Who Dat Whodunnit

by Greg Herren

  “He’s hot, don’t you think?” David leaned back in his chair with a blissful smile. “Definitely next husband material.”

  As long as I’ve known David, he’s really wanted to be in a permanent relationship. He’s had a few false starts along the way—most notably being Carlos, this hot little Hispanic muscle boy who’d been transferred here right before Mardi Gras the year of Katrina. They’d gotten pretty serious, but that one-eyed bitch fucked that up. Carlos’s company transferred him to Los Angeles while New Orleans lay in ruins—and they hadn’t survived.

  “I can’t believe you’re considering a bartender husband material,” I teased. “What have I always told you about dating the help?” It was my first rule for Gay Life—you can sleep with bar staff but never date them.

  He made a face at me and gave me the finger with both hands. “I’ll have you know he has a master’s degree and is just taking a break before going back to Tulane for his Ph.D., fuck you very much.” He closed his eyes. “And that body…Christ on the cross. And he loves, loves, LOVES getting fucked—and he likes handcuff play, and—”

  “Too much information, ew,” I interrupted. “You met him for the first time at Mom’s the other night?”

  “Yeah. After the game was over we went bar-hopping and ended up at my place.” He gave me a grin. “Other than to get a change of clothes and going to work, he hasn’t left yet. And when he gets off work tonight, I’m going to see how he feels about being tied up.”

  I gave him a sour look. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

  But for David’s sake, I was glad Jesse’s story checked out.

  I got the cards out of the cigar box and started shuffling. David watched as I spread them out in a Tree of Life reading and started flipping them over.

  A mean-spirited woman who commits evil in the name of God.

  The death of one led to the death of the other.

  Danger for a loved one.

  “So what do they say?” David asked. He was one of the few people outside the immediate family who knows about my gift.

  I leaned back and looked over the cards again. No, I’d read them correctly. It was a very clear message, much clearer than usual. The Goddess had clearly forgiven me my flippancy.

  Danger for a loved one made me a little nervous. Which loved one?

  I looked at David. I bit my lip. He could be trusted—he always helped with our cases without question. “I think you’re right, and the cards confirm it,” I said, explaining quickly the bare bones of the case.

  When I finished, he stared at me. “Seriously? That douche bag Jared was dating both Dominique and Tara Bitch-wah?”

  “But this”—I gestured at the cards—“this tells me the two murders are connected…which means—”

  “You need to find someone with access to your mother’s gun, and who was connected to both women.”

  “What if the connection was just trying to stop the rally?”

  “Then you’d kill Peggy MacGillicudy—that would have put it to rest.”

  “So, it’s likely she’s in danger.” I sighed. “I guess Storm’s going to have to let her know.”

  “Talk about Sophie’s choice,” David replied.

  Chapter Eight

  The Hanged Man, Reversed

  Preoccupation with matters of the self

  After a few hours of watching reruns of some horrible reality show set on the beach in New Jersey (David kept going on about how hot the guys were—which was certainly true. Unfortunately, they insisted on talking, which dramatically reduced their hotness quotient and appeal), I told David to go ahead and head home. It was going to start raining again at any moment and the sun had already gone down. My head had stopped hurting and I wasn’t seeing double, so I figured I was out of the woods.

  Besides, I wanted to get going on the background checks. It seemed rude to do them while he was there—since he was doing me a favor by making sure I didn’t die or go into a coma or something. Lying on the couch under a blanket doing nothing while Colin was out doing the legwork didn’t sit well with me.

  I was also a little nervous about him walking around the Quarter alone. Intellectually, I knew it was dumb—if ever there was anyone who could take care of himself, it was Colin. His skill at just about everything never ceased to amaze me. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. He could fix a car engine and whip up a batch of the most delicious brownies you’d ever eat while engaging in a gun battle with a herd of bad guys—all of it without turning a hair or breaking a sweat.

  Still, I couldn’t help but worry about him.

