Secrets, Lies & Homicide

by Patricia Dusenbury

  "I'm glad you like it."

  "I talked to Judy Boaz last night."

  "And?"

  "Let's go outside where we can hear ourselves think."

  They sat on the gallery steps and he said, "She kept telling me what a cute little boy I was and how much she'd like to see me all grown up. She was angling for me to take her out to dinner. Like my Dad used to, she says. When I dodged, she started whining." He scowled. "A phone conversation was more than enough of her."

  "Did you ask about Geneviève?"

  "She said Geneviève screwed around, but there was one guy with money who was always in the background. She called him Geneviève's 'sugar daddy'. Judy talks like a character in an old b-movie."

  "Did she remember his name?"

  "She never knew it, says it was a secret even from Dad. But she's sure that this sugar daddy gave Geneviève land where he knew a highway was going through. Then she sold it for a fat profit. We find the deed." He snapped his finger. "We have his name."

  "Easier said than done." She explained that land records were organized not by the names of owners but by location. Unless he knew what piece of land was involved, they'd be looking for a needle in a haystack.

  "I thought you researched the deeds for the houses your company restores."

  "I do, and I know the addresses." She reached over and put her hand on his. "Did Judy tell you anything else, like what road we're talking about, what year this happened, something to narrow it down?"

  "No, but I can get back in touch. I ended our conversation on a positive note, just in case." He groaned. "I'll take her out to dinner if I have to, but trust me, I'd rather go out with you."

  "I certainly hope so. You just finished telling me how awful she is."

  "Let me rephrase my comment. There's no one in New Orleans I'd rather take to dinner." He leaned back and looked her over. "It takes a special woman to look good in baggy jeans and a work shirt, but I'm hoping you own a dress."

  "I own several dresses. Did you call the lawyer?"

  "I'm meeting with him Monday. Are you busy Saturday night?"

  "Saturday I'm going up to the farm to help exercise the horses and staying to talk. I think Kyle is ready to tell me the truth about Fast Eddie. If not, I've found an organization in Tennessee that can help us."

  "Claire, the missing horse is a snipe hunt for the police, not for you. I really want them off my back. A detective woke me up this morning to ask if I'd killed Iris somebody."

  "Iris, who worked at Sunny Gardens? Someone killed her? When?"

  "This morning. Why do you care? Did you know her?"

  "Your mother mentioned her, the only person working there that she liked. And she's dead? Tony, something really weird is going on."

  "No kidding. And look who's here to talk about it." He pointed to the curb where a car had just pulled up. "Your pal the policeman."

  Mike was alone this time. He got out of the car and walked toward them.

  "Hi Mike," she said. "What brings you here?"

  "I've been looking for your friend." He nodded at Tony.

  Tony's handsome face turned sullen, his eyes the cloudy gray of a stormy ocean. "I haven't been hiding."

  "Is there somewhere more private where we can talk?" Mike said.

  "What's wrong with right here?"

  Several bangs followed by a loud crash came from inside the house. Mike's look asked for an explanation.

  "We're demolishing the back stoop," Claire said. "It's quieter out here. Quieter but not quiet. Let me go see if they can keep the noise down" She started to rise, but Tony grabbed her hand. "Stay, Claire, please. You know as much about this as I do, and I could use a little moral support." When she sat back down, he used his leverage on her hand to pull her closer.

  Mike stepped back and leaned against the stair rail. He took a tape recorder out of his pocket. "Do you mind if I record our conversation?"

  "Record away," Tony said. "I have nothing to hide."

  * * * *

  When Mike returned to headquarters he stopped by Bea's office. She'd just returned from Sunny Gardens.

  "I got your message about the horse trainer," she said. "It looks more and more like Tony is right about his mother's involvement in the old murder."

  "She knew that skeleton was there."

  "Have you told Claire? Or thanked her for the tip?"

  "I just saw her. I should have mentioned it."

  "I bet she was happy to see you." Bea smiled.

