by Lisa Jackson
If only she hadn’t promised the old man she’d stay. If only she could leave. But she’d sworn to take care of Berneda Montgomery as long as that woman drew a breath. So she had to stay. Muttering a prayer, she made the sign of the cross over her ample bosoms, and as she did she heard the ghosts laughing at her.
There was no escape.
Nineteen
“Okay, now wait a minute. Catch me up,” Caitlyn demanded once she’d reached Oak Hill. The family had gathered. Including Amanda. Aside from being paler than usual, Amanda seemed fine. She was pacing the length of the parlor, her husband Ian sitting on a tall stool near the cold grate of the fireplace.
Berneda, looking wan, lay on the chaise. Lucille was seated next to her, Doc Fellers in attendance. Positioned near the window and staring out the watery glass panes to the darkness beyond, Troy was as tense as a bow string, his eyes narrowed on the lane, as if he expected a gang of bad guys from an old Western to appear in a cloud of dust. Even Hannah had shown up and was slumped in one of the plush side chairs. Her skin was tanned, her expression bored, her eye makeup dark, her hair streaked blond. A neglected can of diet soda was sweating on the coffee table. “What happened?”
“Someone cut the brake line of my TR,” Amanda said as she plowed stiff fingers through her hair. She was worked up, walking from one end of the room to the other. “You know, the police didn’t take me seriously when I said someone tried to run me off the road a few months ago, but they’d better do it now.”
“You were run off the road?”Berneda struggled to sit up a little higher.
Lucille’s hand strayed to her shoulder. “Shh. You rest.”
“Yes!” Amanda said emphatically. “Run off the damned road. I could have been killed! And no one seemed to care. I brought it up again today when Detective Reed showed up.”
“He was there?” Caitlyn asked, starting to panic again. He was hovering so close to her family. Of course she wanted him to find Josh’s killer, yet the thought that he was ever present bothered her.
“He came to the hospital just as I was being released and I basically told him to get off his ass and find whoever it is that’s doing this.”
“Amanda thinks her accident and Josh’s death might be connected,” Ian said.
“I’d bet my life on it,” Amanda said.
“Connected? Why?”
“It’s just a little too coincidental that someone fiddles with my brakes a week after Josh was killed.”
“If he didn’t kill himself,” Ian said.
“Oh, come on! Only a moron would think that! We all knew Josh. Let’s not even go there, okay? Suicide my eye! I’m just lucky I wasn’t killed today!”
“You weren’t hurt,” her husband reminded Amanda. The tight corners of his mouth suggested that her histrionics were too much for him. Though over forty, Ian Drummond’s hair was jet black, his eyes nearly as dark. He had the physique of a twenty-five-year-old countered by the sullen, angry expression of a man who had lived unhappily too long.
“It doesn’t matter, Ian. Someone tried to kill me last winter—right before Christmas, remember? And they tried again today! Next time they might just get away with it!”
Berneda gave a little squeak of protest.
“Perhaps you should talk elsewhere,” Lucille said, her eyes flashing a warning that Amanda was in no mood to accept.
“I just thought it was best if everyone in the family found out from me. It’ll probably be in the news, on the television tonight or in the paper tomorrow morning. I thought you’d all want to hear it from me yourselves.”
“What did Detective Reed have to say?” Caitlyn asked.
“Not much more than the rest of those idiots. I’ve spoken to someone there three times since that damned black Explorer nearly pushed me into the swamp, once the day it happened, another time a week later and now again today, but you know what? I don’t think anyone there really gives a damn.”
“Except Detective Reed did show up today. You didn’t call him,” Ian reminded her.
“But I will. If he thinks that little interview today was enough, he obviously doesn’t know me.”
“Maybe the police have bigger fish to fry. You came out of it unhurt,” Troy offered, stuffing his hands into his pants pocket.
“Bigger fish as in the Josh Bandeaux murder?”
“I thought they were still trying to figure out if he committed suicide,” Berneda said.
“I told you I don’t think it was suicide.” Amanda couldn’t hide the exasperation in her voice.
“What do you think?” Hannah asked Caitlyn.
