Perforating Pierre (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 3)

by Pamela Burford

  No. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, mention him to Cullen. Not yet, not on such flimsy evidence.

  Cullen grunted. “Okay, so you saw the bloody shoe prints.”

  “I just heard you tell Victor that he could have hired a hit man to do in his brother,” I said. “Why couldn’t Lee Romano have done the same thing? Oh, and there’s something else—did Chloe mention it? Swing was offered his own TV show shortly before he died, and now it’s probably going to Lee. She’s pulling out the stops to make it happen. There’s your motive.”

  “Do the police a favor, Ms. Delaney. Don’t try to do our job for us. You’ll do more harm than good, trust me.”

  I’d been wondering why Lee would falsely incriminate Victor in his brother’s murder. After all, her beef had been with Swing. What had Victor ever done to her? The answer became obvious, however, if Lee herself was indeed the murderer. In that case her accusation could be chalked up to simple self-preservation, an attempt to throw the cops off the scent.

  “Another possibility,” Victor said, “is that Lee accompanied her hit man to Dewatre that day. The elaborate way Pierre was arranged—his head on a serving platter—I could picture her doing that to him.”

  Cullen’s smug expression told me he thought he’d cracked the case wide open. “How’d you know about the platter if you weren’t there?” he asked Victor, then jerked his thumb toward me. “She’s the only civilian that knew, and she was told not to blab.”

  “She didn’t have to. I was there.” Before the detective could get too excited, Victor added, “You dropped off the keys to Dewatre last Friday. That’s when I went.”

  Cullen wasn’t ready to relinquish his juicy bone. He leaned forward. “We took that platter as evidence the day of the murder. It was long gone by the time I handed you those keys. The only way you could’ve known about it is if you were there when he died.”

  “I was in Paris when Pierre was killed, remember? This is not in doubt. Which must mean that the hit man I hired told me about the platter. Perhaps I instructed him to do that very thing with it. To help make it look like SEAR was responsible.”

  Cullen closed his notebook. “Let’s take this conversation down to the station.” Where Victor’s impending confession could be recorded and his adorable French butt tossed into the hoosegow.

  I released an exasperated sigh. Without lifting his chin from my leg, Sexy Beast did the same.

  Victor shook his head. “Thank you, Detective, but I’m comfortable right here.”

  So how did Victor know about the platter? I’d been told to keep my yap shut, and shut I’d kept it. Because I always do what authority figures tell me to.

  I heard that. Yes, I can too hear you think. Deal with it.

  Victor didn’t keep me in suspense. “When I entered Pierre’s kitchen, it was several days after he died. The blood—” his voice hitched, ever so slightly, belying his calm demeanor “—had dried, but one could see where it had pooled around his upper body and the object under his head. The size and oval shape suggested a platter identical to those stacked nearby. It was clear that the blood had dried or at least become... what is the word? coagulé by the time the police removed the platter. And Pierre.”

  Gosh, the word sounded downright sexy in French.

  Cullen slumped back. “Huh.”

  I said, “Let’s say Lee Romano did hire a hit man, and let’s say she accompanied him to the murder and did all the… arranging like Victor said. His larger shoe prints could have obliterated any she might have left.” Especially if she’d worn the kind of dainty high-heeled shoes she’d had on during the funeral reception.

  Cullen still had some fight left in him. “Don’t you think it’s kinda strange, Mr. Dewatre? First chance you get, you run right over there to look at the place where your brother was stabbed to death? Most folks, you couldn’t pay ’em to do that.”

  As a certified Death Diva (hey, I’ll get out my crayons and make a certificate one of these days), I knew the detective’s comment for the self-serving BS it was. The fact is, everybody’s different. Victor had wanted to see where his brother had died. So what? He’d also wanted to view Swing’s corpse. Doing these things apparently helped him cope with his loss, and it wasn’t for Cullen or anyone else to judge.

  Victor let his silence indicate that he did not in fact consider his behavior kinda strange.

  “Okay, well, was anyone with you at the restaurant last Friday?” Cullen asked.

  “No, I was alone.”