  "She was with Burke, and neither of them was happy to see me." They'd been deep in a conversation that stopped the minute they spotted him.

  "I don't believe it. She likes you, Mike."

  Bea was going to tease him about Claire Marshall every chance she got. Well, he'd gotten a little ammunition this afternoon and he was going to use it.

  "Burke asked about you."

  "Really?" She raised her eyebrows.

  "He wanted to know if you were back at the office, pulling wings off butterflies." He gave it a minute to register. "If you're interested in this guy, Beatrice, you're going to have to do something about that first impression."

  "He said that? Really?" She laughed. "I guess it's back to charm school for me." She took a package of cookies out of her jacket pocket and waved them at him. "Want one? Oatmeal raisin. Practically health food."

  "No, thanks."

  "What else did he say?" She settled in to listen.

  "He never met Iris Burton, but he thinks she must have been the 'little friend on the staff' who told his mother that Roger Devereux was at Sunny Gardens, in the batso wing. Claire backed him up. Geneviève told her the same thing, used the same term."

  "The batso wing? That's cold."

  "He thinks the management might have another name for it." Burke had a sense of humor, albeit a dark one. "Our celebrity suspect is not happy about the publicity surrounding his mother's murder, and he isn't sure whether we or the reporters are more annoying. But he was amused by the newspaper story about Geneviève being reunited with her lost love. The funniest part was anyone thinking she had the capacity to love."

  "He's not backing off is he?"

  "Not an inch." Burke had been defiant, and he'd manipulated the situation this afternoon beautifully, Tony and Claire versus the intruding policeman. "Nor has his arrogance abated. He's going to give us the killer on a silver platter. It's all here." He pulled the tape recorder out of his pocket.

  "Are we still talking about the man who may or may not exist, his mother's lover who helped her kill his father?"

  "Yes. And he's sure that Iris was killed because she was Geneviève's confidante." He kneaded the back of his neck where tension had grabbed hold. "The more we learn, the more sense his theory makes, but I'm not ready to declare his innocence. Did you talk to Tamika?"

  "She doesn't remember who gave her the old bruises, but she is certain that Devereux was upstairs this morning. The only person who actually saw him before seven-thirty was Matt Truex, a student the family has hired to help Roger get up and dressed. All three staff members saw Truex arrive at six-thirty and go directly to Roger's room. At seven-fifteen Truex brought Roger out to breakfast. This morning like every other morning. I have Truex's contact information, and I'll talk to him, but I don't expect to learn anything we don't already know."

  "So, Roger's not the shooter." He'd never really believed it possible. "Anything else?"

  "Not much. None of the early morning walkers noticed any other people around, nor did anyone hear the shots. Everyone claims to be terribly upset, but they're loving the excitement."

  "You don't like Sunny Gardens," he said. Geneviève hadn't either.

  "It reminds me of junior high school." Bea made a face. "Tamika feels bad because she and some of the other staff used to mock Iris behind her back. They say she dressed like a nurse in a sixties sit-com. If she hadn't been talking to me, I think the venue would have been a porn film. I've yet to find anyone, staff or resident, who liked Genev
iève. Our two victims formed their own little clique and no one at Sunny Gardens knew or cared much about either one except..."

  "Except the person who cared enough to kill them."

  CHAPTER 21

  "My daughter witnessed a murder and you did nothing to keep her safe?"

  Bill Burton stood next to the chair he'd been offered, clenching and unclenching his fists. Mike remained standing with him. Mrs. Burton sat across the table, Bea beside her.

  "As soon as I learned Iris was telling people she'd seen the killer, I began making plans for her protection. It was already too late. I'm sorry." He took personal responsibility. Grieving parents deserved more than a bureaucratic we.

  "Before you could make your plans or before you knew?"

  "Before I knew." It was the truth, but it wasn't going to satisfy Iris's father whose outrage demanded a target more substantial than a shadowy unknown killer. "Mr. Burton, we'll do everything in our power to bring your daughter's killer to justice."

