Hot Blooded Murder

by Jacqueline D'Acre

  Let the room speak to you, I told myself. It was still gruesomely hot. Hotter. My turtleneck instantly adhered itself to my back and chest. What had Anton III been up to? I heard grinding. There was another room, off to my left. I hadn’t noticed it earlier this afternoon, mesmerized as I had been by the Special Forces eyes of Big Anton. I turned on the flashlight and followed the beam to a closed door. Sound from inside. Copy machine? Incoming fax? No light under the door, but First Brain was chattering at me, “Stop this asinine behavior right now. Get the hell down those stairs and go home!” Second Brain yawned and said, “No light under the door. Open it.”

  I touched Lu next to me and whispered, “Lu! Alert!” And I felt the dog rise to a standing position. I tried the door. It opened. Shone my light. Oh! A shredder, chewing through papers. A thick wad in an automatic feeder tray waited their turn to be masticated. Placing them there must have been Anton III’s last act before leaving the building. I jumped into the room and saved them. Shaken, I leaned against the wall. Lulu growled at the whining shredder.

  “Hush. S’okay, Lu.”

  The room was crammed with a giant copier, the shredder, a huge printer and a couple of fax machines. I set the papers on the copier and, holding the light in my teeth, looked through my find. The last page of an…assumption? signed by Marcie and a…Kitty Z. Abeletti? Who the hell was that? A chill of fear thrilled through me and combated the external heat. Not how I’d chose to cool off, though. The Kitty signature was exactly where Aimée Pritchard’s should have been. All witnessed by Felix B. Ligitoni, Attorney at Law. I shuffled through the other papers. Aah! Another treasure! An appraisal, clearly for Marcie’s farm! It valued the place at ninety-eight thousand dollars. What! I whipped through it. Air conditioning not working, house unpainted, graveyard on property…I relaxed. Second Brain had been right again. I’d needed to break in here! Now to connect the Delons to all of this in some legal fashion. How could I bring these to the attention of Sheriff MacWain without implicating myself? I moved the papers again and heard a noise. Omigod. I went absolutely still. Tuned off the flashlight. Even Lu didn’t pant. A subdued sound, paper crackling. Had an Anton come back? My heart throbbed in my chest. My eyes nearly burst from their sockets, as if by expanding, they’d see through the wall between me and the outer room, from where the sound emanated. I touched Lu’s muzzle with the flat of my palm, a silent Stay command. Moved to the door. Quiet again. The shredder, deprived of its fodder, had stopped. There! A crackle! I pressed my back against the wall, inched to the doorjamb, and paused. A red light blinked on the hungry shredder. On, off, it caught Lulu’s intense black eyes with each glowing red On. She looked like a killer. Reassured, I dared to lean my head around the jamb and saw the still-dark room. The smeary light from the windows showed there was no human standing up, poking through papers. They could be crouching–hearing my noise, poised to attack and Big Daddy Anton knew a few things about attacking. Still tight to the wall, I slid into the short hall. Stay up against the wall, hissed First Brain, panicked. I heeded it, but wished I had a gun. Like a movie detective. Then I could suddenly jump out, legs in a wide-braced stance, thrust a big magnum-something straight out in my two hands and, of course–looking like Angelina Jolie in a cat suit, yell, “Freeze! You m–” The sound again. I was armed with a tiny flashlight. But so far no sign of a standing Anton. Or a crouching Anton. Even bent, either would make a huge shadow. I tiptoed into the big room and dropped to a squat at desk level. There! Off to my right! The crackle.

  “Lu!” A loud whisper from me.

  Instantly Lu was at my side, loving the hunt. There was nothing for it but to get gutsy and turn on the flashlight. I took a deep breath, flicked it on, and screamed. Lulu burst into deep mastiff-like barks and lunged. What I saw strobed in my mind, flash, flash flash. A huge rat, upright in the open tray drawer of a desk. Big as a cat, it peeled the wrapper of a Snickers bar like a banana. And ate. Its beady eyes needled into mine like lasers before I whipped the flashlight away.