  “Did anyone see you go in or come out?”

  Victor shook his head. “I used the back entrance. I didn’t want to speak with anyone.”

  “So no one can corroborate your presence there that day,” Cullen said. “It would look better for you if they could.” The message being: With no witnesses to put him at the restaurant on the day he claimed to have slipped in through the back door, Victor’s knowledge of the crime scene still appeared mighty suspicious.

  “For what it’s worth, Detective,” I said, “Victor told me about his visit to Dewatre. I learned about it that evening.” I refrained from mentioning that he also told Dom and Bonnie. That’s right, Detective, the four of us are conducting our own little investigation into the murder since you’re a dangerously inept buffoon.

  Cullen stood. Finally! We walked him to the door as he slid the notebook and pen back into his pocket. “Mr. Dewatre,” he said, “you’re gonna need to stick around and not take any trips for the foreseeable future.”

  “Um, Detective,” I said, “Victor is, as you’re aware, a citizen of France. He possesses a valid passport and, if I’m not mistaken, the legal right to vamoose at will. Unless you’re prepared to arrest him?”

  The look Cullen gave me prompted Sexy Beast, tucked against my chest, to deliver a long, low growl of warning.

  I stroked him lovingly. Someone’s going to get his own little bowl of Fruity Pebbles tonight, yes he is, such a good boy!

  “How about this, then?” The detective’s voice was flat. “If you gotta leave town for any reason, please do me the courtesy of letting me know in advance. That work for you?”

  “If I’m able.” Victor halted before the huge double doors. “Now I have a request of you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you ever going to return Pierre’s cell phone to me? I know it’s considered evidence, its contents, that is, but you’ve had ample time to examine it, no? His laptop too.”

  “Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me.” Cullen reached into his suit jacket and handed over a phone, by all appearances the same one that had rung just before I’d nearly tripped over Swing’s body. “I’ll have to check on his computer, see where it’s at.”

  Victor opened the doors and we all turned to look as a white Acura pulled up and parked in the circular courtyard behind Cullen’s gray Impala.

  “Ralston,” he sneered, as the private investigator slammed his car door and headed up the steps of the colonnaded porch.

  Ben noticed Cullen. His smile was not friendly. “Well, if it isn’t Crystal Harbor’s answer to Inspector Clouseau.” He shook with Victor, kissed my cheek, and scratched Sexy Beast behind the ears. He did not extend his hand to Cullen.

  “What’s he doing here?” Cullen demanded.

  “Ben is a friend,” I said. “Friends visit each other.”

  He skewered Ben with a hard look. “Did she hire you to look into the Dewatre murder?”

  “Nope.”

  He wasn’t lying. It was Victor who hired him, not me.

  “I better not catch you interfering with my investigation,” Cullen said.

  “I’m confident that you won’t,” Ben said.

  “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  I knew Ben used to be a cop before taking his pension and opening Ralston Investigations. I also knew he wasn’t crazy about Bonnie Hernandez, though he respected her as a detective. Respect had nothing to do with what I was observing here.

  I ushered Cullen through t
he doorway, more or less forcefully. “Thanks for coming by, Detective. Call ahead next time, I’ll bake brownies.”

  As we watched the Impala disappear down the long cobblestone drive, Ben said, “What did that idiot want?”

  “He wanted to accuse me of murdering my brother,” Victor said.

  “Based on what?”

  I said, “A bunch of lies Swing’s old business partner fed him.” We were still standing in the foyer. I invited him to sit and visit awhile. “Stay for dinner.”

  “Thanks, but Stevie and I have reservations. I just wanted to fill you in on what I found out. Tooley has a solid alibi for the time of the murder. Guy’s an accounting temp, can you believe it? He was working in an office in Mineola. Couple of dozen people can vouch for his presence there all day.”

  I didn’t register all of that. I was still trying to get past the idea that Romulus Tooley, the big, bad ecoterrorist, made his living as a bean counter for hire.

  “And his shoe size?” Victor asked.

  “Ten. He’s not your guy.”

  “Not him personally,” I said, “but he could have gotten one of his SEAR hangers-on to do it for him.”

