“Look! Another City of the Dead,” Angela said, pointing to the rows of dollhouse-looking graves and tombs.
“I would say we’d tour it after my interview, but Billy Joe claims the cemeteries aren’t safe when you’re not with a group.” I thought my last graveside experience and Martha’s four-day edict. Not much time left.
Angela pointed to the crystal around my neck. “Isn’t that thing supposed to ward off evil spirits?”
“Yeah, right,” I said.
“But whether it does or doesn’t, I’m not interested in seeing any more tombstones up close.” Angela suddenly appeared bored, filing her burgundy-painted nails.
At Moss Street, I drove slowly, looking for Lotta’s cottage.
“Pink doors,” Angela pointed to them.
I pulled in behind Lotta’s black Lincoln, then loaded a roll of film.
“How long will this take?” Angela asked.
“About an hour.”
Angela frowned. “Which means it’ll take three. I wish you’d dropped me off at Melissa’s.”
“There was no time.”
“What am I supposed to call this woman?”
“We’ll have to ask her what she prefers.”
“Lotta Love can’t be her real name.”
“You’re right. It’s her stage name, supposedly given to her by an admirer. Her real name, according to her bio, is Lontilova Tonti. She was the granddaughter of Sicilian immigrants, and Tonti is still her legal name despite pressure from three former husbands to change it.”
“Cool.”
We walked up to Lotta’s cottage which fronted the sidewalk with no ground space for grass or a garden. Her home appeared modest, sandwiched between larger and more elaborate structures that were less warm and welcoming.
On both sides of her French doors were two camellia bushes, exactly the same shade of pink as her doors, a vivid contrast to the red stuccoed brick exterior and white shuttered windows.
I thought it peculiar to see smoke rising from her chimney as I pressed the doorbell.
“It didn’t ring,” Angela said.
I knocked and set off a dog’s high-pitched barking.
Lotta opened the door in a form-fitting fuchsia jumpsuit. She held a small white poodle who greeted me and Angela with another yelp.
“Hush, Prissy,” Lotta said to the teary-eyed, neatly-clipped dog. Lotta’s lush black hair was crimped in spiraling curls around her face. She was heavily made-up and reminded me of a beautiful, China doll. Her lipstick matched her jumpsuit, shoes, and long acrylic nails.
Lotta smiled broadly showing perfectly-capped white teeth. Her gardenia perfume filled the air.
“You haven’t been waiting long, have you Sweetie?”
“Oh, no. We drove up only a moment ago,” I said, before introducing Angela.
When she invited us in, I noticed a large, Picasso-like painting of Lotta over a gray marble hearth where a fire burned. It seemed strange to me to see a fire blazing with the air conditioner on, but, overall, the interior of her home was lovely, shades of cream, pink, green and red. Several hooked rugs designed to look like playing cards, the ten, jack, queen, king and ace of hearts lay scattered around the living room on top of shiny, hardwood floors.
“I love gin rummy,” Lotta explained. She took us on a brief tour; first, the downstairs, living room, dining area, and kitchen. Then, we walked upstairs to see Lotta’s two bedrooms and bath. Along the way Angela and I admired the framed photographs, paintings of dogs and bric-a-brac covering the walls.
Angela pointed to a picture of Lotta standing beside Jay and Cindy Taylor. “Isn’t that Jay, Mother?”
“Most everyone calls him Jaybird,” Lotta said, smiling sadly at the photograph.
“Are you friends?” Angela asked while poking me in the ribs.
“I greatly admire him as an entertainer but I really don’t know him that well. Cindy was a close friend of mine, though. Sure do miss her. I never had any children, and she was almost like a daughter, lovely girl, outgoing, everybody adored her. Almost killed the Jaybird when she died. He felt responsible.”
“Responsible how?” Angela asked.
“I’d rather not talk about Cindy, if you don’t mind. I’ll just start crying if I do.”
I felt my stomach tighten, but tried to focus on the other photographs of Lotta. She had several of her and John Gable. “Are you chummy with the Vice President?” I asked.
