“I am heading into town to chat up Anton Delon after I go to the inquest this morning. Got any tips?” I asked Lila while leaning on the counter. The diner was busy, with after-gallop trainers and riders crowding the place. Lila’s good food smells made me hungry even though I’d had my scanty, lose-ten-pounds-quick diet meal. (One soft-boiled egg. Half a piece of wheat toast, dry. Half a pink grapefruit. Yum.)
“I met him a few years ago. Cade Pritchard brought him in here a few times. I think Cade was trying to sell him a racehorse. Never heard that he succeeded. You’ll enjoy him,” Lila answered, squinting up at me. “Deep South charmer-type gentleman. In some historic Mardi Gras Krewe. Old-line blueblood. Soft spoken, well-educated. Noted for philanthropy. It’s supposed to be hush-hush but I happen to know he supports quite generously a battered women’s shelter. And.” She stopped talking and got busy accepting a payment from a customer. The cash register rang. The customer picked up a toothpick and stuck it in his mouth. Off to the side, I waited patiently. She handed over change, and when the man sauntered out the door, she beckoned me closer. Leaning toward me she said in a low, arch voice, “I also happen to know he is secretly a recovering alcoholic.”
“You don’t say.” Inside, I perked up considerably. I shot my eyes around the establishment like a spy who didn’t want to be overheard–mainly to please Lila–and added, “How long has this recovery gone on?”
“Decades. But apparently on his last big drunk he drove a car up to the building of his former business partner–who he believed cheated him–tossed a live grenade into the building then sped off. Don’t know how he got away with it, but he didn’t do a split second of jail time. The police love him! Fortunately, it was at four in the morning so the building was empty. But demolished.” She laughed admiringly. “Completely demolished.” She laughed again. “But he sobered up right quick after that.”
“Good ole boys will be good ole boys.” My smile was part grimace.
Lila leaned on the counter, musing, apparently, about the attractive wickedness of such a man.
“Lila, you think perhaps that grenade affair suggests a somewhat psychopathic penchant for violence and a vengeful nature?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “He was drunk.” Drunkenness was usually always forgiven in New Orleans. I’d used to like to drink a bit myself, and in those days I had appreciated the forgiveness, too. Now, I was not so forgiving.
“In vino veritas, Lila?”
“You’ll see, Bryn. He’s a real Southern charmer.”
I thanked Lila and ducked out the door. But first, maybe I’d better attend the inquest.
In court, I sat in the back and watched Judge Hebert accept Arthur’s clear description of hooves that stomp vs. hooves that kick. The judge, a dry-looking medium-sized man with sparse gray-brown hair and rimless spectacles over gray eyes, even appreciated the finer points such as the wear on shoes and the conformational flaw that would cause uneven wear, as appeared on the one hind shoe. Arthur held up the shoe he’d just pulled from Once for emphasis. The judge asked to see it. The bailiff handed him the shoe and the judge turned it every which way, letting the light shine on the uneven, beveled portion. I held my breath. Would he agree the wear was significant? He adjusted his glasses and with a little “Hmm,” handed it back to the bailiff. I knew Judge Hebert himself had a few racehorses in his hundred-acre backyard. Bred a few mares every year to the stallions at Big Bough Stud too. He should know about horseshoe wear.
Arthur opined the wear in Once’s case was from a slight deviation of the hock. Then I was called. I hadn’t expected this and I was sorry I was in my usual jeans and cotton top, but hiding my nervousness, I loped up to the stand and got sworn in. I immediately guessed MacWain had put the Assistant District Attorney, Mindy Asher, up to this, a sort of payback to my prying. Judge Hebert also listened attentively as I told how I’d discovered the sets of shoes, and that the year 2000 set had a missing shoe.
Ms. Asher said, “Ms. Wiley. You found three sets of championship horse shoes?” The ADA was a hawk-keen young woman with wildly curling hair, in a baby blue linen suit badly wrinkled from the long morning and the heat.
I cleared my throat. “They were in a coffee-table styled chest in Marcie Goodall’s tack room.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about these shoes?”
“Yes. From one set one shoe was missing. It was one of the smaller shoes so I knew immediately that a hind shoe had been taken. Then I saw that on the other complete sets, one of the hind shoes had uneven wear, as Arthur–Mr. Svenquist has pointed out.”
