The Great Catsby

by B K Baxter

  It was a risk. If Sheriff Rains heard I was snooping that close to home, so to speak, he might not view it too kindly. Still, I had to chance it. I had to know why she’d institutionalized her son and determine what it meant for the case.

  Chapter 22

  I pulled up in front of a neat house on the outskirts of town. It was small, nothing more than a square with some windows and a roof, but the lawn was well kept and tidy. Knocking on the door, I wondered if I really had it in me to ask the questions I was about to ask.

  It was an invasion of privacy, no doubt about it, but I still believed that Taz was wrongly accused. To be able to counter Sheriff Rains’ story, I needed all the information he had. And clearly, he’d found out about Stanley’s stay in the Baton Rouge psychiatric hospital.

  The door opened, exposing a middle-aged woman in an apron with a question mark on her face.

  “Hi,” I said, introducing myself. “I’m the new assistant librarian and a friend of your son. Can I come in?”

  For a moment, I thought she was going to say no, but she finally moved aside to let me enter. As we walked to the back of the house, I realized that Taz and his mother didn’t have much money. I could have fit their entire house, furniture and all, into the blue sitting room in my plantation house.

  Once we were settled at the kitchen table, I let her know why I was there. “Mrs. Lane, I’ve only recently moved to New Orleans, but in that time, I’ve struck up a friendship with Stanley. He’s incredibly bright, and he might love books even more than I do.”

  “Call me Wanda,” she said, visibly softening when I talked about her son. “Stanley always loved his books.”

  “I’ve tried talking to Sheriff Rains, tried convincing him that your son wasn’t involved, but so far, it has fallen on deaf ears.”

  Wanda nodded, and I could see her becoming emotional. “I said the same thing. My boy wouldn’t do something like that, even to that wicked girl. The sheriff told me they had evidence, even asked me about that night.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I had to tell the truth,” Wanda said. “He came home late with no shirt on, the dirt from the road sticking to his sweat.”

  “Did Stanley tell you what happened that night?”

  Wanda shook her head, then let out a large sniffle. “He rarely talks to me or anybody. That night was no different. I asked him what happened when he came in, but he said nothing, just got in the shower, then went straight to bed.”

  “You don’t know what he was doing? Who he was with?”

  “No more than you do.” Her voice had a little edge. She was getting defensive. I couldn’t blame her, and I didn’t want to put up any walls between us before I got into the real reason I was there.

  “Mrs. Lane—Wanda—I really hate to ask this. I’m not usually one to pry, but I’ve been trying to find out who could have killed Tabby. I’ve come up with a list of suspects, but I haven’t been able to find any evidence that clears your son. And I’ve just come across a piece of information that could make things even harder.”

  Her expression was neutral, but there was a hint of anxiety in her eyes. It was like she already knew what I was going to ask. I tried to phrase it carefully to show that I understood how delicate the issue was. “I recently learned that Stanley may have struggled with some… emotional issues… when he was younger. I wondered if your son has been diagnosed with anything that could have been used as an excuse to pin this crime on him.”

  Wanda stared down at the tabletop, unconsciously straightening the lace. She took a long, slow breath. “Stanley was in an institution, back when he was in high school. Not many people know because I told everyone he’d gone away to summer camp up north, but you can never keep anything completely a secret in a small town like New Orleans.”

  “What was wrong with Stanley?” I asked, not liking the way I’d phrased the question but not able to think of a better way of asking. “Did something happen to him?”

  “Post traumatic stress disorder,” Wanda whispered, her fingernail tracing the swirls in the lace. “Stanley was a good boy, if always a bit quiet and introverted. A counselor in grade school said he might be on the spectrum. People down here don’t exactly understand a thing like that. Mostly, they just thought he was odd. But it got worse in high school.”

  I kept myself from responding, waiting for the story to come out of her, bit by bit.

