Secrets, Lies & Homicide

by Patricia Dusenbury

  The women finished their discussion, and she stepped forward. "My name is Claire Marshall. I'm here to see Geneviève Burke."

  "Mrs. Burke is expecting you." The concierge's welcoming smile held firm, but an edge of distaste had crept into her voice. Claire remembered Tony's warnings; she would be cautious. She signed her name on the visitor's log and followed directions to the west parlor.

  A slender, dark-haired woman stood by French doors leading out to a garden. Despite the walker and the sling on one arm, she had better posture than most twenty-year-olds. Claire squared her shoulders and sucked in her stomach.

  "Mrs. Burke?"

  The woman turned. "You must be Claire. I'm Geneviève."

  "I'd recognize you anywhere. Your son looks so much like you." She'd started to say Tony, remembered his mother called him Layton and didn't feel comfortable using either.

  Geneviève grasped the back of a sofa with her good arm and lowered herself onto the seat. She patted the cushion. "Come sit by me so we don't have to yell. Half the people here are going deaf, and the rest are already there. Everyone yells. It's enough to give you a headache."

  "Thank you for agreeing to talk to me."

  Up close, Geneviève showed her age. Time had etched lines onto her face and thinned her lips, but her eyes, the same blue-gray-green ocean color as Tony's, were clear and bright, and her smile, like his, could melt stone. "I apologize for meeting you in this hideous parlor. But my cell of an apartment is even worse."

  Claire made sympathetic comments about this being a difficult time, and Geneviève responded with more grievances. The food was bland; the décor, a style best described as pastel hell with overblown floral prints and fake plants. She saved her harshest criticism for the staff. "They spew platitudes and don't have manners enough to look at you when they're talking. The only one I can stand is Iris, who is an actress pretending to be a nurse."

  "Have you met many of the other people living here?"

  "I had the misfortune of knowing several of them years ago." Geneviève tilted her head toward a woman sitting near the entrance. "For example. The woman in the green blouse is Amanda Pierce. Her brother was crazy about me, but the family didn't approve of a divorcée." She took a mint from a bowl on the table and popped it into her mouth.

  Claire murmured something innocuous about times changing, but Geneviève wasn't through with Amanda.

  "She's been pretending to look at the same page of Vogue ever since I came in, ten minutes before you arrived. She's really stalking Harry Durand over there, the one playing bridge in the blue and white striped shirt. Harry is a wealthy widower with no children."

  The man in question studied his cards and laid one down, apparently unaware that he was the object of anyone's attention. Claire glanced around the parlor Amanda glared at her, but to Claire's relief, no one else was reacting. She hoped they really were hard of hearing.

  "Amanda, for all her airs, has very little money of her own. She never married. No man wanted her then, and Harry certainly doesn't—" Geneviève stopped in midsentence. "Forgive me. I'm being tiresome."

  Tiresome? She was worse than that. Claire looked for a graceful exit. "I can come back another day when you might be feeling better."

  "It's not how I'm feeling. These people get under my skin. They have everything and appreciate nothing. I had to do for myself. I don't weigh an ounce more than when I was twenty. I run a horse farm and keep the books, using a computer and ..." Geneviève tapped her mouth. "There I go again. I'll stop. Promise. You're here to talk about Layton's house. Why is a mystery to me." She sat back, a woman prepared to listen.

  "You bought the house back in the fifties?"

  "I didn't buy it. I was married to Roger Devereux. You've no doubt heard of the family."

  Claire nodded. The name was familiar to anyone who did business in New Orleans.

  "When we divorced, Roger kept our lovely house, and I was allowed to select one of his family's rental properties." Her expression said this still rankled. "That would have been 1956."

  "Did you have it renovated?"

  "I never did a thing to it, and last I saw Layton hadn't either. I'm not surprised it needs work. He's been renting it out since he moved to Italy, and tenants don't care. They leave a mess."

  "Nothing like the mess we'll be making. We're gutting the kitchen back to the original walls, removing the lowered ceilings, the hall bathroom, the back stoop."