  The clichéd response was far kinder than telling this man that his daughter had placed herself in peril. Iris had wanted fame and in death she'd gained it. Her murder led the local news. Every TV station ran and reran clips from her interview, shadowy and mysterious but recognizable. She had signed her own death warrant, and he hoped her parents never found out.

  "Did she suffer?" Carol Burton said.

  "No. Death was immediate. The killer was behind her, and there were no signs of a struggle. I doubt she knew what happened or even saw her killer." And I hope you can find comfort in that.

  Mike had seen his first dead man in Viet Nam. It was the first of many, comrades and enemies. The lucky ones looked more surprised than anguished. Regardless, that last expression on the faces of men who'd been his friends remained etched in memory, forever obscuring how they'd looked when they were alive. It was something no parent should see. Iris's father must know this too. He had insisted that he alone would identify his daughter.

  Mike and Bea had agreed that he'd accompany Mr. Burton to the morgue while she stayed with his wife. Only one parent would have to stand in the cold room and watch the sheet being drawn back from their daughter's body. Only her father would see the bullet holes in her face. He would identify and claim their child's body.

  Bill Burton walked to the door. "Let's go."

  Iris's mother watched her husband depart, then walked over to the window and looked out at the clear blue sky.

  "It should be raining," she said. "That's what I was thinking the whole way driving down here. If this were Shakespeare, the cloud-darkened sky would be shedding hard tears; the wind would be howling with grief. Nature recognizes tragedy in Shakespeare."

  "We consider your daughter's death a tragedy," Bea said.

  "Is there any chance you've made a mistake? That it's not Iris."

  "No. I'm sorry, but no."

  "Shakespeare built several plays around mistaken identity; they were comedies, not tragedies." The bereaved mother turned away from the window. "Have you read Shakespeare?"

  "Not since high school," Bea said. She'd majored in criminal justice at Orleans Community College and then LSU. It was a curriculum with little room for the liberal arts, and hers was a life with little time for reading.

  "I'm a high school English teacher. Juniors study Shakespeare, and each year the class puts on one of his plays. Iris's junior year, it was Hamlet. She was Ophelia. I didn't want to give my own daughter the female lead, but the other students insisted. They said the best actress shouldn't be eliminated just because her mother was the teacher."

  "Iris told me she'd started acting in grammar school."

  "I wish you could have seen her. She wore a long white dress and I wove real flowers into her hair."

  "She must have been lovely."

  "Of course, Ophelia dies. Although it's not clear if her death was an accident or suicide, Iris wanted it to be an accident, and that's how she played it. She refused to accept the idea of a heroine choosing to die."

  If picturing her daughter as a tragic heroine was helping this woman cope with the unthinkable, Bea would do her best to go along. "I remember reading Hamlet but I wasn't really confident that I understood everything."

  "Do any of us? Still, the better students are captured by the drama. There's sex, violence, revenge." Carol Burton turned back to the window and stared at the offending blue sky.

  "I spent some time with Iris," Bea said. "and I felt as if I was getting to know her. I'd like to know more, what she was like, who her friends were."

  "She was nineteen, still very much a child with a child's view of the world. Innocent."

  "She told me that you two were very close."

  "Iris was my only child. I held her near even when we were apart." Carol Burton hugged herself as if warding off cold—or the cold knowledge that she'd never hug her daughter again. "It's not even Friday the thirteenth is it?"

  "No." It was the fourth, not even close. "Would you like to sit down?"

  "Thank you." Moving slowly, like a woman decades older, Carol Burton returned to the chair.

  "Did Iris ever mention Geneviève Burke?" Bea picked up her pencil.

  "Sunday night she called and told us Geneviève had been murdered. She was extremely upset. We were too. Bill and I tried to talk her into moving back home, but—" A sob caught in her throat and kept her from finishing that sentence. She recovered her poise and continued, "The last couple weeks, all Iris talked about was Geneviève. Geneviève this, Geneviève that. She said Geneviève was her mentor. I think she meant role model."

