Hot Blooded Murder

by Jacqueline D'Acre

  “Impressive,” I nodded, looking around.

  “Thank you and please Mz Bryn, set.”

  “Thanks and please call me Bryn.”

  Chintzy chairs and a sofa ranged around a fireplace. An abstract stained glass piece in orange, red, and yellow hung over the mantel.

  I sank into the sofa. Theo took a chair.

  “Howzit comin? Any closer to findin out who killed Marcie?” he asked. “I was relieved the judge cleared Once.” Of course, Theo had been at the inquest.

  “Since the judge let him off it’s gotten even more nebulous,” I said.

  He dropped his head. Soon, I realized he was weeping. I waited. He raised his pale face, tears streaming from over-sized eyes, now red. “I need you to know I loved Marcie. The whole thing fell apart ‘cause I thought she loved her horses more’n me. Drugs dint help, either. And no. I don’t think she did. Love horses more’n me. I think it was my craziness made that up.” His skinny cheeks were shiny wet.

  “Can I get you something?” I asked.

  “No–no. I seem to do this all the time. Cain’t seem to stop it.” He plucked tissues from a box on an end table, blew his nose loudly and then wiped his face.

  “Pardon.”

  “Theo. It’s okay. I do understand. I’m hoping you can help me. I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  He mopped his face. “Shoot.”

  “First, back when you bought the farm, where did the money for that huge down payment come from? I know you inherited money and sold off some houses. Did all the payment come from those sources?”

  “Most of it. But now that I think, we got twenty thousand in the weirdest way. Marcie won it downtown at that new casino on Canal Street. Harrah’s?”

  “She won it?”

  “Yeah. Can you believe it?”

  “She was a gambler.”

  “Nope. She just got a funny urge one night. Said she wanted to see what it was like. So we went, ate the buffet–tons a’ shrimp!–and I put a hundred on a roulette wheel. Lost it. But she hit a big jackpot. As soon as she got over the shock and we cashed in her chips, she said, ‘Now we have enough to buy a farm.’ I was happy for her.” He paused, smiling, recollecting the moment. “That was a big night. Met Cade Pritchard too. He was at the same table. Congratulated us. Asked, ‘Watcha gonna do with all your winnin’s?’ Marcie said, ‘look to buy a horse farm.’ He says, ‘I have just the place.’” Theo raised buglike wondering eyes to me. “Marcie always said there are no coincidences. I just now realize it. She won the last of the money we needed right in front of a man with the perfect place for sale. Next day we drove out. The only thing I didn’t like was that dang cemetery right in our front yard. Marcie took one look though and she didn’t care. Said we’ll just plant trees. Screen it off more. She loved the place instantly. So we did the deal. Happened fast.”

  “That’s amazing, Theo,” I said. “I’ve also heard you and Marcie weren’t divorced.” I tried to raise a Sean Connery eyebrow. Furrowed my entire forehead.

  “Nope. Never got aroun to it.”

  “Excuse me for prying, but it seems strange you’d have a property settlement and no divorce. Is there any explanation for that?”

  “Nuthin to explain. We filed the property agreement, were all set to do the final paperwork on the divorce, then we got so dang broke we couldn’t afford to pay the lawyer to finalize the divorce. Not that I wanted it anyway.”

  “Wow. Never thought of something so simple! But wouldn’t that invalidate the property settlement? I’m not up to speed on divorce law.”

  “Nope.”

  “Does she have any other relatives?”

  “Nope. Marcie’s an orphan.”

  “Okay. You know then,” I continued, “since you’re not divorced, you might be Marcie’s heir?”

  “Guess so. But she gave the farm back to that viper Cade, I unnerstan. She shoulda called me! I’m back on my feet agin. She lost hundreds of thousands–”

  “Not if we can prove that the assumption by a Ms. Kitty Z. Abeletti was contrived in some fashion.”

  “Kitty who?”

  “So you’ve never heard of this woman either?”

  “Only Kitty I ever knew was that woman in that ole TeeVee show Gunsmoke. Who is she?”

  “She is the new owner of your farm, via an assumption. Marcie signed the place over to her, I guess to avoid Cade foreclosing on her. Why her, I don’t understand.”