“I don’t know, but I agree with Amanda. I can’t imagine that he would kill himself. The police seem to think it was murder.”
“I agree.” Hannah’s blue eyes darkened a shade, and Caitlyn held her tongue. There had been rumors about Josh and Hannah, but there had been rumors about Josh with just about any female within ninety miles. So Caitlyn had become inured, she supposed. His affairs had become more embarrassing than painful. But to think that her own sister had . . . “Josh loved himself too much to end it.”
“Must we speculate?” Berneda asked, running a shaky hand over her lips. She looked pale and shrunken on the chaise.
“Of course not, Mom. Why don’t you go upstairs and rest?” Caitlyn suggested.
“So you all can talk about me?”
“We won’t.”
“Of course we will,” Hannah said. She slid out of the chair, her legs appearing longer than they were because of her short denim skirt and boots with five-inch heels. “That’s what this family does best. Gossips. About each other.” Hannah had never been afraid to speak her mind. The baby of the clan, she’d been coddled and spoiled and thought it was her God-given right to blurt out whatever she thought. “I need a drink.” She walked through the foyer to the dining room where an antique sideboard had been converted into a wet bar. “Anyone else?” she called, her voice echoing against the coved ceiling.
“Spoiled brat,” Ian said under his breath, but loud enough that everyone in the room caught it.
“This is all so much to take in.” Berneda wrung her hands nervously.
“You’ve upset her,” Troy accused Amanda.
“Oh, I know, I shouldn’t have come here, but I thought it would be best if I came over in person and she saw that I was all right. Isn’t that better than catching a sound bite on the eleven o’clock news?” Amanda glanced at Berneda. “Mom, I’m okay, really,” she said, though she didn’t sound as if she’d convinced herself. “Everything turned out all right. Except for the TR Daddy gave me. It’s totaled.”
Hannah strolled back to the family room and was sipping from a short glass.
“All this in one week,” Berneda said, her voice shaking as she reached for Amanda’s hand. “It’s a little much. First Josh and now you. I swear sometimes I do believe this family is cursed.”
“Cursed? Oh, God, Mom. Now you’re starting to sound like her,” Hannah said as she threw a pointed look at Lucille. “Seen any ghosts lately?”
“Hannah!” Berneda responded.
“I don’t see ’em, I only hear ’em,” Lucille said in a voice so cold it sent a shiver down Caitlyn’s spine.
“What about you?” Hannah twirled on the heel of her boot to stare at Caitlyn. “I thought you heard ghosts, too.”
“That’s enough!” Berneda was shaking, and Doc Fellers stepped between Hannah and her mother. “Let’s all try to calm down. I’ve given your mother a tranquilizer.”
“How thoughtful,” Hannah said with a sneer. “I think I’ll have one myself.” She lifted her empty glass and wiggled it in the air.
“Stop it,” Troy warned.
Lucille’s lips tightened at the corners. Her dark eyes reflected pinpoints of light from the lamps glowing from the end tables, and she seemed distant and cold.
“Come on, Mom, let’s get you upstairs where you can lie down. Ian, can you help me?” Amanda asked and seemed none the worse for her accid
ent.
Lucille was on her feet in an instant. “I’ll take her to her room.”
But Amanda was already helping Berneda off the couch. “Come on, Mom . . . Ian?”
“I’ll get her,” he said and picked Berneda up to carry her up the stairs. Amanda was right behind him, and Lucille, never one to be far from her charge, followed at a slower pace as she gripped the handrail and eased up the steps.
“I think she’ll be all right,” Doc Fellers said as he zipped up his medical bag. “This week has been hard on her. I’ve left a prescription for a tranquilizer with Lucille, and I want it filled if Berneda becomes agitated again.”
“Mom was agitated?” Caitlyn asked, worried all over again.
“Upset,” Troy explained.
“You can call me day or night,” the doctor said. That was the way it had always been. For as long as Caitlyn could remember. If there was a medical problem or emergency, Henry Fellers was telephoned. Sometimes they’d meet him at the hospital, or he was called in to the emergency room, but more often than not, he came here, to this old plantation home. Like an old horse-and-buggy doctor of a hundred and fifty years ago. Which was odd. In this day and age of HMOs, specialized medicine, high-tech treatments with MRIs and CT scans, along with laser surgeries, computer images, and conference calls to specialists all over the country, Doc Fellers was a throwback to the nineteenth century.
