The Satyr's Curse (The Satyr's Curse Series Book 1) (14 page)

Chapter 13

As she finagled Kyle’s truck through the city’s thick afternoon traffic, Jazzmyn waited patiently on her cell phone as she was transferred from one office to the next in search of Clay Wallace. After ten minutes of holding, a man’s high-pitched voice picked up the line.

“Historic Homes, Clay Wallace speaking.”

“Oh, thank God. Mr. Wallace, my name is Jazzmyn Livaudais and—”

“Any relation to the Livaudais family that once owned the Livaudais Plantation that become part of the Garden District?” the man eagerly asked, cutting her off.

“Yes. I’m a direct descendent from the same Livaudais family,” Jazzmyn replied. 

“Are you the current owner of the Livaudais House? I only ask because I have studied the records on that home and I have heard that it is still quite beautiful.”

“I’m the current owner, Jazzmyn Livaudais.”

He sighed into the phone. “Well, this is a treat, Ms. Livaudais. How can I help you? Are you calling about your house? Because I have a lot of records going all the way back to—”

“Actually, I’m calling because of another home,” Jazzmyn said, trying to get a word in.

“Really? Another home? Well, this is odd. Are you in the market for another historic home?” he enthusiastically inquired. “You have to excuse my curiosity, Ms. Livaudais, but no one is ever interested in old homes anymore, unless it is for a financial investment.”

“Ah, no, I’m not looking to buy a home. Harry DeMonte gave me your name—”

“Harry! Lord, love him. Harry is a great reference and fact-checker for me. With all the access he has to old newspaper articles and records, he has saved me a lot of research in the past. After the storm, he was a Godsend. How is he?”  

“Fine, I guess,” Jazzmyn awkwardly responded, not quite sure how to take the exuberant Mr. Wallace. “Look, Mr. Wallace, I am—”

“Call me Clay, if you’re a friend of Harry’s.”

“Clay,” Jazzmyn went on. “I’m calling about The Satyr House on Esplanade and—”

“Bourbon,” he interjected, finishing her sentence. “I know it very well, Ms. Livaudais, very well, indeed. But then again, I know about most of the old homes in New Orleans. It’s something of a passion for me. However, The Satyr House has always been a bit of a mystery to me as far as the records go. That house has a really intriguing history.”

“What do you mean, Clay?”

“The way I see it, the owners of The Satyr House seem to change about every forty years or so. Another heir, another Julian Devereau, I should point out, is appointed as beneficiary over the Devereau Trust which owns The Satyr House. According to my research, the original owner of the property, Julian Philippe Devereau, established the Devereau Trust over a hundred and fifty years ago. About every forty years, the name of the beneficiary on the trust changes. As far as I can tell there have been four changes to the Devereau Trust since 1895, with the last occurring just a few years ago to the current Julian Devereau.”

“How do you change a trust?”

“Every trust is different, and the legal loopholes with a private trust like this one allow a lot of leeway, but from what I’ve learned, when the current beneficiary dies, they appoint a new beneficiary who takes over the trust. All that needs to be filed with the new trust is a death certificate of the previous beneficiary. But all the death certificates I have seen for the Devereau Trust were from foreign countries, which is rather suspicious.”  

“Why is that suspicious?” Jazzmyn questioned.

“Well, every previous beneficiary has died abroad. Italy, France, Russia, and even Germany, all in very small, obscure towns and with the same diagnosis of natural causes.”

“All of them?” Jazzmyn touched the satyr figurine around her neck.

“All of them,” he confirmed. “I found out that two of the towns named on the death certificates filed in 1895 and 1933 were later destroyed during the Second World War and all of their records were lost.”

“What about the men who claimed to be the beneficiaries? Do you have anything on them?” Jazzmyn’s heart began pounding in her chest.

