That Old Devil Moon

By Anne Logan

Women Who Dare

Intrigue, Danger and Passion

One summer in New Orleans

Madeline Johnson is determined to uncover the truth about her brother. His last words a cry for help on Maddie's answering machine contradict what the New Orleans police are telling her. The cops seem in a real hurry to close the case, and the one detective who may be able to help is about to go on vacation.

Alex Batiste's vacation plans are set. His daughter's come to stay with him and, along with the usual teenage problems, the girl encouraged by Alex's ex–wife has a bad attitude toward her father. So police work is the furthest thing from Alex's mind.

But it's not that easy to get the beautiful Maddie out of his mind. Apart from her persistence and her unwavering belief in her brother, traits he admires, she seems to know all the right things to say and do around his daughter. Now helping Maddie is becoming more than simply doing his job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460879108

Anne Logan

Anne Logan is the pen name of Barbara Colley, an award-winning, bestselling author of several romance novels that have been published in over 16 foreign languages. A native of Louisiana, Barbara has lived there all of her life. She was born in the town of Ringgold and grew up in Minden where she worked on her high-school newspaper, and later, on the staff of the Minden Press and Herald. At that time, though, she never really dreamed of becoming a writer. In fact, she attended Louisiana Tech University and Nicholls State University as a music education major. Her dream then was to become a band director. Instead, she fell in love, married and moved with her husband, David, to a small suburb of New Orleans. Over 30 years, three children and six precious grandchildren later, Barbara and her husband still live there.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

MADDIE…MADDIE! Oh, God, where are you? I have to talk to you. Call me at home immediately!

Madeline Johnson stared at the answering machine. As each of the next two messages from her brother echoed his first frantic one, her nerves stretched tighter.

With a shaky hand, she reached down, hit the rewind button, then quickly punched out the longdistance phone number of Michael’s home in New Orleans. As she waited, question after question swirled in her head. What was wrong? Why did he sound so desperate? Had there been an accident of some kind? Was he sick or hurt?

Four rings later, his answering machine clicked on. This is Michael. I can’t answer the phone, but leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.

Maddie cleared her throat. Come on, Michael. Answer the damn phone. She waited, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the countertop. Guess you’re not in, she finally said, unable to disguise the anxiety in her voice. Pausing, she glanced at the ornate marcasite watch on her wrist—a gift from her brother for her thirty-second birthday. It’s sixfifteen, Saturday evening. I’ll be home all night, so call.

She hung up the phone slowly, but continued to stare at it, willing it to ring. Finally, with a defeated shrug, she walked into the kitchen. Maybe a warm cup of chamomile tea would help relax the tight knot that gripped her stomach.

Besides, she thought as she searched the cabinet, knowing her brother, she was probably getting all worked up over nothing. Claiming that her temper was as hot as her hair was red, Michael had always enjoyed making more of a situation than there really was, just to get a reaction out of her.

In her mind, she could still hear his little-boy singsong voice. Mad Maddie…Maddie’s mad... And she could still picture him as a scrawny six-year-old racing around the sofa, taunting his irate ten-year-old sister.

Smiling at the memory, she reached for the kettle on the back burner of the stove and filled it with water.

Her smile faded as she shut off the faucet. Michael’s voice had sounded desperate. What if something terrible had happened? Shaking her head, Maddie set the kettle back onto the stove and turned on the burner. Nothing had happened to her brother, she told herself firmly.

The sudden, strident ring of the phone made her jump. Michael, she thought. Maybe now she would get an explanation.

But the caller was her friend, Tara Jones.

Hi, Maddie. When did you get home?

Just a few minutes—

Never mind. Did you get the job?

No. ‘We’re terribly sorry, Ms. Johnson, Maddie drawled, imitating the man who had interviewed her in Memphis. ‘But there just aren’t any openings for backup singers right now. Maybe in a few weeks.’

Yeah, right, Tara said dryly.

