An Epitaph for Jezebel

Book 1: Keke McCoy Mystery Series

by L. Divine

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Nancy Drew meets P-Valley as an Atlanta reporter investigates the gruesome ritualistic murder of a dancer at the female-owned strip club where she herself worked years before. Acclaimed author L. Divine makes her adult debut in this thrilling, sexy new series for fans of My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite, Kirstin Chen’s Counterfeit, and All Her Little Secrets by Wanda M. Morris.

When Keke starts looking into secretive stripper Monaka's grisly death, she’s instantly caught between her past and her present. Through The Honey Pot club owner "Honey Mama" Thiboudeaux, Keke found refuge from the streets, earned much money from her stage persona "Brandy," and got a chance at a new life all her own. Her bombshell exposé about the club launched her reporting career. But it caused a bitter, seemingly irrevocable split between her, the only family she's ever known—and Drew, the one man Keke won't admit she's never gotten
over . . .

At Honey Mama request's, Keke goes undercover as Brandy to find the truth before political pressures shut the progressive club down for good. But Keke has to watch more than her back when she finds Monaka had an unshakable, dangerously elusive stalker, an illicit club sideline—and vicious conflicts with rival dancers. Even more explosive, Keke's persistence is putting her at odds with Drew, now a police detective working this case . . . and the secrets she herself can no longer hide.

Now with the clock fast ticking down, Keke must tantalize the killer with the one lure he—or she—can't resist. But using fantasy as a trap could put more than her pursuit of justice on the line--it risks ending her career and life for good . . .

Release date: June 25, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“THAT’S IT, LADIES. MOVE YOUR MIDSECTIONS BACK AND FORTH; semicircle to the left, semicircle to the right.”

I subconsciously obey the memory, winding my wide hips in the seat along to Bob Marley’s raspy voice the same way I learned to do at The Honey Spot way back when.

“Bend your knees, keep bending and let your backsides lead the way down. Now drop it low to the floor. Then slowly wind your way back up. We’re in no rush. Pull your belly button in toward your spine and stretch your shoulders back. Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus your movements. Feel your hips open up, the wider you spread your knees apart. Repeat at least a hundred times per day to keep your power—and your patrons—in check.”

I recall the powerful feeling that mastering a brass pole brings, remembering the first dance class I took with HoneyMama. She was the oldest, and the baddest, stripper in Atlanta at the time—still is the baddest, as far as most people are concerned. And she’s one of the only female owners of a lucrative strip club outside of Las Vegas, Nevada. Most Atlanta dancers who are serious about the craft drive the fifty-plus miles to Indian Springs, Georgia, for HoneyMama’s classes when they want to increase their cash flow and get a break from the norm. Tips are everything when you dance for a living. And the more control you have over the tippers, the better.

Professional dancers used to scare me until I became one of them. I was introduced to the dance game when I was only sixteen years old, and became addicted to the power that money and attention brings very quickly. It wasn’t until I worked at The Honey Spot that I truly understood what it meant to embody feminine power and how to use it to my advantage while making a damn good living. The first time that I walked into a strip club, I thought it must’ve been how visitors felt when they landed on Wonder Woman’s Amazonian Island: captivated, entranced, and afraid that with the wrong move those powerful, sexy women could crush a person under their five-inch stilettos. Not necessarily the prettiest women on the block, but the way they wore their scantily clad bodies with such confidence and strength made me want to be just like them.

I wrote all of these feelings down and more in my first feature article, “An Epitaph for Jezebel,” although it wasn’t well received by HoneyMama or the dancers at the Spot, and I don’t blame them. I admit, dealing with the bitter breakup from my boyfriend at the time, Drew, plus the untimely death of one of my co-dancers, gave a bitter tone to the article that landed me on the Atlanta map as one of the freshest new voices in journalism. That was over a decade ago, and a lot’s changed since then.

