‘Ground would be dry in here. It was February, right? So if something was buried under this sheet it’d stay dry, and being inside, you said it stinks of mildew. Well, if a body was hidden under here we’d expect a lot of mould, same smell as mildew.’
Rooney held up the torch, then moved its beam to spread further over the tiny floor space, leaving Lorraine in darkness.
‘What you doing?’
‘Looking for droppings, rats’d be clawing their way in here if there was a body, and there’s nothing, Lorraine. Plus they got raccoons in these parts, they’d have torn the place apart.’
She continued digging with the plastic dish, her hands and nails filthy, and Rooney shone the torch, watching. One inch down, two inches down, and still she shovelled the earth, making a deep hole. Then the beam from the flashlight began to fade.
‘Batteries are running out,’ he said.
Lorraine began to scratch and dig the earth with her bare hands, and then she sat back. ‘There’s something here, come closer. For God’s sake, get closer, I can’t see. And it’d help if you gave me a hand.’
Rooney crawled towards her, the flashlight beam now just a faint yellow. ‘What is it?’
‘I dunno, I can’t fucking see. You dig, I’ll hold the light.’ She leaned back and took it from him as he began to dig harder. He used one of the plastic cups, scooping up the earth. Soil sprayed over Lorraine, and she brushed it aside.
‘Shit! You’re right, there is something.’ Rooney dug for a few more minutes and then squinted at the hole. They could just see a corner section of a black plastic trash bag. Rooney lifted up his hand; white maggots were clinging to it, covering the cuffs of his jacket. ‘Aw shit, there’s millions of them, maggots, fucking white maggots.’
‘Gimme the flashlight, I can’t see a damned thing.’
Lorraine passed the light over and he shone it down into the hole he had sliced through the black plastic. As he carefully inched it aside they could see part of a skull in the yellow beam, the skin completely decomposed, but there was a portion of long blonde hair and what looked like a head-band.
‘I think we just found Anna Louise Caley,’ Rooney said softly.
‘We also maybe just got one million dollars,’ Lorraine added.
Rooney looked at her face, a black eye on one side and her scar running down the other. She looked like a prize fighter coming up for round ten.
‘You don’t give in easy, do you?’
‘Nope, but then life’s not that easy. Least, mine isn’t.’ She stood up, still having to bend as the roof of the house was so low. ‘I’ll go and see the Browns.’
They were still there at dawn, as the police put up their cordons and arc lamps. It took two hours for the entire body to be dug up. The corpse was wrapped in four layers of black garbage bags, sellotape wound round and round the bags, virtually mummifying the body. All that was left were scraps of rotting cloth. The corpse had been buried almost a year, judging by the extent of the decomposition. Beetles and maggots were lodged in the eye sockets and the inside of the skull. There had been no terrible odour of death because all the gases had evaporated and the mummification of the body, wrapped tightly with no air, had dried all the body tissues. There was little left as a means to identify the body, but the dental records and possibly the fine, almost waist-length blonde hair. They would even find it difficult to determine what had caused the death.
By eleven o’clock the next morning, the dental records had been flown to the forensic laboratory from Los Angeles. The body was formally identified at 12.30. Anna Louise Caley had died approximately eleven months ago. She had been killed by a single blow to the back of her head, probably inflicted by a rounded, blunt-edged instrument.
Elizabeth Caley was informed at 12.45 p.m. that the body of her daughter had been recovered at Tilda Brown’s home. She was also told that it had been discovered by Lorraine Page and her partner, Mr William Rooney. It was just after two the same afternoon that Lorraine and François drove back through the Garden District to the Caley residence.
‘You want your bonus?’ Elizabeth asked coldly. She looked as elegant as ever, and Lorraine was impressed at the woman’s resilience.
‘I will have all my reports typed up and sent to you, either in Los Angeles or here, whichever you prefer.’
‘How did she die?’ Elizabeth asked, lighting a cigarette.
‘It’s difficult to give you details at this stage, but she had a deep indentation on the back of her skull.’
