Killer On A Hot Tin Roof

by Livia J. Washburn

  Ramsey turned his head to look at her. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Dr. June Powers,” she said. “And that man lying there is Dr. Lawrence Powers, my father-in-law.”

  “You mean the drunk guy or the dead guy?”

  June looked scared and mad at the same time. “The man who’s passed out. He’s very ill, by the way.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see to it that he gets medical attention if he needs it. So tell us how you found the body.”

  June shook her head. “But I didn’t find the body. She did.”

  You guessed it. Her finger was pointing at me. Ramsey and Nesbit both looked at me, and Nesbit asked, “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Delilah Dickinson,” I told him. He had taken a notebook from inside his coat and started writing names in it. He added mine to the list. Then he looked up with a slight frown.

  “That name is familiar.”

  Ramsey told one of the uniformed cops, “Call it in and have ‘em run the name through the databases. Dickinson, Delilah.”

  “No, that’s not it,” Nesbit said, shaking his head. “I know I’ve heard that name before…. Where are you from, Ms. Dickinson?”

  “Atlanta,” I said with a sinking feeling.

  A smile suddenly lit up Nesbit’s face. “I knew it!” he said. “The Gone With the Wind murder!”

  CHAPTER 10

  Ramsey turned to stare at his partner. “The what?” he asked.

  “The Gone With the Wind murder,” Nesbit repeated, although I’d just as soon not have had to hear that phrase again. “I read about it a couple of years ago. A tour group was visiting one of those plantations near Atlanta where they put on sort of a reenactment of Gone With the Wind. Somebody got murdered, and the lady who was running the tour group figured out who the killer was and solved the case.” He pointed at me. “Her.”

  Ramsey turned toward me again. “Is that right?”

  I shrugged. “I was there. I don’t know how much I did to actually solve anything–”

  “And then last year there was something else,” Nesbit broke in. “Something about a riverboat. I don’t remember the details, but I know there was another murder–”

  “Sounds like a Black Widow situation to me,” Ramsey said.

  “No, no, she’s more like that old lady on TV who solves all the murders. I mean, that show was before my time, but I’ve seen some episodes in reruns.”

  I didn’t know what bothered me more about what Nesbit had just said, but I shoved it all aside. “Look, fellas, this is your case. I just happened to be here.”

  Ramsey gave his partner an ugly grin. “Well, ain’t that nice of the lady? She’s gonna let us solve this homicide on our own.”

  Nesbit ignored that and said, “So you’re the one who found the body, Ms. Dickinson?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “How did that come about? Start at the beginning, please, and tell us everything you can remember, whether it seems important or not. Start with how you know the victim.”

  “Well, I’d never met Mr. Burleson before this morning,” I began. “Or rather, yesterday morning, I guess it would be, technically, since it’s after midnight–”

  “Yeah, we got that,” Ramsey broke in. “Get on with it.”

  I did, telling them about how the tour group had gathered at the airport in Atlanta to fly here to New Orleans for the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival. I explained about Burleson accompanying Dr. Michael Frasier because he’d supposedly been acquainted–intimately acquainted–with Tennessee Williams. I even told them about Burleson’s claim to have written Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and as June Powers listened to that, her eyes widened.

  “That’s ludicrous,” she interrupted to say. “There’s never been the slightest hint that anyone else was involved in the writing of Williams’s plays, other than the first one he wrote while he was in college. He collaborated with another student on that one.”

  “Skip the lecture, Professor,” Ramsey said. “Go on, Ms. Dickinson.”

  I told them the quick version of everything else that had happened, except for a couple of things. I didn’t say anything about seeing Callie Madison on the balcony with Dr. Jeffords, and when Nesbit asked me if I had seen anyone else in the garden around the time I discovered the body, I mentionedseeing Dr. Keller, as well as a blond woman, but I didn’t tell them that I had recognized Callie. I still couldn’t believe she’d had anything to do with Burleson’s death, so I wanted to talk to her first. I hoped that decision wouldn’t come back to haunt me.

