Aunt Yolanda glanced around the ballroom, still littered with plates, glasses, napkins, and silverware. The musicians had packed up their instruments, and the relative silence after a night of rousing jazz numbers made my ears ring.
“I should figure out where Nestor has gone,” Aunt Yolanda said. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”
I hadn’t either, I realized with a pang of guilt. After that fight with Big Daddy, I’d vowed to keep an eye on him but I’d been distracted by other things. “Maybe he’s slipped away somewhere to get some rest.” And by “get some rest” I meant “sleep off all the booze he’d swallowed during the evening.” Why else would he have started the fight with Big Daddy? If he was “resting” somewhere, waking him would be like poking a tiger with a sharp stick, but I’d have to risk it. He’d be even angrier if I left him to sleep it off at The Shores.
I stood and realized that I still had Judd’s jacket. Yawning, I tried to decide whether to leave it with a member of the staff or give it to Mellie. She obviously knew him well. The one minor problem: She and I hadn’t actually met. Which made explaining how I knew to give her Judd’s suit coat a little tricky.
Counting on Miss Frankie to help with that, I nodded discreetly toward the two women on the other side of the room. “I don’t remember meeting the woman standing with Susannah Boudreaux. Who is she?”
Miss Frankie sat up and took a look. “You didn’t meet Mellie? How did I let that happen?”
“It’s not your fault,” I assured her quickly. “There were so many people here. It would have been impossible to meet each one personally. Is she a friend of yours?”
Miss Frankie nodded. “I’ve known Mellie since she was a girl. Susannah is relatively new to these parts. Her people come from Charleston, I believe.”
That didn’t tell me much. “I saw her talking to a guy earlier,” I said. “Tall. Blond. Kind of good-looking, I guess.” I held up the suit coat. “He loaned this to me, but I never saw him again. She called him Judd. Am I right in assuming he’s Big Daddy’s brother?”
Miss Frankie brightened. “I’m sure it probably was. He was here earlier.”
“So Mellie is his ex-sister-in-law?”
“That’s right. Mellie was married to Bradley several years ago. They’ve been divorced for a while, more’s the pity. She was the best thing that ever happened to him.” She scowled thoughtfully and lowered her voice a notch. “Susannah is his current wife. The third one. There was one in between, but she didn’t last long. Bless her heart, Susannah there tries hard, but she’s no match for Bradley.”
I glanced again at the two women from the corner of my eye and wondered if the wife/ex-wife thing explained the tension I sensed between them or if there was something else going on. I tried to picture either woman married to Big Daddy. Neither one seemed like his type, but maybe I had a slightly biased idea of what his type was. I’d have bet on platinum blond, dumb as a rock, and 95 percent plastic.
Neither Mellie nor Susannah fit that mold. Neither had Violet, come to think of it, who seemed to be vying for a spot as Wife No. 4. In fact, all three women could have been triplets, separated at birth by a decade or so.
I decided not to interrupt them. I’d hang on to Judd’s jacket for a little while longer. Seeing him again to return it would be no hardship. “Why don’t we gather our things,” I suggested, “and then we can look for Uncle Nestor. Are there any private rooms around here where he might be lying down?”
Miss Frankie got to her feet, but it seemed to take some effort. “Several,” she said. “I’ll help you look.” She smiled at me so fondly, my earlier doubts about the party dimmed. Now that it was over, I could admit that I hadn’t really minded playing hostess for the evening. I just didn’t want to make a habit of it.
“I have a better idea.” Aunt Yolanda reached into the purse at her feet for her cell phone. She pressed a couple of buttons and almost immediately we heard the sound of Uncle Nestor’s ringtone coming in through the open doors to the balcony.
“Now, wasn’t that easier?” She shut her phone with a snap and crossed the room, calling out as she walked, “Nestor? What are you doing out there? We’re ready to go.”
He didn’t answer, but that didn’t surprise me. I still fully expected to find him sleeping it off somewhere. I trailed after her so I could help rouse him if my suspicions proved correct. “Maybe he fell asleep in one of the deck chairs.”