Elizabeth inhaled. ‘They brought a head-band, the police asked if I could identify it as Anna Louise’s. It wasn’t hers, it was mine.’
Lorraine checked over all the receipts of their expenses which Rosie had meticulously kept and clipped neatly together.
‘I will send our details of costs for the trip to New Orleans to Phyllis, unless you would like them left here? Mrs Caley?’
Elizabeth stared out of the long window at the fig orchard. ‘Send them to Phyllis, she’ll pay you.’
Lorraine replaced the documents in her briefcase.
‘Who killed her, Mrs Page?’ Elizabeth asked quietly.
Lorraine hesitated. ‘This is just supposition, because without her statement obviously we will never know exactly what happened.’
‘So what do you think happened?’
‘Well, your daughter was very jealous of Tilda Brown. Did you know she was having a sexual relationship with your husband?’
Elizabeth arched one fine eyebrow, ‘Well, I suppose he needed to get it someplace. It certainly wasn’t from me.’
Lorraine looked away, Mrs Caley sickened her, there seemed no emotion in her whatsoever, she was calm, almost sarcastic.
‘Go on, please. I’m paying you for this, so I might as well hear what you have to say.’
‘Anna Louise seemed to be very jealous because she was in love with her adopted father, and the fight the two girls had before you and Anna Louise left Los Angeles was because your daughter had seen Tilda kissing or embracing Mr Caley.’
‘The cheap bastard,’ Elizabeth said bitterly, stubbing out her cigarette.
Lorraine licked her lips. Her head was throbbing and her eye, although now less swollen, was still painful; moreover she had been up all night.
‘Go on, Mrs Page,’ Elizabeth snapped.
‘Well, after you arrived at your hotel that afternoon of February fifteenth, Tilda . . .’
Elizabeth crossed to the window and stood gazing out at the trees as Lorraine continued.
‘I know that your husband met with a Ruby Corbello, a girl that used to be a maid at Tilda Brown’s. She was trying to blackmail him.’
‘What?’
‘She had found Tilda Brown’s diary and she wanted to get money for it. The diary contained confirmation that Tilda and your husband were having a relationship.’
‘You read this diary?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘No, I did not. I have not seen the diary, but your husband has admitted that he did meet with Miss Corbello, and she did give him the diary. He paid her two hundred dollars for it.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘Cheap at the price, silly child could have asked for a lot more. Go on, Mrs Page.’
‘Ruby Corbello was then led via the staff entrance up to Anna Louise’s suite. She left the hotel after ten minutes, but was seen back at the hotel, in the courtyard beneath your daughter’s balcony. I think your daughter asked Ruby Corbello to make her a doll, a voodoo doll in the shape of Tilda Brown. She possibly passed over a photograph of Tilda to use as its face, and may have paid Ruby Corbello, but she has not admitted that she did make the doll, and without your daughter’s statement, it would be difficult to prove.’
Elizabeth lit another cigarette. Lorraine noticed her hand was shaking, but otherwise she remained impassive, gesturing for Lorraine to continue.
‘I traced a cab company, not a licensed company, but one used by the staff at the hotel to ferry them back home when they were working late. A dri
ver recalls collecting a young woman from the hotel and taking her to Tilda Brown’s house on the night of February fifteenth last year.’ Lorraine reached over and sipped some iced tea that had been brought in when she arrived. ‘That was the last sighting of your daughter, nobody ever saw her again. I think she knew Tilda’s house so well that she did not enter via the front door but climbed up on to the balcony which is only on the first floor, and saw Tilda there. Her parents have stated that Tilda never left her bedroom that night, so possibly they met at around seven forty-five.’
Elizabeth sat down, running her hand down her slim-fitting skirt, crossing her ankles. ‘Go on, please.’
Lorraine sighed, her head really throbbing now. ‘How do we know what exactly happened? They were young, angry with each other, jealous, and both had been to Juda Salina on numerous occasions for tarot reading or whatever. Both girls, having been brought up here, were obviously aware of voodoo, Anna Louise perhaps because of your connections.’
‘My connections?’ Elizabeth said sharply.