  As soon as David left, I retrieved the laptop and sat back down on the couch. I went online, and with the list of party attendees sitting on the end table, I started digging up everyone’s past. It sounds a lot more interesting than it actually was. I was doing background stuff—employment histories, where they lived, credit checks, etc.—and creating dossiers on all of them. Once I had a “residence” history, then I checked local newspaper archives for mentions before broadening the search to any mentions of their names on the Internet.

  If there’s anything more boring than this kind of “legwork,” I’d rather not know about it.

  Every once in a while, something fascinating might turn up. But unfortunately, most people don’t lead particularly interesting lives—and that was certainly the case with the people on my list.

  Bearing that in mind, I decided to save Dominique for last.

  I was beginning to wonder if it was actually possible to die of boredom when I heard footsteps on the back stairs. Hoping it was Colin, I typed Lurleen Rutledge into a reverse directory as the back door opened. A cold blast of wind whooshed through the apartment, blowing open some magazines on the coffee table.

  “Shut the damned door!” I shouted, not looking up from the computer as I watched that annoying rainbow-colored wheel spin.

  “Getting knocked on the head sure hasn’t improved your disposition,” Storm said, obligingly slamming the door so hard the entire building shook.

  “Oh, it’s you,” I said, matching his tone as I closed the laptop.

  “Glad to see you, too.” Storm shrugged off his trench coat and placed his briefcase on the coffee table, sliding down into the same chair David had been sitting in. He glanced at the television. “Jersey Shore? Really? I thought gay men were supposed to have better taste.”

  “I’m not watching that crap.” I put the laptop on the end table and sat up. “David thinks the guys are hot. I didn’t bother changing the channel after he left.” I picked up the remote and clicked the television off.

  “Uh-huh.” He propped his feet up on the coffee table. “How are you feeling?”

  “Stir-crazy.” I shrugged. “Other than that, I’m okay. No double vision and the headache’s gone. My shoulder’s still achy, though.” I moved it and winced. “Toss me the Ben-Gay.” He did, and I started slathering it on underneath my sweatshirt. “But I suppose I’ll live. What’s up with Jared?”

  “Well, they aren’t charging him—yet.” Storm got up and headed to the liquor sideboard, pouring out two fingers of Johnnie Walker Black Label. He emptied the glass and set it back down. “Ah, that’s better.” He sat back down, shaking his head. “I haven’t felt warm all day. Anyway, something’s not right with his story. If he weren’t on the Saints roster I think he would have been arrested. I don’t think he’s being completely honest, and when your lawyer is thinking that, you can be sure the cops are thinking it, too.”

  “He didn’t tell you everything.” I closed my eyes. The Ben-Gay was working its magic on my shoulder. “He might have an alibi after all—he wasn’t home alone all night.” I filled him in on what Dominique had told us. “So, it depends on the time of death, doesn’t it?”

  “The preliminary report says she was killed between two and four a.m.” His face turned purple. “And that stupid son of a bitch has a goddamned alibi and didn’t say a fucking word when Venus told us the tentative time of dea
th. I’m going to strangle him.”

  I shook my head. “Well, he’s not exactly a genius, Storm. He’s trying to keep the whole thing with Dominique a secret, and since he knows he didn’t kill Tara—”

  “Innocent people go to jail every fucking day on a whole hell of a lot less circumstantial evidence than they have on him right fucking now!” Storm interrupted me angrily. “I can’t fucking believe I wasted my entire afternoon helping that idiot! I should double my fee—not that he’ll ever pay my bill anyway.”

  “Eh—just send the bill to Papa Bradley.” I shrugged. “My guess is Jared would prefer no one in the family ever finds out he’s been seeing a black woman.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Can’t you just hear what Papa Bradley would say about that? I’d pay good money to see the look on his face when he finds out.”

  Storm laughed with me. “Yeah, that would be priceless, wouldn’t it? You almost have to feel sorry for Jared on this one, don’t you?” He let his face go slack and said, in a perfect imitation of Jared’s voice, “Arrested for murder or tell Papa I’ve got a black girlfriend?” He laughed again. “But honestly—this is the one instance where I don’t think Papa Bradley would care about the black girlfriend. You know how his mind works—besides, as long as Jared doesn’t marry her…” He shook his head. “A Bradley, arrested for murder? That just won’t do.”

