“Hers?” Jerry asked, incredulous.
“Hers.” I nodded. “Why would you need to toss Antinous over the railing if you killed her in her room? You wouldn’t. You could just leave the body there and lock the door behind you on your way out. Housekeeping would find her the next morning—and no one would be the wiser. It was very dramatic. I couldn’t make sense of it, really. She was heavy, over three hundred pounds. Why do it? And then I realized, What if she wasn’t killed in her room? What if, in fact, she was in someone else’s room? And then the proverbial lightbulb came on over my head. The killer was, in fact, getting rid of the body. It was the easiest way to do it. It was a stroke of luck for the killer that her room just happened to be directly over Antinous’s.”
“Why not just kill her in her room?”
“Because of evidence,” I replied. “There would be evidence that the killer had been there in her room. No matter how careful you are, you always leave something behind—that’s how killers get caught, usually. Someone might see you. No, the killer’s plan had always been to lure Antinous to her room, kill her, and then get rid of the body by dumping it out the window. In a place like the Maintenon, where every room has a balcony or opens out into a gallery or has a big window, it would be easy. I thought I heard a door open right before the body came down. It wasn’t an actual door, but French windows. The third floor of the slave quarters has a gallery on the other side, but has French doors that open out into the pool courtyard. I heard the doors open, and a grunt as the killer shoved the body out. I—and everyone else—assumed it was Antinous’s door opening because her room was directly above where her body landed. Antinous’s door was locked, but we all assumed the killer had locked and closed the door after tossing the body over the railing. But why would the killer do that? I didn’t hear anyone walking along the gallery afterward—I assumed that when I screamed, that drowned it all out. But I didn’t hear footsteps because there weren’t any to hear.” I turned to Pat. “Isn’t that right, Pat? Your room—that is, your other hotel room—was directly above Antinous’s. You lured her up to your room, you killed her, and then you shoved her body out the French doors after making sure no one was looking.”
Pat’s face went white. “I’m not saying anything until I speak to a lawyer.”
“But why would Pat kill her?” This was from Kyle Bennett.
“The one player in the entire scandal of Antinous’s real identity that isn’t here is Anne Howard.” I turned back to Pat. “This whole thing has hinged on identities, hidden and secret personas. I did a web search on Anne Howard. Like Antinous, no pictures anywhere online. I started wondering, who the hell is this Anne Howard, anyway? Why did she hate Antinous so much? When Leslie told me at the party last night that she and Anne had never actually met, this afternoon I realized, If Antinous Renault was a pseudonym, why couldn’t Anne Howard be one as well? Then all I had to do was have Detective Randisi check with the Maison Maintenon…and sure enough, Anne Howard’s room was above Antinous’s. It all clicked into place. Pat had made it very clear to me Friday morning in the coffee shop she hated Antinous. She engaged with me on purpose at the coffee shop, to find out what I’d heard and what I knew. I told her what I believed at the time to be true…and she thought she’d gotten away with it.”
“But why?” Ted asked. “Why would she do it?”
“I have a pretty good idea about that, too.” I leaned against the wall. “She stole your work, didn’t she?”
“I want a lawyer,” Pat hissed through clenched teeth. “You can’t prove any of this.”
“What do you mean, she stole her work?” Jerry was goggling at me.
“Why did Anne Howard hate Antinous so much?” I asked rhetorically. “Anne Howard wasn’t a writer, she didn’t really exist rather than as a blog where she reviewed books. But if you read through her blog—which I did—from the very beginning, she hated Antinous. Her very first blog is a really in-depth attack on her. When I thought about it, I began to wonder, and the more I thought, the more I wondered. Anne Howard’s only reason for existence was to attack Antinous. She was the one who exposed her to the world as a fraud…and in the earliest blog entries, one of the crimes she accused Antinous of was plagiarism. Antinous herself didn’t understand why Anne Howard hated her so much—it puzzled her, and with her enormous ego and desire to be loved by everyone, she tried to understand it. Of course, it never occurred to Antinous that Anne Howard and Pat Greenleaf were the same person. Isn’t that right, Pat? In the coffee shop the other morning you called Antinous a plagiarist. The only other person to make that accusation was Anne Howard.” I shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. Once the police search your room and do tests, they’ll find evidence that Antinous actually died there.”
The cops came in, arrested both Pat and Leslie, and took them away in cuffs.
“Now I need a drink,” I said to the rest of the room.
“It’s on me,” Jerry said.
I was on my third margarita when Dani came into the bar, looking for me. Jerry nodded and got up. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said, and walked away.
“What a scoop!” Dani shook her head as she sat down.
“I can’t believe you said ‘scoop,’” I replied.
“The story’s going national.” She grinned at me, putting her hand on top of mine. “Are you sure you don’t want to go in front of the cameras?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want the publicity.” My agent Mabel and the PR person at my publisher would slap me silly, but there was no reason for them to ever know. “The last thing I want or need is to be called Jessica Fletcher.” I shuddered. “No thanks.”
“But for me, the big story is us.” She looked deep into my eyes. “I’m so glad we’re back together.”
I cleared my throat. “Yeah. About that.” I took a deep breath. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
Her jaw dropped.
Yes, Dani, you’re not used to not getting what you want, are you?
“We had problems even before you cheated on me, Dani,” I said carefully. “And I’m not sure I want to pick up where we left off. I live on the north shore, you still live in New Orleans, and your career is always going to come first.” I held up my hand as she started to sputter. “Let me finish. I’m not ruling it out—but we need to go slow, get to know each other again. I think we went too fast the first time. Let’s date first.” I stood up. “I won’t be back down to Louisiana for another week or so, anyway. Let’s think about it, decide what we want. I’ll call you when I get back home and settled.”
A smile crept across her face. “You’re going to make me work for it, aren’t you?”
I couldn’t help but smile back. “Something like that, yeah.” I leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll call you, okay?”
“But when are you heading back up north?”
“My flight’s tomorrow afternoon—but I have a book to finish.” I touched her cheek lightly with my fingers. “I will call you.”
She nodded. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
I whistled as I walked to the elevator.
About the Author
Valerie Bronwen is a retired journalist and former writing instructor from New Orleans. Her first published short story, “The Other Side of the Mirror,” appeared in the anthology Women of the Dark Streets. Valerie is a longtime fan of the mystery genre. Slash and Burn is her first novel, and she is working on a follow-up in her home on Coliseum Square in New Orleans.
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