Louisiana Lament

by Julie Smith

  “What? The mother’s? You believe that?”

  Talba shrugged again. “Could have happened. You know what they say on flights? Put on your own mask first. If the mother died and the aunt was in the joint, what would have happened to the kid? So Felicia agreed to it, and then they were all stuck with it.”

  “Did she die?”

  “Not then. She passed away two years later, of natural causes, apparently.”

  “Overdose, I bet. So Felicia wants everyone to think the kid’s really some kind of low-flying angel who’s shouldered this burden all these years.”

  “You couldn’t take it to court, but if you read the poems carefully, it makes sense. There’s a lot of soul-searching, ‘did I do right’ kind of stuff.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think the cops are going to buy it.”

  “Goes without saying—but Eddie and Angie and I are the kid’s only hope. Felicia was trying to convince us, that was all.” The waitress arrived with more beers and more food—they’d ordered three appetizers to be brought in three courses. It was their favorite way to eat. Greedily, they applied themselves to potstickers. “Well?” Darryl asked. “Did it work?”

  “Oh, who cares. None of us want it to be Rashad. He’s a good kid and the two white guys are more or less scum.”

  “Little Miss Politically Correct.”

  Talba savored a greasy, meaty, doughy bite. “Nothing to do with race. They both cheat on their wives, they both treated Cassie horribly, they even treat each other like dirt. Of course, Wayne Taylor does have one sterling characteristic—he claims to be a fan of mine. On the other hand, that probably means he’s just a manipulator. But here’s the interesting thing—that crazy Gatsby theory of Rashad’s doesn’t fit Hunt at all, but it fits Taylor almost perfectly. He’s the real Wilson character—if Cassie’s Myrtle, I mean. Also, he’s the only one in the entire cast of clowns and screwballs who has an actual motive for murdering either one of them—he could have fought with Cassie because of Hunt, or he could have fought with Allyson because she didn’t want Cassie seeing him. Only problem is, he doesn’t have a motive for whacking the other one.”

  “Sure he does. The time-honored frame-up to save his own skin.”

  “Yeah, but Eddie’s right. He pointed out you don’t need someone else to take the fall—all you need is no evidence against you. And if one was a crime of passion, it doesn’t make sense that you’d then get smart and premeditate the other.”

  “Unless you wanted the second one dead even more than the first one.”

  “Yeah, that’s what we’re missing—a motive for that. But someone did shoot at Rashad—and we know he’d talked the theory over with Taylor.”

  “Yeah, but on the phone, presumably. How would Taylor find him?”

  “How’d I find him? It’d be easier for Taylor—he knew about Celeste all along.”

  “Wait a minute.” Darryl set down his beer so hard it sloshed. “This is way too good a case against Taylor. Don’t you think it’s pretty weird no one else knew about him and Cassie? How do we know they were really involved?”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t really talked to Cassie’s friends—I was trying to find Rashad, remember? Anyway, Hunt knew, according to Rashad. But that’s a good point.”

  “That’s the thing—it’s all ‘according to Rashad.’ Do we really have any evidence that somebody shot at him? Or only his story?”

  Suddenly, Talba saw a possibility she’d missed. “Oh my God! The kid looks guiltier than ever—his story’s got more holes than a window screen. As Eddie would say.”

  Darryl smiled, extremely pleased with himself. “My money’s on Rashad.”

  “Oh, yeah! The half-ass theory, the trumped-up stories—not one, not two, but three of ’em. Taylor and Cassie being an item, he himself getting shot at, and last but not least, Felicia being the fiend who stabbed his mother and made him pay for it. Oh, man! Why didn’t I see it?”

  “ ’Cause you needed a movie. And…” He eyed her critically. “Let me see, maybe something else. Your brain still seems kind of worn out to me. I think you need a little more relaxing.”

  She smiled. “Not a half-bad idea. So much for a short evening.”

  “You want short and sweet, you got the wrong guy.”

  “Who said anything about sweet?”

  ***

  She went straight to Janessa’s in the morning, intending to go through the motions, no matter what she really thought, and pick up Rashad to check out his semi-alibi. But a numb Janessa opened the door, wearing only a T-shirt and underpants. The girl looked terrified.