  “True.” I shifted, wincing as my shoulder protested. “But the good news is Jared doesn’t need you anymore, right?”

  “Thank God.” Storm blew out a raspberry. “God help me from having to defend him in court…the ballistics came back already, too. Apparently they put a rush on it, because it usually takes days. It was definitely Mom’s gun that killed the Bourgeois woman.” He put his hands together and looked up at the ceiling. “And thank you, God, for making sure she has an alibi. It wouldn’t look good for Mom, especially after slugging her last night in front of a room full of witnesses.” He sighed. “Mom’s righteous anger is going to get her into serious trouble one of these days.”

  “She’s never going to change, you know.”

  “I thought people were supposed to mellow with age,” He rolled his eyes. “But I think we can safely rule out anyone else in the immediate family for this murder, praise be to Jesus.” He winked at me. “We have the same alibi as Mom and Dad, and Rain’s in Hawaii. And no one else in the family had access to the gun.”

  “Jared didn’t, either,” I reminded him. “Someone at the party must be the killer, Storm—how else could Mom’s gun be involved?” I took a deep breath. “Did you know Marina Werner was also murdered? They found her this morning—apparently she was killed yesterday morning.”

  His face registered his confusion. “Who the hell is Marina Werner?”

  I sighed. “Marina Werner’s father is Dick Werner—the pastor of that megachurch in Kenner, Dove Ministry of Truth or whatever the hell it’s called. She was putting together the anti-gay marriage rally Tara was speaking at Saturday—well, her and that Peggy MacGillicudy woman.”

  He whistled. “That’s an interesting twist.”

  “Don’t you think the two murders might be connected? I mean, it can’t be a coincidence, can it? According to the news report I heard, she was killed yesterday morning, and they didn’t find her body until this morning.” I frowned. “So, whoever took Mom’s gun Sunday night easily could have committed both murders.” I got up and walked over to the printer. I collected the pile of printouts. “I’ve been trying to find someone with a connection to both women online, but haven’t really had much luck.”

  “You won’t,” Storm replied. “That’ll take old-fashioned legwork. What all did you find?”

  “Well, I didn’t find a whole hell of a lot on anyone, really.” I sighed. “But I didn’t get through everyone yet, and I was just getting to Lurleen Rutledge when you got here. And Dominique DuPre—I was saving her for last.” I gestured at my laptop’s dark screen. “What do you know about Lurleen? Or Dominique, for that matter?”

  “Lurleen?” He got up and poured himself some more Johnnie Walker. “Not much, really. I know she’s a widow—she was married to Dudley Rutledge, who used to own that overpriced gallery over on Royal Street. He died a few years back. I’ve met her a few times—she’s nice, I suppose, but other than that?” He tossed the Johnnie Walker down in a gulp. “Not much. Any particular reason you’re interested in her?”

  “No, just being lazy.” I sighed. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do the background check. I didn’t know she was married to Dudley Rutledge.” I thought back. I’d never known him, but everyone who lived in the Quarter was familiar with the Rutledge Gallery—it was one of the bigger galleries on Royal. It was on the corner directly across the street from the police station. “He died before the levees failed, right?”

  “Yeah, I think it was sometime that summer. She sold the gallery, made a fortune.” Storm sat back down. “Marguerite’s mother was related to him somehow—I think his mother and her mother were first cousins or something. That’s how we knew him. I bought a couple of ridiculously overpriced paintings from there a few times to make Marguerite’s mother happy.” His face darkened, like it always did when he mentioned Marguerite’s mother. Storm always swore Phyllis Hebert was a shrewish virago with talons for fingernails. I’ve always found her to be a rather nice and charming woman.

  But then, if Storm were my son-in-law…the man could try Mother Teresa’s patience.