“You underestimate your uncle,” she said. “He’s probably tidying up.”
I thought she was underestimating the amount he’d had to drink, but I didn’t say so aloud. Besides, my uncle isn’t the type to “tidy.” He cleans the way he does everything else: all out. If he were cleaning up after Miss Frankie’s party, he’d be sweeping everything in sight into garbage bags.
Aunt Yolanda waited for me to catch up with her, and put an arm around my shoulders when I did. “You’re happy here, aren’t you, Rita?”
The question surprised me and so did her timing, but I nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“Are you sure? You seem a little…jumpy.”
“That’s because I’m still adjusting. And this”—I gestured toward the party mess—“isn’t really my thing. I love Zydeco. I have a great staff and I love the work I’m doing. And you’ve seen my house. It’s incredible. I’m happy with my decision. I’m just not sure that you and Uncle Nestor are happy for me.”
“I’m thrilled for you,” she said, giving me another squeeze of reassurance. “And Nestor is fine with it, too.”
I laughed at her careful phrasing. “Fine with it? I wish I could believe you. He seems hurt. Maybe even a little resentful toward Miss Frankie.”
“He’s also adjusting, mija. If he does feel any resentment, it’s only temporary. He’s worried about you and he misses you. Just be patient with him. He’ll get there.”
Guilt tweaked at me again. “You know it was never my intention to hurt either of you. I didn’t stay here because I care more about Miss Frankie than the two of you.”
“Of course we know that.” She turned to face me, resting both hands on my shoulders. “There’s nothing in the world Nestor and I want more than your happiness. If this is the life you choose, we’re in your corner. I hope you know that.”
I hugged her tightly, grateful for her steadiness and soft-spoken approval. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She smiled as I stepped away, but I glimpsed something that looked almost melancholy beneath her expression. I had to ask, “Is everything okay with the two of you, Tía?”
She pulled back, eyes wide. “With us? Of course. Why?”
“It’s just a feeling I get. The two of you showing up here without warning. Uncle Nestor leaving Agave in somebody else’s hands. He called three times before we even got here to make sure things were running smoothly. Something’s…different.”
She laughed, but it sounded more brittle than amused. “Such an imagination you have. We’re fine. We wanted to see how you’re doing, that’s all.”
Again, I tried to believe her, but I couldn’t ignore the anger I’d seen in Uncle Nestor. While I tried to figure out what to say about that, Aunt Yolanda turned away and looked out through the doors, staring into the night, her back stiff, her chin high, but that only made me more convinced that she was hiding something. But we’d been going nonstop since the minute they arrived, so she could have just been tired. I’d ask again tomorrow, when we were both rested.
I held back, thinking I should give her a moment alone, but she called out to me only a heartbeat later.
“Rita? Oh my God. Rita! Come here. Quickly!” She sounded frantic. Frightened, even.
“What is it?” I asked, hurrying toward her. “What’s wrong?”
With trembling hands—so unlike my unflappable aunt—she pointed at something on the ground below us. “There’s someone in the pool. I think he’s in trouble.” Before I could reach her, she darted across the balcony and started down
the steps to the ground level.
“Who is it?” I called after her, but she was already gone.
It seemed to take forever to reach the other end of that long balcony, and by the time I got there, she was racing down the stone steps toward the swimming pool.
It took only one glance to figure out what had upset her. Someone was floating in the pool, facedown and unmoving. With my heart in my throat, I bolted down the steps. Even in the dim lighting from the tiki torches and twinkling white lights, I recognized who it was:
Big Daddy Boudreaux.
“Call nine-one-one!” Aunt Yolanda shouted as she knelt down beside the water. “I think he’s dead.”
The gentle hum of the pool’s filtration system and the soft lap of water against the sides of the pool were deceptively soothing sounds, especially since my pulse was racing frantically as the reality of the situation sank in.
Ignoring the logic that told me that nobody could breathe in that position, I stepped around a small statue that lay near the pool and plunged down the concrete steps into the water. It was only waist deep, but it dragged heavily on me as I made my way toward him.
