Mardi Gras Gris Gris

by A. C. Mason

  Twenty-five

  Tank’s cell phone rang again as soon as he hung up from Jim Foret’s call. He checked the caller ID—Denise, for the third or fourth time. Throughout his conversation with Foret, he could hear the click of her trying to break in on the call. She’d have to wait.

  He looked at the chairs his ex-wife had arranged a long time ago in a conversation configuration. He’d never moved them because he always sat in the one facing the television.

  For this meeting, he and Foret would be face to face. What the hell. He knew how to hide his secrets better than any New Orleans low-life Foret ever interrogated.

  The phone rang again. This time he answered. “What?”

  “I resent your tone. Why haven’t you answered my calls?”

  The bitchiness in her voice grated on his nerves. Ever since Teddy’s murder, she’d gotten on his case about everything. “I’ve been on the phone with the man who took my job.”

  “Oh my God! What did he want?”

  “He told me he wanted to come by and talk to me. He’s on his way now.”

  “At least he warned you about his visit. He didn’t give me the courtesy of a phone call ahead of time.”

  Tank frowned. “Foret came to see you?”

  “He asked me if I knew Megan Whitehall.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What the hell do you think I told him?” she yelled. “Of course I didn’t admit to anything.”

  He held the phone away from his ear to ease the shock to his eardrums from her shrill voice.

  “Do you think he knows…?”

  “He knows nothing. I’ll talk to you later. He’s pulling up to the house now.”

  ~ * ~

  I couldn’t concentrate on the article I attempted to read. Setting the magazine aside, I rose from the sofa and went to the window for what must have been the hundredth time. The Cypress Lake Police unit remained in place parked directly across the street in front of a vacant lot.

  The officer must be bored sitting out there waiting for the possibility the killer would follow through with his threats. I didn’t believe he would actually try to kill me. The officer probably didn’t either. But there was always the chance he might try to hurt the twins.

  Deputies had followed me this morning when I drove the kids to school. I didn’t let on to Matthew and Caroline. I found the whole situation nerve racking.

  I paced around the house feeling like a caged tiger. Maybe Jim was right. I should have taken the kids to my parents’ house. At least we would have been accorded more freedom there. On second thought, my mother would have arranged all sorts of social events for me and the twins designed to elevate her status among the country club set.

  How ridiculous. Pacing around the house wasn’t constructive. I needed to find something to occupy my time. I suddenly remembered the photo and article I’d copied at the library. The thought reminded me I never told Jim about the find. At the time, my nerves were shot and the situation was in an uproar. It’s a wonder I remembered my own name.

  I needed to tell him as soon as he came home. Maybe we could discuss the information calmly. I wasn’t certain that could ever be possible. He’d probably get on my case about investigating.

  After rummaging through my purse, I retrieved the copy, unfolded the paper, and sat down to study the article. I stared at the black and white photo, scrutinizing each of the five people pictured.

  Teddy Berthelot looked like the typical wealthy playboy clad in his tuxedo and wearing a conceited smile on his face. His dark hair was perfectly styled—an expensive haircut, no doubt. I figured he must have been about twenty-one at the time.

  His date had the debutante look about her—blond, flashing a broad smile showing off perfect teeth, no doubt. I didn’t recognize her from any event I’d attended here in Allemand Parish or from my deb days in New Orleans. For all I knew, she could be his ex-wife.

  I recalled meeting David Edwards at a charity event in town several years ago. He was a nice-looking man with high cheek-bones and large dark eyes. The tentative smile he showed in this picture suggested he might be a follower.

  Teddy must have been the leader in that friendship, instigating all the trouble the two got into. I didn’t know of any particular incidents because I wasn’t acquainted with them at that age, but I’d bet my last dollar they had to be bailed out of jail a number of times. Paula didn’t appear to be happy at all. The result of a lovers’ quarrel perhaps? Or maybe she simply disliked being in the company of Teddy, his date or both.

  My gaze settled on the unidentified man in the background. From what I could see, he looked startled at having his photo taken. I grabbed a magnifying glass from the kitchen “junk” drawer and enlarged the man’s face.

  Where had I seen him before? Then I remembered where. Carrying the picture with me, I ran to the spare bedroom which we set up as an office/guest room and booted up my laptop. The article in the Picayune about the murder of Malcolm Whitehall included a picture of him. I compared the two photos. Sure looks like him to me.

  I felt a twinge of excitement. I had found a connection among the three victims—albeit, a speculative one.

  Twenty-six

  Tank Hebert answered the door looking pretty scruffy. The heavy stubble on his face indicated he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. His clothes were rumpled as if he’d slept in them.

  Jim offered his hand. Hebert was slow to accept, but after an awkward pause, he reached out with a firm grip.

  “Come on in,” Tank said, motioning with his head. “I was surprised to get your call. What can I do for you?”

  Jim felt slightly uncomfortable standing in the middle of the room. Tank hadn’t invited him to take a seat. “I thought maybe you might be able to give me a little information about the history on a few of the parish’s most upstanding citizens.”