‘You did play Marie Laveau, you even have a portrait of yourself in the role in the house in Los Angeles. So Anna Louise must have been aware of the voodoo culture. Perhaps they were both afraid of it, I don’t really know, but I think Anna Louise wanted to scare Tilda, wanted to frighten her badly. Perhaps she showed her the doll and that started it, who knows, but they had fought before. In fact, when I interviewed Tilda she described how Anna Louise had struck her and punched and scratched her. So these two girls had fought before – perhaps that night they did again, and perhaps Tilda picked up something, a tennis racquet maybe? And struck out at Anna Louise.’
As Lorraine opened her cigarettes and lit one, Elizabeth remained silent, head bowed slightly.
‘Perhaps Anna Louise was leaving, facing the balcony, and Tilda struck her from behind. There were stains on the carpet in that area, but after Tilda’s suicide the carpet was cleaned so we will never know if there had been blood there or not.’
Elizabeth looked blankly to the window.
‘I think Tilda went down to the kitchen for some plastic bags straight away because the body was wrapped very tightly soon after death. She then used reels and reels of sellotape to seal the bags around the body. She may have hidden it in her room, waited until the following morning, and could have dropped it over the balcony and dragged it to the playhouse. At some point she dug the grave, and buried Anna Louise, then put a padlock on the door and . . .’
‘Left my baby rotting,’ Elizabeth said softly.
‘Yes. She did not return to college, she remained with her family, and from people I have interviewed I understand she became nervous and withdrawn, probably living in a state of terror that the body would be found. I think my visit to her must have scared her very much because someone new was making enquiries after all that time. I think I was the only one who had discovered not only the two girls’ sexual permissiveness, but also their jealousy. Tilda became very upset when I interviewed her but did not give me any indication she had played a part in Anna Louise’s murder.’
‘Played a part? Dear God, she killed her!’
‘I would say the surrounding pressures and the—’
‘Please don’t excuse the girl, she murdered my daughter.’
‘Yes, she did.’
Elizabeth stood up, pressing her hands down her sides, then brushed one across the crease in her skirt. ‘So, it’s over.’
Lorraine also stood up. She swayed, feeling faint, and had to hold on to the arm of the chair.
‘Are you all right?’ Elizabeth asked, looking directly at Lorraine for almost the first time since she had arrived.
‘I am very tired.’
‘What happened to your face?’
‘Oh, I bumped into a door, it’s nothing, but I would like to leave now.’
Elizabeth crossed to an escritoire and opened it. She sat down on one of the delicate English chairs and drew out a cheque-book. Lorraine collected her jacket and picked up her briefcase.
‘Do you still have the doll, Mrs Page?’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’
‘You didn’t give it to the police?’
‘No.’
‘Would you leave it here? I don’t think it is necessary for it to be seen by anyone else.’
Lorraine opened her case again.
‘Why didn’t you give it to the police if I might ask?’
‘Well, it is only circumstantial evidence.’
‘My, my we are so professional, aren’t we?’
Lorraine put down the doll, still wrapped in the hotel towel.
Elizabeth ripped out the cheque and blew on it to dry the ink. She then held it out at arm’s length. ‘Your bonus, Mrs Page.’
Lorraine walked the few paces towards Mrs Caley and took the cheque. She glanced at the amount: one million dollars.
‘It won’t bounce,’ Elizabeth said as she closed the lid of her desk. Then, without turning back, she picked up the doll and walked to the door.
‘The maid will show you out, Mrs Page. Thank you very much.’
Lorraine remained standing, staring at the cheque as the click-click of Elizabeth Caley’s high heels died away on the hall tiles.
Missy appeared and gestured for Lorraine to go with her to the front door. By now Elizabeth was almost at the top of the sweeping staircase, but she didn’t look back as Lorraine left.
