Secrets, Lies & Homicide

by Patricia Dusenbury

  "No. And I'm hungry."

  "Good. I appreciate a woman with a healthy appetite."

  The food was delicious, and when they moved on to the spicy beef, she had to admit that beer was the better complement.

  "Thank you. I like winning an argument with a beautiful woman." Tony acted as if he didn't have a care in the world.

  "You're in an awfully good mood."

  "It's been a good day. I took two of my father's smaller paintings to a gallery Howard recommended and told them I had more. They're going to stage a Jim Burke retrospective."

  "Congratulations." She raised her beer in a toast.

  "The gallery knows that none of the paintings are for sale, and they're okay with that as long as I help them publicize the show."

  "Do you have a date?"

  "June. They can't fit the opening in before racing season begins, but I'll be back on this side of the pond in June. The Gran Prix du Canada is June 12. We're looking at opening the next Friday."

  "I'll mark my calendar."

  "That's the good news. The bad news is that Howard never met Geneviève and has no idea who her friends were. She and Dad were leading separate lives by the time he signed with Howard's gallery."

  After putting the dishes in the dishwasher, a task he insisted upon sharing, they adjourned to the living room. Dorian, who was in his favorite chair, opened one eye but closed it when Tony sat on the sofa.

  "Do you think the big fellow likes me?" Tony said.

  "He's tolerating you." Claire handed him the envelope of photographs she'd left on the coffee table.

  "Look with me." He slid over. She sat beside him, and he laid the photos out on the table, pausing to study those that included his father. "The only people I recognize are my parents."

  "There are names on the back. One or two might ring a bell." She pointed out the people she'd been able to identify.

  Tony had heard of the writer. "But he's dead, killed himself years ago." He flipped through the photos again. "A dozen people, having a good time at a party, and no one has any idea what awaits. Two murders and a suicide that we know of. Everyone in these pictures is probably dead by now."

  "Not everybody. This one's a poet, currently living in London." She tapped the photo. "We can try to reach him through his US publisher. Tonight we'll look the others up in the phone book."

  "The phone book?"

  "I made a list. We have eight names."

  "Of people who may or may not be alive and if alive may or may not still live here. And who knows how many people in New Orleans have the same names."

  "Do you have a better idea?"

  "Say we actually find someone, what makes you think they stayed friends with Geneviève after I was born? According to her, life changed, fun stopped and misery began. Even if they stayed friends, would they remember who she was sleeping with in 1969 as opposed to 1968 or 1970?"

  "People remember Hurricane Camille," she said. "That's our reference point."

  "You don't give up do you?"

  "Not without even trying. I'll call. People might recognize your name. I'll say I'm researching local artists and ask about Jim Burke."

  "Have at it, but I don't think you're going to find anyone." He leaned back, hands behind his head and legs stretched out, a patient but not optimistic observer.

  The first three names didn't pan out. None of the people Claire reached had heard of Jim Burke, and two people hung up on her. "Okay, on to Bill Boaz. There are five Boaz possibilities in New Orleans, a B, a Bill, two Williams, and a W."

  "Do you know what a snipe hunt is?" Tony said.

  "Look, I'm trying to help you."

  Her irritated tone woke Dorian who jumped out of his chair and left the room, tail held high.

  "And I appreciate it, but this is—"Tony searched for a word. "—haphazard, and I don't have time to fool around. The police are building a case against me. I'm innocent, but innocent men have been convicted before. There's a lawyer here in town who has helped me in the past. I've been trying to reach him, without success. I'm beginning to think he's avoiding me."

  "I'm not a lawyer, but this is how I find previous owners. Let's finish what we started."

  B. Boaz didn't answer. Bill Boaz was the son of one of the men pictured. He'd been named for his father, who had died three years ago.

  "You want to talk to my mother," he said. "She modeled for Jim Burke back before she and Dad got married."

  Claire, who'd been about to offer condolences on his father and apologize for disturbing him, bounced to her feet. "Do you think she'd be willing?"