  “Gawd. Dang it! Why didn’t those danged Takeurs just go on and buy the place? They led Marcie down the garden path for months. Every week she thought she’d had it sold but then it wasn’t. I know she kept making changes, making changes, trying to please them, trying to git them to buy. She did tell me she was going to git a real small place an’ just keep Once an’ one of the mares.” Theo started to weep again and I had to blink hard not to join him. I felt all his angst, and Marcie’s panic as she slid down the greased slope of financial ruin further and further from safety for herself and her horses.

  When Theo wiped his eyes once again, I wiped mine too, just the corners. I felt fairly confident I wasn’t all smeary. I wore Maybelline’s waterproof mascara.

  I resumed. “I did some research last night and found that through Anton Delon, Marcie had had two appraisals performed on the farm. One was for a decent amount, the other for a ridiculously small amount. I think the smaller one was jiggered and that Delon paid off the appraiser to come in with a low-ball figure. For whatever reason. And I seriously wonder if perhaps Fil Takeur lied about losing his job. Because now with proof there was a false appraisal, one that was maybe used along with the job loss excuse, so he could legally invalidate the Agreement to Purchase Marcie had with them. If the appraisal and the job loss story aren’t true, the assumption could be invalid and you’d be the inheritor. You’d have to get those monthly mortgage payments caught up, of course. “I could do that, but you say there’s a false appraisal?”

  “I found one. Recently,” I said, but wondered, could Theo in any way be behind this? Did he actually know who Kitty was? How would I find this mystery woman?

  “Watcha gonna do with it?” Theo kept on.

  “Hopefully Deputy Tuan Scott and Sheriff MacWain will figure it out.”

  “I have an attorney, Bryn. Could I get a copy for him?”

  “I don’t see why not. I have to admit I’m confused about some of the legalistic shenanigans that are going on now regarding all this. Maybe your lawyer can help sort things out. Let me know who he is before I leave here. I’ll fax a copy to him.” I paused to take a deep breath. Think for a sec.

  “And, Theo, I have to say because you’re a possible inheritor, and the farm was maybe taken from Marcie by fraud, there’s a downside for you from these facts.”

  He nodded, exophthalmic eyes bulging to a frightening degree. “Makes me a suspect.” He spread shaking hands. I noticed how enormous they were. Why hadn’t I seen this before? Skinny, but hard arms. Huge hands. “Anythin I can do to help y’all. Anythin. I don’t care about inheritin the damn farm. Only caused me and Marcie grief. Now the horses. I want to see them well looked after. You think?–No…”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Think the sheriff’d let me stay out there for now? Take care a them till we get this whole mess sorted out?”

  “I dunno, Theo. Good idea, though. Ask him. Tuan wondered if you might want to take care of the stallion. I talked him out of letting that Tammi Takeur board him! But he can’t stay at the pound anymore.”

  “Once? Love to! I’d feel closer to Marcie takin care a’ him.”

  “Good. You need to get in touch with Tuan about all this. He’s on top of things.”

  He nodded eagerly. Action could be such a relief.

  “Theo. About your–recovery situation. The–drug thing? You asked if you could help.”

  “Sure. Whut?”

  “Still go to Twelve-Step meetings?”

  “A course. Three times a week.”
r />   I spoke. “This is probably totally outside the rules of Alcoholics or Narcotics Anonymous, but I was wondering if you could go to a few different meetings, see if you can find Mr. Anton Delon at any of them–”

  “Anton? Hail–he’s m’sponsor! That’s how he got to helpin Marcie with the farm. Through me.”

  “Is that so,” I said, jacking up both eyebrows and not caring one whit about wrinkles.

  “Watcha want to know?”

  “I think he murdered your wife, Theo.”

  He leaped to his feet. His pale face turned crimson. “No! That’s a load of hooey. He’s m’sponsor! I innerduced them. He’s always helpin out folks in recovery. Said he’d be delighted to help Marcie with sellin the place. Arrange for an appraisal–” A silence. “That false–?” said Theo in a tiny voice.

  I nodded. “–appraisal. Yep. Don’t say a word but I–accidentally found it last night at his office. Grabbed it just as it was about to go into a shredder.” Oops. Too much said about my activities? But Theo seemed too upset to notice.

  He collapsed into the chair. “I cain’t believe it. M’sponsor! Supposed to be my most trustworthy friend. I cain’t believe it.” He stared at me. “What d’you want me to do? Ask him?”

