“Ahhh, that feels better,” Angela said. She’d tossed her jeans and cardigan over the chaise lounge and pulled a long, gray tee-shirt over her head.
“Let’s eat an omelet for dinner,” I suggested.
“Meaning you didn’t stop at the store.” She complained. I ignored her and walked through the house to make sure no one was inside, then checked all of the doors and window. Afterwards, I went to the kitchen to make the omelet.
It was around 8 p.m. when we finally sat down to eat it. Angela had located a television set in what was called the upriver drawing room. The set was almost hidden inside an antique rosewood cabinet, and I was surprised it even worked, given the uncertainty of electricity around there.
Somber music played introducing The Shining. Jack Nicholson’s name appeared on the screen.
“Not tonight with the rain, lightning, thunder and slave ghosts moaning,” I said.
“Now who sounds like Billy Joe?”
“I’m afraid of my own shadow after I watch something gruesome.”
“It’s not gruesome, Mother.”
“What do you call the dead woman in the bathtub? And that little boy yelling ‘Redrum. Redrum.’ “ I imitated his possessed, throaty chant. “And the deranged man trying to chop up his wife and son with an ax. If that’s not gruesome, Dracula and Frankenstein are lovely neighbors.”
“It’s only a movie. And besides you wouldn’t let me watch it the first time. You put your hands over my eyes, made me miss the good stuff.”
“Watch it, if you insist, but I won’t.” I unzipped my black leather notebook-computer case and pulled out my lap top, then sat back in a lavender, round pouf--three chairs back to back--near a phone jack. I did my best to tune out the movie. Angela perched cross-legged on the same sofa facing the television.
I soon found a local AOL number and accessed the Baltimore Sun’s archives. When I typed in Daniel Duffy’s name, this headline appeared:
Mafia Killed Duffy, Son Claims
I scanned the article and saved it on CD:
“Dad did not kill himself,” 16-year-old Daniel, son of Tom Duffy said Monday. Daniel’s father, a famed, Baltimore attorney was found shot to death near Loch Raven Reservoir July 1. Baltimore police are calling his death a suicide, but Manfred Jaspers, a former medical examiner, disagrees. “I’ve seen ballistics reports and if Tom killed himself, he held the gun with his feet which is impossible. He was wearing shoes when they found him.” Jaspers’ remarks angered County Coroner Andrew Lawrence who said his findings point to suicide.
Baltimore County Sheriff Michael Simpson agreed with Lawrence. “Mr. Duffy’s fingerprints were on the gun, and he left a suicide letter,” Simpson said. Jaspers, a long-time friend of Duffy’s, claimed the alleged suicide letter is questionable. “There are ink dots, which could indicate that the writer paused his pen as if to copy Tom’s handwriting,” Jaspers said. Simpson maintained the ink spots were a result of Duffy’s mental state.
“That’s a bunch of bull,” young Daniel said. He claimed the Mafia is responsible.
At the time of Duffy’s death, the well-known lawyer was defending Johnny Capezzio, who is awaiting trial for federal income tax evasion. Duffy’s alleged suicide occurred a week after so-called Mafia godfather Stan Gambrini was gunned down at his restaurant on Fawn Street in Little Italy.
A photograph of Tom Duffy appeared on my screen next to the news article. He was tall and thin with Dan’s eyes and hair. On his left, stood a woman identified in the cutline below the picture as Patricia McLewie, legal stenographer. On his right, was a youthful John Gable, identified as John Gambrini, Tom Duffy’s law clerk.
After reviewing the article, I listened again to my interview with the Vice President, then flipped through the pages of Dan Duffy’s journal. My vision became blurred and my right temple started to ache, signaling a migraine. I dug into my purse for headache pills before heading downstairs to get a cool glass of water.
I lingered in the kitchen for a while, waiting for the Imitrex to take effect. I noticed a bizarre picture on the wall beside the double doors. Five women stood behind a closed coffin. Four of the women bowed their heads as if praying. The woman in the center wore a buster brown haircut and smiled coquettishly. I hoped to God she wasn’t Mary Viella.
