by Linda Ladd
Rafe wasn’t one to waste time on idle chitchat. “What case? And what’s in it for me?”
Rafe Christien was a small man, not much taller than his diminutive little sister, probably not much over five feet four or five. Hair more orange than red, brown freckles, a bouncer he did not look like. He had to be either super wiry or carry a large weighted sap, take your pick. Claire would bet on the sap or an equally big gun. And he was apparently all set up to be the primo jailhouse snitch for the right incentive, of course. Claire decided to hit him with the bad news first and judge his reaction. He could be involved with his sister’s death, but somehow she doubted it.
“I’m afraid this case concerns your sister. Madonna Christien is your sister, isn’t she?”
All right, that did surprise him. He revealed shock, very clearly, and his bloodshot blue eyes latched on to Claire’s face and held there. “Maddie? What’s goin’ on with Maddie? She’s okay, right? Nothin’s happened to her, right?”
Beside her, Zee shifted uncomfortably. Claire shot a glance at him. She had told Wendy what had happened to Madonna. It was Zee’s turn to take over.
“We got some bad news, man,” Zee started off, voice really gentle. Claire was finding that Zee was a nice young man, more sensitive than most. Then Zee sighed. “There just ain’t no good way to say it, man. She’s dead. Viciously murdered down in the bayous.”
Now that was not exactly the degree of sensitivity Claire had in mind, nor the way she would’ve broken the news, but she’d found that men, even compassionate ones, didn’t like to beat around the bush with bad news.
Rafe’s face paled to the color of cold ashes, his jaw went slack, and he looked at Zee as if he were a hideous apparition. Then he swiveled horrified eyes to Claire. But he wasn’t breaking down or showing unbridled emotion yet, so maybe Zee did know how to break sad tidings to his fellow man. “She didn’t OD?”
Claire said, “No.”
Rafe scrubbed rough, calloused hands over his face. “What happened to her? I mean, how’d she die?”
Rafe wanted details so Claire gave them to him, except for the voodoo crime scene. She was keeping that under her hat. “We believe the cause of death was strangulation, but we haven’t received the official autopsy report yet.”
Now that information hit him hard. All kinds of emotions, fleeting and painful to watch, flitted across his face. Suddenly, he put his forehead down on the table and started an awful, low-pitched keening. Then he began, his words muffled against the table. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …”
Neither of them said anything. Claire felt bad for him. Zee looked disconcerted. Rafe continued the prayer to the end, signed the cross as best he could shackled in handcuffs and leg irons. But he didn’t cry, at least not on the outside.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Christien. I truly am. Do you have any idea who might’ve wanted to harm your sister?”
Rafe’s head jerked up. Anger flared inside his eyes, and she could see the flush rising under his whiskered cheeks. “That boyfriend of hers, that bastard Holliday, probably did it.”
“Jack Holliday?”
“That’s right, the big-shot sports agent—you know, he used to play football.”
Claire played dumb. “Jack Holliday was your sister’s boyfriend? You sure about that?”
“Yeah, and she had it real bad for him. God, he treated her like crap. Like garbage.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, he took out a restraining order. Led her on first, and everything, and then he sicced the cops on her when she tried to do nice things for him.”
Claire digested the different versions of the Holliday/Madonna relationship, or lack thereof. “Did you ever observe the two of them together? Go out with them, anything like that?”
Rafe frowned, looked at Zee. “No. Maddie told me how much he liked her. He just got tired of her. He thinks he’s better’n her.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he let Wendy introduce them and then he told Maddie to get lost. She bought him all kinds of stuff—she loved him, I tell you, she did. A lot.”
So Rafe had not seen them together. That was a bonus point for Jack, one to add to his alibi witnesses if he was going to beat this rap. “Okay, Rafe. Anybody else you know who wanted to hurt her?”
Rafe balled his fists and rubbed his eyes. He looked like he’d just come down from a drug high and hadn’t slept for the last six months. The whites of his eyes were the color of strawberries, including the seeds. “Guys hung around Maddie all the time. She’s so damn pretty. But he’s the one she loved.”
