Mostly Murder

by Linda Ladd

  He rarely worked on his Maze of Terror, until he decided that maybe it could be a place for them instead, just the two of them, the only ones who knew where it was and how to get there through all the stagnant sloughs and flooded cypress trees. Maybe he could make a beautiful lover’s bower for them there, where they could take off their clothes and make tender sweet love and nobody would ever find them. The thought appealed to him, and he started work on the maze again. He gave her his class ring with the big red stone as soon as he got it. She wore it on her finger with a rubber band around it because her hands were so small and dainty though they were strong too. She could throw a softball harder than he could.

  Then calamity struck. The police caught him stealing stuff for his maze out at his uncle’s construction site and arrested him. His parents and his uncles came to the station to see him but would not give him bail so he had to stay in jail for thirty days. He hated it there, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly frightened. He was terrified to go outside his cell and into the bullpen for exercise because of all the drug addicts and big muscular criminals who hung around in there. He was as scared as all his victims had been. He understood how they felt for the very first time. But it made him angry, too, furious, and filled him with a vindictive thirst for revenge. Even worse, his girlfriend’s parents decided she couldn’t go out with him anymore because he was now a jailbird. That nearly killed him because he loved her so much. And then, the worst thing of all happened. She began to date another boy, one with whom Malice had played football during all those years when they were growing up.

  Both of them betrayed him, and he hated them for it. He hated them so much, in fact, that as soon as he got out of jail and graduated, he joined the Merchant Marine. Maybe then he could forget her and not cry into his pillow anymore when he was alone in bed or out in the swamps working on his maze. He despised himself for that, the weakness she brought out in him. And he despised the other boy for taking her away from him. Someday they’d pay for what they’d done; he swore that to the depths of his soul. He wouldn’t rest until they did. He even went to a voodoo queen in the French Quarter and asked her to put a hex on them and their marriage and their children. He asked her to make them suffer and die with her evil charms and poison potions.

  Then he went to New York for training, and then in time, he finally shipped out on his first tour at sea and left behind everything and everybody who had hurt and betrayed him. But he didn’t leave behind the pain and anger and viciousness and vengefulness. He tucked it away for when he came back. That’s when they would be the ones who suffered, not him. They would pay for what they had done to him, and they would pay with their lives.

  Chapter Ten

  Zee and Claire spent the next morning at the office in Thibodaux preparing written reports on the Madonna Christien homicide for Sheriff Friedewald, who was off attending a law enforcement seminar in Metairie. By eleven-thirty, she was in good enough shape time wise to drive back home to New Orleans. After lunch, Zee would drive over to the city, and they would seek out a certain cheerleader by the name of Wendy Rodriguez.

  Claire decided to leave her vehicle at the Bayou Blue’s parking lot because she was supposed to meet Nancy there later for their girls’ night out and she didn’t particularly want to see Black beforehand, so Zee picked her up at the docked steamboat. On their way to the interview, Claire sat silently and listened to Zee’s excited minute-by-minute account of the latest episode of some campy HBO vampire show that he never, ever missed.

  Black had called several times the night before to explain himself, but she hadn’t picked up. She did text him back and tell him that she was all right and to please quit calling and that they’d talk when he got home, but she’d only done that because he worried about her all the time and had saved her life on several occasions. She would see him later tonight, and that was soon enough to hash things out. Besides, she was still sitting on simmer over the fact that he had lied to her. He had better come up with some damn good reasons, which she suspected he would. She had dreamed about him, too, a lovely little tidbit in which he’d turned into a hissing snake and slithered up a palm tree and thrown coconuts down at her. Somehow, she thought that symbolic. But she was used to bad dreams—well, not used to them, but she’d had enough not to panic when she woke up alone and sweaty in the middle of the night. At least Jules Verne had been there to lick her face and make her feel better. And beefy Juan Christo had been on guard downstairs with a very large shotgun and a pricey security system that did everything but pull the trigger. Meanwhile, she’d concentrate on the case and worry about Black later.