  “What is it?” Talba pushed past her, wondering if Rashad had done something violent. But he was only standing in the middle of the apartment, fully dressed, and clutching his cell phone. He was looking down at the floor where the futon was still unfurled and un-made up. But he was unmistakably crying.

  For a moment, Talba merely stood and stared in shock while he pulled himself together. He brushed his face with his hands, but when he finally raised his eyes to her, they were brimming again. “Hunt’s dead.”

  “Hunt Montjoy?” she said stupidly, as if she knew as many Hunts as Bills. “How could he be dead?”

  Rashad shook his head, signifying ignorance. “Lynne found him in the garage. In his car. Wayne just called.”

  Her first thought was suicide, that Hunt had asphyxiated himself. “He killed himself?”

  Rashad looked even more stricken. “I just don’t think he would. He’s not the type.”

  He sure wasn’t the type, Talba thought. Rashad was right about that. She had no doubt Montjoy was capable of killing someone, but the idea that he’d actually be remorseful seemed preposterous.

  “What else did Wayne say?”

  “Lynne said he had a fight with someone yesterday—”

  “Austin.”

  “He took off afterwards. Didn’t say where he was going, didn’t come home last night. She found him this morning.”

  “Let me call Eddie.” She stepped outside and speed-dialed him.

  “Ms. Wallis, this better be good. I haven’t had coffee yet.”

  “Hunt Montjoy’s dead.” She gave him the details.

  “Now that,” he said, “is one hell of a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Got it in one, Ms. Wallis. It ain’t no coincidence. I’m callin’ Crockett.”

  “Are you going to tell him about Rashad?”

  “Got to now. Least maybe the kid’s got an alibi for this one. That is, if ya sister counts. ’Course Crockett’ll probably think they did it together.”

  “You don’t think Hunt killed himself?”

  “That’s what I’m gon’ find out. Bring the kids over, will ya?”

  Janessa had used the interval to get dressed and was now making up the futon. Rashad was in the little kitchen, holding a mug and staring out the window. “Plan’s changed,” Talba said. “We’re going to Eddie’s office.”

  Rashad nodded. “Good.”

  But Janessa balked. “Why we doin’ that? Y’all gon’ turn Rashad in, aren’t ya?”

  Talba opened her mouth to speak, but Rashad barked from the kitchen, “Shut up, girl. Just go.”

  Janessa looked at him as if he’d hit her. Her eyes filled briefly, but she picked up her backpack. No one spoke during most of the short ride to the CBD, but when they were almost there, Rashad said, “Funny thing. Yesterday I could have killed him myself, I was so sure he’d killed Cassie and Allyson.”

  “And now?” Talba asked.

  “Now, I just think it’s a horrible waste.”

  I think I smell a poem coming on, she thought, but she kept it to herself.

  Eddie was on his second cup of coffee, and a lot more alert than he’d been on the phone. “Morning, everybody. I talked to Crockett.”

  “Did he kill hisself ?” Janessa blurted.

  “Not yet, but he’s under psychiatric care—three deaths in a row
, it’s kind of got him down.”

  Rashad snickered, but Janessa looked hurt. “I meant Hunt.”

  Eddie looked at her over greeny-violet eye bags. “They don’t think he did, no. They’ve got to do an autopsy but there was onething that argued against asphyxiation—Lynne says the car was off when she found it.”

  “Maybe she kill him,” Janessa said.

  “She had good reason, I’m sure,” Eddie replied. “For that matter, she had good reason to kill the other two. But that’s neither here nor there right now. Where were you model citizens last night?”

  “Home watchin’ TV,” Janessa answered. Rashad was distinctly subdued.

  “Together?”

  They nodded.

  “All night?”

  “Yeah.” Janessa slid a shifty peek at Talba.

  Eddie stood up. “Okay. Let’s go. Crockett wants you over there right away. Botha ya.”

  “Hey!” Janessa wasn’t going quietly. “What about the bartenders? How ’bout the streetcar guys? Ya sellin’ us out!”

