Blood on the Bayou: A Cafferty & Quinn Novella (3 page)

His smile widened before noticing his friend’s stare. Larue was studying him. When they’d been partners, Larue had known Quinn had something of an extra sense, and Larue wasn’t the kind to fight, deny, or question it. In fact, Larue didn’t want to know what lurked beneath the surface. He just wanted whatever bad was happening to stop. So he tended to bring Quinn in on the unusual stuff, which allowed Quinn to be both a private investigator and have the police on his side.

“You can help?” Larue asked.

 
“How long have we both lived around here?” he asked Larue.

“Lifetimes.”

“And have you ever seen a
rougarou
?”

“Look, I’m not you,” Larue said. “I don’t have the gift, or whatever it is. Anyway, the Pearl River guys are working the murder. Two fellows I know fairly well, Hayden Beauchamp and Dirk Deerfield. Good detectives. Beauchamp called me this morning. The tour directors and the guests on the boat were all out of New Orleans. I’ve got a car ready to head out so you can meet with them and see the murder site, if you think you can help.”

He pointed at his old friend. “Say what you will, but we’ve heard the legends for years on a
rougarou.”

“I get it. That’s why you’re going to need to be on this,” Larue softly said. “Did you hear what I said? Head bashed in, throat ripped out. That’s only happened once before that I know about, and, of course, you know about it too.”

Quinn winced and nodded.

He didn’t believe that a
rougarou
had wandered into the French Quarter to jump around the guests’ windows. But he did remember the murders that had taken place out at Honey Swamp when they’d been kids.

“There’s more,” Larue said.

He waited.

Larue pointed to the two women in his office. “There were drops of blood on the balcony where they’re staying. So far, we know it’s human and that’s about it. We have it as a top priority, but we don’t have any DNA results back yet. It all sounded like a prank when they walked in here. I don’t have your ability with the strange or whatever, but I do have a cop’s sixth sense. And something tells me that this is going to get worse, and weirder, before it’s all over. Will you talk to these women for me, please, Quinn? God help us, we might have been kids back then, and it’s not like we don’t still have our fair share of pretty awful crime, but this could be like last time.”

And he knew what that meant.

Serial killings.

“We have to jump on this,” Larue said. “Or the whole damned bayou, and maybe this town itself, will run red with blood again.”

* * * *

“I’m opening up,” Danni Cafferty called to her friend Billie McDougal.

She walked across the first floor of the old house at the corner of Royal Street that she’d inherited from her father, unlocking the door of the shop portion and flipping over the OPEN sign.

She was smiling.

It was going to be an exceptionally good Friday because she couldn’t wait for the night.

They, meaning herself, Quinn, Bo Ray Thompkins, Billie, Father Ryan and Natasha, also know as Mistress LaBelle, were going to get together as soon as they all closed up for the day. Also, it was going to be a night when they could bundle up a bit. New Orleans was actually chilly
in January. Even the mules drawing the carriages filled with tourists seemed to enjoy the respite from the heat, clopping down the streets with what seemed like a hop in their steps.

They were planning an evening of great food and music. Not necessarily an all-nighter, which was easily possible in a city that never slept. Her shop, the Cheshire Cat, would be open tomorrow, a Saturday, but not until eleven. And Quinn, a might-have-been-guitar-player, was scheduled to sit in with friends down at a bar on Chartres Street. She loved when he played. He wasn’t quite as good as many of their friends, who spent just about all of their waking hours playing their guitars. But he could have been if that’d been his goal. He was a natural and he loved it.

And she loved Quinn.

Go figure
.
When he first strutted into her life she’d thought him an arrogant hunk. She’d hated the fact that Angus Cafferty working with Quinn had been a secret her father had kept from her.

But things were different now.

And it wasn’t just physical, though he was near the perfect man, lean of muscle, all six-four of him. It was that she knew that even when he’d been hero-worshipped by kids as a star athlete, he might have been oblivious but never cruel. She’d thought him the biggest ass the world had ever known when they first met. But eventually, she learned, after her father’s death and through a difficult and deadly case involving the theft of a special statue, that he was far from it. He’d changed and become a man with a dedication to the world and those around them.