“So someone had taken a hind shoe?”
“That is correct.”
“Then what happened?
“I went by one evening to check on the horses and while I was there I was hit on the head and the other worn shoes were taken.”
She offered me the shoe Arthur had discussed. I looked at it closely. I said, “This shoe is identical to the missing shoes. The wear is beveled and unique. Hard to forget.” I was relieved to see that this shoe was identical to the one that had been literally ripped off from me. From my jeans’ back pocket, that is.
Now Ms. Asher asked, “What is your background with horses, Ms. Wiley?”
“I was a horse breeder for ten years and I have written about them for major horse magazines for twenty years. I know what wear on a shoe looks like.”
Mindy apparently had sympathy for the stallion. As she took the shoe from my hand, she said, “I have to state that I made a trip to the pound and visited this stallion myself. I am not a horse person and I have always thought stallions were very dangerous creatures. But with Deputy Teddy Simpson’s assistance, I went right into his stall and petted him on the nose and look,” she held her arms wide, “no stomps at all! He was exceedingly gentle.” The relative informality of the inquest made it possible for her to make these remarks to the judge. She nodded at me and thanked me for my testimony. I got up and scuttled back to my seat in the rear, next to Arthur. I was relieved to see Ms. Mindy Asher wasn’t out to hang the horse. More likely she just wanted to get at the truth of what had happened to Marcie Goodall, a rare trait in DA’s.
Then Dr. Bonmot heaved his vast mass into the witness stand. He forced his belly in behind the bar. I sat, legs entwined, arms folded tightly across my chest, feeling taut as a mustang snubbed to a post. What Bonmot said would determine the life or death of Once. I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t bear to look. I listened to Mindy take him through his credentials, the time and cause of death, and then she handed him the horseshoe. The third person on the stand to handle it. I felt breathless, lightheaded. I opened my eyes and watched. Then calmly, in his slight Cajun accent, he said, “I would like to confirm d’at this worn hind shoe perfectly fits three of the indentations on Marcie’s body. I ‘ave personally tested dis.” A photo was produced, handed to the doctor. Wheezing from his weight, he took it and pointed to it as he spoke, indicating the sites to Mindy and the judge who was leaning over, looking as well.
“See here?” He tapped the photo. “One indent on her stomach below de naval, another on her left shoulder, directly above de heart. And finally, one at the medial of her solar plexus.” People in court emitted horrified gasps as Bonmot ponderously, and unemotionally, gave this gory evidence. He handed the photo over to Mindy who passed it to the judge. Bonmot was still speaking, “In de case of all d’other impressions, the surrounding skin is so badly pulped, no definitive indentations can be discerned.”
I felt a twang. My metaphorical snub-rope snapped. I breathed, opened my eyes and disentangled my limbs. Arthur, next to me, petted my arm. This should be good news for the stallion.
The judge banged a gavel and ordered a stay of execution for Lightning Strikes Once. He called the death ‘suspicious,’ and ordered further investigation. Sheriff MacWain, pale and stressed, strode out. His work had not yet begun.
11:46 AM
Slumped in my car, I drove Lake Ponchartrain’s long bri
dge. The inquest was over. A relief. I fondled Lulu’s soft coat as she sat next to me. Alertly, she observed the lake. I just glanced at it. Turbulent today. Water was a battleship gray with soiled-laundry whitecaps. A lone brown pelican rode the waves. We moved smoothly over the asphalt. To come down from my illegal seventy-two miles per hour I braked abruptly. The Causeway cops liked to nab speeders as they zoomed into the thirty-five mile per hour zone at the end of the bridge. Off the bridge, I angled right and drove past the Lakeside Shopping Mall onto Veterans Memorial Boulevard. There I made a big U-turn around the actual granite Veterans Memorial situated on the grassy neutral ground, and drove deeper into Metairie. In a couple of blocks I reached the building where Delon Mortgage Brokerage resided. I parked and entered. Eschewed the elevator, ran up the stairs. Lobby signage said Delon’s was on the second floor right across from a Certified Public Accountant. There, I stopped and read a sign that merely said: Closed. Moved to Kenner. Crude hand lettering. Red felt-tip marker. I turned in a circle in bafflement. Strange. Then I heard office sounds from the door opposite. I read, in black and gold script on the frosted glass: George Iventhal, CPA. Please Enter. I entered.