  He gave a sharp laugh. “You mean Teddy Berthelot and David Edwards?”

  “Among others,” Jim said.

  Tank arched a brow, but then shrugged. “Don’t know how much help I can give you, but I’ll see what I can do. Have a seat.” He pointed to two black leather chairs, the only furniture in the room except for a large flat screen television and a small lamp table.

  The seating arrangement seemed conducive to checking out a person’s responses while being questioned face to face. And right now Jim intended to question Tank, but make the conversation sound simply like a casual talk between two law men.

  Of course Tank would probably see through his casual façade. At any rate, this face to face dialogue with the former chief ought to give him a lot of insight into Tank Hebert’s mindset. Jim sat in one of the very comfortable chairs.

  “Man, if I had this chair at my house, I’d never get out of it,” he said, rubbing the upholstery on the arm. “This is like a glove.”

  “That’s why the cushion has the imprint of my ass. I don’t get out of this one unless I absolutely have to.” Tank laughed as he pointed to the chair facing the television. The soft leather made a swishing sound as he settled into his seat.

  “I figured that was your favorite.” Before Jim could end the small-talk and steer the conversation in the direction of the Whitehall shooting, Tank spoke up.

  “I hear you and the sheriff have y’all’s hands full with those two murders.”

  Jim didn’t fail to catch the tone of ridicule in his words…like I’m glad you’re having a hard time with maybe a little of I could do a better job mixed in. “I’ve handled plenty of murders in New Orleans. These aren’t any different except for the gris-gris bag ritual. We have a few suspects.”

  “Can you tell me who?”

  “One is Gibb Romaine.” Jim studied Tank’s face to see the man’s reaction.

  A curiously smug look crossed his face. “Yeah, I would be looking at him too. You been over there to talk to him and his sister?”

  “Danny and I took a ride to their place the afternoon of the Teddy Berthelot homicide. We hav
e some forensic evidence being tested at LSP.” He paused a moment and then added, “The feds are in on the investigation also since the attorney Megan Whitehall was shot.”

  “No shit. Did you call them in?”

  “ADA Kayla Theriot and her boss Hayden requested their assistance. Ms. Whitehall is a friend of Kayla.”

  Tank snorted. “You shouldn’t have let them go over your head.” He seemed to realize he’d overstepped his position by giving advice and changed his tone. “What’s Whitehall’s condition?”

  “She’s been upgraded from critical to serious following her surgery.” Jim struck a casual pose by extending both legs in front of him and crossed them at his ankles. “Did you ever have any dealings with her father, Malcolm Whitehall?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” he said. “I never heard of him or his daughter until I saw the piece on TV news about her getting shot.”

  Jim noticed a slight tightening of Tank’s fingers on the arm of the chair. He knows more than what he saw on television. “Do you recall what channel you saw the report? I’d like to see if the station might have some archived film concerning Malcolm Whitehall’s murder.”

  “I believe it was on Channel Seven,” Tank said, and then grinned. “Yeah, that’s the station the good-looking blond reporter works for… Sharon somebody or other.”

  “You must mean Sharon Webster. She is a looker.” And also a pain in the butt. “Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill Berthelot and Edwards?”

  “Could be any one of their business rivals, especially Berthelot’s, but I have to say, all that gris-gris bag business would steer me right over to the Romaines.”

  “Because of what Patia does for a living?” Just like Denise, Tank tried to point to Gibb Romaine as the prime suspect. “Problem is, although we got some evidence that makes him look good for these homicides—I can’t see a motive.”

  Tank pursed his lips. “Guys like Romaine don’t really need a motive.”

  “You could be right. I ran into a few of those working with NOPD.” Jim rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Back to those business rivals…you indicated Berthelot’s competitors might be more likely to have reason to take him out. What did you mean?”

  “He reportedly scammed a few people, but nobody could prove anything against him. He wasn’t a pleasant man to deal with. I guess you might call him ruthless. Whatever he wanted, he went after and got it any way he could.”

  “Might those deals be fixing elections?”

  He gave a low chuckle. “You’ve been talking to Carl Hymel. Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if Teddy did fix a few elections. Like I said, there never was any evidence uncovered to charge him with a crime.”

  None uncovered or lots covered up? Jim stood. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks for talking to me.”

  “Anytime.” He walked Jim to the door and gave him a hearty handshake as if they were the best of friends.

  Driving back to the station, Jim decided he should go back through Gibb Romaine’s record. He needed to find out why certain people wanted to convict the ex-con so badly. He parked in his reserved spot and went straight to his office.

  A folder containing the ballistics report on the bullet removed from Megan shoulder sat on his desk in front of him. He opened it and started reading. Not the caliber he hoped for. The bullet didn’t match Denise’s 9mm. Well, there goes a good theory shot to hell.

  Megan’s shooter had to be in position across the street, probably hidden in the narrow alley between Court House Café and the flower shop next door. Seems like someone would have seen him…or her leaving the scene…unless the assailant was someone well known in town and no one would ever suspect him or her of shooting another person.

