by Cynthia Lott
“Roy?” My voice lingered. I arose from the sofa, moving Jude to the bottom near a pillow as he rolled around on his back thinking I might want to play, his paws outstretched in the air. I bent over, tickling his stomach, and walked into the kitchen, finally picking up the phone from the receiver. I heard a male voice over the line.
“Hello?”
“Detective Shapira?”
“Yes. This is she. May I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s Colin Watkins. My daughter said you wanted to speak with me? I called the number you left for her. I hope this was all right.”
“Of course, Mr. Watkins. How are you?”
“I’m good. It was my mother’s birthday today, so we were out earlier. I’m sorry we weren’t here to speak with you. Do you have any news?”
“Mr. Watkins…”
“Please, call me Colin.”
“Colin. I know this may be a strange request, but I need to ask you a few questions about a couple of antiques in your home. Do you have time to talk right now?”
“Of course, Detective. Antiques? Yes. Yes, I’m in my office. Anna is upstairs taking a bath. They always seem to calm her down. What do you need to know?”
“There is a table in your office with flowers etched on the top. It’s the one that used to be in Claire’s music room, and there’s a buffet table in your dining room against the wall. Where did these two pieces come from?” I placed a kettle of water onto the stove, lighting the burner.
“Why do you ask?”
“I have some suspicions that they may be clues.”
“The small table is from my grandfather. He gave it to my father, and it was a wedding present to Anna and me, as was the buffet table. Both were from him. He was an artistic man who was into antiques and collecting. We’ve had both pieces ever since.”
“Remember we spoke of a connection between your past and Carpenter? I think those two pieces may be that link. When I came by your home this afternoon, I looked inside both of the antiques. The name ‘Carpenter’ is inscribed in the small table and also in the buffet. Did you know this by chance?”
“’Carpenter’ is written in both of them? My God. No, I didn’t know that. I’m looking at the small table right now. I see what you mean. I never paid attention to the name. What does this signify? Why is his name here?”
“I’m not sure. Not yet. Do you know where your grandfather obtained these pieces?”
“He told my father that he bought them from a family friend. So my family is related to this Carpenter person through this furniture, or my grandfather? This is the history he was talking about?”
“I think it may be. What was your grandfather’s name?”
“His name was Nigel Latham Watkins. I’m not sure I follow this.”
“I’ll be frank with you, Colin. One of the victims had a collection of masks from her grandfather with the Carpenter inscription as well. And that inscription is identical to the one in your antiques. I think if I can link up your grandfather with hers, we may have some connection. I need to talk with the mother of one of the other victims. I ask that you keep this between the two of us for now. This information is crucial to our case and we don’t want anyone getting hold of it.”
“No, no I understand. Anything I can do to assist you, I will. If it helps at all, my grandfather lived here in New Orleans all of his life. His parents were from England, but that’s all I know. Please don’t hesitate to call me.” His voice was strong and adamant.
“I’ll be in touch. I think Carpenter is holding some sort of deep grudge against whomever those pieces belong to, and Claire was the focus of his revenge. I’m truly sorry about that, but I need your cooperation as much as you can provide.”
“I am always available. I won’t mention any of this to my wife. I think it would send her over the edge.”
I hung up the phone and removed the whistling kettle. I poured myself a cup of tea and walked over to the kitchen window, observing the courtyard below.
Where could Roy be? He must have gone out and didn’t want to wake me.
The early spring wind increased in strength, and although there could be a breeze towards evening, there usually wasn’t a strong wind on a normal day. It whipped around glades of palm trees and plants lining the small round gardens that comprised the courtyard below Roy’s apartment. People left their black wrought iron benches, pulling their hats down further over their heads. Everyone scattered indoors, either towards the apartment building or the French café on the first floor.
After most people left, I noticed one person remaining in the courtyard. He looked up at me from behind a large palm. Heavy clouds threw dark shadows and I stared harder through the window, my hand on the glass, trying to decipher the figure that looked up at Roy’s apartment. He was there again. Through the wind, dark clouds and swaying palm trees I could almost see his dark eyes. And then he was gone.