  "Is water wet? Mom loves talking about the good old days, and my poor ears wore out long ago. Tonight's her bingo night, but give me your number and she'll call you back tomorrow."

  "Just a minute." Claire put her hand over the receiver. "Bingo." She laughed. "We found one of your father's models, and she's out playing bingo. This is her son. Do you want to talk to him?"

  Tony shook his head. "Just her. Can you get her number?"

  "Judy," Tony said after Claire hung up. "I don't remember a Judy."

  "She's in one of the photos, Judy Harmon. She was early sixties, you would have been a toddler."

  Suddenly Claire realized how tired she was. "Do you want to keep going or are you ready to call it a night?"

  "We're both tired, and I can take a hint. Tell your cat goodnight for me."

  Claire stood to walk him to the door, and the muscles that had loosened up over the day ached again, reminding her of horses. "I almost forgot." She handed Tony the business card Kyle had given her. "This man is your mother's lawyer. He's been trying to reach you."

  "Where did you get this?" He turned the card over.

  "I went up to the farm yesterday afternoon."

  "We spoke last night, but you didn't mention being at the farm or talking to my mother's lawyer. I've been here all night, and you don't remember what you did yesterday until I'm on my way out the door? What were you doing up there?"

  "I went to help exercise the horses because I'd told Geneviève I would. Kyle, her trainer, mentioned that her lawyer was trying to reach you. I offered to pass on his card." And no good deed goes unpunished.

  "The horses." Tony smacked his head with his open palm. "I forgot the horses. Are they mine now?" He collapsed back onto the sofa, eyes shut. "Please, tell me no."

  "I didn't mention it last night because I wanted to tell you in person. I was afraid you wouldn't understand."

  "Good call, sweetheart." He opened his eyes. "What's going on?"

  "The lawyer wants to know if he should sell the horses, but I think Kyle already stole one." She told him what Geneviève had said about Fast Eddie and how Kyle denied the horse ever existed.

  "The lawyer can sell the horses or Kyle can steal them," Tony said. "I don't care. Long as they're gone."

  "That horse is valuable. The previous owner wanted him back, Geneviève refused, and now he's gone. What if she was killed because of this horse?"

  "That's not what happened."

  "You don't know for sure. Someone should tell the police."

  "Go ahead and tell your boyfriend. Get him off my back."

  "He's not my boyfriend."

  "I'm glad to hear that, but I'm not sure I believe you." He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick half-hug. "Sorry, Claire. You mention Geneviève's horses and I act like a horse's ass. Thanks for putting up with me and for tracking down Dad's old model. This time I'm really leaving."

  CHAPTER 16

  First thing Wednesday morning, Mike and Bea met in his office to compare notes. He brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and she opened a box of glazed donuts. She bit into one. "Still warm. Help yourself."

  He took one, confident that she'd finish the box before the day was over, probably before the morning was over. As far as he could tell, she ate constantly. His previous partner had a weakness for beignets and the waistline to prove it, but Bea was slender as a greyhound. What a metaboli
sm she must have.

  "How's it going with the DNA samples?" she said. "Any trouble getting Tony on board?"

  "None, but Roger Devereux is a no go. I'll tell you about it, but first, tell me about Iris Burton."

  "Iris is an aspiring television personality. Sunny Gardens is her day job. Seven to ten every morning, she distributes medications under the direction of a real nurse. Nighttimes, she waits tables in a supper club. She sees both jobs, and as far as I can tell everything else in her life, as playing a part. Our interview began with a dramatic monologue followed by tears."

  "You didn't find her convincing?"

  "I find her sorrow overdone. She'd known the victim for what? A few weeks. She started at Sunny Gardens the first of the year."

  "She was the last person to see the victim alive and the first one to find her dead."

  "Which might make her a suspect, but I don't see it," Bea said.

  "What's she like?"

  "Young. I think she's led a sheltered life until very recently. She's also ambitious, shallow and totally focused on her appearance. She sleeps in her false eyelashes in case there's a fire."