A person even her father had trusted.

Sure, the beginning hadn’t been easy, and life still made things a challenge between them. But there was something that made the challenges worth it, and sleeping with him every night certainly helped ease away the day’s dilemmas.

“I’m ready,” Billie called to her, grinning.

His words trilled.

Billie had come to America with her father from Scotland. And though he’d been in the States for years, his rich Scottish burr hadn’t faded. Tall and gaunt with a thick thatch of white hair, Billie could have easily stood in for Riff Raff in a performance of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
. He was as dear to her as a man could be, her self-appointed guardian after her father’s death, and the one who, with Quinn, had finally allowed her to see just what her father had really
collected
through the years.

“I’ll be bringing me pipes,” Billie assured. “And don’t roll your eyes at me, lass. I’ll just see if I can’t be part of one or two songs.”

“I love it when you play your pipes,” Danni said. “It’s just that the bar is small and bagpipes are loud. But it’s great to have them.”

Billie laughed. “Hey, now. I just want you to know, Miss Danni Cafferty, I made good money in me younger years standing on the streets with me hat out. You should have seen the folks throwing bills in it when I played.”

“Maybe they were paying you to stop,” Danni teased.

“Ah, lass.”

“Kidding, Billie. I love it when you play.”

“Here’s hoping Quinn does make it back,” he said, “and that he’s not starting into some fresh trouble with Detective Larue. I’m looking forward to some fun times this evening.”

“Don’t worry. Quinn said he’d be back in plenty of time, and we’ll head right out at closing.”

The front door opened quickly and a tall man entered.

Who she recognized.

David Fagin.

She greeted him, curious because of his anxious manner.

David was an old friend. They’d gone to high school together, one of those magnet schools for the arts. She’d been in visual art and David had focused on theater. They’d bumped into each other a few times over the last three or four years, and he’d come to her father’s funeral. They’d talked about the changes in their lives, their plans and dreams, and she recalled how he’d been excited about his business ventures. She’d told him that she was happy too, still working as an artist, running her father’s shop.

David had dropped by a dozen times, but today he seemed to not be on a buying excursion.

“Danni, I need your help.”

Billie stepped up beside her, ready to listen to whatever it was their visitor was about to say. She noticed how David shifted on his feet and kept looking around, as if someone were after him.

“Danni, I’ve heard… There are rumors. We’re talking a life or death situation.” His eyes focused on hers. “My life.”

She swallowed hard and felt a sense of dread. She wanted to push David back out the door and pretend he’d never come. Every once in a while it was still difficult to reconcile all that had happened in the last several years. She’d thought her father the most wonderful man in the world. Tall, sturdy, and gruff, the perfect Highlander with his rich accent, booming voice, strength, and kindness. He’d traveled the world. On buying trips. Only after his death had she learned that they had been anything but.

Oh yes, Angus Cafferty had been a collector.

At the Cheshire Cat they sold local art, jewelry, clothing, and some more unusual items. Angus had especially loved unique pieces, one-of-a-kind carved masks, Egyptian trinkets, religious artifacts, custom items. One of the display cases had been created from an authentic Egyptian sarcophagus. A display in the left window featured a Victorian coffin, a turn-of-the-century mannequin, and a 19th century vampire hunting kit. The right window held local lore. A stunning display from the so-called Count D’Oro, an 18th century aristocrat who murdered numerous young women and dumped their bodies in the swamp. Among them, a beautiful, young witch who had cursed him at her death. Legend noted that he’d been a cruel man whose soul had been consumed by the devil, and only when he’d been caught by vigilantes and then burned alive in the swamp himself had his evil been laid to rest.

But Angus had also acquired the
dangerous.

Items best described as having evil upon them.

And as the inheritor of the business, she now was their owner.

“Okay, David, let’s have a chat,” she said.

