Secrets, Lies & Homicide
A Claire Marshall Mystery
By
Patricia Dusenbury
The moving Finger writes, and, having writ
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line
Nor all your Tears wash out a word of it.
~The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
As translated by Edward Fitzgerald
Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon
2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-192-9
Secrets, Lies & Homicide
Copyright © 2014 by Patricia Dusenbury
Cover design
Copyright © 2014 by Judith B. Glad
All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.
Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com
Once again, thanks to George for his patience and support and to Alicia for her constructive criticism.
CHAPTER 1
January 11, 1994
Claire pulled up to the curb and checked the address. 712 Terpsichore. This was the place. "Ugly," the owner had said, and he was right. She sat in her car for several minutes, studying the façade. Screening the front gallery had been a mistake, but it would be an easy fix. Remove the screens, restore the columns and voilà, a fine-looking house. Fine-looking, yes, but still modest and still in a neighborhood that was far from exclusive.
Why would a wealthy celebrity want to restore this nondescript house in the Lower Garden District?
She climbed out and walked around the house, looking for a clue.
Most of the windows were old glass, wavy in the sunlight. Nice. The siding was the original cypress, in decent condition except where the back stoop had been expanded, probably for a laundry room. She climbed the rickety steps and peered in. Sure enough, an old washer and dryer pair leaned against the inside wall.
The front yard had been shabby; the back was a jungle. Weeds by the house gave way to a thicket of sprawling azaleas and overgrown camellias and, barely visible behind them, a small outbuilding. Curious, Claire followed a faded path through the shrubbery. High branches blocked the sun, low ones snagged her clothes, and her every step kicked up musty clouds of leaf mold. The front yard had been lively with birdsong, but this back corner was silent. The air felt damp and clammy, cool enough to raise goosebumps on her bare arms.
The outbuilding was the size and shape of a double garage but elevated on piers. Weathered two-by-sixes crisscrossed the door, and warped plywood covered the windows. Black mold, so thick she could smell it, streaked cinderblock walls once painted white. The far corner looked singed, as if there'd been a fire. She stepped closer and saw the spiders.
Dozens of yellow and black striped spiders, each one as big as a child's hand, waited in webs hung from rotten eaves. Gray tatters of old web glued dead leaves to the walls. Something touched her shoulder.
She whirled around, a scream in her throat.
"Hey, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." He held out his hand. "Tony Burke."
"Claire Marshall." She cursed her startled reaction and the blush she could feel coloring her cheeks. "I was early, so I took the opportunity to look around. I hope you don't mind."
"You found my dad's studio. He was an artist."
"This was your parent's house?"
"And mine, until I moved to Europe."
"Really." She should have guessed. She knew he'd grown up in New Orleans. Then she remembered a name, a local artist who'd died years ago. The timing was right. "Was Jim Burke your father?"
"You've heard of him." Pleasure warmed Tony's voice.
"I'm a big fan of New Orleans' art, as well as her architecture." Claire looked at the dilapidated building with new eyes. "Are you going to restore your father's studio?"
"No." For a moment he stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at the studio, his expression unreadable. "Let's go look at my house."
"Lead the way." She stepped back to let him pass, but he took her arm and they walked side by side on the narrow path.
"How'd you get involved in the construction business?" he asked. Everyone asked.
"I like fixing up old houses. Jack Giordano and I met when his company did some work for me. He's a wonderful craftsman, he was looking for a partner, and I wanted a new career."
It was her standard answer and, as far as it went, true. That she had foundered lost and alone after her husband died, that she'd quit her well-paying job with the insurance company and invested not just her money but also herself in Jack's little construction company, that she lay awake wondering if she'd done the right thing, if the business would make it, if she would make it—none of that was Tony Burke's business. She looked up and caught him studying her.
"Are you and Jack partners outside the office?"
"No." She laughed. "Jack has a wife and five kids who call me Aunt Claire."
Tony unlocked the front door, and they walked into a too-small foyer. The living room was visible through a wide arch on the left. He opened a door to the right.
"I don't know what this room is supposed to be, off by itself."
She pressed her hands against the doorframe. "There was an archway here, like on the other side. A double parlor extended across the front of the house, and a wide center hall ran all the way back."
"How do you know?"
"That's how these houses were built." She pointed to the back of the foyer. "This wall was added, probably to create a space for a half bath." She had his full attention, and so she backed off a bit. "If there's no half bath, there's a closet."
"Half-bath. You had it right the first time." He shut the door. "On your left is the living room, previously known as the other half of the front parlor." He grinned. "I'm a quick study."
As he walked her through the rest of the house, Tony explained that he'd returned to New Orleans, intending to move into his boyhood home, but one look and he'd gone to a hotel. "The next day, I found an apartment."
