Hot Blooded Murder

by Jacqueline D'Acre

  Cade edged back. “I didn’t say that, did I Daveena? Daveena?” He was yelling at her. She cowered. I’d assumed Daveena’s missing tooth was from crack cocaine use, but maybe not, maybe old Pritchard liked not only to kill women but as a warm-up, to punch them around.

  “Okay.”

  I too moved backwards. I couldn’t take any more. “Okay, Mr. Pritchard, you didn’t tell me Anton Delon was involved. Take care. You too, Miss Daveena.” I left the room, and soon, Sin City. It was too late to confront Anton Delon, and Lulu was hungry. After removing her SWAT ensemble, I got on I-10 East and took the Causeway exit. Then I was gliding across Lake Pontchartrain, a lavender shot-with-tangerine sunset on my near side.

  Chapter Seventeen

  May 23, 7:46 PM

  Marcie Goodall rode by on a bay horse. She was dressed in jeans and a white shirt and plump as she was last February. But on the horse, because of her erect posture and confident seat, she looked twenty pounds thinner. The horse had to be Lightning Strikes Once, because this horse was trotting in a spectacular way. His front legs lifted high, his knees rose above his chest, his hind feet reached deep under his belly. The powerful trot of a world champion. The horse and rider turned and headed straight at me. I saw the zigzag namesake blaze and confirmed it was Once.

  “Wow!” I said to Arthur, who sat in a chair in my living room. He had dropped by to see if I was recovering from my head blow. While I had his fleeting attention, I was showing him the tape–the video I’d liberated from Marcie’s tack room. I’d lit a lemon-scented candle on the glass coffee table. On the TV, Marcie whipped by, smiling big. A man and woman leaned on the fence. The man was tall, lumpily hulking, the woman, ridiculously petite. I shrieked and pointed, “That’s her!”

  “Who?”

  “Tammi Takeur. I saw her today. She was at the sheriff’s barn. Teddy knew her! I was leaving to go see about the autopsy, when she drove up in a Ram truck. Went into the barn. I thought she was there about a sad old paint horse they had in jail.”

  He chuckled. “Wonder if it was the paint?”

  “Maybe not. I snuck back into the barn and saw her in Once’s stall with Teddy. Would she be checking out Once? Why? Didn’t someone say they had Thoroughbreds? They’re racehorse people. Why an interest in a Morgan?”

  He looked back at the television. “If she even had an interest in the Morgan. Some people get a macabre thrill from anything associated with murder, I think. Like rubberneckers at an accident scene. Also, remember I met them and I can tell you neither of them has been in horses long enough to earn the honor of being called ‘horse people.’ But, look, Bryn. See how much fun Marcie’s having on Once. That’s something you can’t do on your racehorse. I got the impression the husband thought he could make money with horses.”

  We laughed uproariously over this.

  I looked back at the television. I was surprised at how good a rider Marcie was. She must have been seriously tough in the show ring. Odd how people had so many facets to them. This woman on the horse bore no resemblance to the drunken victim I’d met that February day. I watched her fly around. So alive! From between Marcie’s commanding legs, Once’s neck rose straight up out of his withers; Marcie was a female centaur. Her hands were firm yet light on the reins. She skillfully used the four reins attached to the two bits in his mouth. One was a snaffle to lift his head and neck, another a curb to encourage him to tuck his head into its graceful, extreme arch. I felt tears come. Theo was right, Marcie had been a beautiful woman. A wonderful rider. I saw why Theo fell so hard for her, seeing her ride at a horse show. Arthur too was silent as he gazed at Marcie ride. Marcie had been just thirty-eight. I hit Pause. I sniffed–did Arthur sniff too? –I wouldn’t embarrass him by looking. We took a few moments. Then I picked up the remote and pressed Play.

  “I want to get the psychopath that did this,” I said, redundantly, after the tape resumed rolling.

  He was staring into some middle distance. He turned his head slowly and looked at me. “You are in the saddle and riding hard after him, Bryn. You’ll get him.”

  I nodded. We turned back to the tape.