  “It was my fault,” she said finally on a sob. “My husband wasn’t a nice man. Oh hell, I’ll just come out and say it. He was a brutal dictator who used violence to control us.” She looked me in the eye for the first time in several minutes. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading about abusive relationships. I’m trying.”

  I nodded, my expression encouraging her to continue.

  “Although I bore the brunt of my husband’s anger, Stanley wasn’t immune. His father wasn’t shy about using his fists on a child, sadly.”

  “Did you put him in the institution because of something his father did to him?” The thought of a young Taz being physically abused by a grown man made me sick to my stomach.

  “Not exactly. Maybe indirectly. Not long after Stanley turned fifteen, his father disappeared. Went on a run to the liquor store and just never came back.”

  She looked at me, her eyes wet with tears. “At first I thought it was a good thing. I never had the strength to throw him out, but at least he was gone. Then my son started having nightmares. Bad ones. ‘Night terrors’ his doctor called them later. He would wake up screaming, over and over, all night long. I didn’t know what to do.”

  She wiped at her eyes, sniffling. “I took him to Dr. Loomis, and Loomis suggested the hospital in Baton Rouge. I didn’t know what else to do. I just knew things couldn’t go on the way they were. So I committed him.”

  I couldn’t imagine how hard that decision must have been. “Did you visit him there?”

  “As often as I could. Every weekend for certain.”

  “How was he reacting to the hospital?” I wondered how a bright boy like Stanley would have adapted to an institutional setting.

  “Better than I expected. Taz wasn’t a boy to easily make friends, but he seemed to be getting along with his doctors, and they were impressed with him and his progress. His nurse said he was the best behaved patient she’d ever had.” I noted the hint of pride in her tone.

  “He came home just before school started, and he was sleeping through the night. Post traumatic stress. That’s what the doctors said had triggered the night terrors. He was no longer scared of his father’s beatings. He was afraid that his father would come back.”

  Her voice breaking, she continued. “The beatings, as the doctors explained it, were a known thing. Expected. Something he could deal with. But with his father gone, all that was left was uncertainty. The beatings were gone but not forgotten, and Stanley lived in fear of the day his father would come back.”

  I put my arm on her back, my heart breaking for her and her son. “I’m sorry, Wanda. That must have been so difficult.”

  “I shouldn’t have put my son through that for so long. The guilt that hit me then, knowing that he was more afraid of not getting hit?” Breaking down, she put her head on her arms that were crossed on the tabletop.

  I dug in my purse, coming out with a plastic envelope of tissues. “Here,” I whispered, passing the tissues her way. “I know this is very hard.”

  “People talk,” she said. “I know my boy is different, but he’s a good boy.”

  “He is. And PTSD isn’t a terrible diagnosis, although it could be misinterpreted.” I took Wanda’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you for talking to me today. I’m going to do what I can to bring Stanley home.”

  She walked me to the door, slowly getting a handle on her emotions. “I’m glad Stanley has a friend like you.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I hugged her tightly and promised to find the real killer. Part of me knew I was hugging her because I couldn’t hug Stanl
ey. He must be so scared in that cell, knowing he was going to jail for something he didn’t do.

  As I left, I noticed my car was almost on empty. I remembered that Pop’s gas station wasn’t far from where I was, so I headed in that direction. The sun had gone down in the time I was with Wanda, but the lights at the station were still brightly lit. I pulled up to a pump and climbed out of my car, noticing the old man sitting on the wooden chair outside the station’s front window.

  I usually got gas at the more modern station on the north end of town, just past the city limits. The pumps here were old, the kind that didn’t have credit card readers built in. I walked toward the old man, assuming this was Pops.

  “Can I get a fill-up?” I asked, pulling out my card.

  Pops pulled himself slowly out of his chair, and it looked like he’d stopped halfway, his stoop was so pronounced. I followed him inside, the must of ages hitting me like a wall. Wrinkling my nose, I hoped the transaction would be quick, but as the internet signals in New Orleans were as weak as my desire to have a balanced diet, that wasn’t likely. It took long enough for me to pull a tissue out of my purse and press it to my nose as an extra line of defense.