“John used to come into the club in his movie-star days, before he got into politics. I was all a flutter. He wanted me to perform my fan dance, then we’d have dinner together, but if you think I’m gonna kiss and tell, Sweetie, forget it.
There was something about the way she smiled that made me think they’d been intimate. “Do you see him much now?” I dared to ask.
“In the last few years, John hasn’t come to see me and I rarely see him unless he makes an appearance somewhere close by.” Lilah’s violet eyes darkened. “He invited me to his party last night. I wrote, declining.”
“What did you write?” I asked, though I knew the matter was none of my business.
“I said, ‘Dear John, you know I’m a working girl.’ And I invited him to the club, but he sent Rubio instead.”
“Exactly who is Rubio?”
“Sweetie, I’m not absolutely sure. But I bet he’d be one heck of a Latin lover.” Lotta laughed boisterously.
After the tour, Lotta served home-made chicken pot pies and talked openly about her plastic surgeries and holistic lifestyle.
“Just tell everybody, if it weren’t for weekly chiropractic adjustments, acupuncture, massage, yoga, running three miles every other day, eating vegetables and fruits, drinking water, abstaining from booze, but not sex, and taking antioxidants, I’d be walking around like an old woman,” Lotta said, laughing loudly.
Chapter Forty-three
At twelve-thirty, New Orleans undercover officers, Sandra Gebhardt and Ralph Burtchaell waited in an unmarked van on Dauphine, between Marigny and Mandeville half a block from Ben’s shotgun house. Police Chief Steve Rydell set up the surveillance after Billy Joe told him about Dan’s accident and Comeaux’s involvement.
“Doesn’t look good for Sgt. Ben. Appears to be a conflict of interest,” Rydell had said before ordering the lookout. At Billy Joe’s urging, the chief also stationed an officer outside Dan’s hospital room.
Except for the occasional car driving by, and a white-haired man walking his black Labrador, Ben’s street appeared peaceful. Officers Gebhardt and Burtchaell, wearing floppy hats and sun glasses, parked their van between a red truck and another van. They were convinced Ben and his huge ego wouldn’t suspect he was being watched.
At twelve-fifty, they observed what appeared to be a man in a beige and blue jogging suit. He ran down the street toward them. His face and head were covered in a ski mask.
“Guess he doesn’t wanna be recognized. Most joggers wear shorts in this weather,” Sandra said, looking through binoculars at the masked runner who opened Ben’s wrought-iron gate. He jogged up to the front door and entered the house after Ben greeted him.
Twenty minutes later an attractive brunette driving a silver convertible pulled up along the curb behind Ben’s patrol car.
“Strutting like she owns the world,” Ralph said, reaching for the binoculars, as the looker pranced up to Ben’s narrow beige and yellow house. She was wearing a red spandex mini-dress. He noted with pleasure how it hugged her hips and full, braless breasts. “Leaves nothing for the imagination. Sure could use some of that action.”
Resenting his remark, Louise smacked him on the arm with the back of her hand and snatched the binoculars.
“That’s Comeaux’s ex-wife, Josephine,” Louise said, recognizing her.
Josephine stood with her hand on her hips waiting for Ben to answer the door while looking around as if expecting to find something there. After knocking again and receiving no response she went inside.
A moment late
r, she ran out screaming and sobbing, “Help, help, help...”
Sandra cranked up the van and drove up to the curb near Josephine. The officer rolled down the window and held out her badge. “Ma’am, I’m Sandra Gebhardt with the NOPD and this is my partner, Ralph Burtchaell.”
Ralph flipped open his badge, “Can we help you?”
“Oh, God,” Josephine wailed. She covered her face with her hands while squatting on the sidewalk. “Somebody’s shot Ben. There’s blood all over the place. Oh, God,” Josephine cried.
“Did you see anyone inside?” Ralph asked.
“Only Ben,” she answered trembling and crying.
“Is there more than one entrance?” Ralph asked.
“In-in the back,” Josephine stuttered.
Louise radioed for backups and an ambulance.
