by Cynthia Lott
I still remembered her laugh, full as if she almost couldn’t breathe, and her hand on my father’s back when they were out in the backyard, sunbathing or cooking on the grill. In 35mm pictures, they were on vacations at Pensacola Beach, my mother lying out on the sand in a sexy bathing suit and my father holding me back from the incoming tide. One of my favorite photos was my mother carving a jack-o-lantern with me sitting next to her dressed in a witch costume, eating a caramel apple.
Her face was smiling down at the pumpkin’s large triangular eyes while mine were squarely drawn to the delicious dark caramel. But the one I loved the most was a photo of my parents together on a picnic, the two of them before I was born. They were having a glass of white wine, their feet intertwined, as they lay on a blanket, supporting themselves with their elbows, laughing. I wanted to bring them out of the picture and allow the two of them that moment again: no history, no future.
When she became pregnant, did she think I would save her? That I would somehow rescue her from the depression that shadowed her life, year after year?
After her suicide and with my father’s insistence, she was buried in the Jewish section of the local cemetery where the rest of my father’s family was interred. My mother, always the lax Catholic, had been separated from her own devout family for years; and after she married a Jewish man, they lost all hope for her.
I dialed Gwendolyn’s number, nervously anticipating an answer. “Hello?” a voice chimed in on the other line after two rings.
“Hi there, is this Mrs. Gwendolyn Savoy?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Hi, Mrs. Savoy. This is Detective Brenda Shapira. How are you?” There was a moment of silence on the other end.
“Hi, Detective. I’m as fine as one can be.”
“I hate to bother you on a Saturday afternoon, and I’m sure you’re busy, but I was hoping I could come by this evening for a few moments. Would that be okay?”
“Did you find him?”
“No. Not yet, but we have some additional clues that we didn’t have before. I was hoping I could discuss that with you if you have the time.”
“Of course I have time. I have to go out to run an errand but will be home around 5:30. I will be happy to meet with you if this will help find him.”
“It may. Is it all right to come to your house instead of meeting here at the station? 2426 Acorn Drive, correct?”
“Yes, that’s right. Sure. I’ll see you tonight, Detective.”
“I look forward to seeing you then. Goodbye.”
“Sounds like you got hold of her.” Juliet shuffled through several folders on her desk. “Do you want those background notes on Gwendolyn before you go meet with her?”
“Do you have them? Just read them out loud if you don’t mind.”
“No problem. She’s been a legal secretary at Marks & Jenkins Law Firm for ten years. She does a good job, gets great reviews. She’s a quiet lady. She likes gardening. She’s a member of the New Orleans Horticulture Society and has season tickets to the New Orleans Ballet and Opera. No shock there. Her husband died when David was around eleven. He died in a motorcycle accident, and they never found the driver. Hit and run. She was obviously pretty devastated.”
“She never married again but threw herself into David…his dancing,” Juliet continued. “He also took private singing lessons on the side. Apparently he was nterested in exploring musicals eventually, but I guess he was waiting until after he joined the New York City Ballet.” She closed the folder and slid herself onto the edge of my desk, her French lilac perfume saturating the air.
Juliet’s fiancé, Stuart Myers, had taken her to lunch at a new restaurant and gracing her desk was a blue glass vase, roses and carnations spilling over and overshadowing her folders. Stuart was a well-known local photographer, a Creole man in his twenties. He loved to make Juliet one of his favorite subjects. Hanging over her desk were his photos, showcasing her in various poses across the gamut of New Orleans’ landscapes.
“Stuart is the most, isn’t he? Look at them. They’re beautiful. We went to that delicious crepe place. Look at what he gave me today just because he wanted to. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? He said it’s been in his family for years. I feel honored.” She showed me a sterling silver locket that hung around her neck, delicate and beautiful with small flowers.
“That is lovely.” I studied the piece’s etchings of roses on the front and tiny leaves extending to the back.
“Thanks. I’m never going to take it off. Seriously. They’ll have to bury me in it. He’s having an art opening in a couple of weeks. You should come. They’re always a lot of fun.” She smoothed her hand over her grey A-line skirt.