  Explaining how I’d come to find the body was easy. I just told the two detectives exactly what had happened and didn’t hold anything back about that. It wasn’t until I noticed June looking nervous that I realized what must be going through her mind: drunk or not, Larry Powers had been out here in the hotel garden around the time of Burleson’s death. The cops would probably consider him a suspect, too, along with Dr. Keller and the blond woman I hadn’t named.

  Of course, there could have been a dozen other people in this miniature jungle around that time, I thought. It was designed for privacy. Just because I hadn’t seen them didn’t mean they weren’t there. I was sure Nesbit and Ramsey would question the waiters who’d been delivering drinks out here and try to track down everyone who had been around the scene.

  It was harder to answer when Nesbit asked, “Do you know of any enemies the victim might have had? Anyone who might have had a grudge against Mr. Burleson?”

  “He seemed like a perfectly harmless old man to me,” I said with a frown. “I don’t know anyone who would have wanted to kill him. Maybe he stumbled into a drug deal or something.”

  Ramsey frowned back at me. “Right here in the middle of one of the fanciest hotels in town?”

  Actually, I didn’t think that possibility was all that likely, either. But it wasn’t impossible, and I preferred to think that the crime was one of random violence rather than something connected to my tour group.

  Then June blurted out, “What about Tamara?”

  “Who?” Nesbit asked.

  “Dr. Tamara Paige. She was very upset about the whole idea that the old man might have been one of Tennessee Williams’s lovers. She rejected it wholeheartedly.”

  I glared at June, but I understood what she was doing. She was trying to throw Tamara under the bus in order to divert suspicion from her father-in-law. I suppose I could understand that motivation, but I didn’t think either Dr. Paige or Papa Larry was capable of murder.

  Then I reminded myself that you never truly know what another person is capable of under the right circumstances. That was a lesson I had learned the hard way.

  Nesbit made a note of Tamara’s name. Clearly, he was the note-taker of the team. Ramsey hadn’t written down anything yet, hadn’t even brought out a notebook.

  “Did this Dr. Paige make a stink on the airplane?” Ramsey asked.

  June nodded eagerly. The detectives had switched all their attention from me to her, and she seemed to be almost enjoying it. “She certainly did,” June said, “and then this evening, at the festival’s opening ceremonies, it was Dr. Paige who Dr. Frasier accused of doing something to the old man.”

  “Doing something?” Nesbit repeated. “You mean Dr. Frasier knew then that something had happened to Mr. Burleson?”

  “You’re gettin’ it turned around,” I told him. “That was when Mr. Burleson was missing, but we found him.”

  “Missing?” Ramsey snapped. “The old man went missing?”

  “I told you about how Dr. Frasier came to the theater looking for him,” I said.

  “Yeah, but you didn’t make it clear that Frasier already suspected foul play even then,” Nesbit said. “Or that Dr. Paige was his leading suspect.”

  “But nothing had happened to Mr. Burleson then,” I said as I realized I must have glided over some of that without really meaning to. Maybe subconsciously I’d been trying to protect Tamara. I don’t know. But I went
on. “We found him in Petit Claude’s, a jazz club around the corner.”

  Nesbit nodded. “I know the place. When you say ‘we,’ who do you mean?”

  “It was me and my friend, Dr. Will Burke, along with Dr. Frasier and Dr. Paige. We’d gone from the theater back to the hotel to look for Mr. Burleson, and Mr. Gillette told us he’d spoken to Mr. Burleson about Petit Claude’s.”

  Gillette nodded and spoke up for the first time in a while. “That’s right, Detectives. Dr. Paige was with Ms. Dickinson, Dr. Burke, and Dr. Frasier.”

  Nesbit asked, “Did she make any threats about what she might do to Mr. Burleson when they found him?”

  Gillette shook his head. “Oh, no, nothing like that. I did notice that Dr. Frasier was very upset and seemed worried that something might have happened to the old man, though. And he and Dr. Paige didn’t seem to get along very well.”

  “What happened when you found the old man in that club?” Ramsey asked me.