The telephone rang, causing me to jump and spill some of the tea from my mug.
“Dammit.” I placed it onto the table and grabbed one of Roy’s checkered towels to wipe off the spilled liquid from his white robe. I picked up the receiver, leaning against the yellow countertop.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
Roy’s voice was comforting over the phone line.
“Where are you?”
“I left to go see the medical examiner. They found out how Connie died. She was suffocated by her own pillow. They think they found what looks like deep ligature marks on her wrists. There’s only so much they can tell from what they have in front of them. He must’ve tied her up and then put the pillow over her face.”
“Wow. This has veered away from both Claire and David’s murders. Connie’s death is far less brutal, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, she wasn’t mutilated in any way or desecrated after her death. Still not pleasant, but call Roberta and let her know about her sister. See if she knows more about her grandfather or if there’s anything else she can offer.”
“Colin called. His grandfather gave the family those two antique pieces. And Roy, I think I saw Carpenter.”
“Where?”
“In your courtyard. He was there one minute, and then he wasn’t. I swear it was him. He was looking up at your window. How would he know I’m here?”
“Are you sure? Brenda, stay in the apartment and keep the door locked. Jesus. If you hear anything, call Strode and LaRocca. Don’t buzz anyone into the elevators. He can’t get up to you but he’s gotten his way into everywhere else. Babe, I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m leaving right now.”
I hung up the phone and pulled the heavy linen curtains closed.
Had I actually seen Carpenter or had it been some random person looking up towards Roy’s unit?
I made sure the door was double locked and dialed Roberta’s number. On the third ring, I heard her voice on the line.
“Hi, Ms. Cheniviere?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Shapira. How are you?”
“Hi, Detective. I’m hanging in there.”
“I wanted to call because we heard back from the medical examiner. Connie’s death wasn’t as malicious as Claire and David’s. I hope that’s some comfort to you.”
“Oh, thank God. At least it’s something. How did she die?”
“She was suffocated in her bed. Nothing was done to her body afterwards. I wanted to let you know before the media gets hold of the information or someone else tells you.”
“Good Lord. My poor Connie. I hope she didn’t suffer. I’m relieved to know he didn’t do anything to her body like he did to the other two. Terrible. I don’t know if I could handle that.”
“No, you can be assured that he didn’t. We would like to keep your grandfather’s masks if that’s okay?”
“That’s fine. Keep them there as long as you want. I don’t want them back. Is there some significance to them?”
“We think Carpenter may have some knowledge of your grandfather. Ther
e may be some link to his family. I know this all sounds crazy right now, but there’s something in your past that’s linking Carpenter to Connie, and it’s important that we find out what that is. Had your grandfather lived in New Orleans for some time?”
“Yes, he did. If you recall from your interview with me, I said that his parents emigrated from France. He was a teenager when they came over here.”
“Of course, you told me that. I apologize.”
“It’s all right. It's easy to forget things at a time like this but I trust you are on top of it? Tell me, Detective, how on earth would this man's family have known my grandfather?”
“I don’t know. At least not right now. His name was Marcel, correct?”
“Yes, Marcel Sartain.”
“Thank you, Roberta, for your time. I will keep in touch. Please know that we are on top of this. If you need anything, let us know.”
I rested the phone upon its cradle, feeling like I was losing pieces of my memory. I walked towards the front door and peered through the peephole. Nothing. I sat down on the sofa and ripped out pages from a notebook that lay on Roy’s coffee table. I scribbled names onto the paper:
Nigel Latham Watkins and Marcel Sartain. Both lived in New Orleans and had pieces belonging to a Carpenter: two antique tables and four masks. Antiques handed down to family. Family members murdered. All three artists. Carpenter wears the exact mask created by his great-grandfather? What does Gwendolyn have of his? What is her connection? All victims murdered at around 10:35 pm. Murders were more brutal in the beginning but have tapered off in violent methods. Mask feathers left at each crime scene to designate how many victims are left: there are five victims total. Carpenter takes on talents of each victim to seduce the next one.