“I don’t really know Stuart. Can I simply show up or is there some kind of reservation needed?”
“Of course you can. You’re on the list! You know I look out for you. His shows have been all over the place lately. They’re really popular. This latest exhibit is about people’s views of the city…photos of how people see New Orleans in our golden year of 1978.” She stood up and made her way towards her desk. After picking off a flower from her bouquet, she walked over and handed it to me. “Here. This is because no one brings you flowers and they should. Always.”
“Thank you, Juliet. That’s beautiful.” I smiled at her, fully aware that she had no idea about Roy and me.
“Meeting Stuart has been the best thing in my life outside of my master’s program. No doubt. Listen, you have yourself a good night. Enjoy your weekend.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
She left the office, a cloud of lilac perfume remaining in her absence.
I pulled up the plastic blinds and watched Juliet walk to her car. Before she stepped into the front seat of her brown Toyota Celica, she looked up towards the sky, made the sign of the cross, and mouthed something, a prayer perhaps. Driving straight over the causeway, she would soon cross twenty-three miles of Lake Ponchartrain. The trip would promise her eight miles of nothing in sight but small waves. Perhaps she looked forward to the disappearance of land around her: the one she had just left and the one she was about to enter. I was certain that Juliet questioned whether she was pursuing the right field, after all.
I was starting to wonder the same thing for myself.
“No word? No calls from anyone about a third murder?” Roy startled me as he leaned into my office from the doorway.
“Nothing. Not yet at least. But we’re still getting false alarm calls on the other two murders. People think they see this guy but none of them check out.”
“There were no fingerprints on that Watkins card, I’m afraid. Only ones from Colin, Carmen, and you.”
“Typical. Just like the napkin. Marcus swears Carpenter wasn’t wearing gloves when he handed it to him. His fingers touched that illustration, Roy. Marcus saw his hands. So where the hell are his prints?”
“I don’t know. Not there. Not anywhere.” Roy looked out the window over my desk as thunder echoed in the background. “Sounds like it’s coming closer.”
I looked again out the window as the sky turned dark. It seemed more like 7 p.m. than late afternoon.
“He specifically left the napkin for me, and I’m not sure why. Why didn’t he leave it for you?” I looked back towards him, as he folded his arms, his whole body leaning against the doorframe.
“I thought about that. It worries me that out of the two of us, he’s targeting you. I would feel safer if you stayed at my place. Nobody has to know you’re there. You can bring your cat. I promise I won’t make a fuss. Agreed?”
“Thanks. We’ll do that.” I drank my Earl Grey tea as Roy walked down the hall to speak with Strode. The pair made their way outside and into the parking lot, footsteps becoming more distant as the station’s front door closed behind them.
Had David Savoy’s relationship with his widowed mother been the same as mine with my father? Had they formed a close bond, an unspoken understanding that the third person was always going to
be missing? I wondered what life might have been like had my father been the one to die young instead of my mother. I remembered watching my girlfriends with their mothers, talking about life, school, hobbies, boys, clothes, and their periods. All of these were just natural conversations between a mother and a daughter that I never had so I learned from school or friends, asking them questions that someone else already answered for them. I wanted to say, “You have no idea how lucky you are. Cherish all of this…every single little question and answer.”
I looked at Marcus’s sketch of Carpenter. Like Karen’s, it reflected a handsome young man: sculpted face, dark brown hair and eyes…mesmerizing, seductive.
Rain fell in heavy sheets and blazing lightning startled me with hissing streaks across the sky. The electricity went out, creating an ambiance drearier than usual. Were it not for the brief flashes of lightning breaking through the windowpanes, I might have been sitting there in total darkness.
Hadn’t I always loved the sound of water when I was a little girl, when rain soothed me and thunder was like the tempo of a relentless drum, repeating something mysterious but important? As a child, hurricanes signified a school absence, loss of electricity and my father cooking a meal over his Bunsen burner. Simple little pleasures that made me feel like we were the only two people in the world.