Both women chimed in unison, Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

Tara released a sigh of frustration. I thought for sure this time would be different, she said. I just hate that I sent you on another wild-goose chase. Tara was an audio engineer for Vibration Recording Studio. She’d heard about a job opening in Memphis, and had called Maddie immediately.

It’s not your fault, Tara. You can’t help it if Judd Cameron has blacklisted me. The bastard is out to make my life miserable.

Yeah, well, I still think you should get yourself a lawyer and sue the pants off that aging Romeo. Just because he’s the hottest country singer of the decade doesn’t give him the right to sexually harass everyone in a skirt. For Pete’s sake, the man’s married with a passel of kids, to boot.

Maddie rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Sue him, right. And have the media hang me out to dry. No thanks. Without any witnesses or proof, it’s his word against mine. Besides, we’ve been over this before, and you know how I feel—

Yeah, yeah. What will be will be…something will come along, and all those other Pollyanna cliches you believe in. But you could be wrong. What if—

Tara!

"Okay, okay. So what are you going to do? I don’t mean to pry, but how are you fixed for money?"

I’m okay for a while. Maddie tried to ignore the hollow feeling in her stomach. If worse comes to worse, I can always go back to waitressing.

Now that would be a waste. You should be singing.

Hey, don’t knock it. It’s honest work and it paid the bills and put food on the table until just a few years ago. Besides, sooner or later, the old Romeo is going to get caught and caught good. What goes around, comes around.

Let’s just hope he gets his before you go broke, Tara quipped. So how about meeting me for lunch tomorrow?

After agreeing on a time and place, Maddie hung up.

Glancing around her home, she thought about what Tara had said. Unless she got work and got it soon, she would have to sell the six-room condo it had taken her years to afford. Then what would she do with all of the treasures she’d painstakingly collected, she wondered—her numbered wildlife prints, the bentwood rocker she’d spent hours restoring to its former beauty, the hundred-year-old massive, hand-carved bed she’d found at an estate auction and the other pieces of furniture that gave her so much pleasure?

The swelling whistle of the teakettle was the only answer she heard.

LATE THAT NIGHT after Maddie had unpacked the suitcase she’d brought on the futile trip to Memphis, she took a long leisurely bath. After pulling on a cotton gown, she padded barefoot to the kitchen counter and tried one last time to contact her brother. Seconds later, she hung up.

Sighing, she switched on the radio, then poured herself a glass of milk. With the romantic strains of an old love song following her, she wandered toward the French doors that led out onto a small, enclosed patio. Once on the patio and settled in a wicker rocking chair, she sipped her milk and listened to the familiar tune.

It was a warm August night. Maddie inhaled deeply, enjoying the poignant, spicy scent of roses blooming on the one bush she had planted.

Bewitched was the name of the hybrid tea rose. Maddie knew nothing about growing roses; she had bought the plant on a whim, because of its name and the delicate pink color of its blooms…and because roses would always hold a special significance for her…

Don’t cry, Maddie. Here, I picked you a flower for your birthday.

Michael’s grubby little hand had been covered with scratches and several dark spots that looked like dried blood. At the time, she had figured he’d probably stolen the rose from their neighbor’s garden. The wilted pink flower had been the only gift she’d received for her twelfth birthday. Her mother had forgotten, but her little brother hadn’t.

Maddie reached out and stroked one of the velvety blossoms on her lone rosebush. It still surprised her that the thing was surviving, just as it still surprised her that she and Michael had survived their haphazard, turbulent childhood.

Michael…

Why had he called? And where was he?

THE FIRST THING Maddie did after she opened her eyes the following morning was reach for the phone. The moment she heard her brother’s recorded message click on, she slammed the receiver back onto the cradle. Dammit, where are you? she grumbled.

She glanced at her watch. Since it was Sunday, it would be noon before her brother opened his store. She’d just have to wait and call there. He was half owner of Crescent Antiques. Surely someone at the store would know where he was.

At a quarter to twelve, Maddie was back on the phone. After the third ring, a woman’s voice answered, Crescent Antiques. How may I help you?

