by Blake Banner
Hirschfield said, “What? Have you gone insane?”
“I have my reasons. Can you do it?”
“Yeah, I can do it, but why the hell should I?”
“Because I’m asking you to, and I have just told you I have my reasons.”
He sighed heavily. “I’ll file the request.”
I hung up. Carmichael had moved to the window and was looking out at the silent, tossing trees.
“What is this, Lacklan? Why can you possibly want to test the samples of my wife’s blood?”
“Because I don’t believe she was murdered here.”
He turned from the window. His face had turned from ashen to crimson. His voice was choked with emotion. “I found her! The bed…”
“I know, Mr. Carmichael, I saw it. But there are too many things that don’t square up.” I hesitated a moment. “Are you able to answer some tough questions for me?”
“I hope they are not all going to be as… bizarre as that one…”
“I think you should sit down, Mr. Carmichael.”
He frowned at me like I’d said something outrageous, but came around the chair again and sat. “What is all this about, Lacklan? This is not what I expected when we spoke the other day.”
“If the answer was predictable, you wouldn’t have needed me. Jackson could have taken care of it. The very nature of this murder is telling you it is something unpredictable, something out of the ordinary, isn’t it?”
“What’s your point?”
I was trying to read him, but all I could get was anger and pain. Finally, I asked him, “Did you ever visit Sarah at her studio?”
He clenched up his face, like he thought I was going crazy. “What the hell are you talking about? What goddamn studio? Walker, I am beginning to think Jackson is right…”
I ignored him. “The one she inherited when her parents died. Simone got the house, she got the smaller place on the bayou.” I pointed in the general direction. “In the woods on Solitude Road.”
His mouth sagged. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Am I? What makes you say that?”
“There is no studio, no house… If she had inherited anything I would know about it!”
“So you had no idea that she owned a place in the woods where she used to go and paint?”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”
“I was there last night.”
“How…?”
“Simone told me about it.”
“Why did she keep it a secret from me?”
I felt for him, but I had no choice. “I think you need to level with me, Mr. Carmichael. Things were not perfect between you and Sarah, were they?”
He averted his eyes, looked at the cold fireplace. “All couples, Lacklan… We had our small problems. You can’t live with someone day in, day out without small problems arising.”
“I guess that’s true. Only in this case it had gone beyond that, hadn’t it?”
“No.” He still wouldn’t look at me. “That isn’t true. We just needed to talk things through a little more.”
“Did you know she was thinking of divorcing you?”
Now he looked at me and his face was savage. “You’re lying! How could you possibly know that?”
“She discussed it with Simone the night she died.”
“Simone is a lying bitch!”
“Is she? What makes you say that?”
His mouth worked, like the words wanted to come out, but he was fighting them. Eventually, he looked away. “She is a dissolute woman, decadent. She poisoned Sarah’s mind.”
“You think she was lying?”
“In all probability.”
“Either way, she was at the studio. It’s where she painted.”
“Painted?” He narrowed his eyes at me again, like I was talking crazy, but I went on.
“Your wife was a talented watercolorist, and it seemed she was moving on to oils.”
“This is madness!” He stood again and walked across the room, staring around as though he was searching for something that made sense. “I don’t know this woman you are talking about! My wife had no interest in art! She never even spoke about it! Search the house! Where are the books, the paintings, the watercolors, the brushes? Where are they?”
“At her studio.”
He swallowed.
I went on, “There was also a brand new duvet on her bed, brand new sheets, and a brand new rush mat under it. So new the bed legs had not even made an indentation. You should sit down for what I am about to tell you next.”
His breathing was heavy. He returned to his chair and sat.
“What cigarettes did your wife smoke, Mr. Carmichael?”
“Sobranie, why?”
“What about you?”
“I don’t smoke. The odd one, socially, whatever is going. I don’t buy them.”
“What was her drink?”
“White wine! Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“Yes. I found an ashtray on her bedside table. It had two cigarette butts in it. A Sobranie Black Russian and a Marlboro. There were rings on the tables, from a whiskey glass and a white wine glass. I found the glasses washed up in the kitchen, on the drying rack.”
“Oh no…” His face crumpled and he shook his head. “Oh no, Lacklan, no. Don’t do this to me.”
He buried his face in his hands. Either it hurt or he was a damn good actor. I couldn’t help wondering about where he had spent the night, at the Full Moon, but I guessed that didn’t mean much. People have crazy ways of dealing with bereavement.
After a bit, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dried his eyes and blew his nose.
“Forgive me, Lacklan. This has been a devastating shock. Do you mind if we continue another time?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carmichael, I’m afraid we aren’t done yet. Time is one thing we haven’t got.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out the slug in the freezer bag. I dropped it on the table. “This was under the bed. It looks to me like a .38.”