An old lady in a print frock, silver hair in a controlled Afro, looked up from her computer.
“Hello. May Ah help you?”
“I hope so. I’m looking for Mr. Delon….”
“Oh, they’ve moved. Just last week! Been neighbors of theirs for fifteen years.”
“The sign doesn’t say much. He was helping me find mortgage money. I haven’t called him in quite some time, my fault really –”
“No difficulty, young lady,” and briskly the woman wrote out a number on a pink post-it note and handed it to me. “Here’s their new number.”
I took the note. “Thank you.” I smiled and flew down the stairs. In the Tempo I dug in my fanny pack and came up with my cell. Dialed the number. It rang a long time. Eventually, a quavery voice answered.
“Hello.”
“Oh! I may have the wrong number. I’m trying to find Delon Mortgage–”
“You got it.” The voice was stronger now, masculine. “What is your bidiness?”
“I am an old friend of one of your, well, she wasn’t really a client as I understand it, but rather someone your company helped out. Perhaps she was a friend.”
“Now who would that be?”
“Her name was Marcie Goodall.”
“Oh sad little Mz Goodall! Ah understand the poor creature dahd.”
The cane syrup of a pure Southern accent. Not N’Awlins, either. Alabama? And upper class all the way through.
“Yes, that’s right. Is this Mr. Delon?”
“And to whom am Ah speaking?”
“This is Bryn Wiley…”
“How do you do Mz Wiley. This is Anton Delon.” An-tawn Dee-lawn.
“Good. I’d really like to talk with you. I’ve been writing an article about Mrs. Goodall’s horse breeding operation–”
“–and how could that be? Poor thing dead and all.”
“A retrospective. Her legacy. So may I drop over? I’m in the city right now.”
“Today would not be good. Very busy today.”
“Really? I swear I’ll only need five minutes. It’s rather urgent. I have a deadline to meet.” I made my voice sweet and lilting. “I’m sure, as Marcie’s friend you know–”
“Ah wouldn’t know a thing, Mz Wiley.”
“Oh, but people often know lots and don’t realize they–”
“If you insist. Five-five-three Oakdale Drive, Kenner.” Kennah. He spoke so fast I asked him to repeat it. He did then added, “Easy to find. Get on I-10. Take the Williams Boulevard exit. Take the exit toward the lake, toward where the racetrack, Jeff Downs used to be. Go down seven or so blocks and turn left. In three blocks you’ll see mah new edifice. Can’t miss it. Yella brick. Two stories. Just got mah sign outside. Moved a few days ago. You can’t miss it.”
Whew. Thought I had it. “Five-five-three. Thank you, sir.”
I followed his directions as far as the seventh street and there I was puzzled to see it was residential, not commercial. I drove a dozen blocks. The street ended. I turned and slowly drove back. Perhaps he was in a yella brick house. Of course he’d given the directions at such speed, I wasn’t absolutely sure I had them right. But there were just white aluminum-sided houses with only a few maroon brick ones amongst them. I drove back to Williams Boulevard, then turned and drove again. Number 553 was a small white cottage with a palm tree out front. No yella brick anywhere.
Maybe I’d turned at the wrong street. I dialed the number on my cell. I’d ask him again. It rang and rang and no one answered. Very strange, for a business. Frustrating, too. Well, I was on Oakdale. All the streets here had tree names. Maybe I’d heard the street wrong. I drove back to Williams again, turned and went down a parallel street. No yella brick. Then another parallel street. Then onto the other side of Oakdale. Followed that one to the end. Then I parked and called again. More unanswered rings. If I hadn’t had Lila’s description of Mr. Delon’s character, real old South gentleman, I’d think he was avoiding me., Damn! Perhaps I couldn’t find him today. It was close to five and his office would be closing soon. I pulled onto Williams and was about to head back to the Causeway Bridge when Second Brain said, Try one more street. Okay. I passed up all the streets I’d scouted and turned onto–hello!–Oak Place. Not Oakdale Drive. He’d just moved. Perhaps he was confused. There was an office building on the corner. A strip mall. Then a yella brick building. I stopped, backed up on the quiet street. Looked. Two story. Big parking area out front. I pulled in, read the number. Three five five. The reverse of the number I’d been given. I parked, opened the windows for Lulu and told her:
“Wait.”