Big Daddy bobbed gently on the waves I created. He didn’t stir, but in spite of a massive, bloody wound on the back of his head, I held on to the frantic hope that he might only be injured. “I need your help,” I called to Aunt Yolanda. “We need to turn him over.”
She stayed right where she was, shaking her head sadly. “It’s too late, mija.”
“You don’t know that.” My voice came out high-pitched and sharp-edged. “We need to turn him over and check for a pulse.”
“Rita—”
“Please, Aunt Yolanda. We have to at least check.”
Reluctantly, she followed me into the water and together we rolled Big Daddy onto his back. But as his swollen and bruised face emerged from the water, I realized that Aunt Yolanda was right.
Just a little while ago he’d been larger than life. Now Big Daddy Boudreaux stared sightlessly up at the sky, his mouth slightly open and his eyes bulging. In horror, I backed a step away, creating a wave that rolled over him and submerged his face again. An angry wound marred his forehead, probably where he hit his head as he fell in. I didn’t need to check for a pulse. I could tell just by looking.
He was dead.
Eleven
“Okay, Rita. Let’s go over this again. What time did Mr. Boudreaux arrive at the party?”
Two long hours had gone by since I’d placed the 911 call, and I’d told my story in detail at least three times. Half an hour ago, I’d been deposited in one corner of the ballroom and told to wait. Now I was sitting across the table from Detective Liam Sullivan, who apparently wanted me to tell the story again.
Sullivan and I had met last summer, during the investigation into Philippe’s murder. He’s tall, dark-haired, and yes, handsome. I’d fallen a little bit in love with him when he saved my life, though I’d never confessed that to anyone.
I didn’t mind answering his questions, but I wished I could have changed clothes first. My dress was still damp from going into the pool and the wet fabric clung to me like a second skin, chilling me to the bone. I huddled a little deeper into the light blanket Sullivan had asked one of the staff to bring me, and dug around in my fog-filled head for an answer. “I think it was around nine, but I can’t swear to it. And no, I don’t know how he ended up in the pool. He was just there.”
I knew I sounded testy, but who wouldn’t under the circumstances? There was a dead body in the swimming pool, and my uncle was missing. My aunt and mother-in-law were being interrogated in other parts of the club, as were the handful of guests and the staff who’d still been there when we sounded the alarm. I was worried about how Aunt Yolanda and Miss Frankie were holding up and starting to feel very concerned about Uncle Nestor, who seemed to have disappeared completely.
On top of all that, I’d been running nonstop for almost twenty-four hours and I’d had a few glasses of wine at the party. Exhaustion and alcohol were seriously impairing my ability to cope.
Sullivan glanced at his notes and ran a look over me. “You told Officer Matos that Mr. Boudreaux was drunk.”
Usually Sullivan’s eyes are a shade of blue so light they’re almost disconcerting. Tonight they were dark and gray, like storm clouds rolling in off the Gulf of Mexico. Plus, he was using his stern-cop voice, which, in spite of the charming Southern drawl, was probably sharp enough to cut diamonds.
“I said that I thought he was drunk,” I clarified. “And that it’s possible he stumbled into the pool on his own.”
Sullivan lowered his notebook to the table. “And you believed that?”
I shrugged with my face. “It’s possible.”
“You saw the body,” he said. “That explanation might account for one wound, but Mr. Boudreaux has lacerations on his face, bruising on his temple, swelling on his cheeks, and a serious contusion on the back of his head.”
Just thinking about that awful head wound threatened to activate my gag reflex. “He could have hit his head when he fell in.”
“But he didn’t,” Sullivan said. “I know that just from looking at him, and I’m guessin’ you know it, too.”
“I don’t know anything,” I said stubbornly. I didn’t believe Big Daddy’s death was an accident any more than Sullivan did, but I resented the implication that I might know more than I was telling him. “You don’t know what happened either. Don’t you need a coroner’s report or something?”