  Geneviève burst out laughing. "You're taking out all the modern improvements that led me to choose that house. Of course, after all these years, they're not so modern anymore." Her expression softened. "People used to call that house Chez Geneviève. It was the gathering place for the avant-garde of New Orleans. Every night was a party with fascinating people and brilliant conversation. My second husband was an artist, but the people came to see me."

  It was the perfect opening. Claire wanted to ask why Jim Burke's studio had been boarded up and left to rot, but she bit her tongue. Tony had warned her not to mention his father or the studio and, if either subject came up, to pretend ignorance. When she asked why, he'd offered no explanation beyond trust me.

  "Do you have pictures from those parties?" Claire said. "I'd especially like to see any that show the front of the house before the gallery was screened."

  "There might still be some snapshots in the old sideboard, which last I knew was in Layton's attic, but they weren't taken outside. Our parties began well after sundown and lasted until the wee small hours." She waved a dismissive hand. "Of course all of that ended when Layton came along."

  "What about first day of school pictures, Layton standing on the front steps?" Her mother had taken one every year, from kindergarten until the September morning she left for college.

  "I wasn't that kind of a mother." Geneviève picked up another mint. "I'm sorry, Claire, I can't help you. I don't look back. I live in the present. That's why I hate it here. Old music, old movies, constant blah blah blah about the good old days, which we all know weren't nearly as good as remembered."

  Faced with a dead end, Claire shifted into small talk mode, planning to make polite conversation for a few minutes then leave. "How long will you be here?"

  "I'll be home by the end of the month or die trying. I miss my horses."

  "I used to spend a lot of time around horses, but you're the first person I've met who rescues abused horses."

  "Layton didn't tell me you were a horse person." It was an accusation. "He doesn't like horses; they're not fast enough for him." Another accusation.

  "When I was a little girl, I preferred horses to people."

  "I still do." Geneviève didn't appear to be kidding. "Soon as I'm better, you'll have to come visit, go for a ride."

  "That's very kind of you, but I haven't ridden since college." Claire didn't take the invitation seriously. People in New Orleans said, "You all come see me," instead of good-bye.

  "Riding a horse is like riding a bike, your body remembers. This is not a frivolous invitation, Claire. I want you to visit. A young woman who owns a construction company is an interesting person. I'd like to know you better."

  "Thank you." Claire braced for the personal questions Tony had warned about, but Geneviève wanted to talk about horses.

  "Are you familiar with Tennessee Walking Horses?"

  "I don't know if I've ever seen one."

  "I'm sure you have. Remember the Lone Ranger and Silver? Roy Rogers and Trigger? Movie cowboys love Walkers. Even a clumsy rider looks good on a Walker."

  Claire dredged up old memories of Saturday matinees, and an amused Geneviève swore that Dale Evans, Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, Zorro and Lash Larue all rode Walkers. Then she became serious.

  "Walkers are gaited horses, and that makes them vulnerable to abuse. Everyone wants a big lick. It's the ultimate gait. Very few horses have a natural big lick, so trainers use padded shoes and chains to force longer and higher steps. It's perfectly legal, but can you imagine a horse weari
ng high heels and ankle bracelets?"

  "Only in a cartoon."

  "Unscrupulous trainers apply irritants to the forelegs. It's called soring, and it's totally illegal but all too common. Done badly, soring will make a horse lame; in the worst cases, permanently. Those horses are sold for slaughter." Geneviève's eyes flashed indignation, and her voice rose with her outrage. "By the pound for dog food."

  Several people turned to stare, and Geneviève lowered her voice. "I'm sorry. You ask a simple question and I subject you to a ten-minute tirade."

  "Don't apologize, please. Listening to you makes me want to save those horses."

  "Well, I'm through preaching, and it's not all doom and gloom. Last fall I rescued a magnificent stallion, eighteen hands, black with a white blaze and a natural big lick. I named him Fast Eddie after my favorite politician." Geneviève's expression became rueful. "I'm here because Eddie threw me. His forelegs have healed, but he's still skittish. I didn't realize how skittish."