Most journalists are forced to write obituaries early in their careers before moving on to other stories. We write pre-death announcements for celebrities, and short and sweet ones for rich society folks filled with the most clichéd epitaphs Google can find. We rarely write obits for regular folks, unless a family member sends in a request or there’s a probate sale at stake. Death only makes the news if it’s graphic or tragic enough to catch the attention of the masses. If it bleeds, it leads. In most people’s eyes, there’s nothing tragic about the death of a stripper. I saw enough working the dance scene to know that too many of our stories go untold.

I want to do hard reporting, but my editor, Charlie, doesn’t think a cute stripper-turned-writer has the balls to write the real shit—as he put it—which is why he called me first thing this morning when he heard about the murder of one of the Spot’s own. He gave me the story, not because he thinks it’s worth telling, but because he’s sure there’s a salacious side to it that gets muddied by the small fact that a woman was killed, which is why I didn’t bother telling Charlie that HoneyMama already called me last night. He doesn’t need to know all my business. Besides, a good reporter keeps her informants to herself. I just took it as a sign that it’s time for me to go home.

My cell rings with a call from the paper. Damn, now what?

“Keke,” Charlie grunts, interrupting my vibe. “Did you make it out there yet?”

“Almost,” I say, reluctantly lowering the volume to listen to my boss bark more orders.

“Text me when you hit the ground. And make sure Pete stays on task. That kid’s easily distracted by anything. I can only imagine how focused he’ll be with a harem of freshly waxed pussy walking around all willy-nilly for the taking.”

“I keep trying to tell you, the Spot isn’t like that.” I constantly find myself on defense with Charlie, especially when it comes to any topic dealing with women and nonwhite folks.

“Keke, please,” he says in between cigarette draws. Like most places I’ve worked, most people don’t give a fuck about codes regarding indoor smoking. “All strip clubs are exactly like that.”

“Not HoneyMama’s club.”

“Well, if it was so goddamned wonderful, why did you leave?”

After a moment of silence, he continues. I have no rebuttal for that smart-ass remark, at least not one I care to share.

“Exactly. Now go get my story.”

The long drive down I-75 is almost unbearable. The air conditioning in my Toyota Corolla broke over a year ago, and I still haven’t found the money to get it fixed. Once I moved north, I never looked back, no matter how much I missed Indian Springs.

Hopefully, this will be my first hard-hitting story, no matter what kind of filth Charlie’s expecting. Pete wasn’t my first choice of photographers, but no one else would take the assignment. I just need him to document the story with a few photos to accompany my piece. One weekend should be enough time for him to get the job done.

When I got the call last night from HoneyMama, or Honey as she’s affectionately known, I was shaken to my core by how her smooth, sweet voice hadn’t changed. Knowing her, she probably looked the same, too. I only heard from her once after my article was published, and that was the last time we spoke. Although I was happy to hear from Honey, I wish she had called under better circumstances. I never would’ve imagined that one of her girls would be murdered, especially not at the Spot.

Most dancers hear Indian Springs and envision country boondocks, which it pretty much is. But for some of us, it sounds like heaven incarnate, and that’s exactly what it was, until last night. HoneyMama’s like a mother to all her girls, and most of them need her influence in their lives. She routinely scouted Atlanta clubs for the cream of the stripping crop, offering them a way out of the male-owned clubs through their craft, if they were willing to leave the city behind. If it wasn’t for her, I’d probably be strung out on drugs or dead, just like Mocha, and now Monaka.

The drive from Fulton to Butts County is just as long, miserable, and boring as I remember. Once I cross the narrow bridge leading into the small town of Indian Springs, the official state park sign welcomes me back. A few of the girls swear the springs are magical for more than just the sulfur-filled water cascading over the black rocks. They say the springs themselves can heal any ailment. They also say the Native Americans who once populated this entire area thought so, too, but so much for that theory. As long as I lived here and bathed in the luminescent water, I shouldn’t have any issues, but Lord knows I’ve got plenty.