I entered a front door and immediately was confronted by a narrow staircase. I went up. It was gloomy. Lights were out, no windows. Up top on a small landing, a door stood ajar. The carpet on the landing was gritty, worn thin. It was hot. Silent. I knocked on the door’s glass top. It creaked slightly open. No response from inside. I opened it wider and saw a receptionist’s desk, seat pushed back, a thick phone book sprawled open on the desk, files stacked next to it, computer off. Perhaps their hours were only till four? I stepped over the threshold. A huge room. Steamy warm. No air running. A dozen desks, all of them in disarray. Files, open books, blank-faced computers. No lights on, but weak light coming in through a few narrow dusty windows. It smelled musty, like mice lived here. Knowing New Orleans though, more likely rats. Had Mr. Delon come down in the world? This was nothing like the steel and glass building he’d been in for the past fifteen years back in Metairie.
“May Ah help you?”
I jumped. In the murk ahead I saw a big man hunched over a huge desk. I walked slowly toward him. I had a sensation of mists parting.
“Mr. Delon? Bryn Wiley. Sure had a heck of a time–”
“Ah am so poor at directions. Please take a seat. You can tell ourah air conditionin’ is not functionin’ at the moment so Ah told mah staff to go home.”
I sat on the edge of a plain wood chair across from Anton Delon. He had a fine-boned face, narrow nose, very white skin and pale blue eyes. I guessed he was about sixty, sixty-five. If he stood, I knew he’d be well over six foot. He had massive shoulders. He chuckled as I stared at him.
“You old enough to remember the Vet’nam wahr?”
“I remember stories about it. Moved here from Canada some time after it.”
“That so. Back then there was lots of movin’ from here to there. Kinda backwards, aren’t you? Movin’ from there to here? Ah was in Special Forces. You know what that was?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Pol Pot–Cambodia?–was a arch criminal. We got real close to taking him out, small band of us. Sixteen men. We were good. I was just a chile, really. Eighteen. Joined up. Daddy furious with me. Was supposed to go on to Tulane be a lawyer, Daddy’s choice for me aftah we moved to N’
Awlins from Birmingham, instead there I was runnin’ around in oriental jungles. Daddy said, son, we got plenty jungles right here in Louisiana you want to go run around in them.” He shook his head as if fondly recalling Daddy and his ideas about Louisiana lifestyles.
Where was this leading? I couldn’t help but notice he had a long business-style checkbook open in front of him. I’d love to have a look at that book.
“We got up to some hi-jinks Ah tell you. Y’ever see the movie Apocalypse Now?”
“Yes.”
“Nothin’ compared to some of our hi-jinks. Back in those jungles we ruled. Ah mean ruled. It was heady stuff to be lord of an entire Vet’nam village what, all of eighteen years of age? Those teeny Vet’nam wimmin. Cute little things. Do anythin’ a soldier required.”
I could see he was a handsome man. His silver hair thick still. Something about his demeanor reminded me of the portraits of Henry VIII when he was middle-aged. But not with His Majesty’s puffed, squinty little eyes. Anton Delon’s eyes were large and scarily pale as if layered with clear polyurethane.
“But here Ah am forgettin’ mah manners. Borin’ you, young lady, with days gone by.” Bah.
Scaring me with days gone bah. “No, Mr. Delon, it’s all quite fascinating. I guess it was a lot to get one’s young head around. A huge responsibility for an innocent young man.”
“Oh I was inn’cent, but not all that inn’cent. My daddy drank heavy. My mama was a prostitute.” Pros-toot.
I straightened, tried not to show shock. I also wondered did he mean his Mammy or his biological Mama? Even this late, past the Civil War, many white children had been raised by the classic Southern, African-American Mammy. A jolt to my Canadian mind. His lucent eyes examined my responses. Measured me. Like he’d once measured those tiny Vietnamese women?
“Sad how dysfunctional families hurt young people,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.
“Diss-functional!” He laughed, then abruptly clamped his mouth shut. Despite the oven heat of the place, I noticed he didn’t sweat. My shirt–I had changed into something slightly more formal, white shirt tucked into new black jeans–stuck wetly to my back.
Hot Blooded Murder Page 13
