“A lot of it we earned. I was a fisherman, a shrimper, had my own boat and sometimes I had very good hauls. And Marcie had a good job. Psychiatric nurse. Made great money. We lived in a little dump of a shotgun cottage just off Tchoupitoulas in New Orleans.” He said, correctly: ‘Chop-i-too-las.’ Only a city dweller would know the pronunciation. “Saved ever dime. I like horses too, but I’m no expert like Marcie…” He paused and I thought: So you wouldn’t know hind feet from front feet? He went on…“It was Marcie’s dream to be a breeder. Of course by then she had Once and was getting him to shows and all. She rode him you know, back then. She was a beauty.”
Blind love? Hard now to picture Marcie as a beauty. Then I remembered the championship photos in the tack room. She’d had a regal quality to her and I suddenly believed Theo really did love her.
“But I found a form in Marcie’s office,” I mentioned. “Said you made a hundred and eighty-five thousand dollar down payment.”
“I inherited my mother’s house. When we sold it and an’ we sold our dump, we cleared way over two hundred fifty grand. And Once was payin his way, breedin mares. Both of us makin way over a hundred grand a year combined.”
“Someone told me y’all did extensive renovations to the farm.” In twenty years I’d heard too many y’alls not to occasionally use it myself, and it helped me blend in.
“Sure. I’m handy. You seen that tack room?”
“Yes. Opulent.”
“Thanks. I built ever square inch of it.”
“Impressive. So, Theo, what happened?”
“I fell.”
“Down? From a horse?” As I spoke, though, I felt a peculiar dread in my belly. I knew what was coming, and it wasn’t another ‘How I Fell Off a Horse’ story, of which everybody had one.
“I was a junkie, way back. In high school. Cleaned my act up, took courses in carpentry, electrical, you name it. Even air-conditionin. But got a chance to buy that shrimp boat. So I did. Then I met Marcie. You knew her. She was a blueblood compared to me.”
“Um.” In the classless USA, it wasn’t good manners to acknowledge the classes.
“Where did you meet?”
“A horse show. I always hankered after horses. Readin the Times Picayune newspaper one Sunday”–he stared at me–“small world, Ms. Bryn, I betcha it was in your column! You still write that?”
“Nope.”
“Why not? All the horse folks loved it.”
“Tell the TP!” I smiled. “No, I ran into an editor who didn’t know people put horses in trailers and transported them long distances. Canceled me.”
“Whut?”
“Yep.”
We shook our heads in dismay over the ignorance of the non-horsey public.
“Anyway, Morgan horses sounded cute, so I went. Local show. There was this beautiful girl ridin a bay stallion. They looked like a movie. It was Marcie. Took some doin just to get her to go for a coffee with me, but eventually, I did. I can be persistent when I really want somethin. I mean, someone…” Tears had re-formed in his eyes. He looked away.
I felt them in mine too. Then I felt a surge of anger. I’d get the monster who did this. I would.
Theo looked at me. “I came here because I sure hope you can catch the monster that did this.”
I started. But of course. Our minds were aligning–First Brain to First Brain. Same goals. Now Second Brain was telling me Theo is an okay guy. First Brain not quite buying it, but synched up with his mind, nevertheless. Or maybe our Second Brain’s were what was synched up.
“You fell?”
“Right.” He looked down, squeezed the cap in oversized hands. “I started on the dope again.”
I wondered, Is that why you’re wearing a long-sleeved jacket in this heat, Theo, cover something up? I guess my eyes were resting on his long sleeves because he reacted and shook a satin-clad arm.
“No needle tracks under these sleeves,” he said. “I’m clean now. Been clean for a while. But I just always am cold, that’s all. And it feels like Marcie, you know? This jacket. We designed it together.”
I nodded like Miss Marple. Kind, but firm. “Continue.” Also, I was balancing the broccoli on my head quite well, I thought.