Like weight, credit scores, and everything else in life, careers go up and down, and mine has been no exception. Who would’ve thought that ten years ago I was as fine as the best of them—young, fit, and juicy, with money in the bank? Now that I’m a full-time writer, I’m just juicy, with thickness to spare. Since taking my job at the Metro Journal, I’ve been stressed out and broker than I’ve been since I was a teenager, with the gray hairs and rubber checks to prove it. Who says that taking the supposed high road is the best path? Sometimes I wish I’d never left the Spot, but there’s no magic time machine to turn that desire into a reality.

When I pull up to the brick-and-iron gates at the entrance of the refurbished antebellum-mansion-turned-nightclub, red dust from the long dirt road leading toward the parking lot rises to greet me—as if my car wasn’t already dirty enough. I creep forward, mindful of the rocks and other natural speed bumps along the path that force me to take in the scenery.

The ancient pine and oak trees lining the plantation provide plenty of shade for the various squirrels, rabbits, birds, and other country wildlife that inhabit the massive estate. The natural shade also grants me a slight reprieve from the sweltering sun. As usual, the ominous storm clouds from earlier came and went, taking my fresh silk press with them.

At the end of the narrow driveway is a clearing that reveals The Honey Spot, in its entire splendor. I’ve always loved the tall columns and high beams of Southern architecture, minus the Confederate flags prominently displayed on most of the other structures in this area. The house hasn’t changed much since its original days when the owner also owned several of HoneyMama’s ancestors, including her great-grandfather, Joseph Thibodeaux. She has the pictures and certificate from the national registry of historical homes to prove it. Most of the other plantations around here have either been turned into hotels or museums, but HoneyMama held on to her house and made it a home for all of us.

The brilliant white mansion looks like it’s been steam cleaned recently, eliminating any remnants of the yellow pollen that coats any and everything, starting during the spring and now in the summer, too. Four massive columns stretch from the second story down to the first, highlighting the eight picturesque windows in the front of the home where admirers can catch a glimpse of the preshow when the thick drapes are drawn. There are two large ceiling fans on either side of the wraparound porch that perfectly match the restored hardwood floors. Aside from dancing, HoneyMama’s favorite pastimes are decorating and cooking: she’s always had a way with making her club feel more inviting than most.

I park my tired vehicle and notice the numerous police cars and ambulances present instead of the customary Mercedes, Jaguars, and other high-end cars. I exit my car and immediately tug at my unforgiving slacks. There are few sidewalks in these parts of Georgia, causing me to second-guess my open-toed shoe choice. With my legal pad and digital recorder in hand, I’m ready to get to work, anxious for the chance to vindicate myself in HoneyMama’s eyes, no matter how uncomfortable coming home is.

Three of the Spot’s dancers are seated around one of the four patio tables, chatting it up, while watching various people enter and exit though the front door. I hope they’re enjoying the warm weather before the heat becomes intolerable in the next hour or so. During the summer months, the sun doesn’t have to reach high noon to make you wish for winter to arrive early—ten in the morning will do that just fine.

“A real shame, ain’t it?” one of the nosey locals says to another onlooker standing in front of the house, smoking a cigarette. Both women look as if their faces have been molded into permanent frowns of pure disdain. Years of hating will do that to anyone.

“We’ve been waiting for something like this to happen,” another lady says, joining the conversation. They each look like they could use the Spot’s services. One six-week dance course could change even the frumpiest housewife into a bona fide diva.

There are about a dozen or so people standing around for no other reason than to catch the latest gossip. I’m surprised HoneyMama hasn’t enforced the “NO TRESPASSING” signs prominently displayed at the entrance to both the property and the house. On more than one occasion, she’s greeted unwelcomed guests with one of her several shotguns, but I guess that wouldn’t go over too well, with this now being the site of a criminal investigation.

“It was just a matter of time before this house of whores fell, just like the Good Lord did to Babylon,” a newcomer says to the other ladies, who fervently nod in agreement. “God don’t like ugly.”

Don’t they know that there’s nothing ugly about the Spot? You can tell that by observing the care HoneyMama puts into each aspect of her property. She’s never taken for granted the blood, sweat, and tears that went into its creation, not to mention the quality of her dancers.