He gaped at it, picked it up, and examined it closely. “But you have to give this to Jackson. This changes everything.” He frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”
I leaned forward, took it from his fingers and dropped it back in my pocket. “I am not giving this to Jackson. I can’t put my finger on exactly why, but I don’t trust him. He’s too damned keen to ignore facts and go for his slam dunk.” I sat back and tried again to read his face. It said he was really confused. I said, “Somebody was shot in that bed. The bedding and the mat were removed and probably dropped into the bayou.”
“You think Sarah was killed there? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Right now, nothing makes any sense. Bat Hays smokes Marlboro, but why the hell would he shoot Sarah at the studio and then come and frame himself at your house? None of it makes sense.” I stood. “I have some things I need to do. When is the preliminary hearing?”
He seemed to gather his thoughts. “The day after tomorrow, the storm permitting.”
Twelve
Overhead, the clouds were starting to boil and twist, trailing long shreds and spitting rain. I climbed into the Zombie and caught a glimpse of Carmichael staring after me through the window. I pulled out of his drive onto Route 61 and turned right. I drove slowly, thinking.
The wind gusted and battered the car. I pulled out my cell and called Simone again. She still didn’t answer.
Two minutes later, I pulled into her drive and parked in front of the steps to her veranda. The wind was strong enough to make me unsteady on my feet. I climbed the wooden steps and hammered on the door. She didn’t answer, so I hammered again. I was pounding a third time, considering picking the lock, when the door opened. She didn’t say anything. Her hair was rumpled and her eyes were puffy, and she was wrapped in a white satin robe.
“We need to talk.”
“You need to talk. I need to sleep.”
She turned and walke
d away, but she left the door open, so I followed her into an airy room with broad windows and low, modern furniture. It should have been bright, but it was heavy with gloomy, gray light, and in the garden the silent trees bobbed and waved like dancing shrouds. She moved over to a bamboo and wicker trolley and started mixing herself a gin and tonic.
“I’m guessing it’s too early for you,” she said.
“Who was Sarah’s lover?”
She froze with the bottle of Beefeater half way to the glass. Then she continued to pour.
“I told you she had no lovers.”
“You lied.”
“You have no manners.” She added the tonic and turned to face me. “How dare you come into my house accusing me of lying?”
She said it without much feeling and sank into a large peacock chair. She had a small table beside the chair. On it, there was a pewter box. She opened it and took out a cigarette, placed it in her mouth and lit it with a match.
When she was done, I said, “I was at the studio last night.”
Her face hardened. She avoided my eye. “Who let you in?”
“Me.”
“So?”
“There had been a man there.”
“How can you tell?”
I ignored the question. “He smokes Marlboro. Who is he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe…” I paused. I walked to the couch and sat, placing my elbows on my knees, studying her. She sipped and sighed, like it was doing her good. “Maybe you don’t fully understand,” I said.
She looked me over and waited.
“My friend is facing life in prison, or worse, for a murder he did not commit. This is a man I owe my life to several times over.”
“Spare me the brothers in arms act, Lacklan. My sister just got murdered, remember?”
“And I’m trying to find out who did it, remember? And you and I both know you’re lying and hiding something from me. But if you think I am going to stand aside and let Hays go down, just because you don’t feel like talking…”
“What? What will happen if I think that?” It was a challenge, but it was a lame one.
I shook my head. “Don’t do it. There is nothing—are you hearing me?—nothing I will stop at to save his life. You had better think this through, Simone. You want me on your side. You don’t want me as an enemy.”
She raised an eyebrow and sucked on her cigarette. “Am I supposed to be afraid?”
“You’d be wise to be.”
She looked worried but tried to hide it.
“Work with me, Simone. Who was it? Who was her lover? Was it Hays?”
She rubbed her eyes and sighed. “You son of a bitch…” After a bit, she opened her eyes and studied me for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Of course you want to help him, he’s your friend.”
“Was he her lover?”
“There was more than one. Satisfied?”
“Was Hays one of them?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me about them.”
“Why?”
She frowned. “What the hell do you mean, ‘why’?”
I felt a pellet of anger start in my belly. “Come on, Simone! Snap out of it! You’re her sister, her friend! She’s telling you about her sex life with her husband, that she’s considering divorcing him. You advise her about the studio and being creative, making a space for herself… You’re intimate! For crying out loud! Why would she not tell you about her love affairs?”
She stared at me for a long moment, then looked away at the ashtray while she tapped ash. “God, you’re relentless.”
“Get used to it. Now answer the damn question.”
“It’s not relevant.”
“I’ll decide that.”
“No! You will not!”
I raised my voice. “Sweetheart, I have the meanest son of a bitch attorney in Louisiana on my payroll. If you are worried about protecting your sister’s reputation, you better get with the damned program. Because if I give him the studio on Solitude Road and her lovers, the yellow press are going to have a feeding frenzy right there, in the gutter. Now talk!”
Her eyes blazed. “You piece of…”
“Yeah! I’m all that! What are you hiding from me, Simone?”
