Louisiana Lament

by Julie Smith

  “Anybody have a sheet?” Eddie had given him a list of names he wanted checked.

  “Allyson and her three kids are all clean—that’s Arnelle Halston, by the way, and Austin and Cassie Edwards. The other two have records. Janessa Wallis got popped a couple of years ago for possession of marijuana. Nothin’ much there. But Rashad Daneene’s kind of interesting. He’s got a juvenile felony record.”

  “For?”

  “Now you know I don’t have access to juvenile records.”

  “Come on, Mikey.”

  “Sorry, Eddie. No can do.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah… Don’t know why they coddle these kids. Okay. On to the mother-daughter murder act. Strange one. Real strange. First of all, victims were killed within the same two-hour period—so close together the coroner can’t tell who bought it first.”

  “Damn again.”

  “Yeah. If the same guy did ’em both, the order would help a lot. By the way, Crockett knows damn well why I was axin’ questions. He wants you to know this stuff. He thinks he’s got a pretty good case against ya client and he damn well wants ya to know it.”

  “Give me the bad news.”

  “They haven’t done the autopsies yet, but some things are pretty obvious—the daughter was stabbed five times with a kitchen knife. Downright puke-inducing.”

  “Mmm, mmm. Crime of passion, sounds like. But what makes it bad news? My client’s prints on the weapon or somethin’?”

  “I haven’t got to the bad news yet. No prints on the knife. But they found ya client’s prints on that gun.”

  “Big hairy deal. She admits she picked it up.”

  “Well, this part ya didn’t hear from me—-Crockett doesn’t even know I know. It had Brower’s prints on it as well. Could have been suicide. Crockett’s got to take that one real seriously, because of a few other things I found out. Guess what they found at the daughter’s house?”

  “I give up, Mikey. Come on.”

  “They found signs of a struggle at Cassie’s—big struggle, like two people got into a fight. You follow?”

  “She was stabbed five times—stands to reason there might have been a struggle.”

  “Yeah, well. They found two wine glasses in the living room. Like Cassie had a drink with her killer. Sure enough, one had Cassie’s prints on it. The other had the mother’s.”

  “So what’s the theory? Allyson kills her daughter, then just splits—goes home and offs herself?”

  “Yeah, could be.”

  Eddie wasn’t convinced. “Was the gun Allyson’s?”

  “Uh-uh. Here’s the interesting part—it was her daughter’s.”

  “Oh, right, the gun was the daughter’s. Okay, let me see if I follow you. The evidence suggests the mom comes over, has a glass of wine and fights with the daughter, gets so mad she kills her. Then she looks around for the gun—which maybe she knows about—so she can off herself. And she goes home to do it? Why didn’t she just do it there?”

  “Yeah, why didn’t she? Makes you kind of think it didn’t go down that way, doesn’t it? Like maybe Cassie has a fight with somebody else who stabs her and wipes the prints off the knife, and that person gets the gun, goes over to Allyson’s house, whacks her to make it look like murder-suicide, and puts Allyson’s prints on the gun.”

  “Oh, real likely. Big hole in it, anyhow. How’d Allyson’s prints get on the wine glass?”

  “I get the feeling Crockett thinks the perp might have planted the glass.”

  “Doesn’t make sense. I mean maybe, if the guy was wacko—really wacko. But who’d be that crazy?”

  “Maybe somebody who’d vacuum the floor and all the furniture? Like, to get rid of fibers?”

  “Oh, man. That clears my client right there. Case Crockett hasn’t noticed, she ain’t no master criminal.”

  “Well, I think he’s got somethin’ else. He only told me what he wants ya to know, but here’s what I know—he’s pretty sure ya client did it. He’s holdin’ something back, waitin’ to spring it on ya.”

  Eddie was barely listening. “How about that book of poetry—where the hell was it?”

  “Lyin’ on the table. Plain as day.”

  “You smell a setup there? How about prints on the book?”

  “Lots of ’em. But anyone could have touched the book—I mean, if she just had it out on the table, people could’ve come in and picked it up—like while they were waitin’ for her or somethin’. So what ya think? Think the mom got upset ’cause her daughter was screwin’ a black kid?”