  He finally handed me back my card, along with a receipt that looked like it was in hieroglyphics. I headed back to my car and shoved the nozzle into the gas tank, setting the latch on the handle so the gas pumped itself.

  I wandered back over to the station’s owner. “You’re out here pretty late,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I don’t have elsewhere to be, young lady.”

  “Were you out this late on the night Tabby Means was murdered?” I already knew he was, according to my conversation with Sheriff Rains, but I figured it was best to start at the beginning.

  “Sure was. Later even.”

  “So you saw them that night? Tabby and Taz?”

  He eyed me, then nodded. “Seen a lot of things, that included.”

  “How could you be sure it was them? That both of them were in the car?”

  The corner of Pop’s mouth curled up, exposing big yellow teeth that reminded me of a horse. “You doubting my eyesight or my memory, girl?”

  “I’m just wondering why you’re hanging out here all hours of the day and night. No disrespect, but you’re an older gentleman.”

  He turned his head to the side and spat on the ground. “That’s right. I’m an old geezer who ain’t got nothing better to do. I only sleep a few hours a night, anyway, so at least this gives me something to do, doesn’t it?”

  I held up my hands in surrender. “No offense was meant.”

  He eyed me. “Stayin’ open late gives me the opportunity to see strange things from time to time. Like that Carter girl, squealing by in her late-model Mercedes. She’s the only one that drives that car, and the only one that drives like that. That’s how I knew it was her.” He pointed to where they’d passed. “Him, I could see in the passenger side. His head was hanging out the window, almost like a dog’s. I think her driving was making him car sick. But I seen him clear as day.”

  It sounded like Pop’s story was solid. Except for one thing. I was returning to my car when I stopped and turned back. “What about on the way back? Who was driving the Mercedes then?”

  “Didn’t see it. Told Sheriff Rains the same thing. Only saw them going the one way, toward the Means’ place.”

  I heard the pump click, so I headed back to my car, but his words stopped me halfway there. “Saw him coming back, though. Not in the Mercedes this time.”

  I turned around. “Beg pardon?”

  “The weird kid. I saw him walking back later that night. Didn’t have a shirt on. I figured it was late enough for me to head home. Figured I’d seen it all by then. Guess I was wrong.”

  “You saw Stanley walking alone? Why in the heck didn’t you tell Sheriff Rains about that part?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  Pops scowled. “That dang sheriff. I ain’t doing him no favors. He didn’t give me no help with those dogs that keep tearing up my fence.”

  I wanted to throw my hands up in frustration. “But you told him the rest! Why stop there?”

  Pop looked down, adopting a mealy-mouth tone. “He didn’t ask me. I was telling my story, and he got a call on his radio. Dispatch saying they had some kind of results in. Rains cut me short and took off. And he ain’t been back yet.”

  I put my hand to my forehead. A key piece of evidence had never been revealed because the sheriff had hurt some old guy’s feelings. This place couldn’t be more absurd if it tried.

  “Thank you, Pops,” I said, reining in my emotions.

  “Happy to help,” he said before spitting again.

  I climbed in my car, turning over this new piece of information in my head. Pop seeing Taz walking home was big, but it wasn’t enough on its own to clear him. I knew I’d only get one shot with Sheriff Rains, and it had to go right.

  I needed to connect the dots on my own before bringing them to Rains. It was time to pull out the red string.

  Chapter 23

  The library was the one place in the house I went to for refuge. It calmed me, settled my spirit. Tonight, it wasn’t having its usual effect.

  I paced the large rug that covered a section of the polished hardwood floor. Going over the clues in my head like they were fine gems I was examining for flaws, I realized I was no longer sure of anyone’s motives. The list of suspects, once long, was now nearly a dead end.