“Okay. Who were these other men?”
Rafe thought about it, licked dry, cracked lips. The bottom one was split just under his right nostril. His scuffle with arresting officers was one-sided, it appeared. He didn’t show a lot of brilliance assaulting cops like that, but she had a feeling he didn’t ever show a lot of brilliance.
“She went out with biker dudes the most. You know, the Skulls. Guys she met at Voodoo River. I got a job there; she used to come see me. Guess I still got it when I get outta here. I dunno.”
“I need names, Christien.”
“Most of ’em. She hooked some, but that don’t make her bad. There was one guy. Name’s Rocco. Don’t know his last name. His old lady hangs out with him, but he messes with Maddie some, too. Nobody crosses him. He’d just as soon stab you in the eye as look at you. Keeps a stiletto in his right boot.” Claire filed that back as an important tidbit to remember, but then Rafe stopped and shook his head. “Them Skulls are all bad news, but they ain’t got no reason to go and hurt Maddie. They liked her, thought she was sexy. Tell me who did it. I need to know. When? When did she get killed?”
Well, well, Madonna Christien had hooked up with Rocco the Pathetic Pirate Impersonator. Interesting and disturbing and nasty. Maybe that’s why he’d backed off at Voodoo River before she could question him about the victim. Rafe was watching Claire closely, no doubt trying to second-guess her. More pertinent, he still hadn’t wept any real tears. Somehow Claire knew he was the kind of guy who had probably stopped crying a long time ago.
Claire said, “We found her on Sunday. She’s at the morgue in Lafourche Parish. Somebody’s got to go down there and claim the body.”
“I guess I gotta find somebody to carry her back down to Golden Meadow. I can’t.” Rafe looked bereft now, the finality probably sinking in.
“Somebody’s got to sign for the remains and make funeral arrangements, Mr. Christien. You have any relatives who might want to do that?” Claire hated that word, remains—it just sounded like nothing much was left of the deceased. Disrespectful, somehow. One last and final slap in the victim’s face.
Rafe put both hands over his face again. The handcuffs clanked. Jail music. “I guess Granny’s gonna have to. She’s all the family we got. Her name’s Leah Plummer. I need to call her and tell her. You gotta phone I can use?”
Well, Zee didn’t offer the guy his precious new white smartphone so Claire pulled her cheap and does-nothing-but-call-people TracFone off her belt. “Give me the number and I’ll dial it for you.”
He did, and Claire did. She held it up to his ear but didn’t let it touch him. He was pretty grubby, and she didn’t know where his hands had been. Just a rule she went by.
This time Rafe had to tell the sad story in his own words and hear his granny crying at the other end. That made him break down and cry, too. Zee and Claire sat there and listened and wished they were somewhere else. In time, Granny Plummer agreed to claim the body and make funeral arrangements. Claire let them talk a few minutes about arranging bail before the funeral, and then she motioned for him to end the conversation. He did, and she closed the phone.
“We talked to Wendy Rodriguez, and she told us that she and Maddie were kidnapped when they were little girls. What can you tell us about that?”
“Yeah, that happened. Maddie was never the same aga
in, either. Got all hung up on voodoo shit and started takin’ drugs. They never got the guy.”
“Do you think he could have come back for her?”
Rafe raised bloodshot eyes. “After all these years? Why would he?”
“What about your parents? Wendy said they were murdered. Were you there the night they died?”
He began to shake his head. “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that. I was out in my room in the garage. I didn’t know nothin’ about it till I woke up the next morning. You can’t pin that on me. I was just a kid back then. Barely thirteen.”
“We’re not blaming you for anything,” said Zee.
Mollified, Rafe took a deep breath. “I can’t believe Sis’s gone.”
Claire said, “Anything else you want to tell us, Christien?”
Mopping his wet cheeks with the tail of his prison smock, he nodded. “Yeah, I want you to find out who did this to Maddie and make sure they get the needle up in Angola.”
“We’re sure gonna try,” Zee assured him.
