The Girl on the Edge of Summer

by J. M. Redmann

  “I’m not sure.”

  I left a silence.

  He finally filled it. “Just a feeling, I guess. I mean, I want to kill the guy. So she probably did, too.”

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Kill him?”

  “No! You can’t think that. I didn’t even know he existed until right now.”

  Yeah, so you say. And you’re doing a good job of acting like it. My gut said he was real, this wasn’t an act. But the gut is good at digesting food, not always so good at knowing who’s being honest.

  “You didn’t do it, but you’re telling someone you don’t know very well your mother might have done it?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “What I said earlier. Think about what you’re doing. You could be a confused kid—young man—who’s spilling this out because you don’t have anywhere else to turn. Or you could be carefully planting insinuations and making claims that make you appear innocent.”

  “What?” He stood up, fight or flight. But he was too rational—or stunned—to do either.

  “Please sit down,” I said to stop him from hovering over me. And attracting attention. “My best guess—and I’m pretty good at these things—is that you’re exactly who you say you are and you’re being honest—maybe too honest—with me.”

  He sat down. Finished his beer. “So why accuse me of lying?”

  “Because the cops will. This is a murder investigation. They will follow any and every lead. Don’t lie, but you might not want to share any feelings with them.”

  “So what do I do?”

  I almost said buy me another beer. “First do no harm. Don’t look for evidence you don’t want to find. If your mother tells you she did it, encourage her to turn herself in. After she’s hired a good lawyer. For right now, go back with your friends, get a good night’s sleep. This will look better in the morning. Eddie wasn’t a nice person, and it’s likely one of his not-nice friends did him in. In a day or two the police will find the evidence clearing your mother of any involvement. The woman you know isn’t a killer; it’s not likely she turned into one.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  He stood up again, this time slowly, the fight or flight drained from him, turning back to his friends. Then over his shoulder to me, “How do I call you? You know, if I find out something.”

  I thought to say, you don’t. Instead I handed him one of my cards.

  I left a generous tip for Mary and left as quickly as I could without actually running out.

  A big glass of Scotch was waiting for me at home.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Hey, Kevin,” Brandon said as he caught up with him in the hallway.

  “What do you want?” Kevin didn’t look his way.

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know. If anyone asks, I didn’t see you there.”

  “Of course you didn’t. I wasn’t there.”

  “You didn’t see me there, either, did you?” Brandon reached out to touch his shoulder.

  “I. Wasn’t. There.” Kevin jerked away and strode down the hallway.

  Brandon started to follow, then thought better of it. Kevin was in a bad mood. He didn’t like Brandon bringing up the things they did out of school, like there were two different Kevins and he needed to keep them completely separated.

  Brandon wouldn’t have mentioned it, but it was important.

  He headed for his next class. Maybe Kevin was worried because he’d get in more trouble than Brandon would. His parents wanted Kevin to go to college and be an engineer. Brandon’s mother only wanted him to clean up his room. Well, he’d probably go to college, but Brandon knew he was good enough with computers he’d be fine if he didn’t. He could start a tech company and make lots of money. Kevin wouldn’t brush him off then.

  And if Kevin hadn’t seen him there—hadn’t been there—then no one would ever know.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  At first I didn’t really believe him. I thought it was some stupid joke. Didn’t think he might really go through with it. He seemed so nice and all that I believed him when he said he was misunderstood, people didn’t know him, thought he was low class. But I’m the stupid one here. It seemed like it was real, like he really liked me. He didn’t seem pushy. Not at first. No, I was stupid enough to send him that picture in my sexy bra.

  Then he asked for one with a strap down, then unhooked, just barely hiding. There didn’t seem much difference, so I didn’t say no when he asked for more.

  Now he wants even more. Telling me it’s too late to say no.

  Now I don’t know what to do. But I have to do something.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  What day was it?

  I had no clue.

  After coming home from the bar, I decided to not think about the conversation with Alan. It wasn’t my case anymore; it was a police matter now, and I needed to stay as far away as I could.

  Mixing Scotch and beer—even single malt and high-end craft beer—isn’t a good idea. But it had been very effective in helping me to not think about Mrs. Susie Stevens and the mess her life had become. Even if she was innocent, it was a mess. If she wasn’t—well, it was a far bigger mess, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t fix it.

  It also helped me not think about the mess my life was. Maybe that was the more important reason. Middle-aged, single, failed in the one long relationship I’d had. A few missteps and terrible decisions in trying to find love again—I’d blinded myself to what I should have seen. Maybe that’s human; we do it all the time, see love when it’s smoke. I’m a detective, a good one, but am carrying a lot of weight with both the house mortgage and the business one, a now constant worry of what would happen if the Douglas Townson cases didn’t come along. Was this what I wanted? Work every case I could, even if I didn’t want to, just to be able to come home to a house whose only company was a decent bottle of Scotch?

  Coffee.

  No, shower, then coffee.

  It was a hasty one, just enough to wash away yesterday’s grime, not any sins.