“To make sure you’ll be safe, we need you to get inside here and put your head down,” Ralph said, helping Josephine step up inside the van. “It’s important to be quiet,” he cautioned her.
“We’ll be right back,” Louise said closing and locking the door before running around to the back of the house.
Ralph walked in the front door and found Ben in the living room with bullet wounds in his forehead and heart. A thirty-eight caliber pistol lay beside him in a pool of blood. He was dead.
They also found Ben’s cramped, six-room house ransacked. The pillows to the tan sectional sofa were strewn on the floor, the desk and dresser drawers cockeyed. Someone had fired a hole through Ben’s computer monitor.
“The jogger in the ski mask killed him,” Ralph said. “But he was wearing gloves. Probably didn’t leave prints.”
“He left the murder weapon,” Sandra said, pointing to the pistol beside Ben. She leaned over as close to the gun as possible without touching it. “Look at this.” She motioned to Ralph. “Initials.” She squinted. “Appears to be ‘L.S.’”
Chapter Forty-four
“She’s a kick,” Angela said, as we drove away from Lotta’s. “I don’t have half her energy, and she’s three times as old.”
Angela was obviously excited about the prospect of getting to Melissa’s, which took about twenty-five minutes. We passed the time laughing at things Lotta had said until we pulled up in the Harris’ red-brick driveway.
Billy Joe didn’t seem happy to see us. He was propped against a white Ionic column with trouble written all over his face.
“If he weren’t my buddy, I’d be scared,” I said to Angela who laughed and grabbed her over-night bag before jumping out of the van.
“Hi Billy Joe,” Angela said to him before she walked inside to find Melissa.
He frowned a greeting, though he did manage to throw up his hand.
I thought he might need to talk and decided to stay and visit a while. I had two hours and twenty minutes before my dinner date with Jay.
“What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Where were you today, Lilah?” He eyeballed me as if I were being interrogated.
“You know, I told you. I’ve been interviewing Lotta Love. Sorry we’re late.”
Billy Joe put his arm around my shoulder. “So you got to Lotta’s at what time?”
“Before twelve,” I answered, wondering what he was getting at. “What is this, Billy Joe? You want a minute by minute accounting of my day?”
He chewed on his lower lip before answering. “I want you to have a good alibi because Ben Comeaux was murdered this afternoon.”
At first, I thought this is Billy Joe’s weird sense of humor talking. “You’re kidding, right?”
He frowned and shook his head.
“How? Where?”
“Somebody shot him at his home around one o’clock.” Billy Joe squinted as if could visualize the murder.
“Why did you say I need an alibi? Certainly you don’t think I was involved. Do you?”
“No, I don’t think you shot him. But your gun did.”
I was pissed. “How dare you, Billy Joe. If this is one of your jokes, it’s not funny.” He looked squarely at me, his dark eyes round and clear as he gently placed his hands on my shoulders, then exhaled a loud sigh. “Lilah, your gun, with your initials, the one the St. John’s sheriff’s department has on record from the incident at the Belle the other night, was found beside Comeaux’s dead body this afternoon. And two hollow-point bullets from your gun were lodged in Comeaux’s brain and heart.”
“That simply can’t be true. I have my gun right here.” I shuffled through my purse to prove him wrong, then, finally dumped the contents on the driveway. “Oh, shit,” I said, fanning through everything. “Maybe I put it back in my van.” I checked the glove compartment. No gun.
“Now, don’t get upset,” Billy Joe said, as he helped me restuff my tote bag.
“How can you tell me not to get upset?” I frowned at him and stomped my feet like a two-year old.
“First of all, I think the evidence will show that you and Angela were at Lotta Love’s when Comeaux was killed. Second, we had a surveillance team outside his house. He was last seen alive when he opened his door to a jogger. Investigators reported that the jogger was at least six feet, possibly taller and wore a ski-mask. At this point, I think we need to go down to headquarters where you can give a statement to homicide to report your stolen gun.”
“Oh, no, Billy Joe, please, I don’t want to go through that now,” I pleaded.
“If you don’t, it’ll seem like you were involved.” He patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Honey. They’ll just want to know who may have taken your gun, that’s all.”
