Beneath a Blood Red Moon

“You’re senior man on the case,” Daniel pointed out, “but you’re not the only homicide cop in New Orleans. You’ve got good, competent help.” Daniel shook his head. “Unfortunately, our city has had its share of very bad happenings. Think about La Maison Lalaurie. Madame Lalaurie and her physician husband kept a houseful of slaves chained to the walls and they performed the most horrible medical experiments on the poor people. They tortured, maimed, and murdered them—and they were only discovered at their grisly deeds when a fire brought in the city firemen who, in turn, in their horror, brought in the police. The house remains in the French Quarter today; the Lalauries escaped. There was the butchery at the ‘Sultan’s’ house, when the Turk and his entire household were found in pieces. In the late twenties, early thirties, we had the ax murderer. I’m sorry to say that the list goes on and on.”



“That was the past, Dad. And yes, it was horrible. But I’m responsible now. And I’ve got no leads.”



“You’ve got modern forensic science.”



“It doesn’t seem to be helping. It’s taking far too long. And all the modern miracles in the world won’t help if I don’t have a suspect to tie in with the evidence.” Daniel was quiet for a minute. “Sean, for now you’ve got to quit beating your head against the wall.



Unfortunately, lots of killers are never caught.”



Sean set the paper down. “Dad, I will get this guy. This is my city. Nobody kills and cuts up people like this in my city and gets away with it.”



Daniel grinned. “There’s the fighting spirit. You got anything going that isn’t in the papers?” Sean shrugged. “Well, we didn’t let it out in the papers that we found minute drops of blood—which proved to be the victim’s—along the sidewalk. They led directly to the side door of Montgomery Enterprises—then stopped. I mean completely. ”



“Did you investigate the building?”



“Of course.”



“Well?”



“Nothing. We scoured the place with a fine-tooth comb. Not another drop of blood. Nothing.”



“Interesting. Did you meet Miss Montgomery?”



“Yes, she was cooperative, and allowed us to search the premises.”



“And that’s all? You asked to search her property and did so?” Sean lowered his head, grinning. He’d spent about eight years of his life living with a girl named Sophie Holloway. Sophie was pretty, sweet, and vivacious, a Mardi Gras princess. They’d met when they were young, fought, broken up a few times, gotten back together. They’d finally planned to marry when Sophie had discovered she had uterine cancer, and no pleading on his part could convince her that they should marry for the time she had left.



Sophie had been gone nearly six years now. Sean dated. He liked women, liked sex—hell, it was a necessary fact of life, like breathing. But living with someone again was a big step; marriage even bigger.



He hadn’t found the right woman, and his father remained concerned that he was going to die a bachelor, and his illustrious line of Canadys would come to an end.



“Yes, Dad. I asked to search her property, and she gave her permission.” He hesitated. “I also saw her at a jazz club last night, so we had something of a chance to talk. Why?” Daniel smiled. “Oh, I’m curious, I guess.”



“Right. Just curious.”



“Honestly, just curious,” Daniel insisted. “If you look in the old family records, way, way back, a Canady was engaged to a Montgomery. But the marriage never took place. The ‘Miss’ Montgomery involved went to Europe. Another ’Miss’ Montgomery returned years later. The family has been interesting in that none of the women has taken on the surname of her husband. Daughters seem to be the only offspring each generation, and they cling to the Montgomery name.”



“Now that is curious.”



“Becoming more common these days, I’m afraid. Many professional women keep their surnames.



Personally, I like the old concept, when a woman took her husband’s name. And passed it on to her children. But then, the Montgomerys have been a little odd over the years.” He paused, shrugging.



“Downright snooty in a way.”



Sean smiled. “How’s that, Dad?”



“Well, they take off to Europe with their babies, then come back here to make American money.”



“You can’t arrest people for being snooty.”



Daniel grinned. “I wouldn’t suggest anything of the kind. But there have been interesting relationships between the families over the years. Sometime, I’ll show you all the records I have. I wouldn’t mind meeting your Miss Montgomery, though. Her ancestors have been fascinating women.” Daniel hesitated again. “She’s not married, right?”



“No, Dad, she’s not married.”



“Did you like her?”



Sean hesitated, seeing his father’s hopeful expression. Then he relented.



“Yeah. I liked her.”



“Did you ask her out?”