  "Did Iris ever talk about Geneviève's past, her marriages, old love affairs?"

  "She told me her first husband was at Sunny Gardens, too, in a different area, because he has Alzheimer's." Iris's mother frowned. "Some story that didn't make much sense about him trying to break into Geneviève's apartment. Iris thought that under the craziness, he still loved her and wanted to be with her. You don't think he..."

  "No, we don't," Bea said. "Geneviève married twice. Did Iris pass on anything about the second marriage?"

  "She was thrilled to learn that Geneviève's son from her second marriage was the glamorous Tony Burke. Geneviève refused to introduce them. She said Layton—that's what she called him—was the kind of man who'd mess up a young woman's life without a second thought. Of course that only made Iris more determined to meet him." A smile flickered then died. "They never met. She would have told me."

  "Did Iris ever mention anything else about Geneviève's ex-husbands. Or old lovers?"

  "I thought you wanted to talk about Iris. Your questions are about Geneviève."

  "It appears that this all began with Geneviève," Bea said. "But I do want to know about Iris. Was there a boyfriend? A best friend? Someone she might have confided in?"

  "Only Geneviève." Carol Burton wiped a tear from her cheek. "Now I'm doing it."

  "Do you know of anyone who was angry with Iris or resented her?" She would go through the motions, although this line of questioning was more consolation than investigation.

  "No one. Iris wanted fame and fortune, travel to distant cities and the company of glamorous people, but hers wasn't a walk-all-over-other-people kind of ambition. She was one of the most popular girls in high school. Everyone liked her."

  "The people we've talked to said Iris always had a smile and a pleasant word."

  "Bill wants vengeance, like Hamlet did. He feels guilty. We both do."

  "Nothing that happened is his fault, or yours."

  "Iris dropped out of college after one semester. She moved to New Orleans to pursue a career in show business. Bill and I wanted her to finish school, but she was determined and we agreed to pay her rent for a year. Last month, the year was up, and we cut her off. That's why she took the job at Sunny Gardens." A tear ran down her cheek. "It wasn't the money; we could afford it. We loved her and wanted what was best for her."

  "I'm sure Iris knew that."

  "I don't care about
vengeance. Whether or not you find the killer, my daughter is gone. Moving to New Orleans was supposed to be the first step toward a wonderful and exciting life, but all she got was one crummy job waiting tables in a night club and another one handing out pills in a retirement home." Iris's mother rocked back and forth, rubbing her arms as if warding off a chill.

  "She mentioned auditions, acting and dancing classes that she really enjoyed." Bea searched for words that might offer some comfort.

  "I saw the television interview. We get New Orleans stations on cable. Iris called and told me to watch but not tell her father. She knew he wouldn't approve. She said Geneviève would and that her stepping forward would help find the killer. But it's what helped the killer find her, isn't it?" As she spoke Carol Burton seemed to fold in on herself, unable to bear the burden of her knowledge.

  "There's a sofa in the ladies room. And a blanket. Would you like to lie down for a few minutes? I'll sit with you until your husband gets back." They'd have to be back soon. Mike had an eleven-thirty appointment with Kyle Winslow who was coming in to make his formal statement.

  CHAPTER 22

  Tony called Judy Boaz and ran into a buzz saw.

  "We talked for an hour Wednesday night," she said. "You never told me that Geneviève had been murdered."

  "I told you she was dead."

  "That's not the same thing. I felt like an idiot when I read about it in the paper."

  "I told you she was dead," he repeated. "Can you imagine how hard it is to tell someone your mother was murdered? Think how I must feel."

  "You asked me who her boyfriends were, but you never mentioned anything about her being reunited with her long lost love."

  "That story is... Never mind." He leveled with her, to a point. "I'm trying to find the man who murdered my mother. I hoped you could tell me who he was."

  "Geneviève was killed last weekend. You asked about things that happened ages ago."

  "The motive for her murder goes way back." Way back to when she killed my father, the man you claim was your lover, and I don't believe you.

  "I still don't see why you didn't tell me."