  After the first few sips, the caffeine brought forth the rational part of my brain. Eddie had been killed by one of his scummy friends, the kind with anger-control issues. Sometime today, Joanne would call me to tell me that I—as well as Mrs. Stevens—was all in the clear.

  Why had Alan approached me in the bar? He couldn’t have known I was there. So it had to be an accidental meeting. Unless he’d followed me. I’d been worried about someone with the size and bulk of Fast Eddie, not the more slender Alan.

  He was a college kid, not a practiced con man.

  I smeared cream cheese on a bagel. I needed to stop worrying about this.

  I knew for a fact I had not killed Eddie. That was all I needed to know.

  It was awfully convenient for Dad and the new girlfriend to suddenly go off to Vegas. Unless they already had it planned long before Eddie’s murder.

  Not my case, not my monkeys, not my circus.

  I resolutely skimmed the headlines to distract myself while finishing my bagel and coffee.

  It was far enough into the morning that rush hour was long over and therefore safe to drive to my office.

  Another pot of coffee, two aspirin, and sitting at my desk seemed likely to be the big accomplishment of the day.

  There were no phone messages. Nothing from Alan saying he’d found the gun, what should he do with it. The good news. No new cases or inquires, nothing to keep me occupied. The bad news.

  I could do billing or filing.

  Five minutes in decided me that today was not a billing or filing day.

  I sighed, big and loud. I couldn’t just sit here staring at the walls. I had no business going anywhere near Fast Eddie’s murder.

  Back to the library to dig up more dirt on Frederick Townson. I could call it working on a case and pretend I might actually get paid for t
he character assassination.

  Parking was not kind. It was too early for people to leave for lunch and late enough that everyone who needed to be in the vicinity was here. But the longest walk to the library at least helped stretch my legs. After I was done with this, I’d go to the gym. Maybe the shooting range after that. Oh, wait, I hadn’t gotten my gun back.

  I found Cindy, my archivist, and she set me up.

  I backtracked to the parts I had skipped before. The diarist—I flipped to look up his name: Samuel Albertus Braud—was a decent writer, and I’d gotten used to his handwriting enough that it wasn’t too hard to read.

  And I had a hunch. One I wanted to be wrong.

  Even though it was late, Luke Summit, my most trusted deputy, found me at home. He was apologetic and wise enough to bring me outside before telling me of the reason for the late summons.

  “Sir, we’ve found another body. A young woman. In her accommodations on Marais Street.” He pitched his voice low, so only I could hear.

  Even so, my dear Alibe knew that all was not well. I kissed her good-bye, told her to go to bed without me, and made sure the door locked tightly when I left.

  As we traveled there, Mr. Summit filled me in. She had been treated in a manner similar to the other woman. Beaten, unspeakably assaulted, her intimates shoved so deeply into the throat that they alone would have suffocated her, even had her injuries not been enough to end her short life.

  On seeing her, my heart broke. She was indeed young, a comely honey blonde, the flush of youth still on her face, stark contrast to her staring eyes, the horror of her demise etched in them.

  She had only lately come to the area, wasn’t well known, struggling to survive in the back area.

  No mother raised her daughter for such a fate. She should have been at home, in front of a warm fire, her father and brothers looking out for her, instead of this wretched fate.

  The denizens of the area were little help, although this time I felt they were appalled enough that had they known anything, they would have told.

  There had been sounds, but there always are sounds in this part of the city, darkness lends itself to the vices enjoyed here, the grunts and moans of coupling and drunken debauchery are loud.

  The two women running the coffee shop on the corner, Miss Augustine Lamoureaux and Miss Roxanne Beaudoin, had the most to tell. The woman, who called herself Mistress Laurel, came, on occasion, into their shop. They had first seen her a few months ago. She wasn’t friendly as many of the women of the neighborhood were, came in, got her coffee and soup, ate and left. Miss Lamoureaux called her shy; Miss Beaudoin said proud.

  “Or both,” Miss Lamoureaux said. She could add little other than the woman liked a little milk and sugar in her coffee and was especially fond of the chicken soup.

  It was difficult; I wished I could have separated the two women, but Miss Beaudoin kept her hand firmly entwined with Miss Lamoureaux’s arm.

  What kind of work did she do, I asked.

  They did not look at me as they answered, saying they weren’t sure, they thought she did laundry or some such.

  One of the rougher constables poked Miss Lamoureaux with his nightstick and demanded they stop lying. They knew what kind of girl she was.

  I kept my anger in check; no wonder these women wouldn’t talk to us. I told him that I would do the questioning and that these women were to be treated as civilly as those he passed in Audubon Park.

  He goggled at me but was cowed enough not to retort.

  I told them I needed to know as much as possible about the unfortunate young woman. It was likely she was killed because of how she made her way in life. This was murder; we needed to dispense with the rules of polite society and say the things that cannot be said.

  Miss Lamoureaux finally spoke. The woman had arrived several months ago, heavy with child, alone and with little save a small valise and a meager number of crumpled dollar bills. They fed her, but even that kindness did little to loosen her tongue as to how she came to be in such straits. She shared a crib about the corner, one that served those who weren’t choosy, several woman rotated, of all colors. Even in her condition, she found trade; indeed, it appeared that some men had an appetite for women in her condition.