  Midday traffic was going strong in downtown New Orleans, and Claire opened Zee’s laptop. “I researched our cheerleader when I got home, Zee. Wanted to find out something about her that I could sink my teeth into.”

  “You sank your fangs into Jack Holliday pretty good yesterday. Sucked him dry, I’d say. He probably had to get a transfusion today.”

  It appeared that Zee still had his mind on the undead. “Well, cheer up. I think you’re going to enjoy this interview. Take a look at Wendy Rodriguez.”

  Zee glanced over at the screen and gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Whoa now, she is smokin’ hot.”

  “What did you expect? She’s a Saints cheerleader, isn’t she? She’s awfully skinny, if you ask me. Needs to eat a couple of po’boys now and again.”

  But it is the truth about her being beautiful, Claire thought. Exactly Jack Holliday’s type.

  As it turned out, Wendy Rodriguez lived in a pretty nice apartment complex, not far from Tulane University and just off Magnolia. Zee pulled in the main entrance, where a big sign made out of cypress heralded the words, Mimosa Circle. A black-uniformed security man ensconced inside an eight-foot-square, cypress-planked booth asked them what business they had with the denizens of his domain. They showed him twin shiny badges, then continued on their way through serpentine, mimosa-tree-lined roads, looking for number 541. Ten minutes later, they found the home of Wendy Rodriguez. A cypress-sided apartment with only one differentiating factor from the other two hundred young adult/yuppie cribs of Mimosa Circle—her giant black and gold New Orleans Saints flag hanging on the front porch.

  Zee said, “We gonna give her a call first, let her know we’re comin’?”

  “I don’t want her to know we’re coming. I want to catch her off guard.”

  “Okey doke. This’s gonna be a pleasure for a change.”

  As they walked up the short sidewalk to Wendy’s front door, Claire said, “Now try not to gawk when she opens the door, Zee, like you did with Holliday. Sometimes you remind me of my other partner.”

  “Hey, now, Bud’s cool.”

  Yep, Zee and Bud had hit it off big time when Bud had been down visiting at Thanksgiving. In fact, she had felt like a fifth wheel at times when they were talking football with Black.

  “Yeah, you liked Bud almost as much as you liked Holliday. Then again, you tried on his ring, which gave him an extra point.”

  “Hey, I was just takin’ the edge off those needles you was stickin’ in him. The poor guy didn’t have a chance.”

  On the front door, Wendy had hung a big silver Christmas wreath with red-and-white candy canes hanging all over it. There was a little pair of scissors tied to it with a red ribbon. Zee helped himself to one while Claire found the doorbell, all shiny brass and lit up. Claire pressed it, and soon signs of life appeared at a narrow aperture window beside the front door, just a faint stir of white silk drapes. Gorgeous cheerleader checking out uninvited guests. By the looks of this girl, she would have a whole queue of males lining up to ring her doorbell and other kinds of bells, too.

  Then came clicks and rattles, as locks were disengaged and chains slid out of their grooves. The door cracked two inches max, stopped short by one last, extra-duty heavy security chain.

  “Yes?” Female voice, wary and husky and sexy.

  “Hello, ma’am. We’re looking for a
Ms. Wendy Rodriguez. Are you she?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I’m Detective Claire Morgan with the Lafourche Parish Sheriff ’s Office. This is my partner, Detective Zander Jackson.”

  “Lafourche! Oh, my God, is Mama okay?”

  Claire and Zee looked at each other. “I have no knowledge of your mother, Ms. Rodriguez.”

  “Oh, thank God. She lives down there around Golden Meadow so I thought ya’ll were comin’ out here ’cause something awful happened to her.”

  “No, ma’am, as far as we know she’s fine. But we do need to talk to you. Maybe we could come in?”

  “Well, I’m not dressed yet.”

  “That’s okay,” interjected Zee, very understanding when he wanted to be.

  Claire frowned a warning at him. “We can wait out here until you get some clothes on,” she said, the considerate partner. Zee was the leering partner, or would be, as soon as Wendy opened the door all the way.

  “I guess I’m gonna have to see your credentials.”