He twisted the hat. “Marcie was so involved with her horses. For years. I was beginnin to think she was addicted to them! And not payin me any never-mind. Like I didn’t exist. To her any more. So I was at the track one day, bettin, just a bit, when I ran into some old buds from the bad old days. Next thing I knew I snorted some coke. Told myself that big fat ole lie, just this once. Within two weeks I was shootin up Horse and spendin our money hand over fist. Bad thing about heroin is you can be fairly functional. For a long time. But it gets real expensive real quick. So I’m a bad guy now. And what money Marcie wasn’t spendin on the horses–shows, buyin’ new mares, saddles, commissionin oil paintin’s–these!” He tweaked the jacket, “I was injectin. She finally found out and you can imagine the blowup. And, I was supposed to help with the house payments, but I spent the money on drugs. Then Pritchard calls and she got the call. She’d thought payments were made. They weren’t and he’s talkin foreclosure. So it all had to come out. I got clean again–bought all that workout equipment. She let me put it in the big house and let me come by to use it–but she dint trust me anymore, then her form of horse addiction kicked in.”
“Her addiction.”
“I’m tellin you, the horses!”
“Horses aren’t heroin.”
“They are if you buy too many to feed. They are if you don’t hesitate to call the vet for a sick horse, but you don’t go to the doctor when you need to go! They are if you become a walkin zombie from exhaustion takin care a’ them and not takin care of yourself or noticin there’s a man in your life who loves you.”
“I get it.” And, I agreed with him.
“So we talked divorce. She was rabid to have the farm and horses so I just walked away from it all. The work, the fear, the huge costs of feeding all of them. The vet bills. The colics in the night. And when a horse dies that you love, that is truly awful…!” He paused. Tears seeping, he blinked hard. Shook his head, resumed.
I held the broccoli and nodded as he talked. It sounded like a précis of a part of my past.
“We never got the divorce finalized ‘cause we ran out of money.”
“Wait. You’re still legally married?” There were implications here my concussed brain wasn’t grasping. Theo was still talking.
“I got the cars in the property settlement ‘cause I’d bought ‘em. She was happy with the truck. Needed a truck to haul her horses around. I even loved the horses, you know. But she was workin full time with ‘em by then not nursin any more and she was hopin they’d support themselves an’ her…she couldn’t ever catch up the seven back months mortgage. I was clean and I offered to try and catch up the payments but by then her pride had taken over. She’d made her choice. I was out, horses was in.”
I heard the bitterness in his voice. Bitter enough to be the murderer? He’d lost a lot, a woman he’d loved and also a big property. His resentment was understandable. And how perfect: frame a horse you know will be put to death. Get double revenge: against the horses that took the human from you. I watched him closely, barely noticing the throb of my head.
“Got picked up usin. There’s a record. Once MacWain sees it, Ms. Bryn, he’s gonna come after me. He’ll pinit on me, once they all figger out Once dint do it. MacWain’ll pinit on me!”
I looked straight at him. “Did you kill her and frame the horse?”
“No! I loved her and that horse. All the horses.” His look was intense. Convincing. I stared at him. Lulu roused and also stared at the man. Then she sighed and flopped her head back down. I wanted Second Brain to get a good evaluation of this man and his intention. I wasn’t a defense attorney. I would not aid a murderer. Second Brain was quiet now, my abdomen was rumbling from hunger not analysis. My head throbbed.
“Okay, Theo. I’ll s
ee what I can do.” The broccoli I wore had melted. “Meanwhile, I need some new frozen vegetables on my head.”
Chapter Fourteen
May 23, 2:12 PM
My Tempo hummed across the Causeway over Lake Pontchartrain. At twenty-four miles in length, it was the world’s longest bridge. It linked the Northshore hamlets of St. Tremaine Parish with New Orleans. I enjoyed the drive, and so did Lulu. She sat up in the backseat like a chauffeured princess. Today the shallow lake was a choppy tea brown with beige whitecaps. Loaded with chicken-wire crab traps, a turquoise boat wrestled with the waves. The boat’s sole occupant, a professional crabber, hauled up traps. I saw blue crabs writhing in the dripping trap.
I refocused on the road. I knew someone who might help me find Pritchard. This lady was acquainted with both sides of New Orleans society, upper and under. Delon could wait, his Mortgage Broker’s office in Metairie was easily found.
