some coffee.”

She darted out of the kitchen and headed toward the bar. On the bar she noticed the morning newspaper spread out next to Ms. Helen’s half-empty cup of coffee. Jazzmyn was about to walk around the bar to the coffee maker when a headline on the front page caught her eye. She stopped and perused the article.

“It’s ‘bout them girls who were killed back in the seventies,” Ms. Helen said behind her.

Jazzmyn pointed to the article. “One was named Susan Livaudais?”

“Yeah, I saw that. She was a chef from New Orleans and they—”

“A chef?” Jazzmyn said, cutting her off.

“That’s what the paper said. She was the last victim they found before the murders stopped in 1973.” Ms. Helen watched her reaction. “She any relation to you?”

“There are a lot of people named Livaudais in New Orleans. She could have been some distant relation, I guess.”

“Well, the guy that wrote the article thinks there was somethin’ special ‘bout her death, ‘cause of her bein’ the last one and all. He seems to think the murders from the seventies, and the recent ones ‘round town, are connected.”

Jazzmyn searched the article for the writer’s name. “Harry DeMonte? I went to high school with a Harry DeMonte. I wonder if it’s him?”

Ms. Helen picked up her cup of coffee from the bar. “Maybe you should call him and find out. That way you can ask him more ‘bout them murders.”

She glanced up at Ms. Helen. “Why should I call him?”

“Girl, it’s written all over your face. You’ll call him ‘cause you have questions. One thing I know ‘bout you, Jazzmyn, is when you got questions, you get answers.”   

***

Harry DeMonte had been more than just a boy she went to high school with; Harry had been Jazzmyn’s date to the senior prom. As she sat in her office and waited on her cell phone for the operator to transfer her to his office at the newspaper, Jazzmyn wondered if Harry would remember that fact.

“Jazzmyn Livaudais!” Harry shouted into the phone with more exuberance than a ten-year-old in a toy store. “As I live and breathe, I can’t believe it’s you!”

“How have you been, Harry?” She sat back in her chair and looked over the never dwindling pile of invoices on her desk.

“Great, Jazz. I heard you had taken over The Sweet Note after your dad died. I’m sorry. I know that must have been tough on you.”

“It was, but the restaurant has been doing pretty well, so I can’t complain.”

“It’s gotten a bunch of good write ups from our food critic. I’ve been meaning to head over there, but my wife and my new baby keep me pretty busy.”

“You sound happy, Harry. I’m glad.”

There was an odd moment of silence and then Harry spoke up. “So, are you on the alumni committee planning the next reunion, or is this not a social call?”

“Harry, I read your article in the paper about the murders of those women from the seventies. I wanted to know if I could ask you some questions?”

“About Susan Livaudais? I figured that’s what this was about. When I found her name, I immediately thought of you.” He paused and she could hear other voices speaking in the background. “Was she a relation?”

“I don’t think so,” Jazzmyn admitted. “But I have a friend who may have known her. I wanted to find out if you had any more information on her murder.”

“There isn’t much I can tell you. This happened forty years ago, Jazz, and the details I could dig up were sketchy at best. I’m sure if your friend knew Susan Livaudais, he or she would probably be able to give you more information than I could.”

“I don’t want to ask him, Harry. I need to ask you.”

Harry was quiet for a few moments. “Have you ever been to the newspaper morgue, Jazz?”

“Once, on a field trip in the sixth grade.”

“Well, maybe it’s time you paid it another visit. Can you get away this afternoon?”

Jazzmyn heard the tinkling of plates and the pounding of pots in the kitchen as Kyle began shouting for lunch orders.

She sighed into the cell phone. “Yeah, Harry, I can definitely get away.”

He gave her directions on where to go once she arrived at the offices of the Times-Picayune. “I’ll meet you in the basement,” Harry told her. “Looking forward to seeing you again, Jazz.”

“Me too, Harry.”  

After she hung up with Harry, she walked out of her office to find out what had set Kyle off this time. As she entered the kitchen, she saw Kyle throwing wet towels on a frying pan engulfed by flames atop the stove.

“Should I call 911?” Jazzmyn casually asked as Kyle snuffed out the flames.

He turned to her. “No, I got it under control. No need to call anyone.”

“Try not to set the place on fire, Kyle. I doubt either one of us would be able to find jobs in this economy.”

