Random Acts
Erica Spindler
RANDOM ACTS
All Rights Reserved © 2017 by Erica Spindler
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Erica Spindler
Dedication:
To the city of New Orleans
Big Easy, Beautiful Crescent, City that Care Forgot
Ever an inspiration
Praise for THE FINAL SEVEN: The Lightkeepers #1
THE FINAL SEVEN is an expertly plotted crime drama with some supernatural flare and a dash of romance for good measure.
– IndieReader
Edgy and charged with atmosphere, The Final Seven is exactly what a supernatural thriller should be: a battle royale for the human soul. Spindler knows her stuff.
– Laura Benedict, author of Charlotte’s Story and Bliss House.
“Erica Spindler has long been an innovator, but she’s created something truly special with this debut in her new thriller series, THE FINAL SEVEN. Engrossing, exciting, and genuinely scary, Spindler takes you on a relentless ride that doesn’t let up until the last line. I can’t wait to read the next The Lightkeepers installment featuring Detectives Michaela Dare and Zach Harris - Spindler has created a partnership for the ages.”
– J.T. Ellison, NYT bestselling author of WHAT LIES BEHIND
Random Acts
by
Erica Spindler
“Don’t forget in the dark what you learned in the light.”
—author unknown
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
Chapter One
Noon
New Orleans, Louisiana
Detective Michaela Dee Dare’s stomach growled. Loudly. One of those deep rumbles that would’ve been heard clear to the back of church on a packed Sunday morning. If she went to church.
Micki had given up church and praying to an invisible father for help a long time ago. Now she put her faith in the tangible. Her own skills. The gun at her hip, the shield that gave her the power to protect herself.
These days, she would not go down without one hell of a fight.
Lessons learned the hard way.
Up ahead, the blue lights of a lone cruiser flashed in front of a big-ass mansion. She’d pulled a temporary assignment in the Second District. Uptown, bounded by Louisiana and Orleans Avenues and the Mississippi River; the highest priced real estate in New Orleans. And no wonder—it included St. Charles Avenue, Tulane and Loyola Universities, Audubon Park and the Zoo.
Ritzy-titzyville.
She usually worked the Ninth District. Not quite down on its luck, not quite middle class. Which suited her just fine. People who dealt with real life every day; people who knew who they were and where they belonged.
Here, the phony-factor ran high. Real high. Sort of like the crazy club she’d grown up in. Mama’s narcissism, Aunt Jo’s desperation. Grandma Roberta’s complete denial of reality.
And her Uncle Beau’s voice in her ear, deep and round from a third scotch: “Come, Michaela, let’s play a little game of make-believe.”
Micki shoved that memory deep into the dark recesses. The place the monsters lived. They came out to play sometimes, but rarely by the light of day. No, it was the night they preferred.
She reached the scene, parking behind the lone cruiser. Police tape stretched across the entrance to the building, blending weirdly with the purple, green, and gold Mardi Gras swags adorning the columned mansion’s facade. Tinsel wreaths of the same colors hung on the double doors, waving in the breeze like sparkling fingers.
The toot of a horn startled her and she glanced in her rearview. A man climbing out of his vehicle. Her partner—like her assignment, temporary. She grabbed her gear, climbed out, and went to meet him.
Her first impression was of an aging goodfella, softening around the edges but still intimidating. “Carmine Angelo,” he said, holding out a beefy hand.
She took it. “Micki Dare.”
He smiled, a big toothy grin that changed him from crime boss to somebody’s daddy. “You’re new to the Detective Bureau.”
“I am.” They fell into step together. “Promoted the first of the year.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She’d beat out a number of other candidates—all men, some of them with more time in uniform—which hadn’t made her any friends. “What do you know about the vic?” she asked.
“Besides that she was rich and now she’s dead? Nada.”
They reached the first officer; Angelo greeted him by name. “Chuckles, good to see you, man. My partner du jour, Micki Dare.”
He nodded at her. “How’re ya?”
She returned the nod. “Okay. What do we have?”
“Housekeeper called it in. Found her employer, one Vivianne Stanley, in a pool of blood in her Queen’s room.”
Micki cocked an eyebrow. “Queen’s room?”
“You know, Mardi Gras. She was Rex’s Royal Consort, back in 1969.”
Angelo unwrapped a piece of peppermint gum and folded it into his mouth. “That’s N’Awlins,” he drawled, “once a queen, always a queen.”
Micki rolled her eyes. The krewe of Rex, one of the oldest, most exclusive of the Mardi Gras organizations. More phony bullshit.
“Housekeeper’s name?”
“Margaret Cook.” He shook his head. “Looks like Stanley was beaten to death with her scepter.”
Micki looked up from her notepad. “Excuse me, did you just say—”
“Yeah, I did. Her scepter.”
Angelo snorted. “Those things aren’t much more than tin foil and paste.”
“Not this one. Like everything else, stuff was made to last in the old days.”