  I managed to keep the revulsion from my face as I listened.

  Within a month, she had her child, but gave it up to the foundling home.

  Miss Laurel continued to ply her trade, seeking out the more adventurous clients, if the rumors were true, for the greater price these services procured.

  Miss Lamoureaux emphasized that this was only secondhand, common gossip and might not be factual, as if she did not want to further besmirch the woman in death.

  And she never mentioned her background, family? I asked.

  Both women shook their heads. Her secrets would go with her to the grave.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Miss Beaudoin spoke. “It’s why all too many of the women are here. Taken advantage of, then left to fall from whatever place she had when her body changed beyond denial.”

  “Thare’s right, just blame the poor lads for girls what can’t keep their legs closed,” the rough fellow interjected.

  I could not allow this to pass. I told him if I needed his opinion, I would ask for it. If he didn’t hear me asking, he should not speak.

  He was not happy to be remonstrated before his fellow officers as well as the witnesses. But I cannot have this behavior when investigating a crime this heinous. It is hard enough to get anyone to talk to the police; with men like him on the force, it is understandable why.

  I gave Miss Lamoureaux my card.

  We continued questioning of those in the area, but found little. One stable boy mentioned seeing a “toff” head that way, but he was more interested in the horses drawing his carriage than any description of the man.

  That was the sum of the paltry information we could find.

  As we left, Officer Smith, as I learned he was named, took to lecture me on how to best deal with “these people,” telling me not to trust any of them, all the men in the area were thieves, the women in the trade, no matter them claiming to be respectable (he even spat in the street to emphasize his point) owners of a coffee shop, they all did it.

  I merely asked him for proof of his assertions, which led to another volley of his opinions, and he seemed to have no idea of what the difference was. This was not a promising attribute in an officer of the law.

  As quickly as I could, I severed my path from his and vowed to ask he be reassigned to another detective. After he was gone I asked Luke if it was true, were all women there in the trade?

  “No, sir,” he replied. “I’ve know Miss Lamoureaux and Miss Beaudoin for well over a year now. They are what they seem, hardworking shop girls, making their honest way in the world.”

  “You like them?” I asked.

  “I respect them. They have helped many a girl in the area, from soup to a place to stay. Decent women are the ones who offer kindness where it is most needed.”

  Our paths parted and I made my way home alone. I have learned to trust Luke and his views. He is an observant, gentle soul.

  I looked up from my reading. Over two hours had passed. I made notes, the time, the location of the murder. And the stable boy mentioning a “toff.”

  I have the advantage of Samuel Braud and the history he had yet to live. The arrest in Shreveport, the now two murders here in Storyville. My ugly hunch was that Mr. Townson liked it rough, murderously rough, and the violence he created caught him in the end. That was hardly the solution that Douglas Townson wanted. But I had already cashed his retainer check, and I was curious to see how much evidence I could find from this great a distance.

  In the meantime, my stomach was interested in something resembling lunch. And my brain could use another cup of coffee. I picked up a sandwich and the largest to-go cup of coffee at a local PJ’s, then found a bench in Duncan Park, right next to the library, to munch and muse. />
  There were no messages on my phone.

  Impatiently, I called Joanne on her work number. This was official business. I got her voice mail. I left a message asking when I could get my gun back.

  I also called Danny, same result, voice mail and a less formal message to call me back. She wouldn’t reveal anything about an ongoing investigation, but I might be able to read something from her voice and tone. I wanted to know what the hell Joanne was up to, and Danny was my only possible source.

  That left me with only caffeine and turkey on sourdough for consolation.

  And a lot of questions. Either Joanne was being an asshole—possible, but not probable—and leaving me hanging, or they still had no clear suspects. Which meant that my theory of it being one of Eddie’s scum friends with anger-management issues and therefore easy to solve might not be the case. Of course, he could have so many scum friends that it was hard to sort out.

  Even if that was the case, they should have been able to eliminate Mrs. Stevens—and me—by now. Certainly me, even if not her.

  The caffeine only seemed to make more worries course through my brain. Business was slow, and my bills never were. It should still pick up once people recovered from the excesses of Mardi Gras, and that should be any day now. Buying my office building still seemed the right decision, but a mortgage is a heavier lift than rent.

  I was tired of coming home to an empty house. Maybe I needed to get a cat. Two, so they could keep each other company.

  Why wasn’t Joanne calling me back?

  I finished the last bite of my sandwich. Maybe she’s arresting Eddie’s killer right now and too busy to be fooling with the phone.

  I finished my coffee on the way back to the library. It, at least, was a place where not having a gun would be safe.

  As before, I skipped through the diary. Then reminded myself not to fit the facts to my theory, but let them lead.

  There was another murder, again a young woman working in Storyville, or “the District,” as they called it, the same gruesome details, her underwear used as a gag, beaten and presumably raped; the delicate language of the time called it “repugnant violations,” with few details. Certainly a horrific death.