“Oh, God, Maddie was just the best. She’s been through so much, and now this. That abduction was what threw her off. She wasn’t never the same, never was.”
“Do you know anybody else around her who was into voodoo?”
Rafe sobered instantly, appeared as if he was choosing his words. “Don’t you go thinkin’ she’s some kinda kook, or somethin’. She just made up that little altar to get things she wanted. She was still scared. That snake guy used voodoo on her and Wendy when they was little. She just tried to protect herself, in case he ever came back to get her.”
Actually, Claire wondered if that could be true. First, Wendy, and now Rafe had mentioned how traumatic Maddie’s childhood abduction had been. Maybe everything was connected to that whacked-out sociopath in the devil mask from long ago. Or was it a ruse set up by the perpetrator to make it look that way? Stranger things had happened. “So, Rafe, when’s your hearing on the meth and resisting charges?”
“In the morning. Nine o’clock. And the judge’s gonna find out that those cops planted that bag on me. I ain’t done nothin’, just done my job over at Voodoo River, mindin’ my own business, and they come in and beat the shit outta me. Look at my face, if you don’t believe me. I can barely breathe no more. Police brutality.”
“You’re talking to the wrong people,” Claire said, standing up. “Sorry for your loss, Christien. We may be back, so be thinking about all this and see if you can come up with anything else that’ll help us find your sister’s killer.”
They walked out, glad to get out of that stuffy, closed-in, claustrophobic, and cruddy little room. Rafe Christen stayed where he was, moaning and mourning his murdered little sister, his head down on the table. Or, maybe he was weeping for himself and his busted-up face.
Chapter Thirteen
About the time Claire and Zee decided to call it a day, she received a text from Black telling her that he was due to land in New Orleans by dinnertime. Not particularly chomping at the bit to see him yet or disappoint Nancy on their prearranged night out, Claire texted him back and told him something important had come up that she had to do and she would see him later. All true, she did need more time before she saw him, she did have something else to do, and she had promised Nancy that she’d meet her at the Cajun Grill aboard the Bayou Blue. Maybe it would distract her a few hours from the Christien case and Black being a liar and put her in a better mood before she met up with him again.
So, after she and Zee had enjoyed the lovely tête-à-tête with Rocco and other various and sundry Skulls at Voodoo River, as well as the depressing visit to NOPD lockup, she was glad when Zee dropped her off at her car in the steamboat’s parking lot. She invited him to join Nancy and her for some fun, but he had a date with a Tulane senior majoring in criminal justice who was hot and who was also hot to spend time with a real live homicide detective and pick his investigative brain. Probably a match made in heaven.
Claire watched him drive away and then looked up at the three decks of the impressive paddle wheeler, replete with all the gingerbread curlicues and adornments of Civil War steamboats of old, and owned and operated by the LeFevreses. She and Black had dined there several times since they’d come to town. What memories she had of them were pleasant, and that was saying something, considering her sordid formative years. But they’d been as glad to see her as Rene Bourdain had been, and that made her feel pretty good. Tonight, she needed to feel good about something. She certainly didn’t feel good about Black or her case or that voodoo doll with her face pinned on it, so she headed for the gangplank and a night of good cheer, and maybe even a little fun, if she was lucky.
A restaurant called The Creole was located on the main deck, a fancy-schmancy one at that, with plush maroon carpeting with a gold paisley pattern and gold velvet drapes and white linen tablecloths and sparkling chandeliers and a Creole cuisine to die for. Black loved it.
The second deck stern held the Cajun Grill, which was way more Claire’s cup of tea with its po’boys, crawfish gumbo, jambalaya, fiery hot wings, juicy cheeseburgers, and homemade pizza, not to mention jeans and sweatshirt attire. The gangplank was down and hung with silver tinsel and blinking colored Christmas lights and swags of greenery, and the boat looked crowded. It was a bit early for the formal dinner crowd, so most of the customers were upstairs enjoying the Cajun Grill’s zydeco band. Claire searched the parking lot and espied Nancy’s Tahoe right off, so her friend was already inside.