“Nothing on the previous claimants to the trust, but I did manage to dig up some stuff on the current resident of the property, a Julian Armande Devereau.” He paused and she could hear some papers shuffling around on the other end of the line. “Ah, here it is. His driver’s license was issued ten years ago to the Esplanade Avenue address, and prior to that I can find no record of a Julian Armande Devereau hailing from New Orleans in any DMV records anywhere in the US.”

“What about a birth certificate?” she quickly posed.

“I do have a birth certificate for a Julian Armande Devereau filed with the city in June 1973, but the place of birth was given as the Esplanade Avenue address, which I found rather odd.”

“Why is that odd?”

“Because most, if not all, babies in the US were born in hospitals in the seventies, and a doctor usually signed off on the birth certificate, but that was not the case here. Another strange occurrence is that there appears to be no record of the mother of Julian Armande Devereau. The name given on the birth certificate as the father of Julian Armande Devereau is Julian Paul Devereau, the former beneficiary of the trust.” He paused and there was a rustling of papers in the background. “But his mother was listed as one Estelle Frellson Devereau, and I can’t find any mention of her in the tax, property, marriage, birth, or death records. It’s like she never existed.”

“You think her name was made up?”

“I’ve gone as far back as the early twenties in my search for something on the mother, and I have found no trace of her.”

“But who has been paying for maintenance on the house, keeping up with the taxes and so forth?”

“All I can find is that the tax bills are mailed to the property and paid annually by the Devereau Trust.” He sighed into the phone. “I’ve even tried searching the state and federal income tax records on Julian Armande Devereau, but everything I ran across was linked to the private trust fund, and access to such accounts is legally protected. He has a current passport and his Social Security number was issued the same year his birth certificate was filed at city hall, 1973. Other than those few things, I can’t find much else on the man.”

Jazzmyn gripped the steering wheel of Kyle’s pickup truck. “Clay, have you spoken to anyone about this?”

“Who would listen to me? As far as the city of New Orleans is concerned, they don’t care who owns the property as long as the taxes are paid, the place is kept up, and the owner isn’t running a crack house out of it. It’s the individuals who follow the letter of the law that can best hide away from people like me.”

“Thank you, Clay. You’ve been a big help.”

“Ms. Livaudais, if you ever find out anything that would explain all of this, I sure would appreciate it if you could give me a call. I know it’s none of my business if the guy pays his taxes and all, but in this city weird stuff like this just gives one pause.”

“I understand, and I promise if I ever learn anything about Julian Armande Devereau I will let you know.”

“Thanks, Ms. Livaudais. You take care of that house you’ve got. It’s real special. Not many ties to the past left to us these days, and we need to preserve every special home we’ve got left in this town, especially since Katrina.”

“Thank you, Clay.” Jazzmyn hung up the phone and pressed her foot down on the gas pedal. She was in a hurry to return to the restaurant, but more than that, she was anxious to see Julian again. She had some questions for him; questions he had better answer, or else she was going to call the whole thing off.

***

“Where in the hell have you been?” Kyle howled as soon as she walked in the back door of the restaurant. “You weren’t here for the lunch rush, and you’re always here for lunch.” His white apron was stained with food and his blue T-shirt appeared soaked through with sweat.

Jazzmyn gawked at him, slightly taken aback by his tone. “I was running errands. I told you that before I left.” She waved her hand down his apron. “Why was lunch busy? You look like a train wreck.” Brushing her way past him, she headed to her office.

“You said you would be back in an hour. That was four hours ago,” he reprimanded, following behind her. “Why didn’t you pick up your cell phone? I tried calling you a dozen times and left you several voice mails. I was about to call the police.”

Jazzmyn pulled her keys from her purse and opened her office door. “Kyle, what’s the matter with you? I got sidetracked and forgot about the time.” She headed into her office with Kyle right on her heels. “Why are you acting like my father?” she asked, walking to her desk.

“Because there’s a psycho out there ripping women apart, and it isn’t safe for any woman to be alone.”

“Jesus, Kyle. It was the middle of the day, and I was in a crowded street with a hundred other people. You’re going off the deep end with this.”

