“Simon. Please. I’ll follow you.”
He turned from me, muttered, “Some date.”
I felt my belly do a downward flip. I was supposed to change my lifestyle to accommodate a man. He sounded just like my ex-husband. Then I felt relief. I was free. I didn’t have to go with him.
“I heard that, Simon.”
He turned. “What?”
“You said, very sarcastically, ‘some date.’”
“Can you blame me?”
In a way, he was almost right, but the sarcasm scared me. “A lot’s happening in my life right now. I made time for you tonight, Simon, time I didn’t have. Now you’re being sarcastic because an emergency situation has come up?”
“Some dumb horse–”
“You don’t get it.” I looked at him. How much would I jeopardize working on this and future cases if Simon became withholding of information? A hostile Simon would not make things easier. But several years ago I’d promised myself zero tolerance of sarcastic remarks. They diminish emotional freedom. Besides, being falsely nice with this newly introduced sexual slant–to get information, made me uneasy. Being falsely nice with no sexual slant? Not much of a problem.
“Simon, I do thank you for asking me out to such a nice place. But this is not going to work.” I smiled, and held out a hand to shake. He stared at me, at it, then put his fists on his hips. His face got shiny red under the black hair plastered futilely sideways to hide his baldness. I thought, you’d think with all the jokes about men with comb-overs, they’d get it and stop. Just have the guts to be bald. Hey! A hairpiece would be better than this! He stared at me, wounded. “I’d heard you were self-absorbed and I didn’t believe it. Perhaps this is best for both of us, Bryn. You are just too busy to give any man the time of day.” Or nighttime of attention, I thought.
“You’re right, Simon. I’m sorry.” I meant it. His face calmed. A wistful look came over it. I said, “I’m still sorting things out since my divorce.”
“Maybe in time, you’ll get sorted out.”
“Maybe. When I am, I’ll give you a call.”, Wobbling in my heels on the gravel, I stepped toward him. He came to me and took my hand. “Goodnight, Simon. Talk with you soon.”
He held my hand so gently I felt a pang. He really seemed to like me. Was I making a mistake? He was a good man. He patted the top of my hand with his free hand then got into his car and drove off, only slightly scattering my expensive gravel. I sank down on my front steps. I was shaking! I could not believe it. I lay my arms over my raised knees and put my head down. It had brought back so many incidents with my ex–only he’d been so verbally violent, not gentle and peevish like Simon. Years of scenes. It was hot and breezeless and I could hear Am shifting his stall around back. No sound from Lu. I kept my head down. I was so tired and now all this old stuff coming up. Stuff I’d long thought I’d let go. Does it ever really go? So, go inside yourself, Second Brain whispered. Find the place in your body where this pain is. I stared unhappily at an urn of pink geraniums at my eye level. Gently, Second Brain palpated my entire body, seeking the manifestation of the pain. A geranium was right under my nose and filled my eyes’ horizon with pinkness, but with that funny geranium smell. Unpleasant.
Second Brain found the pain. Lodged in my throat it felt like a pork chop bone digging in. So, whispered Second Brain soothingly, Tell it it’s okay. Relax. Feel it. I felt the bone; how it hurt so much I couldn’t swallow. Stay with it, stay with it, Second Brain murmured, like a coach. As I carefully breathed, I lifted my face up and away from the geranium and I actually had a sensation of the bone melting, sharp edges dissolving, withdrawing from the soft flesh of my throat, growing smaller and smaller until it was only an aspirin-sized lump. Then it vanished. My shaking stopped. I was clear. In a moment I stood, went into the house, and wondered what to fix for dinner.
Chapter Thirty One
May 28, 9:19 PM
I had just washed up after a dinner of spinach salad and a blackened chicken breast when the phone rang. Theo? I felt a twinge of excitement. A foal might be born soon!
I answered.
An unfamiliar woman’s voice said, “Is this Ms. Bryn Wiley?”
“You’ve got me.”
“Ms. Wiley. We met the other day. This is Daisy Delon–Anton’s–”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Delon, I remember perfectly.”
Her voice was stressed, a harsh whisper. “I am so sorry to bother you. But you seem to be looking into things. Strange things–and I don’t know whom to call any more. Things are–bad. Gayle told me–”
“Mrs. Gayle Johnson from the shelter?”