  Victor said, “It’s also possible one of them acted on his own after listening to Tooley’s inflammatory rhetoric about Pierre.”

  “I can write up a report and invoice you,” Ben told Victor, “or if you think you might have something else for me, we can wait on that.”

  “Why don’t we wait,” Victor said. “I have a feeling I’ll be calling on your services again.”

  I would have liked to call on Ben’s services right then and there, but I said nothing. I needed to know what size shoe Tucker Nearing wore and where he was the morning Swing was killed—in school, I hoped. I had no intention of sharing these concerns with anyone else, though, based as they were on nothing more than a vague uh-oh feeling. I’d have to figure it out on my own.

  9

  I Spat in Your Soup Every Day

  “WHERE DID YOU even find that getup?” I asked.

  Martin stood next to me in front of the door to Apartment 3B in a prewar building called The Americana. “I have my sources.” He brushed a speck of lint off the front of his blue uniform and reached up to straighten the brim of his cap, similar to a police cap but with a metal plaque on the front sporting the old-fashioned Western Union logo.

  “Well, you look ridiculous,” I said. “I hope you didn’t spend money on it. If you did, it’s coming out of your cut.”

  “Clearly you have no appreciation for men in uniform. Is this guy even home?” He stabbed the doorbell again.

  “It’s the son,” I said. “Chronically unemployed. Probably still in bed.” This was our first visit of the morning on behalf of a client named Claude Meyer, recently deceased, who’d had zero intention of going gentle into that good night.

  Across the hall a door opened. We turned to see a thirtyish Latina wearing one of those front-pack baby carriers, currently occupied by a tiny, dark-haired infant, fast asleep. The woman turned back in to her apartment, clucking and cooing and tugging on a leash. A dog reluctantly emerged, specifically a Chinese crested, its small, spotted body devoid of hair if you didn’t count the explosion of white fluff on its forelegs and the crown of its head. It wore a neon-green sweater.

  Suddenly I wished Sexy Beast were there. Here, at long last, was a dog guaranteed to boost my pet’s fragile self-esteem.

  The instant the animal spied Martin, it lunged for him, fangs bared, drool spraying as it growled and snapped.

  “Seriously?” the padre said.

  “Pickles, stop that! Be a good boy.” The woman struggled to control the little demon as it strained at the leash. “It’s the uniform,” she explained. “Pickles doesn’t like uniforms.” The racket woke the baby, who began to wail.

  “See?” I told Martin. “I’m not the only one who thinks you look preposterous. Pickles concurs.”

  Fury had imbued the little dog with the strength of ten Rottweilers. Unable to drag him away, the woman finally bent down and scooped Pickles into a football hold before hurrying toward the stairs.

  Meanwhile a male voice hollered from the other side of the door to 3B. “Are you cops?”

  “Nah.” Martin grinned at the peephole and doffed his silly cap, tapping the Western Union shield. “Delivery.”

  “I didn’t order anything.”

  I said, “We’re here to deliver a message, Mr. Meyer. We’ll only be a minute, I promise.”

  We waited while Claude’s son thought this over. Finally the locks turned and the door swung open. Brandon Meyer was in his midtwenties and soft looking under the plaid pj bottoms and dingy white undershirt. It would appear we had indeed roused him out of a deep sleep at close to eleven in the morning.

  He stood scratching his armpit and glaring through puffy eyes. “Message from who?”

  Martin said, “Your father, Claude Meyer.”

  Suspicion tugged Brandon’s eyebrows together. “He’s dead.”

  I spoke up. “That’s true, I’m afraid. Please accept our sympathies. We’re here because your father arranged for the delivery of personal messages to his loved ones after his death.”

  Martin produced a pitch pipe and played a note. He cleared his throat and proceeded to sing, to the tune of “I Wish I Was in Dixie”: “Someday you’ll be in the land of hell, because of my beloved cat Belle, she ran away, ran away, ran away, ’cause you left the door open.”