“Why would someone steal my pistol and kill Comeaux with it?” I searched Billy Joe’s face for an answer he didn’t have.
“Maybe someone is trying to frame you. It probably has to do with Dan Duffy. Someone thinks you know something or have something they want. Or it might be some nut. Who knows? But somehow, I suspect it’s all tied together: your gun, Comeaux’s murder, and the fact that he was getting paid to follow Duffy.”
“In other words, I’m a liability.” My voice trembled.
“I don’t know.” Billy Joe hugged me. “Honey, it’s gonna be all right. We’re on top of it, whatever it is. All I can say is thank God you have an alibi, and thank God you gave me that information Comeaux dropped at the Belle. Without it, we wouldn’t have watched his place and we wouldn’t have seen the murderer. And you might have been hauled in and railroaded.”
After listening to Billy Joe, I checked my billfold. One of the keys to the safe deposit box was still inside the zipper compartment, tucked between two used theater tickets. The other key was safely tied around my neck, hidden behind Martha’s crystal. But Dan’s letters were missing, though my cash and credit cards had not been taken, which made me glad I’d left Dan’s address book and journal at Jay’s.
Chapter Forty-five
Dan Duffy opened his weighted eyelids, an Olympian effort. The bed sheet under his fingers felt stiff, his mouth dry and parched. Every ounce of his blood seemed to be pulsating through his aching head as he tried to focus on the attractive, dark-haired nurse.
She stuck an accordion straw in his mouth. “I’m glad to see you’re awake and breathing on your own. That’s a good sign. Now, if you can just sip this water.”
He swallowed the cold liquid. “Head’s killing me.”
“I’ll see if I can get you something,” she said, patting his hand.
He didn’t want to talk any more, he was hurting too much. “Hurry,” he said.
The nurse left the room and Dan wondered if he’d be able to stand the pain until she got back with a miracle drug to stop the pain.
He knew he was in the hospital, but he didn’t know how long he’d been there or why. It was all a blank, though he remembered flying into New Orleans with the suitcase of money and a plan to kill the man who murdered his dad.
Chapter Forty-six
“Jay, this is Lilah,” my voice cracked.
“Hello, beautiful,” he whispered.<
br />
I swallowed hard, trying to clear my raspy throat. “I’m not at the Belle right now, and I won’t be able to make it there by five.”
“No problem. I can pick you up.”
“I’m at the Harris’ on Prytania. Why don’t I meet you at your parents’ house?”
“I’ll come by and get you,” he insisted. “I know where Prytania is. Just give me the street number.”
I recited the address.
“You okay, Baby? You sound funny.”
I knew I had to guard my comments. Billy Joe and the homicide detectives had asked me not to talk about Comeaux’s murder and my stolen gun. “It’s been a frustrating day.”
“Perhaps I can help you unwind tonight. See you in about thirty minutes.”
“Be careful,” I cautioned.
While I waited for Jay, Billy Joe tried to persuade me not to leave. “I don’t like the idea of you gallivantin’ all over the place after everything that’s happened. Change your plans and stay with us tonight. Please, Lilah. And if you must fly to Baltimore tomorrow, I’ll take you to the airport.”
I hugged him and tried to conceal my anxiety. “I appreciate your concern, but Jay’s parents are expecting us both for dinner and it’s rude to cancel at the last minute, but if you’re still up, I’ll see you later when I come back to pick up my van.”
“I should know by now, Miss Lilah, I can’t tell you what to do.”
I smiled. “Thanks for watching out for me, and I appreciate you and Natasha looking after Angela until I get back tomorrow, but please don’t mention any of this to her.”
He nodded. “Like children who believe in Santa Claus, our daughters are lost in the Mardi Gras crap and, in a way, that’s good. It helps them forget real life traumas.”
I agreed.
Natasha walked up behind Billy Joe. “When the girls left an hour ago with Fernando and Javier, the only thing on their minds was how to catch the most beads from parading floats.”
I hugged Natasha good-bye when I saw Jay drive up.
Sex, Love and Murder Page 16