  Twenty-seven

  I stared out the window in disbelief. A familiar car pulled up in the driveway; my parents’ car to be exact. What in the world were they doing here?

  The Cypress Lake officer Toby Hahn exited his vehicle with hand on gun and started walking over toward the driver’s side of my parents’ car. I decided I’d better go out and identify them before I ended up an orphan.

  Waving to him, I called out, “It’s okay. They’re my mother and father.”

  Hahn returned my wave and went back to his unit. My parents remained in their car, looking uncertain as to what kind of situation they had gotten themselves into.

  “This is a surprise,” I said, walking up to the car. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming to visit?”

  Dad peered out at me from the window. “We’ve been hearing about the murders here and since we haven’t been in touch with you, we were worried.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you, but there’s nothing to be worried about.”

  Mother spoke up. “Obviously there is something to worry about. Otherwise a police officer wouldn’t be keeping watch over who comes to visit you.”

  I forced a smile. “The police are here as a precaution. Come inside and we can visit.”

  I led them into the living room, suspecting Mother would feel more at home in a formal setting. Besides, the kids weren’t allowed in this room. There would be no cookie crumbs lying about or toy trucks to trip on.

  My mother studied the room décor carefully. Most likely she was mentally making a list of items that didn’t meet the standards of “our” social status.

  “Your home is lovely,” she said, looking surprised.

  I was stunned by her compliment myself, but managed to thank her. But I couldn’t resist asking, “Why do you seem so shocked?”

  She seemed momentarily flustered. “I’m not… surprised.”

  Dad laughed. “Your mother thought you had to be living in a hovel out here in the country.”

  Mother had the decency to blush. I’m sure Dad will get an earful after they leave. I didn’t know what to say. An uncomfortable silence followed.

  My father cleared his throat. “Susan, I think you owe us an explanation about why there is a police officer guarding your house.”

  I hesitated too long before answering.

  “Are you in danger?” he asked.

  “Jim seemed to think so.”

  Mother leaned forward and narrowed her gaze on my face. “There’s only one reason he would feel you’re in danger. You need to leave the investigating to your husband and his officers.”

  “I’m not investigating per se,” I said, looking down at my hands. “At least not like I did for Steven’s case.” I moved my gaze back to her face.

  She started to comment, but Dad interrupted.

  “Obviously, there has been a threat leveled at you,” he said. “What exactly does ‘per se’ mean in this case?”

  “There has been a threat, although I believe it’s more of a bluff. In answer to your second question, I researched some information at the library and on the internet. I just happened to overhear a conversation and also had an unplanned visit with Megan Whitehall.” I waited for the explosion from Mother or Dad or both at the mention of the recent shooting victim.

  Mother complied. “Megan Whitehall?” Her eyes widened. “Was this before or after she was shot?”

  “I ran into her before the shooting, of course. She came to Cypress Lake to speak to Jim and Danny Marchand who were away from the station at the time. I had also gone to see Jim. Since the men weren’t in, she and I went for coffee at Court House Café.”

  I paused and studied their faces. Dad seemed to be deep in thought. Mother still appeared shocked that I had an encounter with someone who was shot. “When Jim and Danny returned, she went to take care of her business with them and I left for the library. Someone shot her as she came out of City Hall after their meeting.”

  “What is her condition?” Dad asked.

  “Earlier today her condition was upgraded from critical to serious. A full recovery is expected.”

  He stared past me when he spoke. “I remember when her father was murdered. His killing happened almost i
dentical to the two here.”

  Naturally I perked up. “You knew him?”

  Mother exhaled an exasperated breath. “I suppose you want to hear all the gory details. Your father lost a good friend when Malcolm was killed. Did it ever occur to you he might not want to discuss…?”

  Dad cut her off. “Elizabeth, Malcolm was a good friend until he started fooling around with a nightclub singer and getting involved in other questionable activities.”

  She placed her hand on her chest. “Oh, my, I had no idea.”

  I was rather shocked myself.

  Twenty-eight

  “Do you know what sort of questionable activities he dabbled in?” My fingers were figuratively crossed, hoping his answer would solve the mystery of how the Whitehall murder was linked to the ones in Allemand Parish.

  “As I recall, he had a scheme to buy up a lot of land in the parishes surrounding Orleans. I couldn’t tell you the exact method by which he attained the properties, but he indicated to me and others it was not on the up and up.”

  The proverbial light bulb went on in my head. He did buy property that was inherited by his daughters in this parish.

  “What about the nightclub singer? Did her stage name happen to be Dolly B?”

  “That sounds about right. Seems she disappeared from New Orleans sometime before Malcolm was killed.”

  Could this singer be Dolly Babineaux? Excitement tingled inside me. “Would you be willing to speak to Jim and tell him what you know about Malcolm Whitehall?”

  “Sure, I’d be happy to help him out with whatever information I can give him.”

  Mother looked at him with an expression of horror on her face. “Charles, do you really think talking to Jim is advisable?”

  “Why not? I’m not involved in any of Malcolm’s schemes.”