Micki jumped back in. “The housekeeper’s here?”
“In the kitchen with the rest of the staff. Yardman and cook. Stanley’s personal trainer. Apparently, his arrival precipitated finding the body.”
Micki glanced at Angelo. He met her eyes and nodded slightly. The coincidence of the trainer’s arrival could be nothing—or everything.
“My partner’s babysitting him. Called another cruiser, got nobody. It’s that time of year, I guess.”
Angelo grinned. “You’ve got us.”
Chuckles chuckled and Micki instantly understood the nickname. “Paramedics called?”
“On their way. We’ll see how long that takes.”
Angelo winked at her. “Mardi Gras; can’t live with it, can’t kill it.”
“We could try,” she muttered, as they entered the house.
She moved her gaze over the opulent interior, taking in details, absorbing. Waiting for that one thing to jump out and shout at her.
“Where’re you from, Dare?”
“Mobile.”
“So you’re familiar with Carnival?”
“Intimately.”
“Hence the disdain.”
“You got it.”
He laughed. “N
ot much of a talker, are you?”
“Nope.”
They reached the inner perimeter, delineated by more crime scene tape, and ducked under and into the queen’s room, essentially an office. Writing desk. Credenza. Discreet file cabinets.
Except for the eye-catching, life-size display: Queen’s garb—beaded gown, faux fur stole, photographs of the young and lovely Vivianne, framed newspaper clippings, display cases filled with memorabilia.
Obviously, Stanley had taken this royalty schtick seriously.
In fact, the getup was so eye-catching Micki almost missed the real deal—Vivianne Stanley, sprawled on the floor, circled by a pool of blood. Stanley’s head was a mess. Scepter there, by the body, bloodied. Even from this distance she could make out fingerprints on the scepter’s staff.
“Looks like Chuckles called it,” Angelo said.
Micki murmured agreement and moved on. “Perp didn’t bother with stealth. Crime of passion. Unorganized.”
“Looks like first blow came from behind.”
“Stanley stumbled, turned—” Micki indicated the blood spatter on the rug. “Our perp kept at her.”
Fury. Hatred. Jealousy. The trifecta of ugly.
Personal. Very.
In unison, she and Angelo fitted on gloves, inched closer and squatted beside the body.
The scepter had left a fleur-de-lis imprint on Stanley’s remarkably unlined forehead. A lone rhinestone had come free and imbedded there; it seemed to wink up at them.
“How old you think she was?” he asked.
“Queen of Rex in ‘69, that would make her seventy plus.”
He cocked his head and snapped his gum. “Pretty well preserved. Neither of my grannies looked like this.”
“Mine did. All it takes is money, Angelo. A lot of it.”
Micki felt his questioning gaze on her but didn’t acknowledge it, stood and crossed to the desk. She frowned slightly. Obviously, Stanley had been a neat and tidy sort, yet several files lay open on her desk, all marred by bloody fingerprints. Perp had been looking for something.
Micki thumbed through. Mailing lists. Returned RSVP cards. Several invitations to said event.
A Queen’s Tea. Windsor Court Hotel. Today at four P.M.
“You found something?” he asked.
She looked at him. He had made his way from the body to the display case along the back wall. The lid of one case stood open.
“Invitations and RSVPs for an event today,” she answered. “Perp’s prints are all over them. You?”
“Two things missing from this display.
“Scepter?”
He nodded. “And crown.”
She frowned, moved her gaze over the scene one more time. “So, where is it?”
“Good question.”
From the foyer came the sound of the paramedics arriving. More officers. She wouldn’t be surprised if the chief himself made an appearance. Vivianne Stanley wasn’t just any vic. She was New Orleans royalty.
Chapter Two
2:00 P.M.
Micki and Angelo agreed to interview the housekeeper first and had asked the other two witnesses to wait on the patio. They’d both seemed grateful to get out of the house and into the sun.
Her hunger had taken a left turn into a bad attitude, and Micki decided if she didn’t get a sandwich soon, she just might bite somebody’s head off.
It didn’t help that they’d decided to conduct interviews in the enormous kitchen; she was having a hard time keeping her focus on the housekeeper. The lunch spread on the counter—including a triple layer chocolate caked decorated with strawberries and coconut—was starting to make her twitch.
“May I fix you a plate?”
Micki jerked her gaze to the housekeeper’s. She had kind eyes, like somebody’s mother. Somebody’s, but not hers. Not by a long shot.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cook, but no.”
“It’s just going to go to waste.”
“No, really—”
“Nonsense.” She stood and crossed to the spread. “Mr. Stanley is out of town and it wouldn’t be proper for me to take it.”
“Why not, Mrs. Cook?”
“Because it wasn’t offered to me. You’re guests in this house.”
Micki had been called a lot of things by potential witnesses—most of them creatively unflattering—but never that. It had a nice ring to it, she decided. And no way she was going to refuse a third time.
The woman fixed the two plates, brought them to the table, then went back and poured two glasses of iced tea from the pitcher.