  Mercy and Jimmy seemed sincere, Fuzzy and Tammy were a long shot, and Vince’s hired-killer theory was holding less and less water. It was beyond frustrating to have gone through all this effort, from physical danger to threats of police harassment, not to mention earning the stink eye from Luanne for the times I’d shown up late because of my investigation, and I was still at square one.

  I had to focus once again on the facts. Someone killed Tabby with an overdose, then set up the crime scene to make it look like a suicide. This someone had staged the scene at the auto garage, a location chosen for a reason. But figuring out that reason wasn’t easy.

  By marrying Vince, Tabby had shown she was over her relationship with Jimmy. According to Jimmy himself, it was over between them once Tabby took up with Vince. I thought about Tabby, about her veneer of the happily married woman. She seemed to want people to think she and her husband had a successful marriage. And at the same time, she didn’t hide the fact that she was screwing around behind his back.

  Tabby had come to that book club meeting because her husband wanted her to. By her own words, she’d wanted some “so-called refinement,” at Vince’s encouragement. She didn’t seem like the type to sit through a book club meeting if she hadn’t wanted to impress her husband. Which was at odds with the idea that she was sleeping with half the guys in town.

  Maybe Tabby wanted to make their relationship work. A guy like Vince would have insisted on a prenuptial agreement, especially since he was fresh off a divorce. From the treatment Mercy was getting, I figured his prenup with Tabby would be like Louisiana humidity—unbreakable.

  The killer had hit on suicide as a way to disguise the death. So why put Tabby at the garage? Whoever had put her there was trying to make the authorities think Tabby chose that place to kill herself. Why would the killer have thought Tabby was motivated to kill herself there?

  The staged suicide itself was a red herring laid by the killer. That much was already clear. The murderer could have known the police would see through the staging, which meant they’d put her body at the garage to pin the suspicion on someone specific. Jimmy Beal seemed the most likely person.

  And yet Jimmy Beal wasn’t the one in jail right now. Taz was. If Jimmy was the intended subject, why leave Taz’s shirt at the scene? It didn’t make sense.

  Chonks let out a meow and I looked down, realizing that he was pacing alongside me. I ignored him, continuing to think in circles. The cat didn’t take kindly to being ignored, so he jumped up on one of the shelves behind me, ma
naging to wedge himself between the shelf above and the books below.

  Then there was my conversation with Wanda Lane. Taz had spent time in an institution for post traumatic stress disorder. PTSD could bring on depression, anxiety, hostility, and even destructive behavior. Could I be all wrong about Stanley?

  I hoped not. After all, he’d been a model patient at the psychiatric hospital. He’d made friends with the staff as well, it seemed. This made me stop in my tracks. Could Taz still be friendly with the folks at the hospital? Is that where the drugs could have come from?

  Patrick Mercer had mentioned that a quantity like the one used to kill Tabby was most often used in hospitals and clinics, after all. Maybe Stanley had used his connections at the psychiatric hospital to buy or steal the drugs.

  Another yowl from the cat had me rolling my eyes. Seeing that I wasn’t moved by his badgering, he stuck a paw out as I passed, latching onto my shirt.

  “Come on, Chonks. You’re going to claw the fabric all up.”

  He tried the same trick several times, and I could tell he didn’t like my pacing.

  “Too bad, Chonks. Until I figure this out, I’m going to wear a hole in this rug.”

  Chonks looked at me like I was the stubborn one. He sat on the books, his tail swishing with agitation. But annoying my cat was the least of my worries. I paid him no mind, going round and round with myself over the evidence. Why the garage? And how did the T-shirt play into the staging.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement, but it wasn’t until I felt an impact on my foot that I realized what was going on. Chonks, in classic cat fashion, had decided to start knocking things off the shelf. I stopped pacing, bending down to pick up his victim.

  Turning the book over in my hand, I realized he’d knocked down a copy of The Great Gatsby. There were a couple lying around, since I’d brought some home with me from the library in case any book club members neglected to bring their own.