  Offhand, Eddie didn’t—not after she read her own son out for being rude to the same kid.

  “Tell you what,” LaBauve said. “I kinda don’t buy it. I like Rashad.”

  “Yeah,” Eddie said. “I think I do, too. Hell, it sure ain’t Janessa. All Crockett’s got is the book and some can-o’-worm prints. That’s nothin’.” After he hung up, he reflected that juries had convicted on less. He got himself a second cup of coffee. About the time it was starting to kick in, Ms. Wallis turned up.

  “Janessa’s in love with you. Feels real sorry for you, having a daughter like Angie.”

  “I liked that kid from the get-go.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I like her.”

  “Ms. Wallis, there’s some funny stuff goin’ on here. Some real funny stuff.”

  When he had run it down for her, she said, “Come on! Nobody really tries to frame anybody. It’s just too—television.”

  “Wrong, Ms. Wallis. People do it all the time. Usually, just as badly as this guy did.”

  “So you don’t think it’s Janessa. You said ‘guy.’ ”

  “Figure of speech, Ms. Wallis. But matter of fact, I don’t. I like Rashad, but I sure as hell don’t rule Austin out. If Janessa’s telling the truth, Allyson threatened to disinherit him the same night she died. Maybe he figured he’d get rid of her before she did it, whack Cassie, too, so he could have it all.”

  “You forget, there’s another daughter. Arnelle.”

  “What do we know about her?”

  “Christ, Eddie, we just got the case. It’s not even ten o’clock, and I’ve already done two interviews. When was I gonna background anybody?”

  “Would you mind not swearing?”

  “Right. ’Scuse my French. I’ll go do the whole bunch of coconuts right now.”

  “Wait a minute. What’d ya get from the interviews?”

  “Bottom line: Rashad’s a saint but nobody’s seen him. Details at eleven. But I’ve barely scratched the surface here. His brother and his pal Hunt say he hangs with poets. I’ve got a reading Friday—open-mike thing with a whole lot of poets. Maybe I can pick up something there. Oh, that reminds me—check this out.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a scruffy paperback book.

  “Laments” she read. “By Rashad Daneene. Self-published, probably. Janessa gave it to me.”

  “The kid’s got it bad. Maybe she’s not sleeping with him, but she’s got a crush.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with you there.” She opened the book to the title page. “It’s got an inscription: To my new friend, Janessa—I look forward to getting to know you. Think that qualifies as mushy?”

  She left without waiting for an answer.

  But she was back in less than two hours, and her entrance, as always, reminded him of a squall at sea—not exactly dangerous, but the boat tended to heel. She didn’t breeze in, she blew in on a gust of energy he envied. If she didn’t have such a gorgeous voice—she could have made a fortune doing phone sex—he probably couldn’t have handled it.

  “What is it, Ms. Wallis?” He wondered if he sounded as tired as she made him feel.

  “Got some great stuff on Allyson. Also everyone else, but Allyson’s the best.”

  “Well, what’s the Number One Rule of being a great detective?”

  She smiled at him. “You mean a paid detective? In this case, it doesn’t apply, but—” she held up a finger to keep him from protesting
—“I did background the client.”

  It was something they always did in this office and always would. You had to know who you were dealing with—and whether they were solvent.

  “Of course, I backgrounded Janessa when I first found her, but unfortunately I didn’t get anything new. She was raised by her mother’s sister, Mozelle Winters, who didn’t have a lot of use for her, and a couple of years ago, she moved in with a friend named Coreen Brown and her very nice family on Mystery Street. For a while, she worked as a manicurist. After that, there’s nothing—this painting gig of hers doesn’t exactly show up online.”

  “Well, I got somethin’ on her.” It pleased Eddie to one-up her. “She’s got a drug record.”

  Ms. Wallis laughed in his face. “I can’t wait till I have your connections. I have to depend on rapsheets.com.”

  “Hold it. Slow down. Did you say ‘rapsheets.com’?”

  “Swear to God. But I never know if it’s accurate. Couldn’t find Janessa on it. Anything serious?”

  “Hell, no, ’scuse my French. It was pot. They should legalize the stuff, ya know?” He said the last part to get a rise out of her, but she only raised an eyebrow.