  It played on–the unseen shooter Arthur now slowly panning over the pastures, showing close-ups of the taps in each paddock, the water troughs, the feeders attached to the fence, the turnout sheds for protection against sun, wind, hurricanes. A sales tape for the farm and its features. The video went dark. Now the interior of the barn appeared as the camera adjusted to the lower light level inside. Then it cut to Marcie leading Once into the barn. Little Tammi led the way. Arthur’s box of farrier’s tools sat in the aisle and Tammi moved it aside so Marcie could bring the stallion through. Conversation could be heard. I felt like we were eavesdropping as we listened.

  “…Really a nice”–nahce–” horse, Miss Marcie. Thanks for showin’ us.” That tiny cartoon voice. Tammi! Now we saw the Takeurs. The pair wore matching beige windbreakers, possibly a color for their new stable. The giant who must be Filmore lumbered behind, but he paused to scan the farm appreciatively. The camera moved down the aisle. Now we could make out Marcie putting Once in his stall, unsaddling, the horse calm as a gelding, Tammi outside the stall, Fil unseen.

  Tammi ‘s voice, “…and like I bin sayin’ I want you to let me rahde ‘im one a these days, Miss Marcie.”

  Marcie’s voice, “…see…but…got something special to show you, Tammi.” Marcie came down the aisle a few stalls then slid open a door. She went in and re-appeared with a mare on a leadshank, foal at side. I recognized Twice. The colt leaped into the aisle, skidded on the shavings over concrete, got his balance and stopped, his long baby neck a lovely copy of his sire’s. His head was even more refined than Once’s.

  In my living room Arthur said, “Handsome little guy.”

  “He’s going to be hot stuff in the show ring some day,” I added.

  Tammi went to the foal and petted and cooed over him.

  From off-camera, a man’s voice, pitched almost as high as Tammi’s. “Quit being stupid, Tammi, you can’t make a dime off of a show horse!” Had to be Filmore Takeur.

  I rolled my eyes at Arthur. “What a doll.”

  The tape continued. Tammi’s head whipped around to stare off-camera, and she spoke, “But Fil! Jus’ lookit him!”

  “Tammi, I’m warning you. Don’t get any stupid-ass ideas in that pinhead of yours. We’re getting racehorses. Run for money and you know it.”

  A cranky frown erased the avid look from Tammi’s face. She dropped her head and moved away from the foal. Marcie stood back observing, silent.

  “Would you care to look at the house again?” she asked politely in a I-didn’t-hear-that tone, “because Arthur’s a busy man. He’s only making this tape as a favor to me for y’all.”

  I hit Pause and turned to Arthur.

  “Arthur. Will you pull the shoes off Once and come to the inquest tomorrow? Bring the other two sets as well? Your testimony could save his life.”

  “I thought MacWain was backing off the idea that the horse is the culprit.” I could see he felt uneasy about taking the stand. He was a shy guy.

  “Yes and no. But the autopsy proved she died from being stomped. Her heart was crushed.”

  “That is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard, Bryn.”

  “Isn’t it.”

  “So. MacWain did give you some information this afternoon. Tell me more,” said Arthur.

  “Yes. I called MacWain after I got back from the city. Bonmot found she was hit on the head so hard she had a hairline fracture of her skull. So they think a human was involved. If the horse had done it, the impact of the metal shoe on her head would have left a cleft, maybe even split it open. This was the classic blunt object blow. Marcie was bludgeoned in her kitchen, I’m sure. Bonmot said the hit on her head would have knocked her unconscious. After she was knocked out, I think she was taken to the stall and finished off.” Silence in the room, but in my head I heard Marcie’s screams and then the screams of
her stallion as the murder was perpetrated right before him. I heard too, the hard grunts of the murderer wielding the killing stick. After a few moments, I hit Play and the two of us resumed staring at the TV.

  The video of Marcie’s farm played innocently on. Very early spring, the pastures just greening. Lovely rolling land. High and dry, a huge plus in wet, mosquito-infested Louisiana. Now the camera was tracking past the pasture that wrapped around the cemetery. Odd how it took that chunk out. Perhaps the graves scared off buyers– kept the farm from having as high a value as Marcie’s neighbors? The cemetery looked full. Pretty old too, some of the gravestones tilted with age.

  “I sincerely hope,” Arthur said reflectively, “he knocked her so unconscious that she didn’t feel the battering that followed.”

  “I wish that was so. But she definitely had defense wounds on her forearms. She came to, long enough to fight back.”