Drinking a glass of Riesling, I drew a circle around the words, “five victims.” I felt tired, sleepier than usual, and curled up into a ball on the sofa, hearing the wind swirl outside of the large windows as if I were inside of a ship lost at sea.
I fell into a deep sleep and saw my mother standing in my childhood living room, her back towards me. She wore a pink sweater and black skirt, her long blonde hair pulled into a bun. Turning towards me, she placed a finger on her lips, silencing my voice as I began to speak. She pointed towards the large window overlooking the backyard and for a moment all I saw was my father’s brick bbq pit and our lawn furniture, all avocado green. I looked at her again but her face was turned away from me as she was watching someone or something near the herb garden. I walked into the living room to see what had captured her attention and there standing next to her roses was Carpenter, the feathers on his mask blowing in a spring breeze. He, too, placed his finger on his lips. I attempted to scream but my voice cracked and all that escaped from my mouth was a small whimper. He smiled.
I woke with a gasp, feeling Roy’s arm across my stomach, his warm skin near my navel.
Did I go from talking with Roberta Cheniviere to passing out in bed with Roy next to me?
I couldn’t remember. Perhaps it was the large glass of Riesling that put me in this state, unaware of how I ended up in bed wearing Roy’s pajamas, his familiar breathing in my ears. I thought about my father, his snoring escaping the room adjacent to mine and his scent emanating down the hallway. I always felt safe knowing he was in his own room, not too far away, aware of my presence and vulnerability.
Roy moved beside me, his arm pulling me closer to his chest as he spoke. His voice was seamless, like a ribbon of darkness gliding through the air.
“Are you all right? I put you in my new PJs. Lucky girl. You were sleeping on the sofa pretty heavily, so I carried you to bed. You should be careful with that Riesling, Honey. It can be potent. When you’re down, it’s your killer.” I allowed the sound of his last word to echo into the room before I responded.
“It’s Purim. I have an excuse to drink. Besides, sometimes a little killing of yourself is a good thing.”
My eyes adjusted to the light fixture hanging from his ceiling. It was a modern piece representing a fishing net, where tiny crystals hung from a thin wire structure.
It was called “The Tears of the Fisherman,” and I began to count the individual crystals. One, two, three, four…
“Roy, can I ask you something?”
“Of course you can…anything.”
He held the pause, the anticipation of a deeper question.
“Did my father look shocked? Did he look scared when you found him?” I felt the silence in the air and the hesitation before Roy’s answer. I knew this was something he did not want to discuss but I felt the need to broach the subject. With all that was going on, I didn’t want the worry…the repetitive concern about my father’s demise.
“No. He looked peaceful. Your father didn’t suffer and there wasn’t a sign of shock on his face. It was as if he didn’t see it coming, and then it was over. The best way to go, really.”
I pictured Roy standing over his body and my father’s spirit hovering over the whole scene, approving and serene about how the whole bloody thing unfolded. Always the optimist, he would have been happy that he went in such a sudden way, and that a handsome chap was able to find him.
“You and I both know I didn’t do anything. Not a damn thing. I couldn’t find the person. I have a great track record but not that time. Sometimes I feel like I’m a shadow of a man for not being able to do this for you, but you love me all the same and I don’t know how I deserve that.” He rubbed my right arm.
“It was meant that you were there. I know it was. He would have wanted that. You know, I credit my father with my decision to become a detective. He was always my cheerleader, encouraging me to graduate from Tulane and join the NOPD. His love for television shows like Mod Squad, Perry Mason, Kojak, and The Avengers really molded my love for this job. I am grateful for that. We had lots of great times together.” I snuggled close to his chest, hearing him sigh as he held me tight.