The flickering light from the hallway illuminated the picture, and for a brief moment, the woman in the center seemed to come alive. I figured the illusion was probably caused by my migraine symptoms, which thankfully, seemed to be subsiding as I climbed the long wooden staircase back to where I’d left Angela engrossed in the movie and Jack Nicholson chopping through a bathroom door.
When I got to the top of the stairs, the lights went out and the sound from the television stopped, leaving only the flickering lights from the lard-oil chandelier.
“God, what is it about this place?” Angela groaned.
She followed me to our bedrooms and retreated under her mosquito net while I groped for the sleigh bed next door.
I was restless, listening to the wind howl for what seemed like hours until I finally drifted off to sleep. Around midnight, I awoke with a start to see a shadowy image at the foot of my bed. I squinted, thinking I was dreaming or imagining this thing, wearing a clown’s mask.
As it moved closer I reached in my purse for my gun, pointed it at the clown’s mask then grabbed my cell phone and punched in 911. An operator answered but when I tried to speak, my voice wouldn’t work.
Chapter Twenty-four
Billy Joe couldn’t sleep. He looked at the clock on the bedside table, five minutes after midnight, and his heart was racing as if he were having an anxiety attack.
He felt a knot in his stomach the size of a football, similar to another time when Lilah lost her balance on the concrete slope at Clay Bottom and fell into flood waters.
That rainy summer the lake at Lilah’s house overflowed into the gully, called Clay Bottom. Lilah’s mother and Mama Sis warned them not to go down there. But Lilah never listened.
It was Billy Joe who heard her screams. He found her blonde head bobbing above the water. She said he saved her life that day when he grabbed onto a young birch tree rooted in the gully wall and swung down into the water to rescue her. Poisonous water moccasins were swimming all around like slithering black streaks of lightning. Twenty-nine years later, Billy Joe still shivered at the memory.
He sat up, wondering what was wrong now. Not wanting to wake Natasha, he slowly pulled back the covers and grabbed the portable phone from its cradle on the night stand.
When no one answered at the Belle, he dialed Lilah’s cell phone.
“Y-y-yes,” she choked.
“You all right?” Billy Joe asked, knowing she wasn’t.
“Someone’s hiding in the house and if he comes near us, I’ll blow his head off.”
Billy Joe thought Lilah had probably seen a ghost, but he could be wrong, and he needed to make sure Lilah was safe. “Call 911. I’m on my way.”
“I did, but they’re taking too long.”
“Listen Lilah, if you’re carrying, he may have a gun, too. Whatever you do, don’t intimidate him.”
“I heard him laughing, Billy Joe.”
“Listen to me. You and Angela get outside and wait for the police. Put your back to a wall. That way you’ll get a clear view of everything in front of you. And crouch down so you can’t be seen. I’ll be there soon as I can. Stay calm.”
Frantically, Billy Joe slipped into his police uniform while calling the emergency operator in La Place. Natasha awoke and flicked on the lamp.
“Where’re you going?”
“Baby, I got to get over to the Belle. Lilah says some crazy fool has broken into the house. She’s got a gun and getting ready to shoot.”
“Did she call you? I didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“No. I just had a feeling. I can’t go into that now.”
“Call the parish police. They can make it faster than you can.”
&n
bsp; “She did, and I did. But I can’t just sit here and wait. I won’t be able to sleep. You understand, don’t you, Baby.”
“I understand,” she sighed.
“You wanna go with me?”
“No. I’m gonna stay in this warm, cozy bed.” She fluffed her pillow, pushing it under her head. “And sleep for both of us.”
“I love you, Baby.” Billy Joe leaned over and kissed his wife.
“Call me when you get there,” Natasha said, returning his kiss. “Be careful. Even Achilles wasn’t invincible.”
Chapter Twenty-five
The Belle
Angela and I sat outside on the gallery waiting for Officers York and Jenkins to search the premises. My daughter looked as frightened as I felt. Her blue eyes darted back and forth, scanning the darkness like a scared little girl.
I stroked her hair, wishing I could bring back a time when Sam was alive and we both felt secure.