  “Anybody else got a sheet?”

  “Only Rashad. It’s a juvenile felony record—for what, I don’t know.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh’s right. Sure would like to know more about that one. Hit me with Austin Edwards.” He wondered if the name would throw her, but she didn’t blink—somehow, she’d figured out Allyson’s kids’ names on her own.

  “He seems like a drifter. He’s lived in various little towns in Louisiana—Dulac, Port Fouchoun, Little Lake, Delacroix, Cocodrie.”

  “Hmph. Fishing towns. That might tell us something.”

  “His last known address is in Morgan City, but he’s not there now. And he doesn’t have much of a credit record.”

  “Ya can’t get credit records online. That much I know.”

  Again the raised eyebrow. “If you say so. It looks like he doesn’t buy much, with one notable exception—he’s got a Harley.”

  “Allyson Brower’s kid drives a Harley?”

  “Top of the line. Seems like he’s the rebel in the family. Arnelle used to work for a TV station, but now she’s married to a Metairie internist, guy named Halston. They’ve got stuff in the stock market—that can’t be good.”

  “Meaning they might need money. Did Allyson really have any, or was it all smoke and mirrors?”

  Ms. Wallis put her chin in her hand and gave him a half smile. “What an interesting phrase. More or less describes her life, as far as I can see.”

  “Ha! I smelled it. She was a con artist.”

  “That I can’t tell for sure. But she sure did have a gift for reinventing herself. She was born Alice Rivers in Petal, Mississippi, the daughter of an electrician. Her mother was a clerk in a store in Hattiesburg—guess the family didn’t have much money and Mom had to supplement it. However, Alice was quite beautiful, and reasonably smart, I guess. Only thing was, with the family being of low social status, she missed out on all the big honors, like Homecoming Queen—evidently that kind of thing went to the sleek country-club types.”

  “Ms. Wallis, stop. Don’t tell me ya got all that online.”

  “Hey, Eddie, I’m a detective, remember? Once I had Hattiesburg, I sent out a few e-mails. Funny thing about e-mail—you know how road rage works? People think they’re anonymous because they’re in a car. E-mail’s the same—anybody’ll tell you anything. You should try it some time.”

  “Who could you possibly know in Hattiesburg?”

  “You mean who in the white community? See, that’s the beauty of e-mail. You don’t have to know anybody. For all they know, I’m just a freelance reporter doing a story on her murder.”

  Eddie sighed, exasperated.

  “Well?” she said. “Who’s the one who taught me to lie?”

  “All right, all right. Go on.”

  “Okay, she went to the University of Southern Mississippi right there in Hattiesburg. She couldn’t get into any of the fancy sororities, but she traded on her beauty, and in college she did better than in high school. That taught her that she needed a larger canvas, and here’s where it gets interesting. She went to New York to be a model, and ended up a call girl.”

  “You couldn’t possibly know that!” Even LaBauve had missed it.

  “It’s a matter of record—she was arrested once, working for an escort service; there was a newspaper story about it. Seems like she saved her pennies and managed to put herself through fashion design school, and actually worked for a couture house for a while, apparently as a saleswoman. And then she met a man.”

  “Who?”

  Ms. Wallis consulted her notes. “Richard Peters, if it matters—he came from a wealthy family and didn’t seem to have to do too much for a living, but he was a theatrical producer of sorts. Knew people in the arts. They got married, but not for long. Had one child, Arnelle Peters. He’s dead now, but I don’t know if he left Arnelle any money. Anyway, since he’s gone, people were willing to talk. A woman who worked at the couture house said she thinks Peters beat Allyson—she used to come to work all bruised up. She must have used that to get some coins out of him, because somehow, when she got divorced she managed to leave New York with a chunk of money. She moved to Tallahassee and opened a boutique featuring her own clothing designs.”

  Eddie was bemused. “Why Tallahassee?”

  Talba had considered that. “Pretty hard to get the ‘why’ in three hours, but I’ve got a few thoughts. It’s a college town—she probably sold her clothes to sorority girls with money. I don’t think that’s the only reason, though. I think she wanted to go back to school herself. Because here’s an interesting thing—she got a master’s in English lit while she was there. Also in Tallahassee, she met and married Harry Edwards, a country club type-insurance man. Probably dull but solid.”