Elizabeth watched her depart in her car with her driver, and then let the curtain fall back into place. She crossed to the bureau. The head-band was still in the plastic bag the police had brought it in, and she touched it with one delicate finger, before picking it up and tossing it into the wastepaper basket. She crossed to the bed where she had placed the doll and slowly unwrapped it, staring down at the hideous face with Tilda Brown’s photograph, the pin stuck through the doll’s left eye. She picked it up, carried it to the old wide fireplace, bent down and set it on the bars of the empty grate. She emptied an entire bottle of nail varnish remover over it before she struck a match and set it alight. She stood there as the flames caught and burnt it quickly; last to blacken and melt was the small plastic doll’s head with Tilda Brown’s face.
Elizabeth waited until all that was left were charred ashes and the acrid smell of burnt plastic. She then went to her bedside and picked up Anna Louise’s photograph and held it to her chest. She lay down, clutching the picture, her face impassive, but gradually her eyes filled with tears and they trickled down her cheeks, until she sobbed quietly, saying her daughter’s name over and over again, whispering that she was sorry, so very sorry.
Robert Caley had asked to see the body or what was left of it, but nothing had prepared him for the blackened, decomposed corpse. He was shocked and distressed, staying no more than a few moments. Like his wife, he wept for Anna Louise. He also asked for her forgiveness, knowing that he had in many ways been to blame. He was now on his way to accomplishing everything he had dreamed about, and he would without doubt be a very rich man, but he felt empty, drained and ashamed. Two young girls had died as a result of his foolishness and selfishness. The woman he could love had seen him for what he was, and he knew the damage was irreparable. Just thinking of her made him look towards the connecting bedroom door, and his heart thudded as it opened.
‘Excuse me, Mr Caley, but the manager has asked if you will still be requiring the double suite as . . .’
‘No, no, I will also be leaving by tonight.’
‘Shall I tell the manager then, Mr Caley? Only with Carnival coming up . . .’
‘Yes, please, thank you.’
The maid shut the door and locked it, and he packed his bags, wanting to get out as soon as possible.
The bell-boy was carrying them to his car when Saffron Dulay drove up in her convertible Rolls Corniche.
‘Honey, you’re not leavin’, are you?’
He looked at her as she slid out of the driving seat and sashayed towards him, arms held out for a hug. Golden-brown, golden-h
aired, she reminded him of Anna Louise.
‘Daddy, give me a hug, give me a big bear hug and tell me you love me lots, lots and whole lots.’
Caley wrapped his arms around Saffron; he was crying.
‘Shush now, honey, I know, I know they found her,’ Saffron cooed, stroking his head.
He turned away, embarrassed by his tears, and she drew him close.
‘Now, you’re not leaving, are you? Not when I have come all this way to see you, and Daddy and you being in business together, you are not upping and leaving, you have to celebrate.’
Saffron had already dismissed Anna Louise’s death. That was over, that was all in the past. She saw him waver, hesitate, and she turned to the bell-boy.
‘Put Mr Caley’s bags in my car, would you?’ She gave him that wide, frosty smile. ‘Hey, we are going to have a ball, it’s just starting, it’s Mardi Gras!’
She walked around to the driving seat as his luggage was placed in the trunk, slipping on her dark glasses as she started up the engine.
‘My daddy says you’ve gone and left that lush you been tied to for more than twenty years. That true, Robert?’
He nodded, getting in beside her, and like her he slipped on his dark shades as they eased out into the traffic. They headed towards Esplanade, Robert with his arm lying loosely along the seat, his hand stroking Saffron’s slender neck.
‘Oh yes, that is so nice.’ She laughed.
Caley smiled, a sad smile, because he knew his life from now on would be filled with Saffrons. Money breeds money, breeds bastards.
Lorraine stared from the window of Francois’s steaming hot car. She was sure Caley had not seen her, and she was glad, not because she looked bad, but because she might not have been able to hide her expression. Saffron’s blonde head was tilted back, laughing, Robert Caley’s hand resting at the nape of her neck. A golden couple, seemingly with no remorse, no pain and no grief. She was more than glad, because it made her angry that she had been such a fool to have felt something for him, even for a moment. He was not worth it, not worth another thought, and whatever she felt would soon pass. He would soon be forgotten, just like poor misguided Anna Louise, whose skeleton lay covered in the morgue.
Cold Blood Page 48