  "Is she attractive?"

  "Beautiful. But at the end of the day, I feel sorry for her. It's as if she doesn't exist unless someone is looking at her. She boasted that, unlike the other aides, she had memorized the names and faces of everyone living in the apartments. She always greets them by name because, and I quote, very encounter is an audition."

  "She sounds like a monster."

  "She's just immature and self-absorbed, but actually quite pleasant in a ditsy way. I'm not sure how smart she is."

  "Did she notice anything unusual during her rounds Sunday morning?"

  "She says no, and so far, no one I've spoken to did. Sunny Gardens isn't as buttoned down as they'd like us to believe. Visitors are supposed to sign in at the door, and while no one actually came out and said it, I'm pretty sure that rule isn't enforced. Sunday morning is a busy time. You have a non-denominational service in the parlor, people leaving to go to church, family members coming to visit."

  He finished his coffee. "What else?"

  "Iris had nothing good to say about Tony Burke, but she admitted they'd never met. She was repeating things Geneviève had told her. What a family." She looked down at the half eaten donut in her hand. "I've been doing all the talking."

  "Okay, I'll take a turn. You interviewed the young ingénue, while I talked to the old pro. She never stepped out of character, and every word felt scripted. No, I take that back. Her outrage when I mentioned a DNA sample appeared genuine." Mike summarized Laura Bethea's story while Bea finished her donut and ate another.

  "You weren't convinced either," she said.

  "I came away with two big questions. First: was Geneviève still, or again, trading silence for money? Second: why has no one told us that Roger Devereux left the secure unit Sunday morning?"

  "I can answer the second question. No one on the staff believes Roger could possibly have killed Geneviève, and everyone is afraid of the Devereux family. As for the blackmail, do you want me to look into the victim's finances?"

  "I've already asked Bill to do it. I want you to stick with the interviews. You're doing a nice job, and your description of Iris raises another question."

  "Sir?"

  "Why were she and the victim close? Everything I've heard tells me that Geneviève Burke was sophisticated and intelligent, although not very likeable. Why would she befriend a nineteen-year-old whose highest ambition is to become a personality?" In his world personality was something a person had, not something they became. "And why would Iris want to spend time with such an unpleasant old woman?"

  "I think I understand." Bea folded her napkin and laid it beside her empty plate.

  "Mother-daughter?" he prompted.

  "More comrades-in-arms. Both were small-town beauties whose ambitions brought them to the big city. There's insecurity in leaving your roots for a better place and a fear of not quite belonging even if you become a success. You don't know the secret handshakes, and you'll never be able to share jokes about what happened in Miss so-and-so's cotillion class. Things like that. But there's also a sense that you're better than those who've never had to struggle or make their own way. You had to be."

  "I think I understand." More than you're saying. He sensed that Bea's insights were hard earned and very personal.

  "They bolstered each other in what was an uncomfortable if not hostile environment," she said. "When Iris finished her shift, they'd have coffee and exchange gossip about the other residents. Iris described current carryings-on, and Geneviève told about old scandals."

  "What about old lovers?"

  "Geneviève didn't tell tales on herself, but others that I interviewed did, people with long memories and hatchets to bury. One woman bragged about cutting her dead. Another called her trash." A frown creased Bea's forehead. "They were talking about a murder victim."

  "Tony said his mother wanted to stay at Sunny Gardens but, after she got there, did nothing but complain. Bumping into old enemies could explain her change of attitude. Do these women have alibis?"

  "With big holes." Bea shrugged. "Which means nothing."

  "Run their names by Vernon. See what he says. He remembers Geneviève well."

  "He said so with a gleam in his eye and—" Bea clapped her hands. "Why haven't we asked him about Geneviève's old lovers?"

  "More to the point, why hasn't he volunteered any information?" They looked at each other. "I'll ask him today. You go over to Sunny Gardens and continue the interviews. We can compare notes at the end of the day. My office at five."

