by Cynthia Lott
“Stephen is a child. He’s kind of…slow. The doctors say it happened when he was in the womb…oxygen cut off to his brain or something. That’s why we play Scrabble. It gets him to concentrate on words and think. Anyway, he’s not good at comprehending social events. He knows something happened to our sister…something terrible…but I wanted to let him know that it was going to be okay. What else was I supposed to say to him? It’s not easy seeing both your parents crying like that. I could tell he was becoming upset, because he starts to shake and sometimes he’ll fall on the floor and shake uncontrollably for a few minutes. He’s on medication, but I didn’t want that happening to him especially in front of my parents while they were crying. That’s the last thing they needed. I told him we were leaving the house soon and going someplace for hot chocolate.” She pulled her hair behind her ears.
“I understand. You seem to have a great way of taking care of people. It’s a lovely asset, especially at a time like this.” I saw maturity in this young girl beyond her eighteen years.
“It happens. Especially when others aren’t always there to take care of you.” Her voice sounded agitated. She raised her left eyebrow, bit her lip and stared past me, again towards the water marked paths as if one of them might lead her somewhere.
* * *
Chapter Three
Claire A. Watkins
Walking to the top landing and following the sound of laughter below, she thought they were a strange sight: Karen, Stephen, Carmen, and a stranger looking up at her from the bottom of the staircase. Their merriment interrupted her Chopin, but she welcomed it as an excuse to stretch her body and move away from the piano bench. Practicing for hours, her hands had become stiff from repetitious playing. She only surfaced earlier in the evening when Carmen made Shrimp Creole for dinner, something she could never pass up. The woman was an exceptional cook, making her mother’s attempts in the kitchen pale by comparison.
“Oh, Claire,” Carmen called up to her. “There’s someone here who would like to meet you. His name is Thomas Carpenter, and he’s a friend of your parents. He came from their party and said they were having a lovely time.”
Carmen smiled at him and offered a glass of Bordeaux as they waited for Claire to join them. Claire stood motionless at the top of the staircase, hesitant. As the four of them returned to their chatter about Karen’s senior classes at the Louise S. McGhee School for Girls, Stephen’s new Star Wars toy figures, and the sudden foggy weather overtaking the night, she descended the stairs. She stopped eye level with Thomas Carpenter and regarded him with veiled suspicion. Her family was always a gregarious bunch, but she had never seen them taken with someone as they were with this stranger.
What’s come over them?
But, as she stepped into his presence, every vestige of caution vanished. It seemed as if he were an old family friend who had simply dropped by to catch up.
“Hi.” She tucked her long brown hair behind her ears. “I’ve never seen a mask like that before.” With encrusted jewels around the eyes in various colors and feathers framing the face, the mask was mesmerizing. She focused on the gold beak, poised over his full, sensuous lips. After returning her gaze for a moment, he tilted his head quizzically to the right and spoke in a voice that was best described as lyrical.
“It’s been in my family for years. My grandfather brought it from Venice when he immigrated. Do you like it?”
“Yes, it suits you.” She could not imagine him without his mask. It was as if he had been born wearing it, and she felt no inclination to ask for its removal.
“Good. I’m glad you like it. I’ve heard a lot about you from your parents. They suggested I stop by and play a piece with you, which I do hope isn’t too much of an inconvenience. I have my violin here with me and would be honored if you let me play with you.” He tapped the wooden case. “If it’s too much trouble, I can come back at a better time or…”
“Have I met you before?” She proceeded to move closer, his seductive voice lulling her further down the staircase.
“No. You and I have never met. I only met your parents this evening…a wonderful couple. I’ve read about you in the paper. You’re an impressive performer, so when your parents suggested I come around to join you in a piece, well, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, could I? It’s always nice to meet someone who has determination and skill.”
Although she was depicted as the socialite piano prodigy, Claire found her name splattered all over the news overwhelming and intrusive. She just wanted to be a normal fifteen year old: going to the drive-in, dating, and sneaking into dance clubs on Saturday nights like Karen. Her father never allowed her these normal adolescent indulgences, and now he planned a newsworthy gala for her coming out party.