This is Madeline Johnson, she said. I’d like to speak to my brother, Michael, please. A long silence hummed over the line while Maddie held her breath. Hello? Are you still there?

Er…ah…Ms. Johnson, he’s not in. The woman’s voice was barely a whisper.

When do you expect him?

Again there was silence, and Maddie felt her patience growing thin.

Oh, dear…

Maddie frowned. Why did the woman suddenly sound so distressed?

Ah, he—he won’t be in today.

Look, I received several rather strange messages from him, and I really need to get in touch with him. Is there somewhere else I can reach him?

Oh—

When Maddie heard the firm, unmistakable click on the line, her pulse quickened.

Hello? Hello! She jerked the receiver away from her ear and glared at it. Had the woman actually hung up on her?

Maddie tightened her grip on the hard plastic receiver. Now, Maddie, don’t jump to conclusions here, she muttered. We were probably disconnected.

She took a deep breath in an effort to calm herself. If at first you don’t succeed— Maddie hit the redial button. Several musical beeps sounded, then a busy signal buzzed in her ear. Damn! She pressed down the switch hook.

The woman was trying to call her back, she decided. But seconds later, instead of the phone ringing, the doorbell chimes pealed.

Now what? She dropped the receiver onto its cradle, marched to the front door and peered through the peephole. Two men dressed in suits were standing on her porch. Who is it? she called out.

The man closest to the door answered. Police, ma’am. We’d like to talk to you.

A sudden chill raced through Maddie. Telling herself that a visit from the police didn’t necessarily mean trouble, she willed herself to relax. But old fears were hard to overcome, and all Maddie could think of were all those other times, years ago, that the police had come knocking at the door.

Stop it! You ‘re a grown woman, not a scared little girl.

I’d like to see some ID, please.

The same man slipped a badge out of his breast pocket, flipped it open and held it in front of the peephole.

Okay, just a minute. With trembling fingers, Maddie unlatched the door, pulled it open and did a quick study of both men. The gray-haired one with the badge was of average height, older than his companion—she guessed midfifties—and he had a kindly, fatherly look about him.

But it was the other officer who gave her pause. There was a quality about him that no one would ever mistake for being either kindly or fatherly. Tough was the word that came to mind. Not a man to cross. Maddie figured him to be not much older than her own thirty-three years.

It wasn’t until the gray-haired policeman cleared his throat that Maddie realized she’d been staring. Feeling more uncomfortable by the minute, she directed her attention back to the other man.

Is something wrong, Officer?

Are you Ms. Madeline Johnson?

Maddie nodded.

May we come in?

For a split second, Maddie hesitated. Then she stepped aside. Sure. She motioned for them to come inside. What’s this all about?

Ms. Johnson, I’m Detective Fred Smith with the coroner’s office here in Nashville, and this is Alex Batiste with the New Orleans Police Department.

Maddie jerked her head toward Alex Batiste. New Orleans…Michael. She felt her knees grow weak.

Suddenly, Alex Batiste looked distinctly uncomfortable. I’m afraid I have some bad news, ma’am, he said gruffly. Maybe you’d better sit down.

As Maddie shook her head, declining his suggestion, her heart began to race and her vision blurred. No…no, I don’t want to hear this, she thought.

I’m sorry. There’s no easy way to say this, but your brother is dead. I—

Dead! Your brother is dead...

Stunned, all Maddie could do was stare at the policeman. She felt as if every drop of blood had suddenly drained from her body. And except for the detective’s words still screaming through her mind, time and space ceased to exist.

Ms. Johnson…ma’am? Maybe you’d better sit—

But Maddie didn’t hear him—couldn’t hear him. It was her worst nightmare come true, too terrible to comprehend or believe. No, she whispered, shaking her head. He can’t be.

But the grave, pitying look on the detective’s face belied her denial. And as the terrible truth finally broke through the shocking numbness that had momentarily held her paralyzed, Maddie felt a rush of emotion so intense that she reeled from the impact. Then a great gulf of darkness crept around the edges of her vision, and the last thing she saw was Alex Batiste reaching out to her.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN MADDIE opened her eyes, she was lying on the sofa with a damp washcloth on her forehead.