He leaned his tall body against the frame of the office door. “Where did you go?”

Jazzmyn’s annoyance with Kyle dwindled as she saw how his eyes were taking in every inch of her face. She and Kyle had been friends for long enough to know when the other was lying. Jazzmyn knew she had no other choice but to tell him the truth, or at least part of it. She dropped her purse on the desk and sat in her chair.

“Close the door, Kyle.”

Kyle stepped inside her office and closed the dark wooden door behind him. He turned back to her and folded his arms over his chest.

“I went to The Times-Picayune to speak with the reporter, Harry DeMonte, who has been doing those articles on the murders. Harry and I went to high school together, and when Ms. Helen showed me the newspaper article he had written in this morning’s paper, I had to give him a call.”

Kyle’s stood for a moment in silence. His eyes were like two small blue flames, burning into her. “Why?” he eventually questioned.

She sat back in her chair. “There were five women murdered in New Orleans in 1973. They were ripped apart, like the women they recently found. The last victim was named Susan Livaudais. She was a chef in the city.”

Kyle’s countenance softened. “Were you related to her?”

“I don’t think so, but when I went to meet Harry we did some digging in the old newspaper morgue. We found out that there have been other murders in the city prior to 1973. Back in 1934, three women were killed, and one of the victims was also named Livaudais…Estelle Livaudais. We even found a reference to murders going back to 1895, but there were no names given.”

Kyle ran his hands through his light brown hair. “Goddamn it,” he said under his breath. “Perhaps we should call Gus at the police station, let him know what you found. He could increase his patrols around here and at your house.”

Jazzmyn placed her purse in the bottom desk drawer. “For what reason, Kyle? These murders happened forty years ago. Gus wouldn’t be interested.”

“Jazz, you need to be protected. What if this is some kind of weird cult thing?”
Jazzmyn locked the drawer. “I doubt after all these years it’s a cult, Kyle.” She stood from her chair and placed the keys in the pocket of her black slacks. “I knew I should never have said anything to you,” she added with a shake of her head.

He stepped up to her side. “When you didn’t come back for lunch, I went out of my mind with worry.” He placed his hand on her arm. “I kept thinking you were with him.”

She removed his hand. “You need to stop this, Kyle.”

He looked at the golden figurine of the satyr around her neck. “I can’t believe you are so taken with this guy, Jazz. He’s not right for you.”

“I suppose you think you’re the right one for me?”

“Maybe I am. I know you a hell of a lot better than he does, and I care about you more than he ever could.”

Jazzmyn ran her hand over her forehead and sat back down in her chair. “Kyle, we work together. I need you to be my chef and my friend, but not my lover. I don’t want to end up being just another in the long line of women you have climbing in and out of your bed.”

“Is that what you think? I only want to have a quick roll in the sack and then I’ll be done with you?”

She jumped up from her chair, enraged. “I’ve seen how you are with women. A few dates, a few nights together, and then you’re finished with one and are moving on to next.” Jazzmyn placed her hand against her chest. “I can’t be that way with you. When everything is over between us, we will still have this restaurant to run. It’s been hard enough working with you knowing our past. How much harder do you think it’s going to be for me when we’re finished and you’re parading a new girl through my kitchen?”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe once I had you I wouldn’t want anyone else?” He paused and ran his hands over his face. “I don’t know how to be suave and sweep you off your feet like Julian, but I can’t take keeping it inside anymore. I want you, Jazzmyn. I’ve always wanted you, and only you.”

Jazzmyn stood frozen to her spot for a moment. His admission took her completely off guard, and strangely his words touched her. It wasn’t pity or regret that she felt at that moment; it was elation. She had always believed she would have only been a distraction for Kyle, and had never allowed herself to hope for more than that. Jazzmyn remembered the way Kyle had made her feel when he kissed her, the cozy, familiar comfort of him, and then she thought of Julian and the way he made her feel.