Sullivan fixed me with a hard gray stare. “Yeah. Technically. But it’s hard to imagine Mr. Boudreaux going into the pool and hitting both the back of his head and his face on the way down. I’m bettin’ he didn’t get the wound on the back of his head from bouncing off the side of the pool.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying he had help gettin’ that way.”
I pulled the blanket a little tighter and let out a resigned sigh. I thought about the statue at the side of the pool and wondered if someone had used it to send Big Daddy to his reward. I sure didn’t want the man’s death to be deliberate. Neither Miss Frankie nor Zydeco needed to be involved in another murder. Neither did I, and I hated to think of Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor wasting their whole visit talking to the police. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that somebody killed him,” I said. “He wasn’t exactly the nicest guy in the world.”
One of Sullivan’s eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean? Did you have some kind of trouble with him?”
“Me?” I shrugged. “Not really. I only met him for the first time a few hours ago.” It was the perfect time to tell him about Uncle Nestor popping Big Daddy a couple of times, but he hadn’t asked about anyone else having “trouble” with Big Daddy. Someone was sure to tell Sullivan about the fight, but I just couldn’t get the words out. I wasn’t ready to throw Uncle Nestor under the bus. I knew it was irrational, but I hoped they’d find the killer so quickly I wouldn’t have to rat him out.
Sullivan shifted his weight and propped both arms on the table. “Why don’t you define ‘not really’ for me?”
Another chill shook my body and I huddled deeper into the blanket. “He was loud and obnoxious and grabby. A bit too friendly, if you know what I mean.”
“Are you sayin’ he made a pass at you?”
“I guess you could call it that. I’m not sure his heart was in it. It seemed almost like a habit. He saw a woman and he made a grab.”
“And—”
“And nothing. I handled it. He went away and bothered other people. No big deal.”
Sullivan studied my expression for a moment before asking his next question. “Did he bother anyone else in particular?”
I carefully sidestepped the Uncle Nestor factor one more time and stayed focused on the female guests. “Not that I know of. He made the rounds and talked to a lot of people. So you think somebody hit him, and then pushed him into the pool?”
Sullivan didn’t so
much as blink. “Something like that. I’m told you found the body. Is that right?”
I gave him a thin-lipped nod and linked my hands on the table. “My aunt Yolanda and I found him.”
“Tell me about that.”
“We were looking for my uncle. The party was over and we were comparing notes about how we felt it had gone—you know how you do…”
He nodded, but didn’t say a word. I took that as a cue to keep talking. “Anyway, we realized that neither of us had seen Uncle Nestor for a while, so we decided to look for him.”
“You went outside to do that? Why not search the clubhouse?”
If it had just been me, I might’ve left out the detail about the cell phone—actually, I’d neglected to even mention it to the first cops, it seemed so unimportant. But then I thought about how Aunt Yolanda was a stickler for the truth and realized that she’d probably spilled her guts to the cop interrogating her. After all, she believed that the truth would set her free. And if my story didn’t match, we could end up in big trouble.
“We were going to,” I explained. “But Aunt Yolanda called his cell phone and heard it ringing outside. She went out onto the balcony and that’s when she spotted Big Daddy in the pool.”
Sullivan’s eyebrow arched high over one slate-colored eye. “I didn’t see any of that in the notes Officer Crump gave me.”
“That’s because I forgot to tell him. I didn’t even think about it. And don’t give me that look. Nestor’s my uncle. He didn’t have anything to do with Big Daddy’s death.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted Big Daddy dead?”
“Besides every woman he ever met? Not really.”
“I assume you have a guest list,” he said, refusing to even crack a smile. “I’ll need a copy.”
“Miss Frankie has all of that information. Most of the guests were members of the Krewe of Musterion. This was some sort of a bash for the bigwigs. Apparently, Big Daddy was just elected as captain for the coming year.” Thinking about all of that made me sit up a little straighter. “You know who you should talk to? This guy named Percy something. Ponter, I think they said. He’s one of the officers for next year and he was upset with Big Daddy earlier in the evening.”
Cake on a Hot Tin Roof Page 8
