Who Killed Tiffany Jones?

by Mavis Kaye

  That was a year ago, and they had been drawing closer ever since.

  Renee had almost been able to see a future for them. The only thing that had troubled her was the fact that, about six months ago, Lester had suddenly come into a very large sum of money and he wouldn’t tell her where he had gotten it. He just said that he was in the process of starting a new business. When Renee began pulling away from him, Lester finally disclosed the source of his newfound wealth. It was a grisly, lurid business, and she was shocked and uneasy. But when faced with the thought of being without Lester again, Renee decided that his fate was her fate. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Now Lester was dead. He’d hanged himself, the paper said. But she knew it wasn’t true. Lester wouldn’t have killed himself, not now. She saw him two days before his death, and they had planned a vacation in 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 69

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  Rome. And he hadn’t drunk since they got back together. She was sure of it.

  If they would do this to Lester, was she safe? Panic gripped her, and she dropped her head onto the desk and began to cry.

  The sharp trill of the telephone brought her back to reality. Renee almost didn’t answer it. She didn’t want to deal with anyone right now.

  Not even friends offering well-meant condolences. But then she remembered that Paolo, her bodyguard, said he was going to call her to see if she needed him to escort her to the club that afternoon. Yes, she definitely needed him. Renee was afraid, but she couldn’t stay away from the club. Not now, after what had just happened. No matter how badly she wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear, she couldn’t just not show up. She wiped her eyes and her nose on the back of her hand and picked up the phone, expecting to hear Paolo’s throaty, French accent on the other end of the line.

  Instead she heard a woman’s voice say: “Hello? Hello?”

  “Who is this?” Renee demanded. “What do you want?”

  “Ms. Rothchild? You don’t know me, but my name is Mariana Blair. I’m a reporter from the Glo—”

  Renee slammed the phone into the cradle. She put her head down on the desk and, once again, began to sob.

  When the phone rang again, Renee snatched it up and screamed into the receiver: “Don’t you people have any respect at all? Mon dieu!

  A man is dead and I suppose all that means to you is another quote for your bloody article. Well I have nothing to say. And if you call me again I will take action against—”

  “Please, I don’t mean to disturb you, madam, especially in such a time of grief, but I think you’ll want at least to hear me out. It seems that the music world has suffered a string of untimely deaths, including a good friend of mine, Brixton Hewitt, and now your, uh, friend Lester Bennett. Who knows who could be next.”

  Mariana let her words hang in the air between them. She waited 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 70

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  out the silence, feeling Renee Rothchild begin to panic on the other end of the line.

  She’s wondering exactly how much I know, Mariana thought. Well, let her wonder.

  After an extremely long pause, Renee whispered, “Who are you?

  What do you want?”

  “As I tried to say before, I’m a reporter from the Globe in London. I wanted to ask you a few questions, if I may?”

  Renee remained silent, so Mariana continued, “I’m sure you’re familiar with Edward ‘Ruff Daddy’ Shelton? As you may have heard, he was in the car with Brixton Hewitt when Brixton was killed. There’s reason to suspect that Ruff Daddy may have been the intended target, not Brixton. Tell me, are you currently on speaking terms with Ruff Daddy? I ask you because I have it from a reliable source that he met Lester at the Lido the last time he was in Paris. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Really? That’s too bad. So I guess you wouldn’t happen to know Klaus Svrenson or his Dutch associate Kees Van derVall either?”

  Renee was dumbfounded. Rage, fear, curiosity, indignation, and grief welled up in her so strongly that she could barely speak. Who was this woman? How did she know about any of this? In the end, Renee’s rage and fear got the best of her.

  “How dare you question me? How dare you call me, especially at a time like this, to ask these ridiculous questions? It’s cruel and insensitive and just sick. You should be ashamed.”

  “Please, Ms. Rothchild, I didn’t mean to upset you any more than you already are. It’s just that you must know how important the answers to these questions are right now. I believe that you, of all people, would want to take special care—”

  “What? What did you just say? Was that a threat?”

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  “No, Ms. Rothchild. I’m not trying to threaten you in any way.”

  “That’s right. You’re not threatening me. You’re just trying to play me for the fool and get me to spill my guts to you so you can turn around and run with any little scrap I can give you.” Renee’s voice turned husky and menacing.

  Suddenly, she was no longer Renee Rothchild, international jazz diva. She became, once again, the young and hungry Edna Louise Byrd from the bayous of Louisiana—the Edna Louise Byrd who had scratched and clawed her way to the summit of the jazz world and refused to allow anyone to remove her from her perch.

  “I told you once, I have nothing to say to you. I don’t know the answers to any of your questions. I’ve never heard of this Van derVall or Klaus Svrenson. I’m giving you fair warning. If you call me again, even once, you’ll regret it. I promise.”

  Renee slammed the phone down and began pacing her office like a caged animal. Thoughts of Lester and his dashed dreams and promises flooded her mind along with the realization that she too was now in danger. She had no idea how she was going to make it through the next hour, much less through the rest of the day or week.