“In a way.”



“Did she accept?”



“Not really.”



Daniel drummed his fingers on the table. “You know, Montgomery Plantation isn’t far from here. Since you’re out, you should take a ride by the place.”



“She isn’t there. I left her in the heart of the Vieux Carre last night.” Daniel’s brow shot up. “You left her?”



Daniel sighed inwardly. “Some of the guys and I escorted her and a few of her friends home. There was a wretched murder that took place yesterday, remember.”



“Ah. Still, you should go by and see Montgomery Plantation.”



“I’ve been by it. And I need to get some work in today.”



“It’s the weekend, Son.”



“Murderers seldom recognize a Monday to Friday nine-to-five schedule. Cops don’t get to, either.”



“But the blood drops led to Miss Montgomery’s building.”



“That they did.”



“So she is at work. And, if I remember right, there’s a smashing painting of one of her forebears right above the grand staircase. If anyone is in residence, you can take a look at the painting and see how the family resemblance has fared over the years. And then again, maybe Miss Montgomery herself is in residence. And if she is, maybe you can ask her out for a barbecue tonight. Then you can grill her in privacy.”



Sean shook his head. “I left her in the city. But maybe I will go for a ride.”



“And if she happens to be there, you will ask her out for dinner, won’t you? Do you know anything about her? What does she like? I do mean steaks on the grill. Maybe she’s a vegetarian. So many women are vegetarians these days. Not that too much fat is good for you, but man was given the teeth to be a carnivore, and it seems to me a body needs a good piece of red meat now and then.”



“Sorry, Dad, when I was with her last night, she had wine and an espresso, so I don’t know what she does and doesn’t eat. But I will go to see her, and I will do my best to convince her she should come to dinner. How’s that?”



“You do that. Try hard, huh?”



Sean arched a brow, somewhat disgruntled to realize that although his father spoke absently, it seemed he thought Sean would have to try very hard to convince a woman to go out with him.



Or maybe it was just because the woman was Maggie Montgomery.



He was suddenly very intent on seeing her himself.



The store officially opened at 10:00 a.m.: Allie Bouchet always came in by 9:30 at the latest. She made coffee, and spruced up any little thing that might have been left out of order. She was extremely proud of the shop.



Nearing fifty, she was an attractive woman, widowed four years now. Her hair had gone white at a very early age; she tinted it to a soft silver that went perfectly with her gray eyes and still-beautiful complexion.



She was lean and trim, the result of a lifetime of moderation. She had been raised in a traditional mold, and was always a lady.



Therefore, though she was quite startled by the man who suddenly appeared—sitting on a corner of the rear oak desk that served as a cash station—she remembered her manners. Despite her annoyance.



“Why, sir! You did surprise me. I’m afraid that the store hasn’t opened yet. I’m sorry, foolish me. I usually do remember to lock the door while I’m preparing for the day to come. I do apologize if I’ve caused you any inconvenience, and I suppose you are welcome to stay—”



“Why, ma’am, I’m so sorry to have caused you distress,” her visitor said, his voice a deep, soft drawl that was disturbingly ... sensual... and yet lulling at the same time. He was young— somewhere right in a manly and mature prime of life. He wore black slacks and a fashionable black knit pullover. He was deeply tanned, had very dark hair, and fascinating gold eyes that were hypnotic and ... snakelike. He was very handsome, but rugged and suave.



How rude, she told herself.



“Could I get you some coffee perhaps? My associate, Mrs. Gema Grayson, arrives soon, and then one of us can certainly help you with whatever you’re looking for, sir.” He smiled, a deep, inviting smile. He hadn’t said a thing that wasn’t just as polite as pie, and yet ... it seemed as if he was somehow inviting her closer.



Silly old bat! she accused herself. He was probably fifteen years younger than she was, an eligible young cuss if she’d ever seen one, and it was most unlikely he was coming on to an older woman in her situation.



“Coffee ... yes. Coffee would be nice,” he told her.



“I do select and grind my own beans,” she assured him briskly, glad of something to do, and aware that his eyes followed her to the little wicker table that sat center of the dressing rooms where she kept her coffee service. “And I don’t keep it on the heat—just as soon as it has properly perked, I see to it that my coffee goes into a carafe and is kept warm and just perfectly brewed.” She poured a cup and turned around.