What a bore.
“I’ve always loved playing. I’m sure you’ve seen me on television, too. My father makes sure that I’m covered by every local station. It’s annoying.” She laughed, embarrassed by her father’s pride.
“Oh, yes. Television. Of course.” He smiled, sharing in her brief laughter.
Looking at Carpenter’s lips and his white teeth, she smiled back at him. It came naturally to her, reflexive, involuntary. His dark brown eyes were hypnotic, and she found her gaze going from his eyes to his lips and back again. She sipped a small glass of grape juice given to her by Carmen and listened to Karen and Stephen’s idle chatter in the background.
“I’ve always liked playing, too, Claire.” He tapped his violin case. “Shall we?”
“Sure. Follow me. I’ll take you to my practice room. I’m performing next week at the Rex Ball, so I was looking over some of my pieces. My parents must’ve liked you enough to invite you over. Be careful. They’ll start sending you invitations to everything.” She laughed and felt dizzy, off kilter as if his voice had put her in a trance. She grabbed the banister, steadying herself. And then it was gone…the vertigo, the moment of confusion. He followed her up the stairs as Karen and Stephen returned to their Scrabble game. Karen was joyfully triumphant, as she spelled out the word “zephyr” before Carpenter’s arrival. Carmen watched them walk up the staircase.
“Claire, dear, do turn in early. I’m sure you’re tired, and Mr. Carpenter will want to go home at a decent hour as he’s had a long evening,” she said with such a natural ease that it was a little shocking to Claire how any feeling of doubt or question in Carmen’s voice evaporated as quickly as it had arrived.
“Of course, Carmen,” she called down. “We’ll only practice for a short while.”
Claire's sheet music spilled over the surface of a small antique table, accurately portraying how she usually practiced. Her music room was the one place she could be messy, usurp her father’s control. With a slight feeling of embarrassment, she hastily piled her papers into a stack and motioned for Carpenter to place his violin case on the tabletop.
“Sorry for the mess.” She watched him run his hand around the sides of the table, tracing his fingers over the flower engravings that graced its top.
Grasping the ornate handle, he gently opened and closed the drawer. “Claire. This table. Where did you get it?”
“We’ve had it in our family for generations. It’s an heirloom.” She sat down at her piano. “Do you like it?”
“Yes. Very much.” Reluctantly, he lifted his hand off the table. “It’s a fine piece of work.” He raised his head, observing the mist as it gathered outside in the courtyard below.
“How about Beethoven? Can you play with your mask on?” Her voice gave off an air of flirtation.
“I can do everything with this mask on.” He walked over to her, smiling.
“You are pretty.” He stroked her hair, caressed her neck, and moved his way towards her nose, which he pinched gently. They both laughed, and he turned her around to face the piano. She liked his laugh. It was friendly, warm, and genuine.
“Go ahead and start without me. I want to hear you play first, then I will join in.”
She bega
n to play Beethoven’s “Sonata for Violin and Piano No.5”.
Typically within a few moments of playing, she would forget about the presence of others. She was good at tuning out distractions and, at concerts, she wouldn’t even know you were there. But not this time. This time when she played, she fantasized about having Carpenter’s arms around her. Closing her eyes, she anxiously awaited the arrival of his instrument. She had a longing to share this piece with his violin, listen to how they would meld together in a glorious, seamless performance.
She continued playing, feeling his presence behind her as he caressed the top of her head, sending shivers down her back and legs. She skipped a few bars in the piece. Sweat broke out across her forehead, blood rushed to her face as he ran his finger down her spine. And she wanted this…the tip of his finger along each vertebrae.
Don’t stop.