“Sorry,” he said, clearing the pan and towels from the stove and moving the mess over to the sink. “Won’t happen again. Just added a little too much oil to a hot pan.”

Jazzmyn eased closer to his side. “I’m so glad to hear that.” She smiled slyly at him. “Now, give me your keys.”

He knitted his brow. “My keys? Why do you need my keys?”

“I have an errand to run and I need your truck,” she explained.

Kyle hesitated. “Does this errand have anything to do with Julian?” he finally asked.

“No,” Jazzmyn lied. “It’s for the restaurant.”

“Oh, okay then.” He reached into the front pocket of his blue jeans. “You really need to buy a car, Jazz.” He pulled out his keys.

“Why? I walk to work, take the streetcar into town when I need to and….” She snatched the keys from his hand. “I can borrow your truck when I have to drive anywhere.”

“Replace the gas this time,” he insisted. “Last time you used my truck I barely had enough gas to get home.”

“Just don’t burn down my restaurant.” She turned to go. “I’ll be back in an hour,” Jazzmyn called over her shoulder.

“Don’t wreck my truck,” he hollered behind her.

“Boy, you is a stubborn fool,” Ms. Helen stated as Jazzmyn headed down the hall.

Jazzmyn did not bother to stop and hear the rest. She already knew what Ms. Helen was saying to Kyle. It was nothing she had not heard a million times before. But she figured all Ms. Helen’s urgings were falling on deaf ears. Jazzmyn had known Kyle long enough to presume he would gripe and complain about her relationship with Julian, but he would never interfere. He was not the kind of man to fight for a woman. No matter how hard Jazzmyn wished for him to change, she knew he could never be what she needed. But was Julian Devereau what she needed? The image of Julian’s round butt sauntered across her mind as she slipped out the back door of the restaurant.

As her body flushed with lust, she smiled. “Yeah, he might be exactly what I need.” 

Chapter 12

The Times-Picayune offices were located just off the I-10 Interstate, heading into the city from Jefferson Parish. Since 1837, the newspaper had chronicled New Orleans through the city’s growth, captivity during the Civil War, participation in both World Wars, and struggle during assorted depressions, recessions, and economic booms. The paper had documented the trials of corrupt politicians, checked the pulse of the city’s voters during elections, and had been a sounding board for social issues. In more recent days, it had nursed New Orleans through the hopelessness of Katrina, and reveled in the city’s resurrection when the Saints finally won the Super Bowl.

As Jazzmyn made her way to the elevators inside the building that housed the newspaper staff and printing press, she wondered why she had come. There was no way a man of Julian’s age could have known or remembered Susan Livaudais. He couldn’t have been older than forty, but the nagging similarities of the woman he had described and the one in the newspaper bothered Jazzmyn.

“Maybe all Kyle’s dire warnings about the man are getting to me,” she muttered as she rode the elevator down to the basement.

But Jazzmyn already knew that was not the real reason why she had made the trip to the newspaper. She desperately needed to uncover something about Julian’s past. As time went on, and her feelings for him deepened, she felt compelled to learn everything she could about him. Most of all, Jazzmyn wanted to find out why she had such an intense attraction to the man, an attraction that only seemed to be getting stronger with every passing day. 

“You made it,” Harry DeMonte said as he greeted Jazzmyn when the elevator doors opened onto The Times-Picayune morgue.

Jazzmyn was pleased to see that Harry was still the same gangly, freckle-faced youth he had been in high school. He had always reminded her of the scarecrow from
The Wizard of Oz
, but unlike the character in the children’s story that had always been looking to better his brain, Harry had been content with who and what he was. He had been the geek in her class with a love of English literature and a knack for words. Always the go to guy for English homework, Jazzmyn had not been too surprised to find him working for the newspaper. In high school, it had always been his dream job.

“Wow,” Harry exclaimed, as his deep green eyes inspected Jazzmyn. “You look great, Jazz. What’s it been, ten years?” He kissed her cheek.

“More like twelve, Harry. Graduation was the last time we saw each other.” She gave his thick mop of auburn hair a playful rubbing like she had always done in high school. “You haven’t changed,” she assured him.

“Oh, I’ve changed all right. I discovered a strange pain in my back the other day, and then in my knee. We’re getting old, Jazz.”