  “Can you?” I asked. “I mean given AA rules and all, is that appropriate?”

  “Sure. I can ask him anythin! He is a good man. No way did he hurt Marcie! He’ll have an explanation.”

  “When can you do it?”

  “Tonight. Meetin tonight. He’s always there. There’s a big clubhouse in N’Awlins. Big Daddy Anton practically runs the place. Ever body loves him. He tells funny war stories…”

  “I bet,” I said as I stood. “Theo, thanks a bunch. Will you call me after you talk to him? Please don’t say where you heard of the false appraisal.”

  “Whut’ll I say?”

  “You were going through Marcie’s papers and found it.”

  “Okay. That would be true, too. She’d have it, somewheres I’d guess. Okay. Thank you for working so hard to help poor Marcie. I’ll call you tomorra.”

  “Make it tonight. Never mind how late,” said I. “And you can give me your attorney information then, too.”

  “I’ll call you tonight, for sure.”

  We reached the door. I opened it, felt the heat, then I turned and said, “Theo. Why is Once’s stall so huge?”

  “Oh! Easy! That’s how come Marcie could afford ‘im. Horse has claustrophobia. Gorgeous horse, big talent, couldn’t get ‘im to shows. He’d panic in any small space, kick apart any trailer. Seemed like he could never have a career as a show horse like that. So Marcie got him cheap, before we met. She kept him on her nurse’s salary. Got him Gris-Gris for a buddy. Always rented two stalls for him when she was boarding him, and that did it.”

  “Three times a world champ.”

  “Yep. ‘Cause Marcie’s a smart horsewoman. Understands what makes horses tick. Or, like in Once’s case–not tick.”

  “Thanks, Theo. One last question. Why is all that gym workout equipment still in the old ballroom?”

  “No room for it here,” and he gestured at his small place. “Also,” and his head dropped and his neck got pink, “I just kept leavin it there, hopin Marcie would change her mind about us gettin the divorce, after all.”

  “I see.” Murderers don’t usually want to resume married life with their intended victims. “Okay, thanks, Theo. Take care.” I closed the door and followed the path out to the street of beautiful homes.

  Back in the Tempo headed toward the Northshore I wondered again, did he do it? And answered myself, if he did, he’s a great actor.

  Second Brain said, Theodore has surprising layers. That stained glass! I began to comprehend what Marcie saw in him.

  If he’s an artist in glass, could he be an artist as an actor? I stopped at a light. Then I made a small scream and pounded my thigh with my fist. “EEEEEeeeoooooooow!” And I said out loud to no one, “I am so damn frustrated by this case!”

  Second Brain made another intelligent suggestion. How about lunch at Commander’s Palace. Splurge just this once.

  I answered, “Food always helps. Spectacular food helps more.”

  I smiled for the first time in hours, put on my blinker, and turned toward Washington Avenue and the turquoise Victorian mansion that is Commander’s Palace.

  Chapter Twenty One

  May 25, 12:18 PM

  I ate West Indies Crab salad, which the Commander’s Palace menu had told me contained such succulent goodies as lump crabmeat, green papaya, mango, hearts of palm, plantain croutons, crushed lime, ginger and special vinaigrette.

  I was seated in the second story room with wrap-around windows. Huge oak branches outside gave a feeling of dining in the treetops. A mockingbird hopped along a branch toward me. I sipped a martini, of which I’d promised myself I’d have only one. Starched napkin in my lap, fresh flowers on the table, and the laughter and conversations of others surrounded me. I closed my eyes and savored crabmeat and ambiance. I thought, this is one of the peak experiences of living in the micro-culture of New Orleans. And Creole food to boot.

  I had issue with the Cajun craze, a mere two decades old in the city. Of course, it was hundreds of years old out on the bayou. It had, in fact, been launched in town from this very restaurant by a young chef named Paul Prudhomme. Inspired by his mother’s Cajun cooking, he prepared packets of extra-spicy seasonings at home and sneaked them into Commander’s famous kitchen and secretly added them to certain dishes. These got raves from diners. He also began to blacken things. And so began the Cajun food revolution that spread worldwide. Later he left Commander’s and opened his own restaurant in the French Quarter. While I loved Cajun cooking, I was a little bit afraid the cuisine that had made New Orleans famous, Creole, would be overshadowed, lost. Like this West Indies salad, a Creole recipe hundreds of years old

  I ate in silence for a while. Getting out, being in a nice place, was excellent for my morale. Did I wish I had a partner sitting opposite me? I paused, a forkful of delicate crabmeat in midair and pondered. Did I? I remembered the exhaustion of trying to get along with my husband, each spirit-sapping moment when it seemed everything I did was wrong. I did not miss it.