“Yes. She told me she got–a good feeling from you. I think I need outside help this time. Are you a private detective?”
“Actually not. I’m just a writer, but I seem to get involved in sleuthing out murders. So I do some amateur detecting, for sure.” I flashed on Anton, his remark about ‘little Vet’nam wimmin.’ “I’ll help you in any way I can.”
“Anton drove up just as you were leaving the other day. He–questioned me. Confirmed it was you. He knows there’s some connection between the sale of Marcie Goodall’s property, her murder, that dreadful man Cade Pritchard and yourself. Does any of this make sense to you?”
“Perfect sense. Continue.”
“He was furious–that I might have told you things he didn’t–want revealed. He got–physical with me.” She spoke in such a jerky way I got frightened that she was at this moment in need of medical care.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll–be okay. Mainly–bruises. It’s happened before.”
“So I gather. I can be there in about a half hour or so–”
“That would–just make things worse. Please–let me finish.”
“Of course. But may I ask, how much do you know about your husband’s association with Cade Pritchard?”
“They go–way back. I used to be friends with Cade’s sweet little wife, Aimée. Both Cade and Anton have been in business on various deals–for over twenty years. They were in that–Special Forces thing together during the Vietnam War. The government taught, you know, torture to those boys. Like a class. Torture 101. Torture 102…” She laughed in a strange way. “Anton is a smart man. He retains well.” Her voice dropped lower. “Now they–gamble together. Mainly on the horses, and football, but also–high stakes poker.”
“Cade and your husband.”
“Yes.”
“Is that why your husband’s business is going under?”
“I am sure it is. I’m not supposed to know any of this–of course, I’m just supposed to work–I’m an administrative nurse now. I make over a hundred thousand a year. Anton considers me his fall-back.”
“Mrs. Delon, Daisy–why have you never left him? You’re an intelligent, capable woman–”
“It’s that old trite but true story. First the subtle and not-so-subtle decades of brainwashing–by a professionally trained man. Too bad the government doesn’t teach wives a class, Undoing Torture 101. Something–like that. Gayle has been a great help. She understands this form of indoctrination is insidious. A person, like myself, for example, doesn’t realize that their ability to think clearly and for themselves is being eroded. Selfhood leached away so gradually that they’re–I should say ‘I’– am like the victim of a vampire’s nightly visits. The vampire cleverly takes a small amount of blood each time. Much later, when one–I–realized there was a problem; I was so drained of blood I couldn’t act. Of course, the perpetrator also uses the children to control their victim. And the usual death threats.”
“It sounds unbelievably hideous.” On reflection though, I think my ex-husband studied at least Elementary Torture.
“It is. But now I want out and I want to help others. I want all of these beatings and murders to stop. Mine, and everyone else’s. Thank God for Gayle Johnson. She’s been saving my life, word by word.”
“I feel uneasy, Mrs. –Daisy. I feel as though you are
not safe. Did you know that it is possible Cade Pritchard was assaulted last night quite brutally for non-payment of gambling debts?”
“Oh no! I mean he’s an awful worm of a person. But an actual assault–that could mean they’re also after Anton–does Anton know this?”
“I have no way to know. My source, whom I trust, didn’t have any information about your husband. Where is he now, Daisy?”
“I–I’m not sure. He said he’d be home for dinner but it’s way past time for that and no sign of him, no call. But he could show up anytime. So look–Ms. Wiley, Bryn–I’m ready to go to the police with all of this. I can even give them paperwork, documents, from Anton’s office here at home. They show he’s been involved with that parody of a woman’s shelter in the Vieux Carré. I can even show where he’s been cheating on his income taxes. Gayle is on alert for me at the Longley Shelter after I talk to the police, and–will it help if I talk to the–”
There was a thump and a loud gasp in my ear. Then Daisy Delon crying, “Anton, quit! I’m on the phone!”
I heard Anton in the background. “Talkin’ about the po-lice?”
Oh no!
“No, dear, just girly talk, you’ve misunderstood–”
There was a thud, another sharp cry. The phone falling? A blow to Daisy? Anton’s voice, closer now. “Ah misunderstood nothin’, you whore! “
“No! Anton–Anton! Anton! No!” Shrill cries. Desperate pleading. “Nooooo!” Huge bangs and bashing sounds. Someone panting hard.