She turned away. I could see the muscle in her jaw working. She stood and carried her glass to the window. I saw the glint of a tear on her cheek.
“I was very close to Sarah…”
“You were her sister.”
“No, more than that. I…” She stopped, hesitated, took a deep breath. “When my mother married Geoff, her father—you know, normally, stepsiblings resent each other. There is a lot of jealousy and rejection. But Sarah wasn’t like that. She had the sweetest, kindest nature you could imagine.”
She turned to face me and sat on the sill.
“She missed her mother. They were very close. Geoff was distant, moral, upright… Just the kind of man my mother would go for.”
“You’re losing me. Where is this going?”
She sighed. “Sarah was lonely. So was I. When our parents married and we all moved in together, Sarah and I immediately formed a bond. We became friends, sisters. But as time went by I…” She held my eye for a long moment, willing me to understand and save her the shame of saying it. I didn’t. I waited. Finally, she said, “I began to have feelings for her.”
She stared down into her glass. She looked humiliated. My head was reeling.
“Was it mutual?”
She shook her head. “No. She had no idea.”
I gave her a moment, trying to think it through. “So how is this relevant?”
“She had no idea until recently, when things started to fall apart between her and Charles. She used to come over in the evenings to talk. Sometimes we’d go out to listen to music. Sometimes we’d stay in, have dinner. She used to say I was her rock. She didn’t know what she’d do without me.” She heaved another huge sigh and finally looked at me. “You know, it’s a lot easier for women to express affection to each other. A bit too easy sometimes.”
She drained her drink and went back to the trolley. She stood dropping ice cubes into her glass. Then a slice of lemon. Then she poured the gin and the tonic. When she’d finished she stayed, staring down at what she’d put together, like she was wondering what it was doing in her hand.
“She was a very loyal woman. Very loyal and faithful, and she loved Charles. It was traumatic for her to realize that she was no longer in love with him. She used to cry, and I would comfort her. We hugged a lot.”
She turned to face me. “If I had been a guy, I have no doubt we would have made love, even if she regretted it afterwards. One night, a few weeks back, a couple of months maybe. We were a bit drunk. She was tearful, telling me how much I meant to her. I misread the signs and tried to kiss her. She freaked.”
I rubbed my face. “Holy shit… It wasn’t complicated enough.”
“What? You want me to apologize? I didn’t just lose a sister…”
“I know. I’m sorry. What happened?”
“We made up. I apologized and she was all sweetness and understanding. But it was never quite the same again. She went a bit crazy. She said she wanted to reinvent herself, discover who she really was. She started painting more, spending time at her studio.” She paused. “She also started seeing men. But, for obvious reasons, she never told me about them.”
I asked the obvious question. “If she didn’t tell you about them, how do you know?”
She gave a small, ironic laugh. “She told me she needed to see men. They were never more than one or two night stands. She would often ridicule them or put them down, as though she was trying to soften the blow for me, or tell me that I was somehow more special than they were. It was complicated, an emotional briar patch. The point is, she never named names.”
I stood and went to the trolley. I poured myself a large whiskey. I stared out the window. It was barely midday
but the sky was as dark as early evening, and growing darker.
“You think she was beginning to have feelings for you?”
I heard her voice, sullen behind me. “No. I don’t think so. I think she was in shock. I was all she had left and I had abused our trust. She was desperately trying to find some firm foothold, some way of making sense of it. Like she said, she was trying to find out who she was.”
I turned to face her. She was watching me. I said, “So, what about the painting?”
“I told you, that started shortly after…”
“Don’t be cute, Simone.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The big canvas. The nude.”
Her frown deepened. “She didn’t paint on canvas. She did watercolors.”
“Simone, cut it out. There’s a seven foot canvas at the studio. A nude.”
She didn’t answer for a bit. Her eyes flicked over my face. “You think it might be her killer?”
“I hope not.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s you, Simone.”
Her hand went to her mouth and for a moment I thought she was going to collapse. She shook her head. “Don’t say that. Please, Lacklan…”
I put down my glass and walked over to hunker down in front of her. “Simone, I don’t know what the hell was going on between you and Sarah, and frankly it’s none of my business. But one of these men that she was seeing murdered her and framed my friend. You may not realize it, but you know who it was. Somewhere in your head there is a clue to who did this.”
They were the same words I had used with Bat the night before, and the irony of that fact did not escape me.
She got to her feet and walked away from me, standing in the middle of the floor, blinking away her tears, like she didn’t know which way to turn. I came up behind her and held her shoulders in my hands, speaking close to her ear.
“You said she mocked them, ridiculed them. There must have been clues in the things she said, hints as to who they were. There can’t have been that many of them…”
She leaned against me and rested the back of her head on my chest. “They were all black.”
“Like Hays.”
“She said it was an act of defiance against Charles. He is old school…” There was bitterness in her voice. “He still believes in segregation.”