  "Will I see him when I visit the farm?" Claire had decided to accept the invitation. After a rocky start, Tony's mother had become good company, and the idea of riding again was tempting.

  "He'll be there." Geneviève drew herself up. "Eddie's previous owner wants him back. And that will happen over my dead body."

  "Let me give you my number," Claire said. "You can call when you're ready for a visitor."

  "You could go up this weekend. Kyle, my trainer, says everything's fine, but I'd like to hear from someone else that things are going well."

  "I'm sorry. I'm tied up this weekend, and I really don't know enough to second guess your trainer."

  "I'm not asking you to spy on Kyle. I just want reassurance. What about next weekend?" Geneviève took her hand. "You're a horse person, Claire. You understand. I rescue horses and they rescue me."

  Claire did understand. She'd been a shy child, and for a few years, a quarter horse named Hershey had been her best friend. "I can't promise, but I'll try."

  "Thank you." Geneviève's smile dazzled. "And now that I've taken up your afternoon with a lecture on horses and given you none of the help you came for, let me walk you to your car. I could use some fresh air."

  Claire stood up. "I'll get your walker."

  "Let me do it." The effort brought beads of sweat to Geneviève's brow, but she refused assistance. "The sooner I can take care of myself, the sooner I can go home."

  At the front entrance, she stopped short and put her hand on Claire's arm. "Wait."

  "Are you all right? Do you want to rest for a minute?"

  "See them?" Geneviève jutted her chin toward a middle-aged blonde and an elderly man leaving the garden. "The man is Roger Devereux, my first husband. The woman is his niece Laura."

  "He looks so much older." Claire had noticed this couple before. They'd been coming out the front door when she arrived, and she'd been touched by the woman's gentleness as she helped her companion navigate the doorway. He moved awkwardly, shuffling rather than walking, and when they passed, he'd cast a worried glance in her direction.

  "I was twenty on our wedding day, he was forty." Geneviève snapped her mouth shut as if biting back any further comment.

  The blonde woman looked up, and her cool gaze met Claire's. Then, she put her arm around the old man's waist and turned him back toward the gardens.

  "Laura saw us. That's why she's hustling him out of here." Geneviève's grip tightened and her voice became a malicious whisper. "When I told Iris I'd been married to Roger Devereux, she told me there was a man by that name up on the fourth floor, what we call the batso wing. Iris doesn't work up there and couldn't tell me anything about him. So I went to see for myself. He recognized me the minute I walked into his room."

  "He must have been surprised to see you."

  "You bet he was. Watch. I'll show you what he did." She hunched over her walker, head down, hands covering her ears. Then she straightened up, laughing. "Roger great-God-almighty Devereux curled up like a big roly-poly bug and started humming. Isn't that a riot?"

  Her venom left Claire speechless.

  "When I left, he followed me downstairs and threw a tantrum outside my door. I had to call security. It took two men to haul him away." Geneviève smacked her lips in satisfaction.

  "How awful."

  "Don't waste your pity. Roger understands a lot more than people around here think."

  "Good-bye." Claire hurried down the walkway.

  She wasn't coming back. She wasn't going up to the farm. She never wanted to see this dreadful woman again.

  CHAPTER 3

  Soft fingers slid across his stomach, and Tony opened his eyes. The clock radio said nine thirty-eight. He'd planned an early start, but Dad's studio had been boarded up for twenty-five years. A couple more hours wouldn't make any difference. Kerri was demanding immediate attention.

  "I thought you were awake." She nuzzled his neck. "My plane leaves in three hours. Show me how much you're going to miss me."

  Making love was Tony's favorite way to start the day, but this morning felt flat. He was able to perform, although more from duty than desire, and Kerri seemed satisfied. When she laughingly turned away his suggestion of a shared shower, he was relieved.

  "I have to catch that plane, but hold the thought. The shoot is a week from Thursday. I'll call from the airport when I get in Wednesday." She caressed his cheek. "We can pick up where we left off."