  She couldn’t consider that now. She had to take this one day at a time. First, she had to contact Lester’s family. Then she had to call Paolo. He would protect her. He would make sure that she got to the club and back home again in one piece, without losing her mind along the way.

  Later, at The Emerald Isle, Renee had the unmistakable feeling that she was being observed. The feeling was so intense that she hesitated mingling with the guests as she normally did. Most nights, she was as much a source of entertainment as the famous musicians whom she booked to perform. But tonight she couldn’t trust herself in that role. She avoided the patrons, speaking to no one but Paolo.

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  second to herself to grieve in private. He repeatedly told her just to go home, but when she said no, he assumed that she simply could not face her grief alone. So he stayed nearby, waiting outside her second-floor office. She remained in the office throughout the evening and, except for several phones calls that she had to make, spoke to no one.

  At the end of the night, when Renee asked him to stay with her in her townhouse, he agreed. She’d looked terrified all night, poor thing.

  It was the least he could do. Renee and Paolo slipped out the back door of the club just after 1 A.M. and headed to her home.

  The next morning, they left early to return to the club. Renee told Paolo she had to meet with some business associates.

  They came out of Renee’s townhouse and turned left onto rue Jacob and then right onto the small side street, rue de Furstenberg. It was a short walk from her home to the club, but that morning, Renee felt as though it would never end.

  The scene outside was as quiet and picturesque as usual. The tall empress trees were in full bloom, with their la
rge, mauve blossoms glowing in the morning light. The houses on either side of the street had been converted from stables and, unlike her own modern townhouse a few blocks away, were centuries old, with low doorways and brick-and-stone facades. They lent just the right old-world charm that, to Renee, was the hallmark of good taste and beauty. But she barely noticed any of it that day. She was unable to focus. Her thoughts were on this afternoon’s meeting with Lester’s associates.

  Renee sat behind her desk for two hours staring off into space before she heard a knock at the door. Slowly, she rose and walked over to the locked door. She opened both locks with the key that she wore around her wrist and swung the door open. It was Paolo.

  “Your guests have arrived, ma’am. They’re downstairs, waiting at a table.”

  “Good,” Renee said. “I’ll be right down.”

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  near the bandstand and Paolo was standing by the bar, some fifty feet away, where Renee had instructed him to stay. She knew that from that distance he couldn’t hear what would be said but he would be able to watch and protect her if something went wrong.

  Paolo watched as the visitors rose to greet Renee. The slim woman with long, auburn hair stood and hugged Renee, seemingly consoling her, and the wiry, dark-skinned man in the gray suit shook her hand before they sat down. At first, the man sat back in his chair, almost dis-interestedly, as Renee and the woman leaned toward each other whispering. The woman kissed Renee’s cheek as Renee dabbed tears from her eyes, then turned toward the man who glared at them impatiently.

  Paolo never took his eyes off of them.

  At the table, the man cleared his throat and said, “I think it’s time we got down to business.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” the woman said.

  “So, Renee, have you arranged things here?” the man asked.

  “Just so you both know, I don’t feel right about this,” Renee said, still dabbing at her eyes.

  “I know, dear, I know. But it’s what Lester would have wanted. You know that,” the woman said.

  Renee stared at the woman momentarily, then straightened in her chair and turned to the man. “Yes. I did. I made two or three calls yesterday after I got your call. The funeral home is about a kilometer from here. You’ll be allowed to inspect the body. A man named Pierre Chadenet will be with you and he’s going to step out of the room while you pay your last respects, and when he comes back into the room, he’ll seal the coffin. The coffin cannot be reopened, not by customs or anyone else. Only you or Lester’s sister, the sole surviving member of his family, can have the coffin opened when you arrive back in the States.”

  Renee handed the woman a key. She took it and placed it in her purse without a word.

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  “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked.

  Renee shook her head. “I just want this to be over with. I don’t think I can continue. None of it was my idea. Lester would never have purposely put me in danger, and now that he’s gone I want out. I think I’m going to leave Paris for a while—after I hear from you and I know that you’ve arrived safely in the States.”

  “Don’t worry,” the woman said. “We’re leaving this afternoon no later than four P.M. I’ll be sure to call you the minute we land so that you know everything went all right. In fact, I’ll call you from the plane so that you know we boarded with no problems. You deserve to take as much time for yourself as you need.”

  “That’s what I intend to do,” Renee said, wiping her eyes.

  “Still, I’d think about your decision to quit if I were you. It may not be as easy as you think, dear,” the woman said, as she and her companion stood up.

  Renee stared at them silently, as Paolo escorted them out of the club. When he closed the door and returned, Renee started up the stairs to her office. “I have a lot of work to do, Paolo,” she said, “and I don’t think I can face the crowd when we open. Can you take care of things down here tonight?”

  Paolo nodded.

