Assassination at Bayou Sauvage

by D. J. Donaldson

  No, she didn’t . . . hadn’t even thought about it.

  Uncle Joe’s daughter, Amelia, lived on one of the residential streets near Commander’s Palace, not more than a quarter mile from Broussard’s home. Their geographical proximity to each other made him feel even worse about all the years he’d made no effort to keep in touch with her.

  He discovered that her home was a tall yellow and white Italianate structure with a two-story porch and ornate corbels under the eaves. The windows on both porches ran from floor to ceiling. Like all other houses in the area, the front yard was nothing more than some foundation shrubbery and a six-foot deep strip of grass behind an attractive wrought iron fence. All in all, a fine domicile.

  Today, Broussard had driven his yellow T-Bird. In front of Amelia’s house, there was a vacant parking space under a big magnolia. Worried about birds fouling the car’s paint, he chose to park two doors down, where no such danger existed.

  Moments later, one hand holding the file folder he’d brought, he was on the porch, ringing Amelia’s bell, which he could hear only faintly through the home’s thick front door. In less than a minute, the door was opened by one of the most elegant looking older women he’d ever seen; tall and slim with a model’s long neck, perfect features, silver hair swept up in a cotton candy kind of arrangement, pearl earrings, a multi-strand pearl necklace at her throat, all set off by a black dress with a high neckline.

  “Andy,” she said with real pleasure in her voice. Before he could respond, she stepped forward and embraced him. Not being a hugger or even a toucher, Broussard didn’t know how to react. Not wanting to stand there like an unresponsive sausage, he unenthusiastically lifted his arms and lightly pressed the palm of his free hand against her back.

  “Come in, come in,” Amelia said, stepping back and gesturing toward the foyer.

  And he did, making sure to move far enough inside so she could shut the door.

  “Mind if we talk in the kitchen?” Amelia said. “I know that’s not considered appropriate in ‘polite’ circles, but we did it lots of times as kids. Why not now?”

  He followed her into a large brightly lit beige kitchen with a huge, granite-topped work island containing a big sink at its far end; a chef’s dream. But it looked like Amelia used the island for more than food preparation.

  “Please excuse the mess. I handle all my paperwork in here. It’s just such a light and pleasant place, it encourages me to do work I’d otherwise put off. You sit there.” She gestured to the closest in a line of chairs on one side of the island. “And I’ll sit here.” She put her hand on the chair tucked under the granite overhang at the near end of the island. “But first, what can I get you to drink? Lemonade, iced tea, something stronger?”

  “No thanks, nothing for me.” The question Broussard had come to ask her was swelling up inside him and he felt that if he didn’t ask it soon, it’d blow the buttons off his shirt, but there was such a thing as timing and manners. “Again, let me say how sorry I was about what happened to your father.”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t seem real, that I’ll never talk to him again. He was there one minute, enjoying the picnic, I think. And then . . . gone . . . forever. How can something so monumental happen that fast? And the way he died was so . . . horrible.” Her eyes shifted from sadness to anger. “Do they know yet who did it?”

  “Remember how when you’re puttin’ together a picture puzzle, it’s always best to start with the edges? I’d say at this point that’s how far the investigation has progressed, just the edges.”

  In response to her expression of disappointment, he added, “And now the rest will surely follow.”

  It was no longer possible to hold in the question he’d come to ask. But before he could speak, the cell phone on the countertop rang.

  “This is Amelia.”

  Broussard couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end, but Amelia’s eyes grew round, and her jaw dropped open. Even through her makeup, her skin blanched.

  “Okay, thanks for calling.”

  She hung up and her posture slumped. She looked at Broussard. “That was my sister, Sara. What the hell is this world coming to? She said my brother, Julien’s, granddaughter has been murdered.”

  “What’s her name?” Broussard asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Bergeron?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter 22

  Amelia looked hard at Broussard. “You knew that Elizabeth was dead, didn’t you?”