Odder still, Caitlyn was nearly certain that the Montgomery clan were his only remaining patients. He’d been semiretired for fifteen years or so and yet, no matter what time of day or night, if needed, he raced to Oak Hill. Berneda’s migraines and heart condition, Caitlyn’s sinus infections, Charles’s broken collarbone, Amanda’s concussion, Hannah’s abortion . . .
He’d been the medical doctor who had admitted Caitlyn to the mental hospital after Jamie died, and a few weeks later he’d lobbied with the psychiatrists to secure her release.
“I’ll check on Berneda tomorrow,” he said now as he started for the door only to pause to touch Caitlyn on the shoulder. “And how are you doing? I was real sorry to hear about Josh. I didn’t like him much, you know that, never thought he treated you worth a damn, but I know it’s a loss just the same.”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“You’re sure?” Sincere eyes regarded her from beneath shaggy white eyebrows. “Sometimes we all need a little help. I can write a prescription for you as easily as I can your mother. You’ve been through a lot, Caitlyn.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“You sure?” The doctor was far from convinced.
“As sure as I can be,” she said as he walked outside and squared his hat upon his head. She closed the door and found Hannah stirring her drink with her finger and staring at her.
“You know, we’re a pathetic lot,” Hannah said.
Caitlyn wasn’t in the mood for her baby sister’s dark sense of humor. She needed to go upstairs and say good-bye to her mother before she drove home. “Speak for yourself.”
“Merely an observation. My opinion.”
“So keep it to yourself.”
“Uh-oh, look who just got tough,” Hannah taunted, holding her drink aloft in mock salute, then offering a not-so-nice-girl grin and taking a long sip. “I’m soooo scared.”
“Good.” Caitlyn grabbed her purse and shot her youngest sister a look guaranteed to kill. “Scared is an improvement, Hannah. A big improvement.”
Reed didn’t like the turn of his thoughts. No matter how he tried to mold it, he kept coming up with Caitlyn Bandeaux as the logical suspect. He was waiting for the judge to issue a search warrant and the D.A., Katherine Okano, was getting anxious. She was pushing. Hard. That was the trouble with women in high places. They got impatient and became bitches. Throw menopause into the mix and all hell was sure to break loose. Men, on the other hand, were just plain tough.
That’s the misogynist in you, his conscience reminded him as the phone rang and he picked up. “Reed.”
“Yeah. This is Detective Reuben Montoya, New Orleans Police Department, Homicide. I’ve got a missing person with a connection to one of the cases you’re investigating.”
Reed was surprised. “What do you need?”
“Her name is Marta Vasquez. She’s been missing since last December. She’s thirty-three, five-seven, a hundred and thirty pounds, Anglo-Hispanic. Last seen in a bar on Bourbon Street where she was out with friends. I’ll fax you a picture and detailed description.”
“What case is this connected with?”
“That’s the kicker. Marta is the daughter of Lucille Vasquez, who lives at Oak Hill outside of Savannah. I know that technically Oak Hill is out of your jurisdiction, but I’ve already talked to the sheriff out there and he gave me your name.” Reed’s interest sharpened. “I’ve been reading the Savannah Sentinel, so I knew you were working on the Joshua Bandeaux case. Lucille Vasquez knew him. She’s the housemaid to your victim’s mother-in-law.”
“How do you think the cases might be connected?” Reed was sitting up, clicking his pen as the wheels turned in his mind.
“I don’t know. I don’t see how, but I’m running out of options down here and a couple of friends thought Marta might be going to visit her mother. I’m not sure how this all works out as Marta and Lucille were estranged, but I’m checking everything out on this end. I’ve called Marta’s mother myself, but Lucille Vasquez is the proverbial brick wall. Won’t give me any information.”
Reed had heard as much from the detectives who had interviewed the staff at Oak Hill. He leaned back in his chair again and glanced to his computer monitor where a list of all of Josh Bandeaux’s known acquaintances flickered. “You said you were with Homicide. You think Marta is dead?”