  But Eddie was stuck on the previous fact. “English literature? The ex-call girl?”

  His associate raised both eyebrows. “Go figure. But put that together with the kind of people she knew in New York, and the kind of life she lived there—and here, too, for that matter.”

  “Hold it,” Eddie said. “What do we know about her life in New Orleans?”

  “I’m getting to that. Anyhow, she had two kids with Edwards—Austin and Cassie. But, always keeping her eye on the prize, about fifteen years into the marriage, she met Charles Brower, a banker from Mississippi. She left her husband to marry him, and moved back home. But not to Hattiesburg—to the Delta.

  “Unfortunately, that marriage didn’t last too long, either. Brower died about two years ago, apparently leaving her quite a chunk of money.”

  “She does seem good at chunks of money.”

  “Notice I said ‘apparently.’ The jury’s still out on that.”

  Eddie nodded. “Keep going.”

  “She became sort of a local Auntie Mame up in the Delta, and it looks like she was more or less run out of town about a year ago. Too many affairs with other people’s husbands.”

  “Whereupon she moved her operation to New Orleans.”

  “You got it. The original Merry Widow. I know she gave big parties, but there’s a lot I don’t know. I didn’t want to go e-mailing around town—any more is going to require actual legwork. But I found out she used to be in business with a woman named Rosemary McLeod. Don’t know what happened to that. Also, I did make one or two phone calls.”

  “Did she own that house in the Garden District?”

  “She did buy it, but she had a horrible credit record. Really miserable. Also a reputation. She owed a lot of people money, including Janessa, probably. Also, she bought lots of clothes, but she was the sort who’d take out a ball gown on approval and return it in a week.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, one saleslady saw her picture in the paper, wearing a dress she’d returned.”

  Eddie
exploded. “God, I hate people like that!”

  “I know what you mean. I’ve got a feeling this might be the tip of the iceberg.” She shrugged. “But I guess she was really nice to Rashad.”

  Eddie got a glint in his eye. “Wonder if he was her lover.”

  “Ewwwww. She had to be almost sixty.”

  “Whaddaya mean? Sixty’s a great age.”

  “I’m not kidding, Eddie, you really should try that e-mail thing.”

  “Yeah, and I should exercise an hour a day. Ain’t gonna happen, Ms. Wallis. Ya got two more days on this. That’s all.”

  She looked about as worried as a drunk on a Saturday night. Probably thinking, Two more days, sure. “I’m about to go see Arnelle; she might know where Austin is. And I’ve got a bunch more leads on Rashad.”

  “Make ’em count Ms. Wallis, make ’em count. Full report later, okay?”

  Chapter Eight

  Actually, she’d lied to him about two things. First of all, rapsheets.com didn’t even have Louisiana in its database. Second, she’d gotten the clothes-on-approval story from a good friend who worked for Saks and had a friend from Hattiesburg. One phone call and she had enough of Allyson’s background to check the rest out for herself. But what it really told her about the killer she wasn’t sure.

  A man who’d murder his mother and sister for their money would have to be desperate, stupid, on drugs, crazy, or some combination thereof—and somehow, she thought if any two of those were true, Austin Edwards would already have a pretty nasty criminal record. The fact that he didn’t made her lean toward the conclusion the police had probably already reached—either Rashad or Janessa had committed the murders, or they’d done it together.

  Probably Rashad—especially with that suspicious juvenile felony. Too bad for Janessa’s love life, but better to find out your man’s a killer than to rot in jail yourself.

  She steeled herself to visit Arnelle Halston, cordially hoping Halston’s husband wouldn’t be home—Talba’d had quite enough fun couples for one day.

  The Halston home was in Metairie, a suburb located in Jefferson Parish, and a whole different animal from New Orleans. Whereas the city has a distinctly foreign flavor—kind of Caribbean/Mediterranean with a big African influence—Metairie is unequivocally American. Especially old Metairie, a haven for rich white folks. It could have been an upscale neighborhood anywhere if not for its denizens’ Southern accents. Even these weren’t particularly New Orleans, tending toward the smooth rather than the rough, like Eddie’s.