  “Good God!” His face creased up in pain. “What kind of monster–!”

  “A very angry monster. A very strong monster,” I added.

  “God, yes. To crush her heart like that. Those were powerful blows.”

  “I am reading your mind, Arthur. Fil is publicly cruel to Tammi. Didn’t hesitate to get physical with her even with people watching. As though he’s oblivious there’s anything wrong with his actions.”

  “Smells like a psycho to me.” Arthur leaned toward me, hand outstretched. “Hand me the remote, Bryn, will you?”

  I handed it over. He pressed the rewind button, slowing to check where he was. When he reached the part with Marcie riding, he let it play.

  “Watch. Thought I saw something earlier…there!” The camera followed Marcie on Once around a corner. It swung to the left and caught part of Fil’s profile. Arthur hit Pause.

  We stared. Filmore Takeur was staring at Marcie with a look of near rapture. Tammi ‘s small face, on his far side and only slightly above his elbow, scowled up at him.

  “What do you think of that, Bryn?”

  “He could be thinking about anything of course, but it’s possible he’s showing a lot of admiration for Marcie and his wife doesn’t like it. One bit.”

  “For sure. It’s something more for you to chew on. It could also mean he’s such a jerk he doesn’t mind in the least his ogling might hurt his wife’s feelings.”

  “That, too. Of course wives frown at ogling husbands every day of the week.”

  “You’re right. Doesn’t mean anybody murdered anybody.”

  “Exactly. America would be dripping blood. So let’s speculate. Let’s consider Tammi,” I said. “What do you make of her, Arthur? After all you’ve seen more of her than I have.”

  “I wonder too about her, but look at her. Listen to her. Tiny voice, tiny person. She looks fit but she’s barely five feet tall. Whoever did it not only had to be powerful enough to land those stomping-type blows, but also to get an unconscious body all the way from the kitchen, down those verandah steps, past that pool, to the barn–the far end of the barn.”

  “It’s not her. But for Fil, flabby as he is, Marcie’s weight would be manageable. But motive? He had the hots for her.”

  “Maybe she turned him down. He’s got a temper. Maybe with her gone he’d get a better deal on the farm,” said Arthur.

  “I wonder how? Cade’s a pretty desperate man. He might sell cheap. He’s really on the skids–cheap motel, missing-toothed hooker–completely sleazy, no longer the classy guy who could attract an Aimée. Maybe somehow Fil would be able to connive better terms with Cade without Marcie.”

  “I dunno.”

  “But as for managing the unconscious Marcie, Arthur, yes, she was somewhat overweight. I checked, to make sure it just wasn’t all too-big clothes. At the autopsy she weighed a hundred and sixty-two pounds. And she was 5’-4” tall. That’s not all that fat. I imagine younger, she would have weighed say, around one-thirty. She had a fair amount of bone to her. And she would pack lots of muscle. Horse care puts on muscle like crazy. One-sixtyish would be manageable for the average man. Cade’s average. Fil is bigger than average.”

  “So, Bryn, sleuth that you are, you think it was Fil Takeur? What did he gain by backing out of buying the farm? They had the place, through Marcie, on a real buyer’s deal! Did he actually lose his job like they said?”

  “I need to check on that.”

  Arthur sighed. “If it was him, poor little Tammi.”

  “‘Poor’ my fanny, Arthur.”

  “What?”

  “Poor little Tammi,” I said in a mincey tone.

  “What? Bryn Wiley! You sound scornful.”

  “I am scornful! I think it’s important to avoid feelings of pity for potential murderers.”

  “You’re right. But she’s such a little bitty thing…” A smile came over his face. He stared at me.

  “Bitty thing!” I grinned, made my hand into a pistol and did a little ‘pow’ at him. He laughed. I blew across the tip of my finger and tried to raise one eyebrow again. Failed.

  I holstered my finger and dropped my eyebrows. Nodded ruminatively. “Back to Marcie’s kitchen. A blow that hard would bleed, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’d think so,” he said. “Wonder if Simon Asprey went over the kitchen floor looking for blood. Have you asked him, Bryn? He has a big crush on you.”

  “He does? News to me.”

  “Yep.”

  “What makes you think that?” As unappealing as Asprey was, still, I was a little flattered he found me attractive. But I hope he’s not the man who’s coming for me!