She blinked hard to clear her vision and spotted a pair of dark, watchful eyes staring at her. The detective from New Orleans—Alex…Alex Batiste was his name, she remembered—was perched on the edge of the sofa, next to her.

She slid her gaze toward the end of the sofa where the other man, the detective from Nashville, stood. His expressive face held a wealth of sympathy.

Michael’s dead…

Maddie made an attempt to sit up, and the New Orleans detective retrieved the washcloth.

Dead…dead…

She jammed her fist against her mouth, but couldn’t hold back the sobs that escaped. She squeezed her eyes shut, but tears streamed down her cheeks, anyway. And inside, a bleak, heavy emptiness spread, an emptiness that threatened to consume her very soul.

Michael’s dead…dead…

He can’t be. Not her Michael, not her handsome, full-of-life brother. Flashes of him swept through her mind—Michael as a chubby, angel-faced toddler… Michael as a skinny, towheaded boy missing his two front teeth…Michael as a gawky adolescent with peach fuzz on his face…and Michael grown, a tall, good-looking young man.

It was a joke, a cruel joke…it had to be, she thought. He had just called her…she had just heard his voice…he had left messages on her answering machine…

No! No! No! she cried, her anguished voice an alien sound to her ears. It couldn’t be true. But with heartbreaking clarity, she knew it was. The grim expression on both policemen’s faces left no room for doubt.

Then she felt powerful hands—Alex Batiste’s hands—roughly clasp her shoulders and pull her to a sitting position.

Come on now, he soothed, his gruff voice almost a whisper. Get a grip on yourself.

He released her shoulders and took hold of her hands. Fleetingly it registered that he had moved closer and that he smelled of musk and male. But more important was the sound of his voice as he continued murmuring firm but comforting and reassuring words.

Seconds passed…minutes, as he gently patted her hands while deep, gut-wrenching sobs racked her body. And when she was spent, and only exhaustion and numbness remained, she gradually grew more aware of her surroundings and conscious of the fact that he was still holding her hands.

Maddie was neither ashamed nor embarrassed by her grief, but she sorely regretted her total loss of control in front of strangers. Gathering what was left of her dignity, she pulled away from Alex, and slid over to the end of the sofa.

Here, he said, handing her the washcloth. Wipe your face and blow your nose, and you’ll feel better.

Better? she thought. If only it were that easy. Leaning on the arm of the sofa, she tucked her legs to the side beneath her and accepted the damp cloth. But inside she felt empty…so damned empty.

She wiped her face and looked at Alex. When— She cleared her throat, and clutching the washcloth tightly, she tried again. Wh-when did it happen?

Three nights ago—Thursday evening.

Thursday evening, she repeated silently. She had left for Memphis early Thursday morning, so that meant that Michael had called sometime between her leaving and the time that he had…Maddie… oh, God, where are you? I have to talk to you immediately! Her brother’s message played through her mind like a broken record. She hadn’t imagined the fear or the urgency in his voice.

Maddie swallowed hard. How did he—how did it happen?

As before, Alex Batiste looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he maintained steady eye contact with her as if gauging what he should say and how he should say it. When he averted his gaze to stare straight ahead, Maddie knew that she wasn’t going to like what she was about to hear.

Your brother was seeing a woman named Caroline St. Pierre, a prominent socialite.

Maddie nodded. Although she had never met Caroline, Michael had talked about her incessantly.

He caught her out with another man, he continued. They argued, and it’s believed that in a fit of jealousy, he shot her then turned the gun on himself.

Maddie gasped. Caroline was dead, too! Killed by Michael? That’s impossible! she blurted out, glaring first at Alex Batiste, then at the older detective.

Fred Smith’s expression was grim. I know this is a shock, but you have to understand—

Maddie vehemently shook her head. "No! You have to understand. She turned back to the New Orleans detective. There is no way my brother would do such a thing. Michael loved Caroline and he would never hurt her or anyone else. He abhorred violence of any kind."