  Renee remained in her office all afternoon. She sat at her desk, going over the books, ordering liquor, wine, food, and other supplies, and making phone calls. She had resolved to leave Paris for at least a month or two. She would pack tomorrow and get a flight to New Orleans the following day. No one but Paolo would know where she was going. But she couldn’t even think about leaving unless she left everything in perfect order for Jean, the club’s general manager. He was a hard worker and extremely loyal, but not the sharpest person in the world when it came to making decisions. So if Renee really planned to escape in two days, it meant that she had a long, hard night’s work ahead of her.

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  Around eight o’clock, the club began filling up. She could feel the excitement and the energy in the crowd. The Junior Mance Trio would be playing later, and she expected a big turnout. At any other time, the laughter and joy would be intoxicating to her. But on this night, the sound of the slow, sensuous jazz piano solo, which was being piped into the room, and the appreciative murmurs of the crowd made her heart ache.

  No one was watching her. No one but Paolo and Jean even knew that she was in the club that night. She hadn’t left her second-floor office since she went down to the kitchen around five o’clock and brought up a thermos filled with frothy cappuccino. The kitchen staff hadn’t even begun to arrive at that point. No outsider could have gotten into the club. Still, as much as she berated herself for being frightened and panicky, Renee made sure to lock both locks on her office door and shut the window.

  Around two in the morning, the crowd downstairs began to thin and soon the noise, laughter, and music faded out. Renee heard the sound of Paolo shutting and locking the front doors. About a half hour later, she heard the opening and closing of the heavy metal door in the back as the kitchen help packed up and left for the night. As was cus-tomary, the front doors opened and shut a few minutes later. Paolo had let Jean out, she thought. Afterward, The Emerald Isle was silent.

  Too silent.

  Renee waited for Paolo to come trudging up the stairs, weary after a long night, and help her put away the evening’s receipts. But she didn’t hear the usual tinkle of glasses, which signaled that he was preparing his special cosmopolitans. Nor did she hear the whir of the espresso machine, indicating that he was making cappuccinos instead.

  Nothing.

  Then Renee heard a muffled, creaking sound as someone ascended the wooden stairs. She assumed it was Paolo until she realized that the footsteps were much too light. Paolo was over six feet tall and weighed 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 76

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  240 pounds; it was definitely not his heavy, forceful gait. Nor was it Jean, since he had apparently left. And if it wasn’t Paolo, who was it?

  When someone pushed against the door and tried to turn the door-knob, she leapt up and backed away from the desk. Terrified and trem-bling, she eased her way over toward the telephone, which sat in its cradle on top of the filing cabinet. She picked up the phone and hurriedly dialed the police.

  The key turning in the door lock froze her. That was impossible!

  No one, not even Paolo, had a key. She had the only one and it was still hanging from her wrist. Suddenly, complete panic gripped her, and she screamed as loudly as she could: “Paolo! Paolo! Help me!”

  A second later, a hand muffled her scream and another gripped her throat. She dropped the phone, and, just before the intruder ripped the cord from the wall, a hysterical voice could be heard screaming at the other end of the line—“Qui est-ce? Qui êtes-vous?”

  New York

  Perspiring
lightly, Kim Carlyle flopped down on her couch with a towel around her neck; she was still wearing her powder-blue jogging shorts and a tank top. It was after 11 A.M., and she had just finished her morning run in the park and was ready to settle into the daily routine of unwinding with coffee, yogurt, and the daily papers before she showered and left for her office. The message button on her telephone answering machine was blinking, but, after checking the caller I.D.

  and seeing that it was from Rick Dupre, she ignored it. She had picked up the late edition of the New York Daily News, and, when she opened it, she was stopped by one of the first headlines she saw: 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 77

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  JAZZ GREAT SUCCUMBS

  TO HEROIN OVERDOSE IN PARIS

  Below it, there was a picture of a young and vibrant Renee Rothchild poised elegantly in front of a microphone, beaming with confidence at her audience.

  Renee Rothchild, born Edna Louise Byrd, in Westwego, Louisiana, in 1948, was found dead of an apparent overdose by her bodyguard at approximately 2:30 A.M. at The Emerald Isle, the nightclub she owned in Paris. Drug paraphernalia was found in her office. Police sources say they are attempting to determine whether or not there had been any foul play. They are questioning the bodyguard, the general manager of the club, and the staff. The bodyguard claimed that he had been in the basement completing the liquor inventory. He heard nothing unusual, but when he came upstairs to check on Renee, her office door was open and she was dead.

  The article was brief, since, from what Kim could make out, the incident had happened the night before.

  It went on to say that the police inspector in charge of investigating Ms. Rothchild’s death noted that a few bruises had been found on her wrists, which may have been the result a struggle or Ms. Rothchild may have been restrained. Mention was made of the fact that Renee Rothchild’s longtime companion, Lester Bennett, had also recently committed suicide in his Paris apartment. Authorities were going to continue investigating both cases vigorously.