Two tumblers, Micki realized. Two plates. “You say Mr. Stanley is out of town?”
“That’s right. A business . . .” She stopped, eyes widening. “I haven’t . . . how am I going . . . to tell him?”
“Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Cook,” Angelo said gently. “We’ll notify Mr. Stanley.”
She nodded, eyes filling with tears.
Micki went on. “Was Vivianne, Mrs. Stanley, expecting company for lunch?”
Her expression went blank. “Yes, Steve. Her personal trainer.”
“The one out on the patio? Mr. Stone?”
“That’s right.”
Micki eyed the plate in front of her. Besides the chocolate cake, there was bacon quiche and flaky, miniature croissants, both glistening with fat. A fat and carb nightmare. What kind of personal trainer ate like this? Certainly not Mr. Iron Abs out on the patio.
Luckily, her job didn’t require her to wear spandex shorts. She took a big bite of the quiche and almost melted like the butter obviously used to make it.
Angelo stepped in. “You hesitated, Mrs. Cook. You’re certain she didn’t expect someone else?”
“Well, Bitty Vanderlund was here earlier. I just assumed lunch was with Steve . . . Mr. Stone.”
“Do Mrs. Stanley and her trainer have lunch together often?”
“Occasionally.”
“And how often do they see each other?”
“Several times a week.”
“This Bitty Vanderlund,” Micki managed around a mouthful, undeterred by the fact Angelo hadn’t touched his plate of food and was taking all the notes. “They were friends?”
“I suppose so. They’re on committees together.”
Angelo looked up. “Vanderlund. That’s not a typical New Orleans name.”
“Indeed not. In fact, I heard Mrs. Stanley call her an outsider before.”
Definitely not friends, then. Micki shoved another forkful into her mouth. “What were they working on?”
“No idea.” The housekeeper thought a moment. “With this being Mardi Gras, Mrs. Stanley had many events underway.”
“Like the Queen’s Tea?”
She looked surprised. “Yes.”
“I saw event RSVPs on her desk. What exactly is that?”
“An event for former queens of Carnival. Mrs. Stanley was chairing this year’s event.”
“Was this Bitty a former queen?”
“I don’t know, but—” She hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because she’s not from here. Not originally, anyway. But she’s very nice.”
Not from here. In a stratified society like New Orleans, that made a difference. Same as it did in Mobile.
Angelo stepped in. “What time did Mrs. Vanderlund leave?”
“Ten-thirty. No, closer to eleven. I was on the phone with the caterer. Big party here tomorrow . . . Oh dear, what do I do now?”
Mick took over once again. “And Mrs. Stanley was fine at that point?”
“Well, I’m sure she was. Why wouldn’t she have been?”
“Mrs. Cook,” she said gently, “because she’s dead now.”
Her expression went blank. Shock, Micki decided and tried again. “You showed Bitty Vanderlund out, but didn’t see Mrs. Stanley?”
“Oh, I didn’t show her out. She called out goodbye and left.”
Angelo became alert. “You did
n’t see her?”
“Like I said, I was on the phone.” She brought a hand to her head. “I don’t feel so well.”
“Why don’t you get some fresh air?” Micki suggested. “And tell Mr. Hernandez we’d like to talk to him next.”
The woman gratefully agreed and started toward the door. Micki stopped her on her way out to the patio. “One last question, Mrs. Cook. Did Mrs. Stanley have a secretary or personal assistant?”
“Yes, but . . .” She paused, looking uncomfortable. “She fired her last week.”
“Why’s that?” Angelo asked.
She blinked. Twice. “I don’t know.”
“Really? You don’t know?” Micki cocked her head. “Mrs. Cook, you seem like the kind of woman who runs a tight ship. And I suspect you know everything that goes on in this house. No matter how small or . . . how big.”
Angelo nodded. “Firing her assistant at such a busy time? It must have been something really bad.”
“No! It was all a big mistake.” The housekeeper twisted her fingers together. “You’ll have to ask Ginny about it.”
“Ginny? That’s her name?”
“Yes, Ginny Boudloche.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cook. We’ll need to get her number from you before we leave.”
Chapter Three
2:40 P.M.
They spoke to Hernandez, the yardman next. He knew little. Bitty Vanderlund had arrived as he was leaving for the nursery. Apparently, something was eating the azalea bushes and Mrs. Stanley was not happy about it. He had been back at the property only minutes before the trainer arrived.
They saved the trainer for last, a fact over which he was bristling with indignation.
“This is outrageous,” he said. “I’ve had to cancel three appointments.”
“I feel for you, Mr. Stone.” She tried her best to sound sympathetic, but when his expression made it clear he didn’t by it, she got to the point. “Tell me about your relationship with Mrs. Stanley.”
“It was professional. I was her personal trainer.”
“And that’s it?”
“Seriously?” He frowned. “She was seventy-two. What other relationship could we have had?”
Random Acts Page 1