  I riffled through the printouts. “Nobody seems to have a connection to both women, but Gia Romano competed against Tara for Miss Louisiana.” I frowned. “But I can’t see losing a beauty pageant being a motive for murder.”

  “Well, they knew each other—that’s a connection,” Storm pointed out.

  “Yeah, but it might be nothing—they were just in the pageant up in Monroe together.” I shrugged. “I don’t know how pageants work, but I’ve never really bought the way the contestants always act like it’s a big happy family and they all get along.”

  Storm laughed. “Like sororities. On the surface they’re ‘sisters,’ but dig a little deeper and it’s a nest of vipers.” He snapped his fingers. “I’m curious what you’ll find on Dominique, to be honest. I’ve heard some rumors around the courthouse about her.”

  “Rumors from around the courthouse?” I hid a smile. If Storm was to be believed, the courthouse—and City Hall, for that matter—were hotbeds of gossip. “I swear, it’s a wonder anything gets done around there—sounds like all you people do is sit around and spread rumors.”

  He scowled and gave me the finger. “You want to hear it or not?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “There was a story back before the storm—” He sat there, gazing at a spot high on the wall, but finally just gave up. “No, I don’t remember. Jackie will remember.” Jackie Fennell had been Storm’s secretary practically since the day he passed the bar. He’d inherited her from another criminal attorney who’d had a heart attack while lunching at Galatoire’s. He always said she picked him rather than the other way around, and he was damned lucky to have her. A model of efficiency, she also was an incorrigible gossip with a memory an elephant would envy.

  He made a face and shook his head. “I can’t really remember much from before the storm.”

  “Well, she’s Jared’s alibi, but we need to confirm that with him.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “I wonder if he’ll ’fess up once he’s confronted with the truth.”

  “I’ll follow up with him—trust me,” Storm replied grimly. “If he weren’t so big and strong I’d slap him around.”

  I pictured it and laughed out loud. “Yeah, well, probably not a good idea, big brother. Was the story you heard that her ex-husband is a mob lawyer in Atlanta?”

  “It’s interesting, but no, that’s not it. I think the mob was involved somehow, though.” He pulled out his phone. “Let me give Jackie a call.”

  My cell phone beeped on the desk behind me. I started to push myself up fr
om the couch but my shoulder exploded with pain and I collapsed back onto the cushions. “Damn, that hurts,” I muttered as Storm left a message for Jackie.

  He disconnected his call and gave me a concerned look. “Are you okay? Do you want to go to the emergency room?”

  “No, I don’t need to go to the emergency room.” I winced and moved my shoulder gingerly. “I just wrenched it, and I guess I need to be careful with it for a few days.” I got up slowly and took a deep breath. My phone had stopped ringing. I walked down the hall to the master bedroom—there was some Vicodin in the medicine cabinet left over from when Frank had an abscessed tooth a few months earlier. I shook one out and washed it down with some water. I glanced at myself in the mirror and was startled to see how pale I looked.

  No wonder Colin was so worried, I thought as I made my way back down to the living room. I picked up my phone on the way—the missed call was from Colin, but there was no message. I eased myself back down on the couch and covered my legs with the blanket. “That’s better.” I gave him a wan smile. I leaned back and closed my eyes. “What I don’t understand is how the killer got into Poydras Tower—isn’t that a security building?” The Vicodin was starting to kick in.

  “There’s supposed to be a doorman on duty, but the night she was killed there wasn’t anyone working the night shift. According to the building manager, they haven’t been able to find anyone to work the night shift yet—and the security cameras aren’t working—there was some kind of glitch in the system that hasn’t been repaired yet.” Storm rubbed his head. “So, it has to be assumed Tara’s killer knew her well enough to know about the lack of security.”

  “Or the killer checked it out ahead of time—which means premeditation.” I opened my eyes.

  “It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment killing,” Storm replied. “Stealing Mom’s gun to use proves that.” He started drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “But the building is locked up at night. Visitors have to call up and be let in. So, she either let her killer in, or the killer had his own keys.”