  I sipped some ice water with a lime wedge. There were many pairs of uptown women out doing lunch. They wore little dresses from Saks and Lord & Taylor. And here I was. Plain me–very light makeup except that dash of near-black waterproof mascara on my pale redhead’s lashes. My jewelry, just small pearl studs. I wore a tailored blue shirt over a K-Mart black shell. Black pants fed down to my ‘dress-up’ Sabrina heels. My red hair curved sleekly around one jaw line, for once. I always wore a lip-gloss, as much to stop my lips from chapping as to be fashionable. Besides, I liked the taste of the stuff: watermelon, vanilla, mocha. Today was a mocha day. I actually thought I didn’t look too bad. As a further nod to the Uptown lifestyle, I’d left the fanny pack at home today and carried an old, but good leather handbag, big enough to hold file folders, lip-gloss and latex gloves.

  I noticed the women often paused in their nibbling and drinking to stare at one particular man seated by the window catty-corner from me. He was broad-shouldered and had the jaw and hairline of Superman. I stared a bit too. I knew him slightly. Keith Tolliver, a successful lawyer, former polo player, now a dressage rider. Some trick. He’d been playing farmer on his horse-breeding spread a few years back when his tractor tipped over and crushed his legs. Now he was in a wheelchair, both legs amputated below the knee, making ghastly real that expression ‘cut off at the knees.’ He was still a bold rider and we often fought it out for the top spot at shows, so we had a joking kind of competitive acquaintance. On some deeper, subconscious level I guess I was attracted to him, but I was not the kind of frou-frou gal I imagined him wanting. Before his accident, he’d had quite a reputation as a womanizer, but since the accident, that seemed to have changed. He was dining with his all-round assistant Todd, who also rode dressag
e. Naturally Lila’s Diner habitués thought they were gay, but that was so clichéd of them. There was no Brokeback Mountain sheep-herding romance. Keith had chased too many women. He could afford a fulltime helper like Todd, that was all. He did have a warmblood breeding operation not too far from my place near Absinthe Wells with a yardful of great horses for Todd and himself to ride. I went up against them on sweet ole Heinz 57-variety Amethyst. Sometimes we took top points against the hundred thousand dollar pedigrees.

  I’d noticed a blonde a table away from Mr. Keith Tolliver had been giving him the eye. I felt some satisfaction that, so far as I could perceive, he had not succumbed to her battings and lashings. I caught myself staring at the blonde, perhaps with some slight hostility, but she was as intimidated as a Rottweiler and merely looked brazenly back at me. She took a defiant gulp of her martini. Drunken tart.

  I ate another piece of crab. Succulent! I sipped my martini and to continue with my real work of the day silently asked Second Brain, “So. You think Theo dunnit?”

  There was a long silence. The mockingbird let out a shriek like a jay and stared at me. I swear it was only a foot from my face, the branch was that close. Then I felt a response and I imagined Second Brain harrumphing importantly and replying, “Well. Do I think he ‘done it?’ He’s smarter than you realized, Bryn. Remember, good artists aren’t just about creativity. They have much higher than average I.Q.’s, so he could have engineered the entire event.”

  I chewed lettuce, vacantly staring at and admiring Superman by the window, then responded, “All that weeping…?”

  “Yes. All that weeping. Could be good acting. Sociopaths do that all the time.”

  I finished the last acidic, delicious drop of my Martini and thought back, “I think it’s real. I think he genuinely loved her. I think they loved each other.”

  Second Brain said, “Hmm. The explanation might be that each, in his or her own way, was so psychologically damaged that their neuroses triggered the obfuscation of their sincere love.”

  “Obfuscation?” I said.

  “Hiding. Hid their love, which drove them apart. Possibly ended in this tragedy, which had they been able to stick together, could have been averted. Unhappy childhoods strike again.” There was a silence, then, “I could be wrong. I am not always right, unlike First Brain, which is seldom right and always thinks she’s right.”