  He waved a hand. Saw his watch. “I hear things. And if I don’t get a move on Suzanne will clobber me. I am way late.” Suzanne was his wife, and the mother of his four sons. He got up. “So bat your eyes. Ask Simon.”

  “Arthur! Are you suggesting I should use my wiles–” I sat up straighter. We were grinning.

  “Your Wiley wiles–”

  “To solicit–”

  “You don’t need to go so far as to solicit–”

  “To solicit information from an officer of the court?”

  “How ‘bout you just ask him in a nice tone of voice?”

  “Worth a try, Arthur.”

  On the TV now the tape showed the mare and her son, Twice, in a distant paddock. Tammi was prancing in circles in the pen, enticing the foal to play with her. A brisk wind blew her windbreaker tight around her body and I could see then that she had a remarkably good figure, a broad chest and prominent boobs. Filmore walked onscreen, jerked open the gate, entered the paddock and grabbed Tammi by the arm. Both Arthur and I paused to stare. There was a gasping sound, on camera. Arthur said, “That was me. I forgot about this part.” Fil yanked Tammi off her feet for a moment. Then held her tightly as he spoke to her. We watched his lips move. The long sleeves of her windbreaker bunched up and made her arms look bulky, but Tammi looked tiny in his grasp.

  From off-camera, on the tape, a man’s voice said, “Happy family.” I recognized Arthur’s voice.

  Also from off-camera a female voice answered, “If they buy the farm, it’ll somewhat save me, Arthur…please God, I hope they do, then I can sell the bulk of the mares but keep Once and Twice and go on from here.”

  “They will, Marcie. They will,” answered Arthur. The tape went to static. I hit Stop, then Rewind.

  I looked at the blank screen. “Wow.”

  Arthur stood, arms folded, nodding his head. “Fil looks good for it, Bryn, but you’re the expert.”

  “Me? I’m no expert. I just blunder around and ask a lot of questions. That’s all. It’s amazing what people tell me.”

  I backed up the tape. Then stopped it. Fil was just lifting his wife from the ground. I stared at the freeze frame. Tammi looked quite wrathful toward him. “Did she cry when he did that, Arthur?”

  “Oh yes. But she blinked them back quick, like she was ashamed.”

  If anyone did that to me, I’d show them wrath. But usually abused wives never show a wink of anger. Or do they?
More questions. I just didn’t know. Now I knew Filmore Takeur was a nasty man. But a murderer? He looked too simple to plot anything as complicated as this murder. But what about Tammi? I stared at her image. It was hard to say. She didn’t seem dumb. But she was small. No way could she drag Marcie from the house to the barn. Besides, I thought she was a pretty basic little Southern woman, polite, bubbly, deferential to her man. As I got to my feet to show Arthur out, I said, “The question is did the Takeurs have any motive whatsoever for committing this crime?”

  Arthur shook his head. He was turning to leave. I followed and continued talking.

  “For that matter, what would Pritchard’s motive have been? He was about to get his money back and then some, from Marcie via the Takeur’s.”

  We got to the door and I stepped outside with him. The stars were fat as ping-pong balls and so close I could reach up and grab one. Arthur went down the steps, dangled a long hand behind in a farewell salute. He got into his truck and drove off. Lulu came out and sat beside me. She trotted off and anointed the gravel. It was still warm out. The night air had a velvety feel to it. I felt a rush. I loved Louisiana nights like this.

  Tomorrow I was calling on Anton Delon, maybe I’ll also call on wife-beater Fil.

  In a few moments, Lu and I went into the house and I got into bed. A moment later the foot of the bed sank as Lulu’s weight arrived at my feet. We curled up and fell asleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  May 24, 8:06 AM

  Over a second cup of coffee I read a few lines of the Tao Te Ching. Then I went to my computer and made myself finish an article for the Quarterhorse Journal. I emailed it to the editor along with an invoice. I needed that check! Then I decided I required someone who loved local history and gossip because my next act for Marcie would be to find Anton Delon and I wanted to be armed with information. Even though Delon seemed to be primarily a New Orleans’ figure, many New Orleanians lived on the Northshore and others owned racehorses stabled and trained over here–so–that expert could be Lila. I drove toward the diner.