Their tour ended in the kitchen, a cavern with dark wood cabinets and a water-stained acoustic tile ceiling. His gesture encompassed it all. "Half kitchen, half dungeon. I'd forgotten how ugly this house is."
"Your house isn't ugly. It's just a bad renovation. This kitchen would be fine if you got rid of that back stoop, let in some light, and put the ceiling back to its original height."
"If we do that, I won't hit my head on the chandelier." He pointed to a yellowed globe hanging from the ceiling.
Claire heard the "we." Things were going well. "We might get rid of that chandelier," she said. "Your house has good bones, Tony. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised by the difference a few changes can make."
"I'm already pleasantly surprised. I was expecting a woman, but not a beautiful redhead." He winked. "Can you turn this dump into something special?"
"If you give me free access, I can have rough plans
by the end of the week. Then, you can judge for yourself." She wasn't beautiful, but she'd be very happy to get this job.
"Four o'clock Friday. Here." He handed her a key. "Bring your plans and a contract. I'm in a hurry."
"I'll start this afternoon." She zipped his house key into her purse, and they walked outside together.
He nodded toward her car. "Is that yours?"
"Her name is Felicia, Felicia Miata." Claire loved her bright blue roadster. When she was feeling down, just sitting behind the wheel could brighten her mood.
"His name is Igor." Tony pointed toward the gleaming black Ferrari parked in front of Felicia.
When Claire returned to the office, Jack was at the big table, pouring over a set of blueprints. She gave him a big smile and a thumbs up. "The Burke project looks like a go. We're meeting again Friday afternoon. Tony wants plans and a contract."
"In three days?"
"I volunteered. This is a real opportunity for us, Jack. Think about it. We could do a before and after spread in the Sunday paper. People are always interested in how celebrities live. Tony would have to agree, of course, but why wouldn't he?"
"Sloooow down," Jack raised his hand like a traffic cop. "You're counting your chickens when you might not even have eggs."
"What?"
"You wouldn't be the first woman to learn the hard way that Tony Burke didn't exactly say what she thought she'd heard."
"Jack, this is business. I'm not ..." She saw his grin and stopped.
"Gotcha," he said. She shook her head and he continued. "I'm just giving you a hard time. If we get the job, that's great."
"Did you know that Jim Burke was his father?"
"Never heard of Jim Burke."
"He was an artist—a pretty good one—who died in an automobile accident back during Hurricane Camille. And his son becomes a racecar driver? Those little cars that go two hundred miles an hour, right? That's an interesting career choice."
"Word is he's faster off the track than on."
"Tony flirts, but he's not pushy. I like him. He's funny. I bet he's smart."
"You're smart too, and I wasn't kidding about his reputation. Didn't you read those articles? I left them on your desk."
"Supermarket tabloids aren't the world's most reliable source of information."
"Yeah, but every one says essentially the same thing. Where there's smoke..."
"You know, I thought a race car driver would be small, like a jockey, but Tony's big, tall with broad-shoulders. I bet he's strong." Claire sighed. "Pictures don't capture his charisma. There's this energy field around him." Her sigh turned into laughter at Jack's alarmed expression. "Gotcha back. That's one for me." She licked her finger and painted a line in the air.
"Okay, but I'm right about him."
"Tony's a good-looking man. So are lots of other guys. I don't understand the fuss."
"Other guys don't hang out on the Riviera drinking champagne with movie stars. What is Tony Burke doing with that house? I bet the neighbors are falling out of their windows."
"He grew up there."
"That doesn't mean he still belongs there."
"I like him. I like his house. I hope we get the job."
"We could use the work."
That Friday afternoon, Claire walked Tony through her proposal, marking the suggested changes on a diagram of his house. He approved everything she'd roughed out, and so she moved on to price, a crucial topic. Before she came on board, Jack's company had teetered on the verge of bankruptcy. He tended to price projects too low, and he'd misjudged a big project. She'd bailed him out, and the money side was her responsibility now.
"I usually spend more time with a client before we get to the contract stage," she said. "But we've been on a fast track, and there are expenses I can't estimate. For example, you can spend $15,000 on kitchen cabinets or you can spend $50,000. Appliance costs are all over the board. I don't know what your budget is." She'd called his office twice and left messages, which he'd either not gotten or ignored. "Given that, the only contract I can offer today is cost-plus, which protects us but leaves you a lot of uncertainty."
"I understand how cost plus works, sweetheart, and if you'll hand me that pen you're waving around, I'll sign on the dotted line."
"You don't want your lawyer to look it over first?"
"My lawyer wouldn't approve, but I've checked your references and I'm ready to go." He winked. "Unless you want to run it by your manager."
She gave him a blank look.