  CHAPTER 17

  Iris dreaded going back to Sunny Gardens, but she couldn't afford another day without pay. She never should have told her parents what happened to Geneviève. Her father had threatened to drive right down and bring her home.

  "You'll have to drag me into the car," she'd told him, "kicking and screaming." Iris Burton was not about to leave New Orleans with her tail between her legs. She staggered into the bathroom and patted her cheeks with cold water.

  A little before seven, she pulled into the Sunny Gardens employee parking lot, dressed in a clean, crisp nurse's costume. Being back here made her stomach feel all queasy, but a personality is at her best no matter how she feels on the inside. When she was famous, the old people would remember when Iris Burton brought their morning meds. They'd talk about how nice she'd been, always well dressed with a pleasant word for everyone. She retrieved the meds cart and, with feet that felt leaden despite her best effort, started her rounds.

  The yellow crime ribbon strung across the door of Geneviève's apartment brought tears to her eyes. She dabbed a Kleenex to catch any mascara smudges and bowed her head in a brief prayer before moving on to Mr. Pasqua's door. He opened it the minute she knocked.

  "How are you doing, Iris?"

  Oh no, he's been waiting for me. He's going to ask questions. I can't stand it.

  "Everyone's sorry about what happened to Mrs. Burke. We know you two were friends." He patted her shoulder. "You take care of yourself now."

  Mrs. Benoit stepped out in the hall. "It's just terrible what happened, murdered in her own living room. And you poor thing, you found her." She put her hand on Iris's arm. "Please accept my condolences."

  The door across the hall opened and Mrs. Martin came out to join the conversation. Another person came out, then another. Soon Iris was at the center of a sympathetic group. People asked questions, not because they were nosey, but because they cared about her and wanted to know what she thought.

  She told them about buying beignets and how she had searched high and low for Geneviève before getting the nurse, but she couldn't bear to talk about what she'd seen in the apartment.

  "I bet her son came back. You saw how he treated her," Mrs. Benoit said.

  Mrs.Martin shook her head. "Not her own flesh and blood. I think it was someone come to rob people."

&nb
sp; "You weren't in the parlor Saturday night." Mrs. Benoit said. "What do you think, Iris? Did Geneviève ever talk about that son of hers?"

  Iris had told Detective Washington what Geneviève said about her worthless son, but she wasn't going to tell anyone else. Mr. Pasqua saved her from having to answer.

  "I think it was an intruder," he said. "Did you see anything unusual Sunday morning, Iris? Anyone who looked like they didn't belong?"

  She shook her head. "No. I wish I had, but I didn't."

  But as Iris continued on her rounds and people kept asking the same questions, she remembered the old man by the elevator. He was dressed in Sunday clothes and looked like he belonged, but she'd never seen him before.

  She'd first noticed him after she finished the first floor. She'd smiled and started to say good morning, but he turned away like she wasn't even there. The elevator came and she got on. He was gone when she came back downstairs. At the time, she hadn't considered his behavior suspicious, just rude like too many other people, but now she wasn't so sure.

  When her shift ended, Iris called Detective Washington and told her about the man by the elevator. "I'm sorry I didn't mention him before. I'd forgotten all about him. He didn't look suspicious."

  "Don't be sorry. I understand. Did you see his face?"

  "Just for a second, but I think I'd recognize him if I saw him again."

  "I'd like you to come in and work with one of our sketch artists." They made an appointment for four-thirty.

  Iris drove home feeling a lot better than she had on the way to work. She had been afraid Detective Washington would be angry because she hadn't mentioned the man before, but she'd been nice as could be and very interested in what she had to say. The old people at Sunny Gardens had listened to her, too. When I'm a personality, the whole world will care what I say. That thought reminded her to touch base with her agent. She hadn't spoken to Danny since last week.

  "Where were you?" Danny said. "You missed the audition. I tried to call you but your phone must have been off the hook."

  "Ohmigod, I forgot."