I walk past the outsiders without making direct eye contact with any of them, intent on my destination. The last thing I want is to be pulled into a pointless conversation demonizing the Spot.

Still strong, prominent, and sexy as hell, the women of The Honey Spot are the best and only advertisement HoneyMama’s ever needed to promote her business. She always encourages her dancers to mingle with the locals, earn their trust, and make them feel good just by being in their presence. After all, time is money.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Dulce—one of the veteran dancers—says, taking a long drag from her cigarette. Dulce looks nearly the same, with the exception of tiny spider lines creeping along the sides of her eyes, which only seem to highlight her high cheekbones and reddish-brown complexion. They all look timeless, as if age passed them right on by and landed square on my ass.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” I say, stepping up the five steps leading onto the front porch, where the casually dressed women lounge.

If they were sipping on sweet tea, instead of Evian water, I’d swear these ladies were preparing for an octoroon ball. Each of the women glare at me, none inviting me to join their mid-morning chat. I recognize all but one who looks like she’s heard about me, the prodigal dancer I’ve unwillingly become in my dance sisters’ eyes.

“I hope you weren’t expecting us to be all happy to see you, with open arms and shit.” Dulce blows her cigarette smoke directly in my face, making me want to slap the taste out of her fuchsia-covered mouth. “We knew you’d eventually come back to beg our forgiveness for that piece-of-shit article you wrote.”

I haven’t talked to any of my former coworkers since I left Indian Springs, and this is why. Dulce and I used to be close, but I see the tides have definitely turned for the worse. I’ve always admired her no-nonsense, straightforward Nuyorican attitude. But now that Dulce’s focused that hate on me, I’m not feeling her vibe at all.

“I’m surprised the bitch had the nerve to step foot anywhere near the Spot,” Couverture says. This woman and her thick Jamaican accent still shake me to my core. “We may be all the way out in butt-fucking Egypt, but we still remember how to kick a traitor’s ass like we’re in the A.”

There’s something about C—as she’s commonly known—that makes me feel like the sixteen-year-old foolish girl I was when we first met at The Pimp Palace, the club we were both dancing at when HoneyMama rescued me. C took me under her wing and quickly taught me the rules and regulations at the Palace, one of the most popular and raunchy clubs in the South. She schooled me on who the highest tipping clients were, which deejays had our backs, how to get moved from the C team to the A team, and, most importantly, that the only friends strippers have—if any—are other strippers.

“I actually came to investigate Monaka’s murder at HoneyMama’s request.”

I can’t believe these broads still intimidate me like we’re in high school. I have a job to do, but they’re not letting me get by so easily.

“We know that, Poindexter,” C says, poking fun at my glasses. She takes a sip of her cold water and crosses her long, glittery legs, displaying a fierce set of leopard print boots. I could use a bottle myself, but I’ll be damned if I ask them for a thing. If memory serves me correctly, there’s a cooler on the back porch that’s usually packed with complimentary nonalcoholic drinks for the customers.

“Just because we didn’t go to college doesn’t make us stupid, you know,” Dulce says, lighting another cigarette with the butt of her last.

“Whatever,” I say, done with our mini reunion.

I glance ahead through the front door into the busy foyer, where various investigators and others are discussing their theories of how Monaka may have fallen to her demise. I need to be inside gathering information for my story, not out here. But before I can make my exit, C continues the unwanted conversation. I guess they’ve missed me as much as I’ve missed them.

“I see when you left us, your pretty figure and skin took a hike and never came back. What goes up must come down, huh, Brandy?” C asks, calling me by the dance name HoneyMama gave me. “Or in your case, it’s actually the reverse. Ain’t that some irony for your ass?” She laughs loudly at her wit. C always did have a way with words.

“Good one,” the newest dancer says, another one of C’s protégés, I assume.

I look hard at the newbie, and she shuts her glittered mouth. Professional or not, I can only take so much before setting a broad straight.