"Sorry, Claire, a bit of car salesman humor. You know I bought a BMW dealership?"
She nodded. Jack had told her.
"I've been spending too much time with the sales force." He took the pen from her hand and signed his name with a flourish. "When can you start?"
"As soon as we get the permits. I'll start the application process Tuesday. Monday is the Martin Luther King holiday."
"This calls for a toast." He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a wine bottle and two stemmed glasses. "Prosecco. I developed a taste for it in Italy." He opened and poured the wine with an expertise that suggested long practice.
She raised her glass. "To your house."
"To our project." He touched the rim of his glass to hers. "I've been too busy to return your calls, but that's going to change. I intend to be involved. I can give you pictures showing how I want the kitchen to look. Then we'll talk budget."
"Pictures would be great." She took a sip of the bubbly wine. "What about old photos? Do you have any that would show what the house looked like when you were a child?"
"It looked like this only in better shape. Come on, Claire, the house is over a hundred years old, and I'm thirty-four."
"Which leaves a few years unaccounted for," she agreed. "Does your mother still live in New Orleans?"
"She lives about an hour north, outside Greensburg on a farm she's turned into a refuge for abused horses." His lip curled. "Geneviève Burke, savior of the Tennessee Walking Horse."
"I'd like to talk to her about the house. If she agrees, I could drive up there."
"You don't have to. She fell off one of her precious horses last week, dislocated her shoulder and broke her hip. She's staying in town for rehab."
Tony's attitude suggested a poor relationship with his mother, something that was none of her business. Unless. "Does she still have an interest in the house?"
"Neither financial nor otherwise. She gave it to me as a wedding present, and I kept it in the divorce. I'm your only client." He lifted the wine bottle. "Another glass?"
"Thank you but no. My workday isn't over yet. Where can I reach your mother?"
"I'm already sorry I mentioned her."
"You didn't, I asked, and I'm eager to talk to her."
"Why?"
"Your house was renovated back in the fifties. If your mother was responsible, she might remember details about what had been there before, or better yet, have pictures. How can I reach her?"
"I don't see her being helpful, but who knows." He shrugged. "She's at Sunny Gardens, a new assisted living place over on Claiborne."
"Assisted living. Is this permanent?"
"No. They have a few apartments for people with short-term needs. The doctors expect a complete recovery."
"That has to be good news."
He drained his wine glass before speaking. "From everything I've seen and heard, you're a nice person. Geneviève is not. When you meet her, she'll be charming. She'll ask about you, your family and where you came from, play a couple rounds of who-do-you-know."
"Lots of people do that." Most of the people she'd met in New Orleans did.
"Lots of people are looking for a context to help them feel comfortable with you. My dear mother is looking for your weakness. She has an instinct for the jugular and enjoys what she calls stirring things up, which translates into causing pain for other people."
Tony's warning struck Claire as melodramatic. She wondered if he was letting
her know that he was aware of her history. Last fall, she'd been falsely accused of murder. She'd caused a man's death, in self-defense, but some people would never see her as totally innocent. Had the story reached his ears in Italy?
"I'll be discreet." She stood up to leave. "Thank you for the wine."
"I'll see you out." He took her arm. "Be careful where you step. This place is a mess."
"Tony, I'm used to walking around construction sites."
"Yeah, but this afternoon you've been drinking." She looked up, ready to protest, and saw his teasing grin.
Before she drove away, Tony delivered one more word of caution. "Don't forget her name is Zhon-vee-ev, the French pronunciation. If you call her Jen-ah-veeve, she'll come out from behind her walker and kick you across the room." He pantomimed drop kicking a football.
"Zhon-vee-ev." She enunciated each syllable.
"And she insists upon calling me Layton. She knows I prefer Tony but she doesn't care."
"I'll call her next week."
CHAPTER 2
Tuesday morning, Claire called Sunny Garden's main office and asked if someone could deliver a message. Geneviève Burke called back the next day.
"You said this is a business call. Are you interested in a horse?"
"No. I'm the contractor your son has hired to restore his house." Claire explained that her company specialized in the restoration of historic houses. "The more we know about a house's history, the better. Talking to previous owners is a good starting point."
"Historic? That house?" Geneviève laughed. "It's just old. I doubt I'll be much help, but if you want to come by, I'd welcome a visitor."
"How about tomorrow?"
"Late afternoon is best for me. I spend my mornings in the gym and nap after lunch."
Claire arrived a few minutes before the agreed upon four o'clock and flipped through a brochure while she waited for the concierge to finish discussing an upcoming excursion with a group of older women. Sunny Gardens described itself as resort living for the discriminating senior. Smaller print offered a continuum of care, fees available upon request. The brochure's tone reminded Claire of the saying about yachts. If you have to ask the price, you can't afford it.
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