Aghast, I stared at my bookshelves. He was beating her up as I listened, so angered he didn’t care she was on the phone. I scrabbled for my cell phone. Dialed 911 on it as I kept the land phone jammed to my ear.
Sounds. Blows. Thud, thud–
What was their address? Damn! What was it–“Nine-One-One” said, in an official voice, “What is your emergency?”
“Hello! I am on the phone with Mrs. Daisy Delon, wife of Anton Delon in Metairie. I forget the address, but I hope you can look it up–right now as I speak, I can hear Mr. Delon beating up his wife. It’s terrible! Can you send help right now?”
“What is the address?”
“I don’t have it in front of me. Can you please look it up? Anton Delon. Metairie. Hurry please, he’s brutalizing her, it sounds like.” I listened, horrified, to Daisy’s screams of pain and suddenly I thrust the receiver to the cell phone so the dispatcher could hear the screams. “Hear that?” I demanded, “that’s Mrs. Delon right now.”
“We have found the address. A car is on its way. Please remain on the line so we can get more information from you.” I wanted off, I wanted to leap into my car and drive over there right now–
The cries over the line were diminishing. I had a terrible, unspeakable feeling of what I might be the audio witness to. I heard whimpers, another thud, a whimper, a thud. The thuds had a sickening, wet sound to them. Then silence. Footsteps. Heavy breathing.
Click. The phone was hung up.
I was trembling, my hand sweating as it clenched the receiver that now played dial tone.
Voice quaking, I told the dispatcher who I was, where I lived, my cell phone number and I said as soon as we finished, I would drive across the lake to the Delon home. Then I could answer any questions the police might have when I got there. Finally, she let me off the phone.
I dashed into the bedroom, looked at Lu. Fast asleep. Then to the office, a scrabble through my paperwork and I found the Delon address. I grabbed my handbag and the cell again and took off.
In the car I had the sense to call MacWain. Tuan answered and I filled him in. Things were expanding in most terrible ways. I asked him to try and get a hold of Mrs. Gayle Johnson and told him about the shelter at 1010 Longley Drive. “Mrs. Delon is going to need someone with her and Mrs. Johnson is a trusted friend.” Tuan assured me he’d get Gayle Johnson. I said, “She can get there quicker than me and Daisy Delon needs help fast. At least I hope, fervently, Tuan–” tears flooded my eyes–“that she needs help. Otherwise–” Now I turned the key in the ignition. Held the phone between shoulder and ear. The seat belt did its automatic slide and fastened itself around me. A Tempo feature that tonight I liked. I put the car in Reverse. “Got it all, Tuan?”
“Got it, Bryn, look! You be careful now. Stay away from that Anton guy. He sounds deadly.” God, I hope not!
“I will,” and I pressed Off and headed out my driveway. I raced along dark country roads toward the Causeway.
As I drove over the long bridge, there was an eerie part-moon over the lake. The waters were troubled. Like black paint they heaved in erratic waves off to my right. I gripped the wheel and settled in for a long, musing journey. I wondered if we had the killer, Anton. He was definitely a man on the edge. Losing his business of many years, apparently huge gambling debts, a violent man, a trained killer, and it might even have been him last night, walloping Theo with the same baseball bat that probably killed Marcie. He could have easily knocked Marcie out in her kitchen, flung her body over his shoulder, thrown her down–no!–dragged her along the barn aisle–those long brownish red streaks I’d seen the very first day all this started–a trail of blood from the head wound he’d inflicted in her kitchen. Then into the stall and whomp whomp whomp and farewell Marcie. With her dead, his fraud on the sale of the farm would perhaps never come to light. The false appraisal, the connection between him and Cade, him finding out Cade had buyers through Marcie for the sumptuous property. With Marcie gone, the gambling-whoring cronies Cade and Anton got all the money from the property’s sale. It all fit. And now if the Jefferson Parish sheriff’s people got there fast enough, he’d be caught his hands covered in his wife’s blood. God. It all fit so well! I left the bridge and headed for Metairie. He’d clobbered Theo, intending to kill him too when the neighbor lady showed up on her tractor. Theo being the last and main threat to the whole crooked farm deal going through, since he is possibly still a legal owner. He may have heard about Cade’s assault and been warned himself. Hence, he goes out and attempts to kill Theo to placate the thugs who beat up Cade, and insure the deal moves to fruition. I was driving down hot dark Veterans Boulevard. Soon I’d make a swing into the Bayou St. John’s neighborhood of Old Metairie. I decided it wasn’t the Takeur’s. They were pawns, rude pawns, just people with sufficient money to buy the place fast. And the plot was so complicated I thought it was beyond their capabilities. But not beyond Anton’s. I decided with some smugness, we had our murderer.