“I’m sorry this happened, Angel. I had such hopes for this trip.”
“Mama, are you sure you didn’t just have a bad dream? You said scary movies make you crazy.”
I didn’t answer figuring Angela would feel safer not knowing the truth.
We waited for more than an hour while York and Jenkins combed the house and grounds of the Belle. “Don’t see anything or anyone out of the ordinary,” said Jenkins. The officers seemed convinced I’d had a nightmare.
Billy Joe said he believed me, but I thought he was thinking I’d seen a ghost until he told York and Jenkins about Dan Duffy’s accident. “You need to question the handyman, Barry Blasey. He may have been driving the truck that left the scene of a serious accident, and he’s got a record, been arrested for peeping. That’s why I think you might wanna keep a twenty-four hour watch here.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Friday, February 10
I shook Billy’s Joe’s imposing shoulder. “It’s Natasha.”
Unable to stretch out, he had straddled the rosewood daybed. Folds of blue silk taffeta hung from the ceiling in a semi-circle around him. He looked out of place like a giant in a doll house. His large head, cocked uncomfortably to one side, flattened the roll pillow.
Last night he’d fallen asleep while waiting for an officer from La Place to come out and guard the Belle.
“Billy Joe. Natasha wants to talk to you.” I repeated.
His body jumped from being awakened too suddenly. He stared, wide-eyed at me as if I’d threatened to kill him.
I placed the cell-phone in his hand. It was 7 a.m. The sun shone from a spotless blue sky, cleansed from last night’s rain.
“I know, Baby.” He sat up, hunched over the daybed, frowning at the floor. “I told you I’d be home...”
Poor Billy Joe. Natasha was giving him hell. She expected him to come home instead of spending the night, and she was rightfully worried. It wasn’t like Billy Joe not to call her.
Needing something to clear my head, I walked downstairs to make coffee, and while in the process of doing so, I decided to scramble the last six eggs in the fridge, knowing Billy Joe would appreciate breakfast. Five minutes later, the stairs creaked as he descended slowly. I met him with a cup of coffee, a sort of peace offering, then took his arm and led him to the long mahogany dining room table where he sat and massaged his right knee.
I set the eggs, orange slices and toast before him.
“This is what I call service.” he said, pretending to be chipper.
“It’s the least I can do after frightening you to death. I hope I didn’t cause a problem with Natasha.” I pulled out a high-back chair from the table. Still groggy from my awful night, I welcomed this moment to sit back and sip my coffee.
“I called you. Remember?”
“You must have ESP. Hope you don’t know everything about me.”
“Not hardly,” he said after swallowing a bite of eggs.
I watched his brown eyes darken as he paused his empty fork in the air before spearing an orange slice. In slow motion he placed it in his mouth and stared at me.
“What is it, Lilah? What are you not telling me?”
I rubbed my eyes and sighed. “What makes you think I’m hiding something?”
“I know you, Lilah.”
“You’re right, Billy Joe, but I don’t want to say anything yet till I get my facts straight. I’d feel rotten if I drew you into a situation...”
“What kind of a situation?”
“Trust me, okay?”
“Have it your way.” Billy Joe brushed his mouth with a napkin. “But if you need someone to listen, I’m here. And if you feel uncomfortable about this place, you and Angela are welcome to stay with us.” As he stood to leave, the scrape of his chair sounded like a seagull’s squawk.
~ * ~
I waved good-bye to him from the front courtyard and watched as he leaned over to talk with the patrolman parked beside my van in the driveway. Across the road, the Mississippi River slapped the levee and sent a crisp breeze along with the honk of a distant tugboat, pulling a barge.
Walking back inside, I heard a jangle, a cow bell sound. I followed it upstairs to the Napoleon room and grabbed the antique wall phone that was making the noise.
“Yes?”
“Lilah? This is Mary Viella.”
I had spoken with her twice before and recognized her syrupy, Southern accent.