  Now that was a good sign. A sexy young Saints cheerleader who has a cognitively functioning brain in her head and probably a can of mace in her hand. A better combination there could not be.

  Claire held up her badge around her neck but not the plethora of aromatic amulets she still wore just for safety’s sake. “Here you go. Zee, show her yours.”

  Zee grinned, and then he obliged.

  Wendy’s pretty face appeared in the crack of the door. She looked at Zee. “You got a cool name. Zee. I like it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled out, pleased as punch she liked his name.

  They shared a gooey smile. Zee certainly had a way of bonding with their interviewees within the first two seconds. Zee and Wendy were going to get along fine and dandy, Claire just knew it. Unfortunately, Claire also felt it necessary to crash their mutual admiration society. “This is very important, Ms. Rodriguez. We can wait while you get dressed, if you’d like.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but maybe I should call your office down there in Thibodaux, just to make sure you’re cops.” She laughed a little, and yes, it sounded nervous. She looked at Zee some more.

  Okay, talk about tedious. “I think that’s a good idea for a single woman such as yourself. I can give you the number for the sheriff’s office, or you can get it out of the phone book, if you prefer.”

  “Well …” She drew it out for a second and then apparently had some more welcoming inclinations. “I guess I can let you in. You both look okay and have those badges, and all.”

  “We’re legitimate law enforcement officers, I assure you.”

  So the doubting damsel’s portal swung wide open with no more hesitation, and alas, without enough pause for her to get decent. Zee didn’t seem to mind what she had on, which happened to be a tight black camisole top and a scrap of black lace she probably thought of as underwear. Claire looked to see where Zee’s tongue had landed. His smile was almost as pleased as it was when scarfing down his garlic and shrimp po’boys. Good grief, he was acting more like Bud every single day.

  “Lemme get my robe on,” she said quickly, dashing Zee’s enjoyment.

  Zee watched her sashay off down the hall, and then dug frantically in his pockets for the peppermint candy cane. Claire smiled and lowered her voice. “Okay, Zee, take a deep breath.”

  “I can handle this.”

  “Guess we’ll see.”

  Wendy was back, stopping at the far end of the entry hall. “Okay, guys, I’m ready. Please, come on back to the kitchen. How about a cup of coffee? I just got up so it’s hot and fresh. I had a late date last night. Didn’t get in till around two o’clock.”

  Claire said, “Coffee sounds great.” And it did. She could hear the perking and smell the aroma, strong and fragrant and full of caffeine. A definite siren call.

  “Sure does,” Zee agreed with great admiration and appreciative warmth. Nothing compared to a scantily clad cheerleader who brews a great cup of Folgers.

  Claire sat down on a chair that looked like it had been designed for one of Snow White’s dwarves. Dopey, maybe, and made out of white tree branches somebody stole from a Colorado aspen grove. Zee took his seat on the brown-and-white striped couch so he could sit closer to Miss Wendy. Claire then got a visual of Peter Pan and Tinker Bell but didn’t see any pirate ships or Disney cups or bags of magic dust, so this Miss Wendy evidently had never visited Neverland.

  The beauteous Wendy rounded a long black and white granite bar, holding a white wicker tray by leather handles. Three black coffee mugs emblazoned with fleurs-de-lis sat atop it. She was a very good-looking woman all right, pretty much a clone of all cheerleaders who could land gigs at pro football franchises. All the same type, young, gorgeous, impossibly skinny, dark tans, bleached-blond hair hanging way down their backs with dark roots showing along the part like aging pop singers liked to do, lots of smoky gray eye makeup and shiny lip gloss. Oh, yeah, and the obligatory large breasts. She had donned a very short black silk robe, one that was cinched tightly around her small, very anorexic waist. But she was turning out to be a good hostess with a nice smile and a most agreeable manner.

  “Here you go, guys. I do have to have my cup of coffee when I get up. I’m addicted to this stuff, plain and simple, can’t get enough of it.” She gave them both another very nice smile that indicated she’d seen an abundance of teenage braces and Crest White Strips, despite her dependence on coffee.