  “That’s what I came to talk about. I saw her name on the picnic invitation list but I’m sorry to say I didn’t know who she was.”

  “Andy, she was so young.”

  Broussard nodded. “I don’t like thinkin’ about that.”

  Amelia fell into a reverential silence.

  Perhaps because she’d just learned about Betty and was still shocked at the news, she didn’t try to connect the girl’s death with what happened to Uncle Joe. But Broussard’s mind was already slogging through the implications. Two killings in one family, just three days apart. Could that merely be a coincidence? He didn’t like coincidences. To even consider that as an option in any investigation seemed worthy only of a brain as smooth as an apple.

  “Did you know her?” Broussard asked.

  “Not very well. But I can imagine how devastated her parents are as well as her grandparents, Julien and Leona. I should tell Scott.”

  As she punched a number into her phone, Broussard figured Scott was her husband. But he wasn’t sure.

  After she’d talked with Scott and hung up, Broussard said, “The fact I didn’t know I was related to Elizabeth and didn’t recognize hardly anyone at the picnic showed me my life has been far too insulated. I want to know the name of every person who was invited and how they’re related to each other. Believe me, I know my timin’ is awful, considerin’ what’s happened, but would you be willin’ to go over the invitation list with me and tell me who’s who?”

  Amelia’s eyes subtly shifted from reflections on death to once again participating in life. “It’d be my pleasure, Andy.”

  Broussard opened the file folder he’d brought. “I’ve got the list and some sheets of paper right here. I’d like to make a pedigree chart to keep it all organized.”

  “That’s sort of the way I made up the list,” Amelia said. “I started with my brother Julien and his wife.”

  Using accepted conventions for constructing a pedigree chart, Broussard had already drawn a square at the top to represent Uncle Joe. He’d then drawn a horizontal line from Joe’s square to a circle that indicated Joe’s wife, Anne. He now proceeded to add and label symbols for Julien and Leona.

  “Then I listed my sister, Sara, and her husband, Noel. Noel’s last name is LeBlanc.”

  “I did know that,” Broussard said. “Because of their grandson, Remy.”

  “You know Remy?”

  “Talked to him this mornin’ about doin’ some more work for me.”

  “Then you know how good he is.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “He was over here two weeks ago, checking on the two men who were replacing some siding on the back of the house. Sat right there where you are and had some lemonade.”

  Broussard entered Sara and Noel on his chart then looked at the invitation list, where the next names were Amelia’s brother, Lewis and his wife Kay. As he put those names on his chart, Amelia said, “Have the police talked to Lewis yet?”

  “I don’t think so,” Broussard said. “Edges first . . .”

  “I’m sure he didn’t have anything to do with the shooting. You remember how he was like as a kid, wanting to fish with a piece of hot dog rather than put a worm or a minnow on a hook.”

  “Not sure if that indicates a tender heart or lack of understandin’ of where hot dogs come from.”

  Amelia nodded. “I never thought of that.”

  “Okay, the next two names on your list are Sh
erri and David Peltier . . .”

  For the next forty-five minutes Amelia spit out names she remembered with such ease Broussard regularly had to slow her down. Finally, he had it all on paper. Looking at the sprawling chart, Broussard shook his head and said, “Uncle Joe and Annie made all that. Makes me feel like an underachiever.”

  “They only did a small part of it.”

  “That’s true.”

  When he’d been at the picnic with most of the people now displayed on his pedigree chart, Broussard hadn’t given any thought about who they really were, vaguely believing that a lot of them were simply Joe’s friends and their kids. But now, as he looked at the names of all his kin displayed in one impressive document, he began to feel uncomfortable, as though he was jammed in an elevator with a lot of strangers.

  “Okay,” he said, putting the chart in his folder. “Thanks for doin’ that.” He got out of his chair and headed for the front door.