I pulled up and slammed to a stop. Ten police cars, at least, were parked around the Delon residence. Two were up on their lawn. An ambulance was parked, rear doors open. Dread washed over me. Slowly I got out. Blue lights strobed over me, over the house, the neighborhood.
Chapter Thirty Two
May 28, 10:12 PM
I threaded my way through Jefferson Parish sheriff cars clustered like pods around the mothership, the ambulance. Rapid pulses of red and blue light streaked the night-dark lawn.
I paused by the empty ambulance. “What are they waiting for?” I asked the night air. “They should have had her to the hospital long before this–” I shut up. Then I ran up to the open front door. Two uniformed deputies guarded the entrance. I halted before them.
“Deputy. I’m Bryn Wiley. I was on the phone with Mrs. Delon when she was attacked. I made the 911 call. I’m an acquaintance of Mrs. Delon’s. I’d like permission to enter.”
“I’ll have to check. You wait right here.”
Along with a babble of voices from inside the house, I heard feminine sobbing. I fervently hoped it was Mrs. Delon.
“Detective Juarez says come on in.”
I entered, and turned off the foyer to the left, toward the large white living room. On the threshold I stopped. The all-white room was slashed dramatically in red. Several police people were ranged about. Directly in front of them lay a body, arms flung wide, face red and unrecognizable. I knew it was Mrs. Daisy Delon. Beyond this the big form of Anton hunched in a white
linen chair, face in his hands. Weeping. The feminine sobbing I’d heard. A detective, a tall thin black man, stood over him, a tiny notebook open, pen in hand, and gazed on him sympathetically. Must be Juarez. I wanted to vomit.
No one noticed me. The investigators moved like worker ants over the room, taking photos, dusting, examining, consulting. From a flurry of voices behind me in the entrance, I recognized Gayle Johnson’s contralto. I turned my head. Then she was next to me, staring, seeing Daisy’s broken body. She made a huge cry and rushed into the room. Immediately a deputy restrained her. The detective beside Anton looked over at her. “Please, ma’am, don’t touch anything.”
Gayle saw Anton. Her hand shot out, finger pointing. “He did it! Arrest him! He did it!” Her voice was ragged with angry tears.
Anton ceased crying and raised his head. “Who the hail are you?”
“Mrs. Delon’s partner in the Longley Women’s Shelter. Gayle Johnson.”
“Whut is she talkin’ about? Ah nevah heard of the Longley Women’s–”
“Of course not! Daisy kept it secret from you.” Gayle turned and faced Detective Juarez who listened with interest. “Mrs. Delon funded a battered women’s shelter. I administered the place for her. Sadly, she was too often a recipient of our services. I have documented and photographed her more than once, from all the beatings she received at the hands of this man, her husband.”
I spoke up, “Detective, I’m able to add to that. I was on the phone with Mrs. Delon when this murder occurred. She called to tell me her husband might be involved in a killing that happened last week on the Northshore. She was in the midst of telling me how she’d made up her mind to go to the police when suddenly she gasped, then screamed in pain. I distinctly heard her say ‘Anton, no!’ several times. I called 911 while I listened to this horrific event unfold. Anton Delon weeps crocodile tears. He beat his wife to death. I heard it.”
The detective looked at Gayle and me with almond-shaped, ancient Egyptian eyes. “Are both of you prepared to come to the station and make statements to that effect?” His accent sounded more like the Bronx than the Deep South. This was the typical lower Ninth Ward accent of New Orleans.
Hot Blooded Murder Page 23