  Seconds passed. Brandon scratched the other armpit. Finally he said, “Stupid cat. So that’s why Dad left me squat?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not privy to his reasons,” I said. Which, of course, was a big fat lie. Hell yeah, it was because of the cat. Claude had been a mean old crank. If the cat hadn’t decamped, he’d have found some other excuse to cut his only child out of his will and give it all to an organization that claims gravity is a hoax and that only the iron in our blood keeps us from floating away, thanks to the tunnel-dwelling mole people and their giant electromagnets. But I had no intention of standing there chewing the fat with my client’s careless son. The sooner we got to our next stop, the sooner I could put this whole stupid assignment behind me.

  Claude had insisted that only a male voice would do for his postmortem singing telegrams. No problem—Martin and I collaborated on the occasional assignment. What I hadn’t counted on was the padre showing up in that moronic costume. Why couldn’t he be normal? Predictable?

  And if he were? a niggling voice asked. If Martin were normal and predictable and steadfast and responsible, like—

  Okay, yes, I’ll say it. Like Dom! Are you happy? If Martin were more like Dom, would I still feel…

  All right, for the record, I’m not saying I feel anything special for Martin. Lord knows he’s never said he feels anything special for me, though he did come close once. I’m kinda almost a hundred percent certain about that. But to get back to my point…

  Wait, I forgot my point. You know what? Forget it. I had no business playing what-if when I should be concentrating on getting through Claude’s vindictive little song list so I could cash his final check.

  Brandon was still scratching himself when we took our leave, and no, he does not possess a third armpit, so use your imagination. We drove to the swanky house in Crystal Harbor that Claude had shared with his third wife, Margaret Mary. The fortyish widow opened the door promptly, looking both hotsy and totsy in a revealing wrap top, sprayed-on white pants, and blingy mules. Big hair and an e-cigarette completed the look.

  Martin grinned appreciatively. Margaret Mary grinned back, taking note of the Western Union cap, which she flicked with a lacquered nail. “Well, don’t you look cute. I thought telegrams went the way of the dodos.”

  I jumped right in with, “Mrs. Meyer, we’re here to deliver a personal message from your late husband, Claude.”

  She rolled her eyes and took a drag of her e-cigarette, whose telltale skunky aroma hinted it was not in fact an e-cigarette
but one of those vape pens whose use had nothing at all to do with nicotine.

  In a bored tone Margaret Mary said, “I should’ve known I hadn’t heard the last from that old bastard. All right, lemme have it.”

  The padre went through the same silly pitch-pipe-and throat-clearing routine before singing, to the tune of “Oh my darling, Clementine”: “Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling Margaret Mary, you are gone and lost forever, ’cause you cheated on me with Fred McCuddy.”

  Margaret Mary pulled a face. “That doesn’t even rhyme.”

  “I’m not responsible for the lyrics,” Martin said.

  “No, I know that. Sheesh.” She sucked her vape pen, thinking. “I should’ve done it with someone named Harry. Or Larry. Or, oh, I know! Stanley Perry. Oh wait, I did.”

  “I’m sure you were provoked,” Martin said, then grunted as my elbow connected with his ribs. Stick to the script, Padre.

  “Was I ever,” Margaret Mary said. “You ever meet the dearly departed?”

  “No.” Martin pointed to me. “But she did.”

  Before the widow could get up a good head of steam on the subject of her infidelities and their perfectly justifiable provocations, I said, “Our sincere condolences on your loss, Mrs. Meyer.”

  She gestured with the vape pen as if to say, Yeah, whatever. Her gaze was unfocused as she said, “Listen, am I supposed to tip you?”

  “It’s not required,” Martin said, “but I wouldn’t turn it d—oof!”

  There was my pesky elbow again, with a mind of its own.

  “There’s no need for that,” I said. “Mr. Meyer took care of our fee. We’ll just be on our—”

  “You know,” she purred, gesturing inside the house, “I just opened a bottle of good pinot noir. I hate drinking alone, don’t you?” Her smile encompassed both me and Martin in a way that told me she was on the prowl for more than a couple of drinking buddies.

  Martin was all over that. “I think we could be persuad— Ow! Jane, knock it off!”