What she felt next was something wrapped tightly around her throat, painful, suffocating. His hands pulled her backwards off of the piano stool. Her eyes snapped open in shock, fingers grasped at the keys as she struggled to keep herself upright. Her back hit the carpet, the throbbing thud and pain adding to her breathlessness. She tried to fight him off, her arms flailing, but he dragged her easily across the carpet and over to a settee under the window.
“I’m so sorry, Claire. I truly am.” He was unremitting as he squeezed a red ribbon tighter around her throat and turned to watch her plead with him in disbelief.
Claire grabbed frantically at his hands, hitting him on the arms. She smelled the heavy aromas of rosemary and lavender emanating from the beak of his mask.
How could I have trusted this man? No one downstairs is going to hear me…no one is going to help me!
Struggling for that last moment of her life, she ripped the mask from Carpenter’s face. In that final second, she knew that he had been truthful about one thing: she had never seen this man before in her life.
* * *
Chapter Four
On February 7th, the preliminary autopsy confirmed what I hoped: Claire died of strangulation from something tied around her throat. The mere idea of Claire being dismembered alive made me weak, and I took comfort with the fact that she died before Carpenter made his first cut. It was the same peace knowing that my father died instantly from a single gunshot wound.
Sometimes you have to welcome a person’s death through the lack of their suffering.
Roy visited the medical examiner’s office earlier that morning for the preliminary report. As he revisited her remains, I’m sure he was relieved that I stayed at my apartment. I was recovering from a migraine, a condition he may have thought that I exaggerated, but nonetheless I was certain that he was grateful for my absence.
My assistant, Juliet Sinclair, handed me the crime lab results, her blazing orange fingernails gracing the preliminary report.
“There are no fingerprints…on anything. Not a damn thing. Are you sure they said he wasn’t wearing some type of glove?” She watched me open the folder and turned away, distracted by a chip on one of her right nails. Juliet was a twenty-five year old black woman with feathery hair and a propensity for bell-bottoms, large hoop earrings, and lacy tops. Always stylish, smelling of French Lilac perfume, and continually “put together,” she looked more like a model than a Criminal Justice student at the University of New Orleans. She had been an assistant with my department for three months while she finished her Master’s degree, and I was fond of her.
“Yes, they were all certain about the gloves. Karen specifically remembers seeing his hands, because he was holding a glass of wine. Apparently he has nice hands with clean white fingernails. She thought everything about him was ‘foxy,’ as they say.”
She moved towards my silver coffee pot, her slender hand reaching for a mug.
“Maybe this was a case of jealous family members exacting revenge on the golden child, or a cover-up for an accident gone wrong.” She poured a cup of coffee, dropped in two large sugar cubes and swirled her spoon to make sure they dissolved quickly. She looked over at me. “Know what I mean? It happens. Maybe they concocted the whole story, because she slipped down the staircase or something. Weird things happen like that all the time. Remember that case in Algiers a couple of years ago? It was all over the news. The family killed their oldest child. They played it off like someone broke into their home. Then they later admitted that they did it themselves because he refused to behave. They thought he was possessed or something.”
Having no siblings of my own, I couldn’t relate to the competition and dynamics children have with one another, the complexities of various familial roles. The witnesses seemed authentic enough and the parents were in a trance, stuck in that realm of disbelief so often seen with victim’s relatives. In my small time with Karen Watkins, I was convinced that although she showed a sense of resentment, she was incapable of hurting anyone, especially her own sister.
“No one in that family had it in them to strangle Claire and slice her body up into five pieces, no matter how much jealousy or contempt they might have felt. Even if he hid a pair of gloves in his violin case when he killed her, he still managed to leave a spotless impression on the wine glass. It’s like Carpenter contained every movement and stain he made in the Watkins home. He didn’t allow one spill and he didn’t leave any sign of his identity except the four green feathers. They all let him into that house, Juliet…they let him be alone with her. They invited it. I can’t fathom them doing this under normal circumstances or under a better frame of mind. It’s all so…odd.”
“And the party invitees, the piano teacher? None of them are viable suspects?” She sat halfway on my desk. Swinging one leg over the other, she knocked her black platforms heels against the metal in a rhythmic tattoo.