  “Janessa, be quiet!” Rashad said. “I just want this over with.”

  The room went quiet. Talba glanced at Janessa, worried she was going to tear up again—if she’d had a crush on Rashad before, she’d now become his slave.

  “Look,” Rashad said, “ya think they gon’ lock me up?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Depends on whether Crockett believes ya—my guess is not; still too many loose ends. And don’t worry about those bartenders. The cops can fix a time of death between about two hours, usually. We’d have to find one to swear you were there for the whole period in which both women could have been killed, and, frankly, we already know you weren’t, right? How long were you in those bars?”

  “Not long. Half hour, forty-five minutes.”

  Eddie nodded. “So it might help, but it’s not going to stop him locking you up. Anyway, it’s really Crockett’s job to find ’em, not ours.”

  “Ya sellin’ us out!” Janessa screamed. Her eyes were painful to look at, they were so scared; but whether for Rashad or herself, Talba had no idea.

  Rashad said, “Shut up, Janessa! Look, I gotta talk to Eddie and Talba by myself.”

  “Ya what? Ya want me to leave?”

  “Just for a minute, all right?” He was so obviously trying to be patient with her that Talba felt momentarily sorry for him; she figured living in close quarters with her clingy, tempestuous sister would try anyone’s patience. “I need to explain somethin’ to ’em. Don’t worry—it’s somethin’ you already know about.”

  Janessa sulked her way to the waiting room.

  “Look, there’s just one thing I want to do, okay? I want to go to the memorial service.”

  Talba wondered if Eddie was as baffled as she was. “For Hunt?” she said, unbelieving.

  “No.” Rashad shook his head vigorously. “For Allyson and Cassie. It’s tonight at Allyson’s. I, uh—I called Austin. He invited me. If they lock me up, promise you’ll get me out in time.”

  “Well, son,” Eddie said, “I see why you’d want to be there for Cassie if Crockett wants to hold ya, but—”

  Rashad interrupted him. “Not Cassie so much. I want to be there for Allyson. It’s like the book, you know? I’m Nick, I’ve got to be there for her.” He paused. “Because maybe nobody else will be.”

  Talba had read the book so long ago she could barely remember what he was talking about, but Eddie said, “Owl Eyes went to the funeral.”

  “And that’s exactly what I’m talking about! Maybe some of the freeloaders will come, those assholes who came to her parties because it was the place to be, but you and I both know Allyson didn’t have that many real friends. Even Austin and Arnelle more or less hated her.” He beat the air with the flats of his hands. “I just want to be there for her. That’s why I came in this morning. Could have left again, right? But then they’d pick me up at the service. This way, I’ve got a chance, anyhow. Miz Allyson was good to me. I owe it to her.” His eyes were shiny with tears. He lowered them quickly.

  “Well, son, ya got a good lawyer.” Eddie sounded uncharacteristically hearty. Talba could tell he was moved. “Is that all?”

  “I just want to get sprung by tonight. You gotta bail me out if they keep me. Or get Aunt Felicia.” The enormity of his naivete swept over Talba like a garment.

  Eddie stood up. “We’re gonna hope for the best, son. Let’s go see Crockett; Angie’s meeting us there. Ms. Wallis, meanwhile, get a picture from Felicia and check out those bartenders.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “You go to that thing tonight, too. And Rashad—one word to Crockett about that Gatsby garbage, and you’re the next to die. Ya hear?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The morning had barely begun, and already Talba was boggled. She didn’t know whether to believe the kid or not, but it had been a very pretty speech. First, she called Austin to see if she’d be welcome that evening, and having done that, she called Felicia and secured a picture of a much younger Rashad, one who barely resembled the young man who’d stood in the office that morning. Without much hope, she went out to look for bars near the River Bend.

  She found a couple, but of course no one on duty had been working two Monday nights ago, which meant she’d have to come back later—with Rashad in tow, if he wasn’t in jail.

  Next, she phoned the RTA to see if she could find out who’d been driving a streetcar around ten p.m. two Mondays before, but nobody wanted to tell her. Eddie was right—this was Crockett’s job, and it would be a lot easier with his clout. But she could always invent a pretext and try again later.