“Thank you, Tiramisu. I’m just telling it like I see it,” C says, caressing Tiramisu’s bare left thigh with the back of her middle finger.

Someone needs to tell Tiramisu how ridiculous she looks with that platinum-blond weave set in a high ponytail. It looks more like a used mop than a professional hairstyle. Even with her fit physique, Tiramisu looks older than me and I’m guessing she’s only about twenty-eight. She has dark circles around her bloodshot eyes with tiny wrinkles that age her otherwise even skin tone. The living ain’t easy when you’re a mark for predators like Couverture. She’ll suck the life right out of fresh meat, just like the succubus that she is.

“You might want to rethink your new style, chica. Fat isn’t a good look on you.” Dulce can be a mean bitch when she wants to. I used to think her sass was funny, but now it just hurts.

“I don’t have time to fight with a bunch of bitter bitches.” I strategically walk around the cat fest toward the front door. I think we’re all too old to scrap like we’re pledging a sorority, but I can’t put anything past angry women. “Where’s Honey?”

“She’s at the springs, cleansing,” Dulce says, reminding me of the mandatory cleansings HoneyMama subjected all of her girls to whenever she deemed necessary. If a new girl was hired—which wasn’t very often—we’d all have to participate in the ritual officially making her an ordained dancer at the Spot.

Tiramisu and C suck their teeth in unison at the thought of being dipped in the cool water at the back of the five-acre property. Dulce glares at them both before refocusing her energy on the noise inside.

“She said for you to wait for her at the main stage,” Dulce says, pointing to the screen door, where policemen are talking inside. Words like “brothel” and “trick” linger in the still air, reiterating my main purpose this morning. In this moment, Monaka’s voice is the only one that counts.

I guess I can start my investigation without my former benefactor’s physical presence. I’m sort of glad HoneyMama’s not here. If her heat is anything like theirs, I’ll need more time to armor myself against the impending flames.

THE SUCCULENT COUCHES AND PLUSH PILLOWS STREWN ACROSS the soft-carpeted floor are still tempting, even for the most pious person, which I’m far from being. The entire motif is designed to be enticing, enchanting, a place you can’t wait to get inside of and never want to leave. Most of the women who work here are some shade of brown, so the red, orange, and gold hues are perfect complements to the near-nakedness prevalent throughout the Spot. The soft scent of honeysuckle creeps up my nose slowly at first. Then powerfully—much like a good fuck—the overwhelming sweetness takes over my senses, almost making me forget why I’m here.

“Please walk around the yellow tape, ma’am,” a tall, thickset officer says in his native Georgian accent. His cheeks have permanent sunburns, and I can’t help but stare. “Haven’t you seen a crime scene before?”

About half a dozen of his comrades laugh, one after the other, some not sure what’s funny, but too stupid or scared to object. For as long as I’ve been writing for the Metro Journal, I’ve endured all kinds of isms: racism, sexism, and classicism are among the top three. The white, country cops that I’m forced to deal with shell out the worst of the trifecta. The combination of me being both Black and a woman with the nerve to consider herself a serious journalist is at the top of their ever-growing list of Black pet peeves.

“Yes, I have,” I say, noticing how he’s now eyeing the dancer’s stage. “Have you?”

I can see the rise in his pants as he continues to follow Monaka’s lifeless form from the pole and down the wooden steps leading from the stage into the audience, where we’re standing.

He looks at me hard, the smile from his chapped, thin lips morphing into a scowl as his friends’ chuckles turn on him. I’ve always hated cops, and not just because they want to screw strippers one minute, then harass them the next. Mostly, I can’t stand them because they have the power to act on their hypocrisy, and that’s more than I could take back in the day. No matter which profession I seem to choose, law enforcement is apparently an inevitable part of it. At least in my current position, I can talk back with a little less fear of being arrested for pissing off the wrong officer.

Seeing Monaka lying on the floor conjures up old images of Mocha’s death, as well as grateful guilt that it’s not my murder under investigation. I walk past the men and around the yellow caution tape toward the familiar stage. The. . .