I left my office and walked towards Roy’s inviting red sofa where I planned on waiting for his return. As I made my way down the dim hallway, I stopped still, frozen, when I heard what sounded like a whisper, a breathy voice, behind me. I spun around and looked towards my office, its doorway open…a dark entrance that now seemed alien to me. A boom of thunder rattled my nerves as I backed slowly towards Roy’s office, my eyes locked on my open door down the hallway. I heard the whisper again, clearer this time. “She was such a pretty girl…”
Heat rushed from my feet to the top of my head, my inner voice telling me, Move, Brenda, move. Get the fuck out of this building. He was in my office…he IS in my office.
I stared at the door and continued walking backwards, my legs heavy. I crossed the threshold of Roy’s office door, shut it and firmly turned the lock. Peering out of the window next to the door, I waited for Carpenter to step out of my room, to find me hiding at the opposite end of the hallway. It remained dark and empty, with the exception of intermittent cascading light from the thunderstorm. I turned around and walked over to Roy’s desk, looking for the gun he kept in one of his drawers when I heard a knock.
“Brenda? Brenda, are you okay? What’s going on?”
“Roy?” I opened the door. “He’s in my office.”
“Who? Carpenter?” He reeled around and stared down the dark hallway. “Did you see him?”
“No…I heard him. He whispered to me down the hallway from my office. He said how someone was a pretty girl. I’m assuming he meant Claire, Roy. He’s in my damn office!”
Roy walked over to the left drawer of his desk that held his gun, a serious revolver with a brown leather grip.
“Listen, I came from down the hall. I didn’t see a thing, but let’s go check it out. Do you want to stay here or come with me?”
“Come with you.” I grasped his black leather belt as I followed him. Lightning lit up the walls and thunder echoed our footsteps. Before we reached the door, power in the building surged back on, the clicking sound of comforting lights offering a certain warmth and security. Roy pushed me against the wall behind him as he jumped into the entranceway.
“Freeze!” He pointed his gun into the room. There was no one there. He walked around, kicking the desks, anticipating Carpenter to crawl out from under one of them. I stood in the doorway, observing the eerie emptiness and pointed towards a large closet that held my coats. Roy nodded in understanding. He placed his back along the wall next to the closet and opened it slowly with his other hand. I could see its interior and nodded as he shut the closet door.
“He’s not here. Where the hell did he go?” I was shaken and peered again down the hallway, wrapping cold arms around my body.
Roy pulled a walkie-talkie from his pant pocket. “Strode, come back to the station ASAP. Tell McGuire and LaRocca to get here early. Shapira thinks she saw Carpenter in the station. We want to check it out. Have them look in every room when they arrive. We already checked both of our offices. He’s not in either of them.”
He walked over to me and caressed my face.
“They’ll be here in a few minutes. I’ll stay with you until they arrive. Once they show up, you should leave and let them search everything. Brenda, if he was here, he’s probably gone by now, but this is putting me on edge. I can’t have you alone like this anymore. I want you to stay with me. Got it?”
“Yes.” I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling rather exhausted by the experience, and wondered if I heard anything at all. Had it been my imagination or had I heard his voice emanating from down the hallway? As the other officers arrived, Roy escorted me to my car.
“We’ll take another look, but I want you to go home and pack some of your stuff. I’ll meet you at my place before we go meet Gwendolyn.” He kissed my forehead. “Please be quick about it. I’ll only feel relaxed once I know you’re at my apartment. Give me a call when you arrive.”
* * *
Chapter Nine
Gwendolyn Savoy’s house was a small, conservative, unassuming fifties-style bungalow in a middle-class area. She inherited money from her late husband’s motorcycle mechanic shop and that, combined with her own income, left her frugal but solvent. As we drove into her gravel driveway, I repeated the question I asked Roy only twenty minutes earlier.
“So they didn’t find anything…at all?” I stared at the nicely manicured shrubs lining her walkway, the rain hitting their small green leaves, making them shake with a slight tremor. Looking at the front of her house with its heavy curtains drawn, I saw Gwendolyn peek out from behind the front room’s yellow drapes.