  Great thumpings and squeakings in the darkness. I sat on my haunches, paralyzed. A rat! Yeow. Lulu made furious bow-wow-wow’s. There were frantic clawing sounds. Trembling, I stood and trained my light on the dog, who was trying to tear down the wall behind the desk. I ventured closer. Shined the light where Lu dug and growled. A sizeable, raggedy hole in the cheap wood paneling. Mr. Rat was gone. My palms were slippery with nervous sweat under the latex gloves. I was shaking all over again and I sank into the nearest chair. It slithered back a yard. Someone had pulled me from behind! I whirled. No one. Just the chair’s wheels sliding out from under me. The dog was still scritching at the wall.

  “Lu! Let it go. Quit.” In the beam of the flashlight, she gave me a beseeching look. “No,” I hissed in the darkness, “Quit. Here!” She came to my side, eager for the next exciting assignment. I was able to smile as I took a calming handful of soft poodle topknot and get back to serenity.

  Then I knew what to do. I got up and went back into the room of machines. I turned off the shredder. Then I went to the big desk that was Anton’s and picked my way into the locked top drawer. The checkbook. I opened it and read the last few stubs. Saw an overdraft annotated in the amount of $2,458.00. Then a deposit, neatly entered, for $15,000. Took the account from overdrawn to flush. A scrawled note on the stub: FT&T, dated May 24. Fil and Tammi Takeur giving Anton Delon fifteen grand? Nope, not entirely. Next a $5,000 check to…damn! the mysterious Kitty Z. Abeletti! I had to find this Kitty person.

  A check had been written to Entergy Utilities for four hundred-plus, dated today. Another to the phone company for over eight hundred. A check for cash in the amount of five hundred. Another to Bourke Appraisals and Land Surveys for three grand. Weren’t appraisals usually around three hundred? Then there was another deposit, also annotated FT&T in the amount of $35,000 with a magical word on the stub: “Earnest.” Earnest money to secure the mortgage! But the $15,000, less five to Kitty, was this some kind of kickback to Anton for arranging a false appraisal so the Takeur’s could get out of their legal agreement with Marcie? Weirder and weirder.

  Quickly I unsnapped the ring binder, took these stubs and hurried to the machine room. I copied first all of the rescued papers, then the stubs, then put them back in the checkbook. Then I shuffled through a stack of file folders on the desk. The ones Anton III had clutched in his shaking hand. I flipped through and stopped. Another appraisal…Word of God Church Road. I skimmed it…it was Marcie’s place all right. Estimated value: $390,000. More like it!

  Since they’d been destined for the shredder anyway, I stuffed the sheaf of rescued original papers under my arm along with the stubs and the good appraisal and hissed, “Here!” to Lu. We slunk down the musty stairs and out into the street. The ghoulish light of the streetlamp seemed almost sunny and the humid night air almost clean after the dark and moldy interior of Anton’s office.

  Crossing the Causeway by moonlight, waves sloshing black as India ink to my right, I decided I had to make one more stop before my head could place itself on my pillow. I drove past my turnoff and soon was on Highway 38 then turning into Word of God Church Road, past the gravestones. I parked behind the big house. In moments I was in Marcie’s office. Quickly, I made copies of all my contraband documents then I opened the bottom file drawer and stuffed the original papers into it. Finally I could remove the latex gloves. I couldn’t decide if all this sweating under plasticized rubber was aging or youthening my hands. I returned to the car and drove home to my beckoning pillows.

  Chapter Twenty

  May 25, 9:38 AM

  I stared at the tiny book in my hand, the Tao Te Ching. Apparently I can’t know, but I can be. Was I be-ing when I did last night’s B&E? I decided if I just kept reading and puzzling it might someday make sense. My coffee mug was empty. I’d been up since five and ridden Am for forty-five minutes. Then I filed a story to Equus magazine on a University of Colorado study of the effects of MSM on sub-fertile mares. Effects: Good. Then
I answered my ringing phone.

  “Hello.” I heard breathing. I was about to say, Oh c’mon! when a ragged, emotionless voice said: “Female dogs who sneak around will get thumped.” Caller I.D. indicated a private number.