  Then they all sat around and genially agreed that caffeine was indeed a necessary morning ritual and then took synchronized and cautionary first sips. Claire’s swallow went down hard. Wendy did make some incredibly strong coffee. Chicory, oh yes, black as swamp mud, oh yes. Then Wendy leaned back against a couple of fuzzy white couch cushions that looked as if they were made out of Pekingese dog fur and gave them yet another sunny smile. Obviously a morning person, so Claire couldn’t relate. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Did I understand you to say that you are from Golden Meadow down in Lafourche Parish?” Claire thought that was an interesting coincidence, might even amount to more than that, if they got lucky. She gauged Wendy’s skinny musculature and found it well developed strength-wise, despite the lack of even one fat globule. Wendy obviously knew her way around a workout. She could take on a girl of Madonna Christien’s diminutive size, subdue her even. Claire would bet on it. Actually, a ten-year-old, underfed orphan from Sri Lanka could take on somebody Madonna’s size.

  “Yes, ma’am—oh, I guess I should call you detective, huh? Anyway, I was born smack dab down there in bayou country. Golden Meadow. You know, where my mama lives.”

  Claire placed the fleur-de-lis-embossed coffee mug on the little round cork fleur-de-lis-embossed coaster on the big fleur-de-lis-embossed coffee table. The woman did love her Saints. But time to get down to brass tacks.

  “Are you acquainted with a woman by the name of Madonna Christien, Ms. Rodriguez?”

  “Yeah, sure. I know her real well.” She looked from Zee to Claire then back to Zee, seemed like all their interviewees did that, but Wendy might’ve just been concerned about the way Zee’s pupils dilated as she crossed her legs and her robe fell open, not enough to be obscene but enough to be admired. She said, “I bet this is about Doc, isn’t it?”

  “Doc?”

  Uh-oh, was she going to bring Black into this case, too? That would just be the last straw. Yes, it would.

  Wendy said, “Doc Holliday—you know, Jack Holliday, that good-looking sports agent from Tulane.”

  Wendy examined Claire curiously, and then she said, “I’ve heard him called Black Jack, too, but he’s not the skirt chaser everybody makes him out to be. Most of his clients in the organization call him Doc now.”

  The organization meaning the pro football team, Claire surmised. Or maybe Wendy meant the Mob. One thing for sure, Holliday had a whole slew of nicknames.

  Zee said, “Yeah, I get it. Doc Holliday, the guy who hung out with W
yatt Earp, right?”

  Wendy smiled at him, picked up her mug, cradled it with both palms, looked cute as a button doing it. “Well, truth is, they like to tease him about him gettin’ that doctoral degree, and all that junk.”

  A doctoral degree? Claire couldn’t wait to follow up on that one. “Jack Holliday has a doctoral degree?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and isn’t that just a hoot? He went to school for most of it, right here at Tulane. I think he said his degree’s in aviation engineering, or something real brainy like that. Everybody gives him grief about it when he comes around. Call him Einstein and all those geeky names.”

  It seemed to Claire that Miss Wendy knew a heck of a lot about Jack Holliday’s personal business, which made her wonder if Wendy might just be some of Jack Holliday’s personal business.

  Wendy elaborated further. “Oh, yeah, that airplane thing’s got something to do with his family’s business.”

  Then the connection dawned on Claire like the proverbial cartoon light bulb. “Do you mean he’s part of Holliday Aviation Enterprises?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I never can remember the name of that place.”

  Seemed pretty easy to remember to Claire, considering the spot-on Holliday name in the title, but then again, Wendy was a blonde and a cheerleader. Claire didn’t know much about the company, but she’d seen the hangars when they flew in on Black’s Lear out at Louis Armstrong. “I didn’t realize he was connected to that Holliday family.”

  “He’s really something,” said Wendy.

  “That he is,” Claire agreed, and meant it, sort of. “Now, Ms. Rodriguez, we’ve established that you are acquainted with Madonna Christien, is that correct?”

  “I know her from high school. We were best friends back then. She lives here in the city now. Somewhere down on Carondelet. Off Gravier, I think.”