  He stood at the window and watched her cab pull away from the curb ten stories below. Kerri's hurried departure reminded him of another morning, another woman who'd left his bed in a hurry...

  It had been a house party in the lull between the European Gran Prix and San Marino. He'd wakened to the creaking of his bedroom door and the vision of Paula slipping out of her robe as she walked toward him.

  "I was hoping." He threw back the covers and made room for her.

  "You knew." She slipped in beside him. "But I don't mind. I like a confident man."

  He covered her mouth with his, shutting off any further discussion of what she did or did not like in a man. Her husband was old, rich and titled. Presumably she liked that too.

  After Paula tiptoed back to her quarters, he lay in bed and surveyed his surroundings, the antique furniture and oriental carpets, the Murano chandelier, and the stucco walls hung with tapestries that probably belonged in a museum. His luxurious bedchamber was one of many in this magnificent villa.

  He walked naked to the window and admired the geometry of grape vines striping Tuscan hills with the fresh green of April. A breeze carried the burble of a near-by stream and the musk of freshly turned earth. Beauty surrounded him, and every bit of it belonged to his host: the villa, the land, the woman who'd just left his bed.

  On the track, he was in charge. Off the track, he was a guest, enjoying temporary pleasures, committed to nothing, owning nothing and owing nothing. It was what he'd wanted, that and New Orleans in his rearview. He'd spent the last decade telling himself to keep moving. Moving targets are harder to hit.

  He'd succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, advancing from mechanic to test driver to the pinnacle of Formula One racing. It had been a great trip, the road paved with beautiful women and fat paychecks, but the nomad's life was losing its appeal. He wanted his own place, something more permanent than the apartment in Modena.

  He watched a pair of hawks soaring over the hillside and decided to buy a villa.

  That summer and fall, he spent his free days crisscrossing the Italian Piedmont with eager real estate agents and his nights dreaming about raising his son in the house where his father had raised him. He lectured himself about self-pity and imaginary sons and kept moving. He looked at dozens of villas, but none felt right.

  The season's final race was November in Australia, and he drove badly. When the team returned to Italy, he flew to New Orleans and tried to repair his relationship with his mother. He bought the dealership and decided to stay through the holidays. When he told Geneviève that he plann
ed to sell the old house and buy something nicer with a guest suite she could use whenever she felt like staying in town, she turned on him.

  "Don't you dare sell our family home."

  He was still trying to make her happy, so he decided to keep the old house and fix it up. He could stay through February to oversee the renovation.

  A neighbor had recommended Claire's company. Tony had been amused when she told him his house was an urban version of a nineteenth century plantation house, what people in New Orleans called a villa...

  He liked Claire. He also liked her idea about turning the restored center hall into a gallery for his father's art, but he owned only one of his father's paintings. He'd never seen one in his mother's house and was almost positive she didn't have any. Nor would he ask. Only a masochist would mention Jim Burke to her. Geneviève didn't remember either of her husbands fondly.

  When Claire, who didn't give up easily, had suggested looking in the studio, he'd remembered the canvases his dad had stacked against the wall.

  "My demo crew can remove the boards tomorrow," she'd said.

  "I want to do it. This weekend."

  He would open the studio today, but first, with or without Kerri, he needed a shower.

  An hour later, Tony climbed the steps to the gallery, which looked one hundred percent better with the screens off. He unlocked the front door and walked into a disaster area, holes in the floor and chunks out of the plaster. Despite the mess, he could see how removing the half bath opened up the interior.

  He sorted through the tools Claire's crew had left and carried a pry bar, a claw hammer and a handsaw back to the studio. The saw turned out to be useless. Whoever put up the boards had used more nails than a seventh-grade shop project. He picked up the pry bar. He'd tried to remove those boards before. This time he'd succeed.

  A racecar driver is an athlete, and Tony kept in shape during the offseason, but removing the first board took fifteen minutes of hot sweaty work. One down and six to go before he could free the door, which was undoubtedly locked. Geneviève had ordered the studio sealed, and she didn't fool around.