Jazzmyn gazed about the windowless basement. Above, bright fluorescent lights shone down on a dull, yellow linoleum floor, and cinderblock walls painted gray encased the square room. To her right were dozens of bookcases and file cabinets. The bookcases were packed with oblong, red, leather-bound books that looked as if they had not seen a good dusting in years. On the other side of the room, four desktop computers were lined up along a table, and next to the computers an old microfilm machine.

Harry flourished his hand over the room. “We still haven’t finished getting most of what we lost from Katrina back yet. Newspapers around the country have been wonderful about giving us their old morgue copies of our newspaper. The basement got two feet of water after the storm. At least most of the very old, original collection of papers was housed upstairs in a climate controlled room.”

Jazzmyn took in the vast library. “I didn’t realize the paper suffered any damage.”

“Everyone was hit,” Harry remarked. “When eighty percent of the city is underwater, no one is spared. But time does heal all wounds.”

“The physical wounds, Harry. I don’t think any of us will ever quite get over what that storm did to us.”

“Yeah, you’re right. She was a real bitch.” He took Jazzmyn’s elbow and guided her from the elevator doors. “I was stuck in Baton Rouge for almost a year after Katrina. Couldn’t come back to the city until they got this building cleaned up and running again. Where did you end up?”

“I stayed in New Orleans. Dad was undergoing chemo treatments at Touro Hospital at the time and we couldn’t leave…he was too sick. So after the storm passed, he was at the house while I was at the restaurant everyday fighting off looters.”

Harry’s deep green eyes gawked at her. “Jazzmyn, you could have been killed.”

“It was all we had, Harry. I couldn’t stand aside and let it be ripped apart. God knows, some of the businesses around us were looted dozens of times. The police tried their best, but they were too overwhelmed like the rest of us. Luckily, we were spared the worst of the looting. After the insurance company settled with us, we were able to get back up and running as best we could.”

“Sorry again about Jack. I remember him playing away on his old upright piano in his studio upstairs in your house whenever I came to see you. Your dad was a great guy.”

She patted his arm. “Thanks, Harry.” She turned and scoured the hundreds of red, leather-bound books filling the metal bookcases. “So, where do we begin?”

Harry nodded to the computers. “Internet. Then we can go through some of the old papers in the library. It’s a good thing you’re here. You can help cover more ground. As far as research goes, two pairs of eyes are a hell of a lot better than one.”

***

Three hours later, Harry and Jazzmyn were seated at a wide wooden table in the middle of the morgue going through several of the red leather books. Jazzmyn was intently reading an article when Harry slammed another of the oversized covers closed, startling her.

“Sorry. Nothing in that one.” He pushed the heavy tome to the side.

“I found something,” Jazzmyn announced as she pointed to the article she was perusing. “It’s about the murders of three women in the city over an eight-week period in the summer of 1934. The crimes were never solved, and it lists the names of the victims.” She looked up at Harry. “The last victim was named Estelle Livaudais.”

Harry jumped from his chair and came around to her side. He began reading the article over her shoulder. After several minutes, he leaned his elbow on the table and wrinkled his brow. “We have three different eras with the same crimes, and two of the victims had the same last name as you. This is really weird.”

Jazzmyn did not feel the coincidence was weird; she found it to be very troubling.

“The article makes reference to another three murders in 1895 that were also unsolved.” He sighed as he pointed to the article. “But they don’t list any names from those murders.” Harry stood back from the table. “There won’t be any police files on murders going back that far, either. Hell, the NOPD lost most of their paperwork from everything that happened prior to Katrina.”

“Harry?” Jazzmyn curiously eyed her friend. “What do you know about The Satyr House on Esplanade?”

“Not much, except that it’s yellow and has a big satyr over the front door. Why? You think that house is connected to all of this.”

Jazzmyn took a deep breath and turned to the yellowed newspaper page opened before her. “Not the house, but maybe the person who owns the house.”

Harry sat on the edge of the table next to her. “Go on. I’m listening.”

Jazzmyn warily eyed his square face. “This is not part of your investigation, Harry, and if you print anything about the Satyr House in your article I will post your prom picture all over the Internet.”