  “We sat and talked for a while. That’s when he told us about how he supposedly wrote Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

  “Was Dr. Paige upset about that claim, too?” Nesbit wanted to know.

  June didn’t let me answer. She jumped in with, “Of course she was upset. Tamara’s thesis was on the origins of that play, and she’s always concentrated on it in her published work. A revelation as major as a hidden author would invalidate practically everything she’s ever written.”

  Frasier had said pretty much the same thing several times,and I was sure that when the cops got around to questioning him, he would say it again, as vehemently as possible.

  Nesbit wasn’t satisfied, though. He said, “Yes, but you weren’t there, Dr. Powers.” He turned back to me. “You were, Ms. Dickinson. So tell me … was Dr. Paige upset with Mr. Burleson because of these claims he was making? Perhaps even angry with him?”

  I shook my head. “She was a little upset, maybe, but not angry. Mainly she just didn’t believe what Mr. Burleson was saying. But she was always cordial to him.”

  June sniffed. “She called him an old fraud at both the hotel and the theater. I heard her.”

  “Like I said, she didn’t believe him, but that doesn’t mean she was angry with him. If she was mad at anybody, it was Michael Frasier.”

  “Why would she be mad at Dr. Frasier?” Nesbit asked quickly, pouncing on that.

  I sighed. There was no point in trying to hide the relationship Tamara had had with Frasier. Will knew about it, and I figured most of the other professors in the group did, too. If I didn’t say anything, June would. She had really warmed up to the idea of pointing fingers at Tamara, and I could understand why. The detectives seemed to have lost all interest in Papa Larry.

  “Dr. Paige thought that Mr. Burleson was either delusional or lying about knowing Tennessee Williams, in order to get attention,” I said. “She thought Dr. Frasier was taking advantage of him and was going to wind up embarrassing Mr. Burleson, along with himself. And there was some friction between her and Dr. Frasier to start with.”

  “Because …?” Ramsey prompted.

  “From what I hear, the two of them used to be a couple.”

  June nodded. “That’s true. They dated for several months.”

  “But not anymore?” Nesbit said.

  “No, they broke up.” June lowered her voice a little and added, “And from what I hear, it was an ugly split, too.”

  Ramsey and Nesbit both nodded, and I knew that Tamara had moved to the top of their list of suspects. That she was a killer still seemed unlikely to me, but I had to admit to myself that I had known her for less than twenty-four hours. I really didn’t know how far she would go to protect a body of work that was threatened by Burleson’s claims, as well as to get back at a former boyfriend.

  “I take it all these people are staying here at the St. Emilion?” Nesbit said.

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “I can get you their room numbers,” Gillette offered.

  “Yeah, we’ll need ‘em,” Ramsey said. “As soon as the crime scene techs get here, we’ll start our canvass.”

  “You’re gonna question everybody tonight?” I said. “It’s after midnight.”

  “I think murder’s enough to justify waking them up, don’t you?” Ramsey said, and I didn’t like his smirk or his nasty tone of voice. He was right, though, and I knew it. The sooner they could question everybody, the greater the odds that they would be able to find the killer.

  It was at that moment that Larry Powers groaned, rolled onto his back, and said, “Wha … wha … what the hell …” He tried to lift his head so he could look around, but he couldn’t make it. He just groaned again and let his head fall back.

  Nesbit moved over to him and knelt at his side. “Dr. Powers, can you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Papa Larry kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Make the hotel … stop spinning,” he said. “I don’t wanna be … sick again.”

  I wasn’t sure he had anything left in his stomach to throwup, but I didn’t figure pointing that out would do any good, so I kept quiet. Nesbit motioned to the two hotel security guards and said, “Let’s get him sitting up.”

  Ramsey said, “He’s probably too drunk to answer any questions.”

  “I’m not … drunk,” Larry protested. “I’m … sick.”