  Behind him, Amelia said, “Again, I’m sure you don’t have to worry about Lewis. Will you watch out for him?”

  Broussard had no idea exactly what ‘watching out for Lewis’ meant. And even if he did, he had no reason to influence the investigation in Lewis’s favor. But he didn’t think he should say that. So he simply said, “It’s been great to see you, Amelia. Thanks again for your help.”

  Kit left the Tulane registrar’s office feeling like a dope. Why had she not anticipated that the registrar might balk at simply handing over DeLeon’s schedule? It was a rookie mistake. But then of course she was a rookie . . . at this kind of stuff anyway. Still, she should have known better.

  What to do now? She checked her watch: 12:15.

  Dee Evans said that she’d seen DeLeon eating lunch in the LBC. She was now standing on the steps of Gibson Hall, the Gothic architectural centerpiece of the original campus. The LBC was a short distance behind Gibson Hall. To reach it she headed for Engineering Drive, where she fell in behind a co-ed in a short denim skirt and a ruby and blue-striped short sleeved pullover.

  As she walked, she passed other students coming her way. Seeing them all she thought about what it was like to be their age – worrying about the next test, the next date, complexion problems – the seniors concerned about that first job. Death was something very few of them ever thought about. Even when they would reach Kit’s age, mortality for most of them would still be an abstract concept.

  But with the pallid death mask of Betty Bergeron adding yet another layer to the smoldering images of all the other bodies she’d seen in her work, she was far older than her physical age. And in no way did that seem like a good thing.

  When she reached the LBC, she went up the steps and wandered around the first floor, her eyes trolling for a black backpack decorated with yellow emogies.

  No luck. And if she saw it, that’s exactly what it would be, dumb luck.

  She went out onto the terrace patio, where she saw some long-legged girls throwing a Frisbee around the LBC quad. Farther down, two guys were playing catch with a football. The elevated patio was a long rectangle parallel to the quad and it was filled with students sitting on gray metal chairs at yellow-topped tables. Then, at ground level, sitting on a concrete bench ringing a young live oak, she saw a guy drinking from a soda can. Beside him was a black backpack covered in yellow circles.

  Chapter 23

  Kit found an empty seat on the terrace near the guy she thought was likely Jes DeLeon. Not wanting to just sit there and stare at him, she took out her phone and pretended to be fascinated with its screen, thereby appearing as easily entertained as a lot of the students around her.

  DeLeon was watching the Frizbee girls so intently Kit could almost see lascivious thought bubbles over his head. He took his time with his drink, finishing it as the girls departed the quad. He then got up, walked over to a trash receptacle, and tossed the can in.

  Kit waited until he was about ten yards away, heading for the front of the LBC. Then she casually went to the trash bin and took off the lid, hoping she’d find his can sitting on top of a lot of paper refuse. She didn’t want to talk to him until she’d obtained a sample of his DNA. If she spoke to him and identified herself first, she’d never be able to covertly wait for him to discard some object that might have a few of his cells on it. But the trash container didn’t cooperate, because inside, it was mostly soda cans. And she hadn’t been close enough to see what he was drinking.

  She put the top back on the receptacle and looked toward the direction DeLeon had gone, now finding him about thirty yards away.

  Trying to appear that she was not following him, she did, making no attempt to close the distance between them.

  At Freret Street, he crossed and followed an open-air walkway that had been constructed through Percival Stern Hall so that its second floor arched overhead. Kit knew that on the other side of the walkway, there were many campus buildings he could disappear into. So she picked up the pace to make sure she wouldn’t lose him.

  When she emerged from under Percival Stern, there he was . . . now about twenty yards in front of her. The walk he was following had buildings on the left and a wide lawn to his right. On other occasions when she’d been to the campus, Kit had enjoyed the gorgeous landscaping, but today she was so intent on keeping contact with DeLeon she didn’t even notice it. Just past the three big rusty-metal circle sculptures in front of Stanley Thomas Hall, the walk ran five different ways. He chose the one that would keep him the farthest from any adjacent buildings. Kit now realized they were headed toward the ad building where she’d started this quest.