Harry leaned back and grimaced. “That was a really bad picture.” He nodded. “I promise nothing in my story, but if anything you tell me can lead to catching the killer, Jazzmyn, I have no choice but to go to the police.”

“I understand, Harry.” Jazzmyn paused and sat back in her chair. “The man I am seeing owns that house. His name is Julian Devereau, and he spoke of employing a Susan who was a chef a while back. Then he told me she was killed, not murdered.”

“How old is this guy, Jazz? I didn’t figure you to be the type into having a sugar daddy.”

“He can’t be much older than me; mid-thirties, maybe almost forty.”

“You do realize Susan Livaudais was murdered forty years ago, so there’s no way he did this.” Harry stood from the table. “I thought you were going to tell me something good.”

“Don’t ask me why, but I think he’s involved somehow, Harry. There is something about him.”

“You think this guy was involved in a murder that happened forty years ago?” Harry shook his head. “Unless you’ve got something that ties this guy to the current string of killings, it doesn’t make any sense, Jazz.” Harry gave a short snort of laughter. “Now, if your guy has some kind of pact with the devil and can live forever, then it would make a whole lot of sense.”

But Jazzmyn didn’t share in his joke. She stood from her chair and reached for her purse on the table next to her.

“I should get back to the restaurant.” She pulled the strap of her brown leather purse over her shoulder. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you find more.”

Harry’s eyes scanned her troubled features. “What is it about this guy that makes you think something is not right about him?”

She shook her head. “It’s not that it isn’t right, just different.”

“You like him?”

Jazzmyn nodded. “Yes, I do. I really like him.”

“I think what you’ve got, Jazz, is a bad case of nerves. You met a guy that seems too good to be true and you’re looking for any excuse to find fault with him.” Harry placed his hands in his trouser pockets. “When I met my wife Melissa, I thought she was perfect. I was so terrified of screwing it up that I even believed something had to be wrong with her for wanting me.” He paused and grinned. “It’s really hard finding the perfect one, Jazz, but what is even harder is believing that someone else thinks you’re the perfect one.”

Jazzmyn looked into Harry’s big green eyes and she knew that wasn’t it. There was something different about Julian, and the little voice inside her head was getting more insistent about staying away from the man.

She glimpsed the clock hanging on the wall. “I really need to get going.” She smiled at Harry. “Thanks for everything, Harry.” She kissed his cheek and started for the elevator doors at the far end of the basement.

“Jazz,” Harry called behind her.

She turned and Harry came across the library to her side.

“Look I’ve got a friend at city hall. He’s in the Historic Homes Division—well, not a division actually, more like a one-man show—but if you want information on that house, Clay is the guy to call.”

“Clay? Do you have a last name?” Jazzmyn questioned.  

“Clay Wallace. Just tell him you’re a friend of mine. He probably knows all about The Satyr House. He knows everything about every historic home in New Orleans.”

Jazzmyn felt her spirits rise a little. “Thanks, Harry.”

“No problem, Jazz.”

Jazzmyn hurried toward the elevators. She pressed the call button and waited for the car to return to the basement, wishing she could isolate what it was about Julian that made her so edgy. Perhaps Harry had been right, and all of her apprehension was just a result of nerves over beginning a new relationship. But Jazzmyn could not recall feeling this way about any other man, so why was it like this with Julian? When the elevator doors finally opened, she uttered a loud sigh. Jazzmyn knew she needed to get to the bottom of this unsettling sensation, and until she learned everything she could about Julian’s past, she would never be able to move ahead with their relationship.

When she stepped inside the elevator car, her father’s voice popped into her head. “The answers are always waiting to be unearthed,” he had told her whenever a perplexing problem appeared in her life. But Jazzmyn had a sneaking suspicion she would not like what she uncovered about Julian, as if the darkness in his uncanny eyes hid a dangerous secret that was never meant to see the light of day.

As the elevator climbed upward to the main lobby, Jazzmyn wondered if it might be best to stop seeing Julian. She played with the satyr figurine about her neck while images of Julian’s smile, laugh, and firm body consumed her. But when her thoughts strayed to the prospect of sex, Jazzmyn became bowled over by an unrelenting burst of desire.

“What in the hell is happening to me?” She reached for the elevator wall, stunned by the voracity of her longing for Julian. “Maybe Ms. Helen was right. I feel like I am becoming his, body and soul.”