“All checked out. We’ve been calling these people around the clock. We still have a few we need to sort out, but they’re out of town…been out of town since a week ago. Another weird thing…all three witnesses said that when Carpenter left the house, his clothes appeared to be in the same condition as when he first arrived. There was no blood on his white shirt and nothing about his clothing suggested a struggle. He didn’t appear disheveled in the least. It’s like he walked in and walked out, as if nothing happened.”
“And that mask. I looked into that. I checked local costume stores and showed them the sketch of what Karen drew. Out of the seven stores I’ve been to so far, no one sells that type of mask.” Leaning back on both of her hands, she watched McGuire as he walked past the office we both shared. She gave him a slight wave as he nodded in return, conveying some understanding between the two of them.
“Interesting. That could make sense given that fact that he brought it from Venice. At least, according to Karen’s testimony. They felt no inclination to ask for its removal. None of them.” I stared at the well-crafted sketch.
Who are you? Why did they trust you?
I looked at the long feathers extending from around the eyes, the beak and the jewels lining the brows and forehead of the mask Karen drew to perfection. I thought about the beak’s scented description: Rosemary and Lavender. Herbs of memory and sleep. Behind the mask, Karen’s drawing depicted Carpenter’s dark eyes and supple lips, his short dark hair and the top of his white ruffled collar. I found myself staring at the eyes, sensing what Karen had accurately tried to portray, a seductive face and yet still, a calculated coldness. I touched the picture and placed it in a folder in my briefcase.
“You know, it’s Mardi Gras. We’re going to be getting a lot of phone calls from people thinking they see this guy tonight at their costume parties. Not to mention the parades later today. It’s been all over the news. If I receive one more phone call from someone saying they think they’ve seen this Thomas Carpenter, I’m going to scream. What bad timing. Laissez les bons temps roule.” She twisted a silver bangle several times around her wrist.
“Yeah, well, we’re definitely having extra security at the parades. That is the last place you want som
ething to happen.”
“Are you going to eat this?” She looked at a small plate of king cake on my desk, a gift from headquarters.
“Nah. Go ahead. I don’t have much of an appetite.”
She cut off a large piece with a fork and proceeded to devour the whole thing.
“Ack.” She pulled something small out of her mouth. “The plastic baby. All yours. It’s supposed to bring good luck.” She laughed and wiped it off with a napkin, placing it on the small plate.
“Thanks. I guess.”
“Excuse me, Brenda. I need to make sure McGuire is still willing to answer some questions. He promised he would give me some time for an interview. It’s for a paper due next week.” She stood up from my desk and walked through the door to catch him as he once again passed by.
“No problem.”
I nestled the plastic baby in my desk drawer among erasers and paperclips, stretched my body up from the chair and made my way towards Roy’s office. His door, as usual, was open. I knocked on the crème colored wood but to no avail. Roy was lost in thought as he looked out over the small park behind the station. His profile was facing me, and I could tell he was watching two young boys kick around a soccer ball, laughing and running on the cold afternoon.
I wondered if he was thinking about his brother Matt and the two of them playing in their neighborhood park where they grew up in Baton Rouge. They were close until Roy’s fiancée’s death put a rather sour note on the relationship. It was one of those incidents where the disappointment and anger in someone becomes so heavy that it turns into pure sympathy. He knew Matt killed Debra accidentally after downing half a bottle of gin, three whisky sours and snorting a long line of coke – addictions that had turned that night into a tailspin.
Roy had been intoxicated and insisted Matt drive her home since they lived in the same vicinity. His brother was a professional addict, skilled enough to hide his love of coke and alcohol from his day job as a highly regarded accountant for over a year. Matt didn’t realize he veered off the main road and hit a tree until the police and ambulance arrived to pull them from the carnage. Debra, having hit her head on the dashboard, was pronounced dead at the scene while his brother suffered a broken nose and a few ribs.