A nod to Billie and he understood to cover the store. She led David through the shop, past her studio, and opened the kitchen door where Wolf, Quinn’s giant mixed breed dog, bounded toward her, then let out a loud woof at the sight of a stranger.

“He’s a friend,” she told the dog, then turned to David. “Don’t be afraid of Wolf. He’s a good dog. If he thought Quinn or I were in danger he’d rip into someone like hell on wheels, but as soon as he knows you’re a friend he’s like a puppy.”

“Hey, Wolf,” David said. It seemed like there was a catch in his throat when he said the dog’s name.

“Sit, please.” She motioned to the small breakfast nook. “Coffee?”

“In lieu of a morning shot of whiskey? Sure.”

He took a seat as indicated but still looked jittery enough to shoot through the ceiling.

Danni poured coffee as David surveyed the kitchen.

“I got a note,” he said.

She laid two cups of coffee on the kitchen table and sat to join him.

His fingers drummed nervously. He looked at her, his dark eyes haunted and serious. “From the
rougarou
.”

She studied him and could tell he was serious. Quinn was a licensed private investigator. And, apparently, during the years she’d been blissfully naïve, her father, and the shop, had gained a certain hush-hush following, a place where people turned when they needed help with strange, life-threatening events. She wished Quinn was here now. But Detective Larue had called him that morning and he’d gone in to help with whatever Jake wanted. He wouldn’t be back until early evening.

“The
rougarou
killed a man last night, Danni. Killed him horribly, about a minute before we reached him. There was still blood in the water. His head was bashed in, skull cracked like an egg, throat torn out.” He drew a deep breath. “Bitten out. By savage teeth
.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the horror, and she could only imagine the sight he’d seen.

“The
rougarou
?” she asked.

Her window display dealt with the
rougarou
, a monster said to consume the souls of the evil and turn them into killing machines.

David curled his hands around his mug, seemingly baffled and defeated. “I just heard myself. I can’t believe what I said. And I’m from that damned swamp. I grew up along the Pearl River. Yeah, we base the business here in the city, and my apartment now is just off Esplanade on Bourbon, but I know that swamp. I’ve trapped gators, caught catfish as a summer job, worked crawfish nets. I know the bayou.”

She’d always liked David. He’d majored in theater, but she’d always thought he might have turned into a playwright. He loved to tell stories. Had a flair for the dramatic, which he’d used to make a good living with the tour company he’d started with Julian Henri. There, his love of local lore and dramatic talents had combined perfectly. She knew that he and Julian had accumulated raves from almost every online travel site.

“
Rougarou
. I think the thing is real,” he muttered. “I didn’t at first. I mean, it was all going so well. The
rougarou
was a legend told to scare kids, to make us be safe, to make us behave. All the stories about the Good Witch and Count D’Oro. They’re just that. Stories. Last night, the tour boat was full and we were going to make some serious money. We’re booked for weeks to come. But I don’t know now. I’ve put the tours on hold and returned the fees paid. We were telling the tales, talking about the area, working the group, and then we found a dead man.”

She’d not seen nor heard any of the local news for the day. Most of the time Billie or Bo Ray managed the shop. She was there often, but thanks to them she could focus more on her studio and be with Quinn. More time to deal with problems just like this one since, after all, she had
inherited the Cheshire Cat and all that came with it. Now she realized that Jake Larue had probably called Quinn because of the murder—even if it had occurred way out in Honey Swamp.

“David, you do understand that whoever killed this man may have been aware of our local legends and just used one to their advantage.”

She could barely remember the details of when the last bayou murders had taken place. Understandable, given she was only six. But it was as if history was repeating itself. History from long ago.

And from not so long ago.

He looked at her, his thoughts apparently running parallel with hers. “You remember, don’t you? It was the same thing. Those young women out in the swamp. Three of them. And they never did catch the killer. They blamed it on the
rougarou
. The local people did, anyway. The press dubbed him the Wolfman Killer because of what happened to the throats. That was twenty years ago. Then the killing stopped. And now?” His voice carried anguish. “What else could it be?”