  Five minutes later, with her target still in sight, she left the campus and crossed the near lane of St. Charles Avenue. A streetcar in the neutral ground lumbered past, momentarily blocking her view. When it was out of the way, she saw DeLeon, about fifteen yards down the main walkway into Audubon Park.

  Except for DeLeon and Kit, the park entrance was empty, no students or anyone else she could use for cover. But from the moment she’d begun to follow him, she hadn’t seen him look her way, so she wasn’t worried. Still, she took a branch walkway off to the left that led to a big fountain with a ring of benches around it. By following the right curvature of benches, she could still keep track of DeLeon’s movements without risking him looking back toward the entrance and seeing her.

  Where the line of benches ended, there was a large live oak that gave her cover as she stopped and watched DeLeon leave the pavement and step onto the grass bordering the large lagoon that ran the length of the park. He walked to the water’s edge and stared into it. Then, as though Kit’s wishes could somehow influence the course of events, DeLeon lit a cigarette. Up to that moment, she had no evidence he smoked, but she’d once read an article that said 90% of criminals do. She couldn’t vouch for the truth of the article but had followed him, hoping it was right.

  He took a few puffs then began strolling to the left, a course that would bring him into a more direct line of sight from where she stood. Realizing how odd it would look if she continued to just stand there, she sat down and put her right leg on the bench. With her body now half turned toward the lagoon, she took out her phone and started moving her finger over the screen as if scrolling through some mesmerizing content.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw DeLeon move into sight. He kept walking parallel to the lagoon until he was just to the right of two bronze statues. There, he turned back toward the water.

  Kit wanted that cigarette butt when he was finished with it. The article about criminals smoking didn’t say anything about what they did with their butts, but Kit suspected they just threw them on the ground. When he did, she’d swoop in, pick it up with a clean tissue, and put it in the empty aspirin bottle she’d brought. Then she had a horrible thought. Oh no . . . What if he flicked it into the lagoon?

  He took a few more puffs while Kit faked some additional screen gazing. Then . . . Yes . . . he tossed the butt on the grass and stepped on it. Most likely some of the saliva and cell
s she was after would stick to his shoe, but she knew the PCR replication procedures for multiplying even trace amounts of DNA could get a profile from a single cell. She also wanted to test the butt for his blood type. Maybe that wouldn’t work, but it was worth trying.

  DeLeon adjusted his backpack and resumed his stroll along the lagoon. When he was a suitable distance away, Kit got up and hurried toward the water, using the short walkway between benches. In seconds, she was there. But . . . she bent down and . . . found herself looking at a flattened unsmoked cigarette.

  “Why are you following me and why are you trying to get a sample of my DNA?” a voice said from behind her.

  She turned to see Jes DeLeon standing a few feet away. “You’ve just answered your first question with your second,” she said. “Do you know Betty Bergeron?” She knew he did, but wanted to hear what he’d say.

  “That’s what this is about? You think I’m the one who hurt her?”

  The discovery of Betty’s body had been on the morning news, the two local papers, and TV. DeLeon wasn’t implicating himself by knowing about her death. But why did he say ‘hurt’ rather than ‘killed’? Did he soften the verb because he was involved?

  He had a tiny triangular tuft of hair just under the center part of his lower lip, like he thought that was some great magnet for attracting women. His complexion was good and distressingly free of scratches. But he was wearing a gray jersey turtleneck, perhaps to hide the marks she was looking for. “I know you spoke to her at Gator Willie’s the night she was killed.”

  “So what?”

  “The surveillance tape showed that when you touched her hand at the bar, she wasn’t pleased about it. And that night wasn’t the first time she rejected your attention. There was at least one other time on the Tulane campus.”

  “Has someone been gossiping about me?”