  I thought he was some of both, but again, I kept that to myself. The guards got on either side of him and each took an arm. As they lifted him, Nesbit put a hand behind his neck to steady him. Between them, they managed to get Larry upright, although still a long way from being on his feet.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked Nesbit. Blinking in confusion, Larry looked around at Ramsey and the other cops, then at me, Gillette, and June. “What the hell’s goin’ on here, Junebug?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but Nesbit held up a hand to stop her. “Just talk to me right now, Dr. Powers,” he said. “I’m Detective Nesbit of the New Orleans Police Department. Can you tell me what you were doing out here in the hotel garden?”

  “Cops?” Larry said with a frown. He looked at June. “You called the cops on me just because of a little drinkin’, Junebug?” Then his gaze swung over to me. “No! I bet it was you, Red. What was your name again?”

  “Dr. Powers, please listen to me,” Nesbit said. “You’re not in trouble. No one called the police about your drinking. Is that what you were doing out here?”

  Larry belched, then lifted a trembling hand and drew the back of it across his mouth. “Y-yeah,” he said. “I wanted a drink, so I … came out here. Didn’t think anybody would … see me. I’m not … supposed to drink.”

  “I’ll say you’re not,” June put in. “You could have killedyourself, you … you old fool! You may have done irreparable damage to your stomach.”

  Larry shook his head. “It doesn’t … feel that bad. Just a little … queasy.”

  “Dr. Powers,” Nesbit pressed on, “did you see anyone out here?”

  “When?”

  “Earlier, while you were drinking.”

  “Just the waiter. He came by … a few times … brought me some booze.”

  “What about sounds? Did you hear anyone arguing?”

  Larry frowned and pouted at the same time, making him look like a big, goateed baby. “I don’t like this. I don’t feel good. I want to go to my room and lie down.”

  “We’ll see about letting you do that in a few minutes,” Nesbit promised. “First, though, you need to concentrate and tell me if you saw or heard anything unusual out here before you passed out.”

  Larry sat there for a long moment, then shook his head. “I don’t remember anything. I don’t even remember passing out. The last thing I recall is sitting at a table with a rum and cola.”

  June said, “You don’t even remember when Ms. Dickinson and I found you? You talked to us.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s gone now.” He looked around at all of us. “Nobody’s told me
what’s going on here. If you didn’t call the cops about me, what are they doing here? Why all the questions?”

  “Look behind you, Dr. Powers,” Nesbit suggested quietly.

  Larry was a big guy with a fat neck. He had trouble turning his head. But when he finally managed to do so, he saw the lower half of Howard Burleson’s body and flinched away from it as a shocked expression appeared on his face.

  “Whoa! What the hell! Who’s that? Is he hurt?”

  His surprise seemed genuine, but I recalled what he had just said about not remembering the conversation he’d had with June and me. Maybe something else had happened that he didn’t remember. Maybe he had run into Howard Burleson out here in the garden. I couldn’t think of any motive for Larry Powers to bash in the old man’s head, but Larry had been pretty drunk. Maybe Burleson had said something that made him mad. I didn’t know what sort of temper Larry had. June would know that better than I would … and she had been doing her best to cast suspicion anywhere else. Maybe that meant something.

  “That’s Howard Burleson,” Nesbit said. “Do you remember seeing him or talking to him, Dr. Powers?”

  “The old-timer that Michael Frasier brought with him? I saw him on the plane and as we were checking into the hotel, but those are the only times.”

  “That you remember,” Ramsey said with a harsh edge in his voice.

  “Of course that I remember,” Larry snapped. “I can’t tell you anything I don’t remember, now can I?”

  “Do you know of anybody who would have a reason to hurt Mr. Burleson?” Nesbit asked.

  Larry lowered his voice to a half-whisper. “Is he dead? He’s not moving.”

  “Yes, sir, he’s dead,” Nesbit replied with a solemn nod. “Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill him?”

  “He seemed like a harmless old man to me. It doesn’t make sense that anyone would want to … to hurt him.” Evidently Larry couldn’t bring himself to use the word “kill.” He frowned again and looked up. “Unless …”

  “Unless what?” Ramsey demanded when Larry’s voice trailed off.