  In the end, she wasn’t too disappointed—she hadn’t really hoped for much. She thought she could do better trying to confirm whether Taylor and Cassie had really been involved. Lynne Montjoy might know, but the day of her husband’s death didn’t seem the right time to ask.

  Briefly, she considered Taylor himself. She tried Mimi Dirr instead.

  Mimi was mystified. “Wayne Taylor?” she said. “Wayne and Cassie? I’ve never heard that. He and his wife just had a baby.”

  “Well, look, did Cassie have any close women friends?”

  “Yeah.” Mimi sounded like she was in shock. “Janet Taylor.”

  “Wayne’s wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, boy. Guess she didn’t confide in her. Anybody else?”

  “She was really close with Raoul Fernandez. He’s almost the same as a girlfriend. She used to turn up with him at parties—which would make sense if she was dating a married man.”

  “Especially that one. I hear she dated Hunt Montjoy, too.”

  “Come on!”

  “Maybe they didn’t go out in public.” Talba felt reasonably confident about Hunt—she’d gotten the story from several sources. But thinking about the difference in Cassie’s public and private lives depressed her. She wondered briefly whether Austin knew about Cassie and Taylor—but after yesterday’s fight, asking him was out of the question. Fernandez was probably as good a place to start as any. He was someone whose name Talba knew well—a local stage director whom Cassie must have worked with.

  “Know where to find Raoul?” she asked.

  “You could try the phone book.”

  And so she did, wishing she’d thought of this before wasting her time calling on bartenders—no way Fernandez was going to be home in the middle of the day. She dialed his number, thinking to hang up and race right over if he answered. He didn’t, and worse, his voicemail said he was out of the country.

  Burford Hale? she wondered. He and Allyson had been close, and supposedly Allyson knew about Taylor. She might have told him.

  “You know,” he said, “I always wondered about that. Those two spent a lot of time together at parties. But, no, Allyson didn’t mention it.”

  Cassie must have had plenty of friends in the theater, but without Fernandez it would take time to find out who they were.

  In some ways, Cassie was com
ing clearer to her—a beautiful woman who dated married men and befriended gay or otherwise nonthreatening ones, like Rashad; who probably didn’t like women much because they reminded her of her mother; who didn’t have enough self-confidence to date available men.

  She must have been hugely depressed, Talba thought. And possibly angry. She wondered if Cassie herself could have started the fight in which she was killed. She sighed and buckled down to sweetie snoops. Eddie popped his head in about one-thirty. “Ms. Wallis, ya sister’s still free.”

  “Oh. Good. How about Rashad?”

  “Him, too. You’ll probably see ’em both tonight. What’d ya think of that speech of his?”

  She shrugged. “Could have been true. What about Hunt—do they have a cause of death yet?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. And they won’t for days. Cops think it’s an overdose—and you know how long toxicology takes.”

  “Maybe it was just a coincidence after all.”

  “And maybe I’m F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

  They got two new clients that day—a funny thing how time filled up once it was freed. One was a doctor from Baton Rouge who didn’t want to hire a local detective to spy on his wife. (Talba smelled bucks there.) The other was an insurance company that didn’t buy someone’s back injury story. This was Eddie’s kind of case—he loved to go out with his video camera, spy on the guy for days on end, catch him moving furniture if he got lucky. And she had to admit, he nearly always did.

  She spent the rest of the day contentedly backgrounding the doctor and doing employment checks.

  The memorial service, which she gathered was really something more like a cocktail party, was set for seven. By seven-fifteen, only a handful of people had arrived, two of them Rashad, in a white shirt and sport coat, and Janessa, in a slightly inappropriate skin-tight dress with cleavage. The Baroness herself had opted for something halfway between the daytime wage slave and the poet who ruled the night—she had on the same ruffled bells she’d worn to her last reading with a simple white shirt. Austin met her at the door in one of his surfer shirts, incongruously paired with a tie. “Mother hated these,” he said, “but I think she’d have liked the tie, don’t you?”