Once in the city, I took the Elysian Fields exit, and soon was in the French Quarter. It was 2:30 p.m. and Royal, Bourbon and Decatur streets were sardined with tourists. I wanted Madame Maigrèt. Her office was on a quiet part of Burgundy Street, behind a lacquered royal blue door. I found a parking spot right in front. I called this an omen. I opened all the car windows and told Lulu to stay. Soon I was at the blue door. No window, no marker, no sign. But I had a worn card of hers in my fanny pack. It listed her occupation as: Consultant, Voodoo.
I entered. The reception room had blue velvet swathed over most of the walls. The plush carpet was also a rich blue. A matching loveseat with silvered Queen Anne legs stood off to one side. Beside it, a tall blue and white Chinese vase held a sheaf of peacock feathers. Many considered them bad luck: the ‘eye’ marking at the top of each feather symbolizing the evil eye. Apparently, not Madame Maigrèt.
The place was as cool as it was blue. Air conditioning hummed softly, a murmur like a brook. Beneath it, I heard playing low, African chanting and drums. Suddenly the velvet parted and a tall, thin boy appeared. He was dressed in baggy hip-hop clothes.
“Madame.” Then a grin came. “Madame Breendees! Grandmère’ll be happy to see you. Moi Aussi.” Me, too.
“Et, moi aussi, François. How are you and Madame Maigrèt?”
“We are good. Pardon. Grandmère! Madame Breen is here!”
“Come een, et bienvenue,” called a contralto voice.
François held the drapery aside so I could walk into the next room, also blue but paler and with touches of white. Like any successful executive Madame Maigrèt, the Voodoo Queen, sat at an oversized desk. She wore a tailored royal blue suit in some very fine fabric. Art–street scenes of her native Port-au-Prince–hung on the walls. However, there was a silver skull on the desk beside a squat cobalt-blue candle. The candle was lit. The ebony desktop was bare. Of course its mirror-like surface, black and shining as a bayou, was so beautiful, so mysterious looking, clutter would be shameful. It must have come from Haiti with her.
She stood and as she came around the desk I saw that her skirt was full-length. Dagger-pointed blue leather shoes protruded. She bent, hugged me, then we kissed cheeks, European fashion.
“Cherie Breendees. It is good to see you. You look well.”
“You look beautiful,” I answered. And she did. She was a very young grandmère, I judged, unless her voodoo powers kept her young. In the dozen or so years I’d known her she hadn’t aged a day. Her very long hair was in the thinnest, tidiest dreads I’ve ever seen and gathered up into a knot at the back of her head. She had a sharp chin, beveled cheekbones, eyes as blue as her rooms. I never knew if they were real or contacts. Didn’t matter. Set in skin the color of dark Holland chocolate, they glowed cobalt. François was bowing himself out. I smiled a goodbye and looked to Madame. She had seated herself in a blue toile chair opposite me.
“Another murder?”
“Yes.”
“You are on zee case, I presume?”
“You presume correctly, Madame.”
“Give–’Geeve’–me your hand.” I suppressed a smile. I was always enchanted with her French accent.
She took my left hand with both of hers, held it palm up. “As usual you are tense. You do not quite believe! This hand eez the one you receive with.” She massaged the hand. “I want eet relaxed so you can receive all the information that is going to be presented to you. Maintenant, who do you weesh to find?”
“You can tell I am looking for someone?”
“Oui. Who is it?”
“But you can’t tell who it is?”
“Uv coursz. But if you tell me, eet is quicker. So. Who ees it?”
“Man named Cade Pritchard.”
Her hands tightened on mine. “A bad man. Ee is bad”–bat–“not in a grand and interesting way, but bat in zee meanest wayz.”
“You know him or you are…um…voodooing this?”
“Voodooing theez.” She smiled. Her teeth were blue-white. “But! I admit it, also, I know of heem. He hat a beautiful young wife. She was French. He killed her.”
My hand twitched in hers. She held me firmly.
“Madame Maigrèt! You have proof?”
“Non! But–Breen, I would like for you to uncover the facts about theez murder. I will help you with this one. No charge. I knew Aimée, the wife. She was a frien’. All things have their time, n’est-ce pas? I have been waiting many years for someone to come along and avenge zat lovely girl. Voilà! You are here, Breen. You will do this.”
“I will?”
“You weel.”
“Okay, then, I weel.”
“The great wheel turns, Breen. Cade Pritchard will feel the hard granite begin to crush heem.”