There was a weighty pause on the other end of the line, and Reed thought he heard the click of a cigarette lighter before the expulsion of a long breath. “Is she dead? Hell, that’s the real question. I hope not. For now I’m just looking for answers.” Before Reed could ask another question, Montoya added, “I’ve got a personal stake in this one. Any help you could give me would be appreciated.”
He sounded straight. “You got it. But I don’t know what we can find out.”
“Just keep me posted. I’ll fax you a picture, her stats and the pertinent information.”
“Fair enough. The fax number is—”
“Already got it. Thanks. I owe ya, man,” Montoya said.
Reed hung up the phone and wondered about any possible connection between Marta Vasquez’s disappearance and the murder of Josh Bandeaux. Coincidence? Or a clue?
He jotted a note and heard the familiar sound of boots heading for his door. From the cadence he knew it was Morrisette and she was on a tear. He looked over his shoulder just as she burst through the door.
“Guess what?” she said, hoisting her little butt onto his desk.
“I couldn’t.”
“You’re no fun.”
“So I’ve been told. Many times.”
“Our favorite family is in the news again.” Morrisette’s eyes actually twinkled. She really got off on all this stuff. Reed, on the other hand, felt as if a brick had been dropped on his gut.
“The Montgomerys?”
“Whoever said you weren’t an ace detective?”
“You for starters.”
She grinned far enough to show some teeth.
“If this is about Amanda Drummond’s accident yesterday, I already heard about it and talked to her in the hospital. She thinks someone’s trying to kill her. I was about to call you and see if you wanted to go with me to get her statement.”
“Shit—oh, damn . . . oh . . . I should have known you would already have gotten wind of this. And yeah, I wouldn’t miss this interview for the world,” she said, a little deflated that Reed was one step ahead of her.
The telephone jangled and he punched the button for the speakerphone. “Reed.”
“You’ve got a couple of faxes,” a secretary told him.
“I’ll be down to pick ’em up in a few.” He was in the process of hanging up when he saw Amanda Drummond storming through the cubicles, heading straight for his office.
“Looks like we’ll be doing that interview here,” he said under his breath as Amanda pushed through the already half-open door.
“You said you wanted a statement,” she said without so much as a greeting, “so I thought I’d make it official. I know this is Homicide, okay, and I probably technically should be talking to that yahoo of a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department, but since you stopped by the hospital yesterday and seem to agree that what happened to me might be related to Josh’s death, I thought I’d talk to you.”
“That’ll work,” he said. “This is my partner. Detective Morrisette. She’ll sit in. If you don’t mind, I’m going to tape this.” He reached into his drawer for a pocket recorder and noticed that Morrisette had pulled a small notepad and pen from her pocket.
“Fine.” Amanda gave Morrisette the once-over, hesitated a second when she checked out her hair, then turned back to Reed as she settled into the chair near his desk. Morrisette rested a hip on the windowsill. “For the record, I think someone is picking off Montgomery family members one by one. Someone tried to run me off the road, and if you check the records you’ll see I made a statement with the police to that effect. Then he waited, killed Josh in the meantime and took a crack at me again yesterday!” Her jaw was set, her eyes bright as she leaned across the desk. But she didn’t look scared. Just angry. Such was her personality. “Look, Detective, I want whoever the bastard is caught before my luck runs out.” She pointed a manicured nail straight between his eyes. “So I expect you to nail the S.O.B. before he gets another chance.”
“I can assure you that we’re doing everything possible to close this case, Mrs. Drummond.”
“Oh, sure. The company answer. That’ll make me sleep better tonight.” She let out her breath in a huff, and as she did some of her rage seemed to dissipate. “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t like unleashing the bitch in me. It . . . it shouldn’t be necessary. But sometimes I feel it is.” As she leaned closer to the desk, making the conversation appear more intimate, Reed was reminded that she was an attorney, used to putting on a show in a courtroom, to playing to an audience. “Look,” she said, “I know Kathy Okano. We were both assistant D.A.s together years ago before I couldn’t stand it any longer. But I’m sure she would agree with me.”