“It’s hard for me to talk about this with you, but you should know one thing. You can cry on me any given moment of the day, and I will be here. Sometimes I like to imagine that once our lives are over – once we have lived through all of our experiences – we'll open our eyes right here in this bed next to one another and we'll look back on our lives and laugh about them. We'll see them for all the good things they were, and it will be a great peace, a true affirmation. I like to imagine death that way." Roy wrapped his arms around me as I turned around and slid my back close to his chest. He kissed my neck and relaxed next to me, his hand sliding down my head and resting on my stomach.
We often imagine we will return to the familiarity of what once was.
“Maybe there’s some parallel universe that reflects what we cherish in life…so that we find ourselves at the core of whatever made us the most happy when we were here. One of the things I would love to have again is the after school treat my father used to make for me. Peanut butter and jelly mixed together in a bowl, simple. But the way he did it, using the exact portions of each ingredient, made it seem like no one else could create that but him. I could never duplicate it so I gave up eating it.”
“I wish I could do simple things for you like that. I try to reach you, Brenda, but it’s not always easy.”
“I know. I appreciate your patience. I really do. I’m working on it, okay?”
His breathing became deeper as he fell back asleep, something that always came easily to him. I lay there for a while, unable to follow him, my thoughts caught up in memories as they drifted in the darkness amid random fragments of moonlight.
When my father died, I sold the house, my beloved childhood home, to a young couple with two children. They seemed pleasant enough and I couldn’t walk another step in our old home, couldn’t touch another doorknob that held the reflections of us or the doors that closed and opened onto our lives together. At the time, I wrote a little memo to the couple, outlining the nuances of the home: the rough edge of the brick fireplace that caught your leg if you weren’t
careful, the little girl I drew onto my bedroom closet with an eyeliner pencil, and the wood boards in the attic where my girlfriends and I wrote out silly messages like, I love Matt Amdor or Jim Morrison is FAB with huge hearts encircling their names.
I never gave that family the memo. I tucked it away into one of the many boxes of my parents’ things that sat in my bedroom closet. There were at least five containers of my toys, my father’s paperwork, photos and books, and my mother’s stuff that I rarely sorted through. Boxes were all piled on top of one another and even though I didn’t sift through them, it was comforting to know they were there.
After he passed away, I was done with my childhood home, but it never left me.
I drifted off into a restful sleep and dreamt again of my mother and the salsa music she loved to play on her stereo in our living room. My mother’s thin body danced across the wood floor, holding my small hands in her own.
I cupped my hand around Roy’s fingers and fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
It was clear Gwendolyn Savoy was still reeling from the knowledge that a card predicting her son’s death had been tossed aside into an inconspicuous pile in her guest bedroom.
“My priest has been patient…he even sprinkled holy water over me and offered private confessions and communion whenever I want or need them. Under the circumstance, it’s all I can do, Detective.”
“Sometimes, it’s all one can do, Mrs. Savoy. You are managing well…I was hoping Detective Agnew and I might be able to come by this afternoon for a visit. We have some additional questions.”
“Sure. Do feel free to come over. Does five pm work?”
“That works. We’ll see you then.”
I pictured Gwendolyn hanging up the phone, exhaling a deep sigh and ruminating over the fact that her home was a mess. There were possibly remnants of dinner with a few good friends from the night before, and she hadn’t been in the mood to pick up the refuse. It probably felt good to finally have friends over again, but I’m sure it didn’t compensate for the lack of a man in the house. After James passed away, it seemed that she had given up most of her personal life in order to put all of her energy into David’s dancing: the dance tours, competitions, classes, private boys’ school, the desire to mold him into a decent young man despite the lack of a father. As she stood there in her kitchen, perhaps she craved her husband’s touches or, frankly, the touch of any man. After contemplating this sad fact, she might have poured herself a large glass of brandy from a bottle she had hidden behind a box of oatmeal – because that’s how we found her at five pm that evening. Intoxicated.