“Where is he?”
She let go my hand, called, “François!”
“Oui,” answered François who entered with a silver tray and two liqueur glasses. They held a blue liquid. He offered it to me and I took one. Madame, the other. He kept his face bland while I wondered, nervously, what the hell was in this drink? Some sort of voodoo potion? I watched Madame whisper to François, who listened, then vanished.
Madame Maigrèt lifted her glass. “This is a special drink, helps the wheel to turn just that leetle bit more. Breen. You will have success!” And she tossed back the drink.
I nodded and tossed back mine. It went down cool as it looked, then hit my belly and froze. My eyes flew wide. I felt like I’d jumped from an iceberg into the Arctic sea. One drop of sweat beaded on my forehead. Madame Maigret watched me.
“Dis ees special drink. Wake up all de senses.”
I gasped. “It certainly does. But not at all how one would expect.” I blinked. Now, warmth was crawling over my body, silken sensuous fingers exploiting the contrast of the original chill. “I should like to take some with me!” I wanted to shout ‘OO-raw!’ like an American marine, but restrained myself.
Madame Maigrèt laughed. A sound like crystalline ice breaking. “You too much holding yourself in, Breen. Some day you start to trust again. So you not miss the man who is coming for you.”
“Coming for me?” Yikes. I glanced over my shoulder.
“You must stay at the peenpoint of communication. Leave your mind fresh from designs or you will miss the information about thees person een the precious moment.” So it wasn’t a killer who was coming for me but a…boyfriend? Good God. I was not ready for that. But I should be grateful I was getting this wisdom, for free.
She opened a drawer in an end table and removed a–what else but–a blue vial, then her hand extended at me. My heart pounded. “Dun’t move.” With her index finger she delicately swiped at my forehead. I saw a pearl of sweat balanced like a bead there, and with a proficient wipe, she got it to drip into the vial. I watched with some alarm.
“Bien. I make something nice for you someday.” She smiled. I tried to act perfectly comfortable. Would she require say, toenail clippings? A lock of my hair?
Drapery moved. François appeared. He bent and whispered to Madame. She patted his arm in t
hanks.
“Breen. You will go to the Blue Skies Motel by Kenner. Room One-One-T’ree. M’sieu Pritchard eez in residence d’ere.”
“Madame! Merci beaucoup.” We rose, she moved toward me and we air-kissed cheeks. I saluted François. “Merci, Madame! Au revoir.” Bowing slightly, I backed from the blue rooms, outside into blinding yellow sunlight, and into the Tempo with Lu.
Chapter Fifteen
May 23, 3:58 PM.
I drove back across the Causeway. I was hungry but my scale said I was still nine pounds from my goal. Nevertheless, I dared stop by Lila’s. If I didn’t inhale too deeply maybe the delicious aromas wouldn’t tempt me.
The usual crowd was there. I went past the tables, past the islands of food to a cooler and grabbed a bottle of green and ginseng tea which would fill me up and give me energy.
I paid and got in my car. Before I backed up, I checked the rearview mirror and noticed myself. Perhaps the mention of ‘the man who ees coming’ made me pause. Freckles had popped out and the skin surrounding them was a bloodless white. My hair was limp, lacking the gumption to fluff up in its usual little waves on top. The long side, instead of nicely curving around the shape of my jawbone, instead, hung limp and frizzy. I would miss the precious information of the moment for sure, looking like this, because the charmer coming my way wouldn’t glance at me twice. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe the best defense against an unwanted relationship was: look bad.
The horse pound was on Highway 27 between Covetown and Fullerton. The quickest way to get there from Absinthe Wells was take Highway 38 to Robert Road, then onto 27. I drove past the big Winn Dixie, the Smiling Dragon restaurant, past enormous, mysterious estates and came to the Sheriff’s red barn. I pulled in, parked and grabbed the hoof pick I’d laid on the seat. Teddy sat on a lawn chair at the barn entrance. I held up a hand in greeting.
“Hey, Mz Bryn. Feelin’ any better?”
Considering how I looked, no. But certainly Teddy wasn’t the man who was coming. At least I hoped not. “Feel great. Hope you’re well.”
Hot Blooded Murder Page 10