  “Hello? Hey!” The voice was gone. I put the phone down. Did the Antons have hidden cameras I’d missed? I doubted it, since up till that fifteen thousand dollar deposit, the Delon Mortgage Corporation had been broke. Couldn’t pay their electric bill, so they could hardly afford videotape. I looked back at my Tao Te Ching; re-read today’s message about knowing and being and gently set it on my coffee table. Phone again. I read Caller I.D.

  Gulp. I needed to talk to him, but was I ready? After one small scared breath, I answered. “Hi, Tuan.”

  “Good morning.” Gosh. He sounded official. Had someone reported me?

  “Likewise.” I tried to sound light and witty. “Great timing, long arm of the law. I think I was threatened. Phone call just now, something about female dogs sneaking around getting thumped.”

  “You’re thinking they mean yourself and Lulu? Are you sneaking around?”

  “Me?”

  “It’s happened before.”

  “That’s true.” I evaded answering and hoped it would work.

  “I suppose the voice was unrecognizable.” The evasion had worked.

  “Of course. Low, hoarse. My guess is male, but couldn’t swear to it. But, how may I help you, Deputy?”

  “Just checking on you. Wondering by any chance did you ever track down Marcie’s husband?”

  “Actually he tracked me down. He was over here the day after the murder, took Domino home with him. Thought you-all knew that.”

  “I guess someone here did. This is not the only case on deck, you know.”

  “I know. But isn’t it the only murder?”

  “For now, yes. This stallion has to go somewhere. Someone named Tammi Takeur told Teddy she’d board him. No charge, till it all settles down.”

  “God! I hope you don’t send him to her!”

  “Why not?”

  “I think her husband’s somehow implicated in Marcie’s death. He’s the one who was going to buy Marcie’s farm then backed out.”

  “Oh. Right. Seems I remember the name from some of the paperwork we found at Marcie’s”

  “Um, Tuan. Speaking of paperwork. Are you absolutely sure you got all the papers that pertain to the case from Marcie’s office?”

  “Why?” His tone was different. Guarded, alert. He knew. I’d have to be very careful.

  “Just wondering. It’s very confusing that the Takeur’s, after months of hammering out various offers to buy, suddenly announce they can’t buy and back out on the pretext he lost his job. Now they want to take on the expense of boarding a stallion they don’t even own and surely cannot afford to buy. Doesn’t that seem weird?” But I was remembering the video now. Tammi’s intense interest in Once’s small son, Twice. Her husband’s scorn.

  “Yes. But what about the papers you mentioned?”

  “Just speculating. Has her office ever been re-checked since that first day?”

  “No, Simon Asprey is a very thorough forensics man.”

  “But–do you think he might have accidentally overlooked something? I mean, it was a harrowing day. He ran out when the horse fell down in the trailer, remember? That was a big distraction for everyone. If you were to go and take a look through her file cabinets, who knows what might turn up?”

  “Well. I might swing by.”

  My only new worry now was what would he think of finding Delon’s check stubs in Marcie’s files? Yikes. I must have been very tired last night to overlook that.

  “Speaking of swinging by,” I answered, “I was going to go and see Theo Goodall himself in the city today. Should I ask him about the horse? Since they weren’t really divorced, maybe he’s the owner.”

  “We’ll do it. But you can ask away if you choose. You probably will any way.”

  “I will.”

  “Okay, but Bryn, I’m worried about you. You take too many chances.”

  “What else is there to do? Marcie–”

  “Let MacWain and company do their job.”

  “Tuan, I’ll be dangerously honest with you. I saw how upset MacWain was that the judge stopped the execution of Once. I get scared that the case will slip through the cracks. You said yourself how busy you are. And for some odd reason, even though it goes against everything in my chicken-yellow-cowardly-scairdy-cat personality, working on these cases is maybe my true mission in life. I don’t want to mess anything up for you-all, Tuan,” I continued. “I want to complement your efforts. Help. Genuinely. For some baffling reason I can’t stop getting involved, and you know that a few times my involvement has helped.”

  He sighed. It was true. “Just–just–be careful. And I mean be careful you don’t break the law. Just because you help, Bryn, doesn’t mean you are immune to being arrested.” A chill of fear shivered through me. I pictured giant Tuan behind me, bulky as Big Daddy Anton, and now just as scary because he had my hands behind my back, slapping on handcuffs.