She could tell from his patient, patronizing demeanor that what she was saying wasn’t making a dent in his thick head. But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. Experience had taught her to never back down from cops. "My brother loved life. For years, he’s dreamed of running his own business, and just recently his dream came true. He became part owner of an antique store. He’s been happier in the past few months than I’ve ever known him to be. So why on earth would he kill himself when everything was finally going his way?

There’s been a mistake made, she continued. You’ve made a mistake, and I’ll be damned if I let you smear my brother’s name like this.

Alex Batiste held up his hands. Whoa, now. Just hold on. The case hasn’t been closed yet, and I’m not saying that we don’t make mistakes, but there are witnesses.

Maddie’s eyes widened in disbelief. You mean there are people who actually saw this happen? And they just stood by and watched?

No, not exactly, he hedged. There are people who saw your brother and the woman arguing in a bar after he’d caught her dancing with another man. And later, when they were found, there was other conclusive evidence—the way their bodies were positioned, and the fact that the gun was still in your brother’s hand. Traces of powder burns were found on his hand, so it’s a sure bet that he fired the weapon, first killing her then turning the gun on himself.

Maddie stared at the detective. Was it possible? she wondered, again recalling her brother’s frantic messages. Could Michael have been so distraught over Caroline that he…Was that why he had left those desperate messages? Had they been a cry for help?

Maddie pushed the traitorous thoughts out of her mind. There had to be another reason. No, never! Her voice rose. I don’t care what you think you found or what the hell you concluded, you can just look again, she cried. I’m telling you, my brother wouldn’t do it. He just wouldn’t… Her voice cracked and she suddenly realized that she was screaming at the man, the very same man who had tried to comfort her only minutes before.

She closed her eyes and reached up to rub her throbbing temples. I’m sorry, she whispered. I didn’t mean to—it’s just that—

Don’t apologize, he said gruffly. You have every right to be upset.

Maddie took a deep breath. No matter what anyone said, she would never believe that Michael was capable of murdering someone. As for the idea that he’d committed suicide, the whole thing was ludicrous.

Digging deep to find the strength she needed, she sat up straight. I—I guess I need to make some arrangements—some funeral arrangements. Since my brother loved New Orleans, loved living there, I think that’s where he’d want to be buried.

Alex Batiste nodded. Is there someone I can call, a relative or friend who could come over and stay with you for a while?

Maddie knew Tara would be glad to stay with her, but at the moment, she didn’t want to face anyone. All she wanted was to be left alone. No, she said quietly. No family…There’s no one.

With her admission, the older detective shifted uncomfortably and looked away, staring toward the window, but Alex Batiste kept his gaze steady, his face impassive, as if guessing that the last thing she wanted was pity.

Do you intend to drive down or fly? Alex asked.

Maddie didn’t have to think about her answer for long. As much as she hated flying, there was no way she was up to driving from Nashville to New Orleans. Fly, she answered.

In that case, he said evenly, why don’t you let me take care of your flight reservations? He paused for a moment then added, If you can leave in the morning, I’ll try to get you on the same flight I’m taking. If you don’t hear from me later this evening, you’ll know I was able to get you a ticket.

Thank you. Her voice trembled.

The plane leaves at ten o’clock. I’ll pick you up around nine.

Maddie nodded.

Well… Fred Smith cleared his throat. If you’re sure there’s nothing more we can do for you, we’ll just move along. But we can stay for a while, he quickly amended, if you need us to…

No, she said. I don’t need anyone…to stay. I’ll be fine.

When she attempted to stand, Alex Batiste placed a strong hand on her shoulder. Don’t get up. We can let ourselves out. He hesitated then added, Like I said, if there’s a problem with the flight, I’ll give you a call. Then in one fluid motion, he rose from the sofa and followed the other detective to the door.

FRED SMITH LET OUT a heavy sigh. That poor woman. He shook his head. No husband, no family or friends, and now this mess about her brother. He sighed again. "Sure feel sorry for