Things had been super intense all day long, and it had been a very long day. Claire welcomed some downtime, even one hour, and she had better take advantage because it wasn’t going to last long. Tomorrow she had to figure out who’d killed Madonna and why, and last but not least, she had to meet up with Rocco, if and when she could find him and she had a pretty good idea where he might be. And she had to do that by herself. She was looking forward to it, sort of.
As it turned out, she was right about the bar. The place was jumping, all right. It was also all decorated up with several sparkling artificial Christmas trees with ribbons and angel ornaments and twinkling white lights as well as lighted wreaths on every window and door and twigs of mistletoe hanging over every table. People were taking advantage of that mistletoe, too. Lots of kissing and groping going on under those seasonal twigs of romance, oh yeah. The band was on the stage, having a rip-roaring good time. Uncle Clyde was going strong on the washboard, and when he saw her come in, he motioned for her to join them.
When she reached the side of the dais, he stopped playing, stepped down, and gave her a big bear hug. A Cajun through and through and proud of it, he looked like a skinny Santa Claus, sans the red suit and furry hat. He had been a fisherman and a true man of the sea when she’d known him all those years ago, but Hurricane Katrina had destroyed his shrimper so he’d taken the insurance money and bought and refurbished the steamboat, much to the delight of the people now dancing and clapping to the strains of “Jolie Blon.” He was the one who owned the houseboat she had stayed on until they’d found Madonna Christien, battered and posed on that creepy altar. Now he lived aboard the Bayou Blue with his brothers and most of their families.
“Hey, li’l girl, you be just a sight fo’ sore eyes, you. How ’bout takin’ a turn with the fiddle whilst I make sure the waiters done turned up fo’ the downstairs crowd?”
Claire smiled at his Cajun brogue. She really wasn’t in the mood, but she took the violin and greeted Luc LeFevres, who was pushing his accordion for all it was worth. Luc was tall and slim and dressed in denim overalls, but the shirt he wore under it was snowy white and crisply starched. Cousin Napier was on the bass fiddle, portly and full bearded and strong as an ox.
Claire didn’t know any of them well, not anymore, but she liked having people around her, especially people who treated her like family. Black was the only other person she considered family, except Bud and her colleagues at the lake. She felt a streak of guilt that she was avoiding Black. She wasn�
��t really angry with him anymore, more curious than anything, and she knew he would explain everything away and they’d be fine again. She just needed some time to think it all through first. It wouldn’t hurt him to reflect on it, either.
The guys started out with a second rendition of “Jolie Blon,” always a crowd pleaser, and Claire joined in. She was still a little rusty, but she could play that song. Since she’d started playing again out on the bayou, to Saucy’s delight, she guessed, she had been enjoying it. Excited patrons crowded the dance floor, and Claire felt herself relax, despite the fact that she hit a bad note once in a while and made her fellow musicians laugh. Everybody in the place was talking and dancing and having fun, and that’s what she needed to do, too. Forget voodoo altars and stitched lips and lies and death and blood spatter, just for a few hours of mindless frivolity.
As she ended the song to enthusiastic applause, Claire caught sight of Nancy Gill where she stood having a drink at the packed bar. Nancy waved and then pointed behind her to the entrance. And who should be standing there but the great Jack Holliday himself, all big and impressive and studly, wearing a black nylon Saints warm-up jacket and black jeans. To Claire’s annoyance, he was watching her and quickly motioned her over to him, as if they were the best buds in the world all of a sudden. Had he lost his mind, or what?
Frowning, Claire ignored him. Holliday was still a person of interest in the Christien case, perhaps even the numero uno suspect, which meant he was case related, big time, and any kind of social interaction was just not going down. Not here, not anywhere.
Claire put down the fiddle, waved good-bye to the LeFevreses on the dais, and headed toward Nancy. Nancy was still watching Jack when Claire reached her, and a quick glance around told her that lots of other people recognized him, too. After that, came a spattering of applause and a few autograph seekers. Great, now he was playing the popular-celebrity-with-nothing-to-hide role.