  “Guess I’m kinda grim this morning,” I said. I took a sip of my coffee. It tasted as cold as I felt.

  “We’re at that difficult point in the case, Bryn. Just had our main suspect cleared. Everyone looks guilty. No one clearly is. They all could be.”

  “Whom do you consider ‘all?’”

  “Theodore Goodall. Cade Pritchard. Now, I suppose, since you mentioned him, that Filmore Takeur.”

  “Have you learned anything about Anton Delon, the mortgage broker?”

  “No. Why? You know something?”

  “I met him and his son yesterday.”

  “And…?”

  “Mr. Delon is the one who was supposedly helping Marcie sell her place. He’s a scary guy, Tuan. He’s older but he’s a big guy and he has a very big son, Anton the Third.”

  “You think this son did it?”

  I recalled Anton III’s shaking hands. “I think we can take Anton III off that list.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s real goosey. Saw both of them in Anton’s office. He acted like he knew things he did not want to know. He was a nervous wreck. Big Daddy though, he was calm as a robot.”

  “I know of Anton Delon, Bryn. He’s a philanthropist and a sort of Old South aristocrat.”

  “He has a dark side, Tuan, and I saw it yesterday. Something is really off with him and his company regarding Marcie.”

  “I actually met the guy once, at a law enforcement ball, a big fancy-dress fundraiser. Shook his hand. I can’t get it through my head that Mr. Delon is the opposite of my previous impression of him.”

  “Why don’t you go check out the file cabinet at Marcie’s? Then talk to me about Mr. Delon.” When Tuan finds the check stubs maybe he’ll be grateful, and then find a way to manufacture some pretext, legal of course, for searching Delon Mortgage Company. I could hope.

  “Right.”

  “And you might change your mind about Big Daddy Delon. Something else though, Tuan, can you do a search for a lady named Kitty Z. Abeletti?”

  “And she is…?”

  “The assumer of Marcie Goodall’s farm.”

  “You don’t say,” he said.

  “I say. But I am not saying how I found that out.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Maybe later today we could have a coffee at Lila’s if you’re not too busy.”

  “Maybe we can.”

  I pressed Off and slowly got up from my emerald velvet loveseat. Now I’d have to go back across the lake, into the city.

  I drove past Anne Rice’s mansion on the corner of First and Chestnut in the Garden District. It was lavender gray stucco with a columned front; its depth required an entire block. Mysteriously, a statue of a German Shepherd stood on guard on the front balcony. A green fringe of small trees showed above a grey masonry wall that ran down the Chestnut Street side.

  I turned and
parked halfway down a shaded block of Southern mansions. Nice neighborhood, I thought, disembarking.

  I walked down the street until I found the right house. I knew it was a slave quarter, which would put it behind the huge pink house I stood before. I headed along a ligustrum hedge, down a driveway to a yard bordered with gold daylilies. A brick walk led to a matching pink cottage at the rear. Ivy clambered prettily over it. The slave quarter, fixed up as a rental unit, was common in the Garden District. Although some folks kept them, renovated enormously of course, as homes for their cooks or maids, others rented them out. Artists and struggling writers favored them. Odd, as Theo didn’t seem the type. The place was about the size of a four-car garage. I knocked on a shiny black door. Theo opened it.

  “Mz Bryn. Howdy. Come in.” Domino was at his side, wagging his tail at me.

  “Hello, Theo.” He ushered me into his home. I petted Domino and then noticed a long table under the front windows, scattered with shards of colored glass.

  I asked, “Stained glass?”

  “Yep,” answered Theo. “It’s what I do.”

  “You make stained glass windows?”

  “Yep. Churches, a course, but now a lot of business is comin’ to me from private homes, even office buildin’s.”

  A panel, easily eight feet high, rested on the floor against the opposite wall. It showed a blue heron in the water, cypress trees behind. The style was evocative of John James Audubon’s. The heron’s neck swirled down romantically.

  I spoke. “Beautiful work, Theo. Ever do horses?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Perhaps someday you might.”

  I suddenly felt some awe for Theo. I’d heard his country accent, observed his scrawny self and fallen into the judging-book-cover trap.

  “Off the shrimp season I worked on this, till finally I was able to sell the boat. Make it a full-time career.”