“Mrs. Viella? How are you?” I remembered how Sam used to say I sounded like sweet magnolia blossoms. But he hadn’t heard Viella. “In heaven. Lilah, I love it here. Can’t remember when I’ve ever been so-o-o relaxed. I just returned from meanderin’ on the beach where I became acquainted with the most lovely gentleman, a retired colonel, Beaulee Yancey..”
“My neighbor, Colonel Bo?”
“The very one I’m sure, lives four houses down in the lovely Sunfish cottage. My, he certainly knows how to flatter a woman.”
My fingers touched Martha’s crystal and I realized I’d forgotten to take it off last night.
“How’s he doing? He had a stroke a few months ago after his wife passed.”
“He told me he’s a widower,” Viella said. “And I figured he’d had some sort of a problem because he walks stiff-legged with a sort of limp.”
I started to tell Viella that Colonel Bo had always been a sweet-talking flatterer, even when his wife was alive. But I didn’t want to deflate her good spirits.
Viella laughed, clearly happy with life. “I hope I’m not falling in lust too quickly. How old would you say Colonel Yancey is? He says he’s sixty-five, give or take a year.”
“If he’s a day.” I said, thinking he was at least seventy.
“Enough of my yakkin.’ I sincerely hope, you’re enjoyin’ yourself as much as I am, my dear.”
This seemed a perfect time to mention last night’s scare. “I need to tell you something...”
Viella interrupted. “Before I forget, my housekeeper/handyman had an emergency. His brother is deathly ill, and he left to be with him. I want to apologize for the inconvenience.”
“Are you talking about Mr. Blasey?” I asked, still fingering the crystal.
“I see you’ve met. He’s a hard worker. I became acquainted with him through my volunteer work at the mission downtown. He’s one of those poor souls who sank to the bottom from drink, but I’m pleased to say he’s on the road to recovery, just needed someone to give him a hand up.”
“When did he leave, Mrs. Viella?”
“Please, call me ‘Mary,’ dear,” Viella insisted. “Mr. Blasey called me yesterday afternoon. I told him he could use my old work truck to go to his brother’s in Columbus. And I trust he did.”
“Angela and I will be fine without him. In fact, we prefer it that way. Besides, the Belle is spotless although we do have a problem with the lights and telephone during thunderstorms.”
“Every time it rains, the lines go haywire, dear. I apologize. Just one of those things, but maybe y’all will have good weather from now on. And if y�
��all want to stay another week, I would love it.”
“Thank you but we really need to get back home after Mardi Gras.”
Viella’s silence showed her disappointment. “Mary,” I said, feeling uncomfortable calling this older woman whom I did not know well by her first name. “I do need to tell you about the scare we had here last night.”
“That old house has a million shadows, dear, especially during a rain storm.”
I thought of the picture I’d seen in the kitchen of the five woman standing behind a closed coffin, and decided to mention the bizarre photo. Viella said it was there to promote the haunted house image. “But don’t y’all believe all that talk about ghosts, though my cousin, Mildred, once claimed she saw my daddy walkin’ around. He met his maker in the Belle forty years ago.”
I deepened my voice, in an effort to sound more assertive. “No, I didn’t see a ghost. A stranger, wearing a clown’s mask, came in here around midnight while Angela and I were sleeping. Almost frightened me out of my wits.”
“Oh, gracious, dear, I am sorry. I wonder if someone might be gettin’ in through the hidden path.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. “Hidden Path? You mean secret passageway? Where?” I noticed a rainbow of colors racing through the crystal.
“Behind the gold-leaf mirror in the Napoleon room. The walkway, which is quite dark and dangerous, winds around and ends up in back of the house. A wooden gate hides the entrance there.”
“How interesting, a secret passageway. What’s the purpose of it?”
“Captain Mullette, who designed the house, wanted to follow in the tradition of Jean Lafitte. Lafitte was a pirate who stole from the rich but didn’t always give to the poor. He and his brothers were the very first antique dealers in the French Quarter.” Viella laughed. “They were even known to steal slaves and sell the poor souls at auction. To make a long story longer, Captain Mullette probably built the concealed channel for his illegal booty. At least that’s what I figure.”
Sex, Love and Murder Page 9
