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BJ Donovan learned her debut novel had received favorable reviews. It was just the kind of encouragement she needed to proceed with her plan of a continuation of the Suite Sue story.
With so much going on in her life now, she’d nearly forgotten the disturbing side of her life. For quite some time, there’d been a number of hang-up calls, at her home and even at her restaurant. She felt certain it was Jacob calling. Felt equally sure that it was not Roger, as he had respected her decision to part company.
Had Frank received any of those calls?
The last call, four days ago, there was nothing but the first three words of a song lyric. “I’m missing you.” The same song happened to be playing on her radio at the same time. She changed the station to jazz music. Continued printing out inserts of a new entrée for her menus: baked Italian eggplant parmesan.
She’d already ended the chapter on Jacob.
If he had any real intentions of harming me he’d have already done it.
Her only friend, Cyndi Nortman, had recently returned to New Orleans. Over lunch she confided in Cyndi about Jacob. She needed to tell somebody about him in the event something awful did happen to her.
When BJ was eighteen and had fully recovered from a car accident, she met Cyndi while working in the same store at the mall. At that time, BJ had also become an assistant to a legendary chef, plus a part-time waitress, and she had signed up for culinary school.
A few months later Cyndi abruptly quit her job, and moved away to Memphis, Tennessee.
BJ was the only other person who knew a very intoxicated Cyndi Nortman had hit and killed a pedestrian, and then fled the scene of the crime before the police arrived. The information was damaging enough that she was positive Cyndi would never betray her trust and tell Frank what she’d been up to.
Tell your secrets to a servant and you make them your master.
* * *
BJ put on the clean white chef jacket she found in her private closet next to the kitchen in her restaurant. Tied her apron. Twisted her ponytail up into a bun. Washed her hands. Feeding dough to a pasta maker she remembered something dumb she said to Jacob in an email, a long time ago.
He told her he was thinking a lot about doing a full 180-degree turn and chucking everything in his life, including his wife. His plan was to move to Hawaii to open up a cruise service strictly for the rich and famous. He wanted Sue to strap on a teeny bikini, and do her best to separate old men from their old money.
In her reply she didn’t point out that he’d forgotten about his children. She simply told him that if they never got together she hoped he’d still pursue his dream.
He laughed out loud. LOL, he wrote.
Reading his reaction to her message she felt foolish for all of five seconds.
The only thing that mattered was that Frank never heard about Jacob. But if he ever did, she finally had a ready-made lie for how she’d met the guy when she was doing research for a story.
I hope Jacob drowned in his ocean.
“Take over for me, Leo,” she told her newly promoted chef.
BJ fixed a cup of coffee, brought it to a bistros style table in the corner of the kitchen. Once again, she turned over The Times newspaper and found her face staring up at her. A brief article about her upcoming appearance at a local bookstore accompanied the photo.
* * *
BJ turned the key, pumped the gas pedal.
Why won’t the damn thing start?
She gripped the steering wheel with both hands believing she had the strength to snap it in two. Frank promised he’d come by and take her car to get it serviced before the book signing.
Obviously, he didn’t.
“Dammit.”
So typical of him to spoil things for her.
Before the signing, she wanted to roam around the bookstore and observe anybody and everybody who showed an interest in her novel.
“I can’t if I’m late, dammit,” she said, grumpily.
Calm down. The bookstore is only a taxi drive away.
Her eyes sought the digital clock on the dashboard. Twelve-fifteen.
She closed her eyes. Concentrated on the car. Whispered a plea to the Ancient Ones, near and far. The engine roared to life.
* * *
Jacob picked up the newspaper on his computer desk. He’d left the paper folded to the page with her photo. In a couple of hours he’d finally meet her face to face.
If it hadn’t been for the title of her debut novel, Suite Sue, along with the name Donovan, he probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to the article.
Tearing his gaze away from BJ Donovan’s pretty, bespectacled face photographed a short distance from where she’s standing in the shade of a large tree draped with Spanish moss, he skimmed over the flattering article again about the local author. He guessed the newspaper had a good reason for not mentioning Vieux Carré, her place of employment.
He re-read the bold print: Book signing. Wharf’s End Bookstore. Saturday 1-4 PM.
“Today.”
In his bedroom closet, he brought down the navy blue sports jacket he’d purchased some time ago just for their first real meeting. Had a last look in the mirror. Smiled again over the good fortune of having the day off without having to ask for it.
Jacob drove his own car to the bookstore, confident the department would frown on him for using an official police vehicle for unofficial business. He timed his arrival to forty minutes before her session ended.
Interested in her, not her book, he barely looked at her when he bypassed her signing table near the entrance of the store. He entered the café. Bought a coffee and a praline. Chose a table with a clear view of her. With so much blond hair covering the sides of her face, and tinted reading glasses hiding her eyes, there wasn’t much of her to see. But it was she, all right. Exactly the same as her photo. He was suddenly curious if it was the same photo she had taken to the park? He’ll have to ask her. Through mirrored sunglasses, he observed her with ease.
Jacob wrinkled his forehead. Is she wearing a wig?
To avoid unwanted attention, he moved his head in another direction every so often, pretending a local author doing a book signing was of no concern to him. His eyes, however, never wandered far from her.
Physically speaking, this was the closest he’d ever gotten to her. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something familiar about her.
Was it because she’s a lefthander, too?
Was it the manner in which she slanted her head, the way he would’ve, just before asking the name of each and every autograph seeker?
Was it how she seemed detached, perhaps having more important matters on her mind?
Or was BJ Donovan just some smug writer with a big ego who thinks she’s entitled to all of this attention?
Jacob shrugged without meaning to, quickly changed positions to cover up the shrug.
“Mwen grangou,” he mumbled when his stomach growled. “Very hungry.” He had a big bite of the sweet candy patty. Sucked the last of his coffee out of the cup.
BJ thanked the store manager. Purchased the last available copy of her book, and tucked it inside a large handbag. Exited the building by way of the main entrance.
Jacob hurried to his car.
Followed her to the luxurious Armand Hotel.
* * *
BJ dined on Creole onion soup, tossed green salad with bleu cheese, and blackened redfish.
At a distant table Jacob had, unknowingly, ordered the same meal.
After dinner, a glass of brandy took the edge off of not being able to smoke in that restaurant. He glanced her way, interested in knowing if she had put it together that they were at the same hotel, he had told her about in an email, where he wanted to bring her for a night of rough ‘n’ ready sex followed by more sex? The place was classy yet affordable.
BJ paid for her food with cash. Entered the adjoining lounge.
Jacob tried to wrap his head around calling her BJ now, and not Sue. Questioned why he was hesitant about really meeting her in person.