“No, Brenda. Nothing. Listen.” He turned to face me. “If he was there, he left shortly before I arrived. IF he was there. We didn’t find him. Not a trace of him so he either slipped in through a back door or he wasn’t there at all. He couldn’t have gone through the main entrance. I would have seen him, okay? I don’t know how to keep on answering the same question.”
“Sorry, but I know I heard him…I swear I did. I’m not making this up, Roy.” I wanted to sit there in his car and lean against his strong body, whether he believed me or not. It was still raining heavily and Roy handed me his umbrella. We stepped out of the car and walked towards the front door, the heightened thunder following our footsteps. Gwendolyn opened the door before we had a chance to knock.
“Hello, detectives.” Her long blonde hair was pulled tightly into a bun, displaying tired green eyes and a face minimally adorned with makeup. A dark brown wool skirt hugged her small hips while a pale blue blouse cloaked her chest. She opened the door wider and welcomed us into the living room that displayed an astute tidiness with two red plaid club chairs and a dark green sofa. Draped over each chair were solid brown blankets matching the cleanliness of the room and the burning smell of candles inhabited the air.
A wood coffee table with a glass top sat in the middle along with a small wood table near a large brick fireplace. I glanced over at the small table that was decorated with pictures of a man whom I assumed to be Gwendolyn’s late husband, surrounded by framed prayers, candles, and icons of the Virgin Mary. The pictures depicted a man with a dark beard and mustache sitting on a Harley Davidson. The two of them seemed like an odd match: a tattooed biker and a conservative legal secretary, but it must’ve worked since their marriage lasted for sixteen years before his death.
“That’s my husband. Handsome, wasn’t he? I haven’t added David’s pictures to the table yet. I just haven’t had the time. One doesn’t expect to lose both their husband and their child.” She walked towards the kitchen and quickly returned carrying a flowered tray of teacups, sugar, cream and a teakettle, along with f
inger sandwiches. “I hope you both like tea. I made a fresh pot.”
“Yes, thank you.” Our voices were simultaneous. We sat down on the sofa as she ceremoniously poured each of us a cup, enveloping the space with the aroma of earl grey. Roy raised his hand at the suggestion of sugar, giving a polite nod as she handed him his cup. Under normal circumstances, I would never have tea in this woman’s living room. It was only death that brought me there. Many homes I entered were like that; I would never cross their thresholds were it not for my job.
Gwendolyn pushed the oval plate of sandwiches towards us. “Do have some. I made them earlier…they’re rather delicious.”
Noticing they were all ham, I raised my hand and excused myself from having any. It wasn’t Judaism that stopped me. I had been vegetarian since I was ten years old, the same year that I followed my dad into a kosher slaughter facility by accident. I was supposed to be waiting in the car while he went to collect his daily order of beef but decided to follow him instead. As I snuck through the building, I stumbled across a cow having her throat slit. I never recovered from seeing the cow’s brown eyes in a state of shock, similar to Claire’s and David’s, wondering how and why in the world this was happening to her.
As the cow slowly crumpled to the floor, legs giving way, she attempted to upright herself, maybe in some sad effort to heal the gashing wound that would end her life. At that moment, my dad found me. He turned to face me with a sincere look of sympathy. “This is the reality, Bren.” And that was the end of my meat consumption.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Savoy. I’m Jewish.” I folded my hands in my lap.
“Ah. I see. You, Mr. Agnew?”
“No, I’m not Jewish. Oh…you mean the sandwiches. Yes, I’ll take some. Thank you.” Roy slowly nibbled at the bread as she proceeded to push the whole tray in his direction.
“Mrs. Savoy, thank you for meeting with us this evening. We wanted to talk with you because we came across something that might be of interest, and we wondered if you had come across something similar.” I sipped the strong tea. Gwendolyn, like Colin Watkins, looked tired and older, a deep frown line forming between her eyes.
