by Cynthia Lott
“I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
Chapter Nineteen
In returning to the station, Roy looked straight ahead as he drove, his jaw clenched tight. He cursed at a few motorists and other than those choice words, remained silent. I held the two journals close to my chest, wishing that I could be anywhere but there.
What had I expected from Roy?
Once we arrived, I stepped out of the car and walked quickly to my office, leaving him behind.
“Brenda, wait. Listen. I’m sorry I was harsh back there but you have to understand where I’m coming from.” He caught me at the front door, caressing my arm.
“That goes both ways. You’re not even willing to meet me in the middle with this. If you’re so adamant about how you feel, then I would rather be alone and look through these myself.”
“Look, go ahead and give me one, okay? I’ll look, too. What the hell. Let’s go to my office, though. I don’t want anyone knowing what we’re up to.”
We walked to his office, said the obligatory hellos to everyone along the way as they worked the evening shift, and closed his door. I handed him one of the journals, keeping one for myself as I sat on his red sofa.
“Thanks.” He reclined in his desk chair as he perused the yellowed pages.
I opened the second one and turned each page, reading over every note, memo. Some of them displayed simple spells…blessings for a good marriage, healthy baby, decent income; notes overlapped notes in the marginalia, some of her scribbling illegible. Other entries described everyday occurrences, meetings, even recipes she had collected over the years from friends and family.
A long life condensed into two diaries.
I wasn’t finding anything that revealed further information about Carpenter or his death…nothing but that one entry from October of 1950, towards the end of Elsie’s life. I closed my journal and watched Roy as he read through each page.
“Nothing yet…meeting appointments, errands she had to run, parties she attended…they go on and on…wait a minute.” He stopped in the middle of a page and looked at me.
“I think I found a name. Now, she’s only mentioning something this person did years after the fact but it’s all I’m seeing. According to one of her entries, she wrote this:
“Of all people for me to see today….one would think he would have the decency to avoid me, but he said ‘hello.’ He offered to carry my shopping bags to the car. How dare he? I gave him a look of pure fury and he knew at that moment to step away. Years have gone by after what he did…and his memories may have faded but mine never shall. Tobias Stuart Myers. You shall never speak to me again. Not now. Not ever. So it is.”
“Definitely sounds like someone she never wanted to see again. He must’ve done something pretty nasty to her. If this is one of the people who murdered Carpenter then wouldn’t the last name of the fourth victim be Myers.” I stood up and paced the floor, letting the name marinate in my mind.
“Now we don’t know that, Brenda. This could have been some guy in her past that she simply hated. We can’t assume that he’s one of the friends who murdered Carpenter. Don’t you think you’re making a big leap here?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed the journal.
“But the name sounds familiar. Tobias Stuart Myers. Let me think for a second, Roy.”
I saw Juliet’s silver locket…the etchings of flowers, similar to the ones Carpenter had engraved on his wood antique tables. That’s where I had seen the design before – on the locket around Juliet’s neck…the one her fiancé, Stuart Myers, gave her only recently.
He said it’s been in his family for years…
“Juliet has that locket, Roy.”
“What locket? What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s a locket with the same design as the furniture pieces. Stuart Myers is Juliet’s fiancé. He gave it to her as a present. Tobias must’ve been Stuart’s great-grandfather and he stole that locket from Thomas. Stuart is an artist…a photographer.” Sweat formed across my brow. My face flushed in a deep heated crimson. I walked towards his office door and stopped before I turned the knob. I couldn’t panic Juliet or let on that her fiancé was in danger.
“Brenda, this could be any Myers in New Orleans. How can you be so sure that it’s her fiancé?”
“But his name is the same. Tobias Stuart Myers. He fits the artist profile like Carpenter’s other victims.”
“If you’re right, then maybe there’s time to stop him. Juliet is in your office. I saw her on our way down the hall. Play it cool. I’ll look up his studio and give it a call. Ask her if she knows where he is.”
He opened one of his desk drawers, pulling out a telephone book as I walked out of his office and towards my own. My legs shook. I stood in my office doorway, watching Juliet file papers belonging to another case. She hummed a tune and I leaned my body against the doorframe.
“Hey, Juliet. How’s that case going?” Startled, she dropped a folder.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.” She laughed and slid the folder into a filing cabinet. “It’s almost done or at least we think it is. We have a few more witnesses but they’re all pretty solid. Robbery downtown. Guy left his fingerprints everywhere and on everything. He didn’t even wear a disguise. Idiot.”
“I thought you and Stuart were going to dinner tonight.”
“We were but he called me yesterday and said he was going out of town today to do a shoot so we rescheduled to tomorrow night. I think he’s going someplace in St. Tammany Parish.”
“Have you heard from him today?”
“No, but that’s how it goes sometimes. When he’s on the road, it can be a few days before I talk with him again. I’ll see him tomorrow night. He made reservations for us at Commander’s Palace. I’m looking forward to it.” She walked over to her desk, picking up her purse. “It’s getting late. I have some girlfriends that want to go out tonight but I think I’m going to go home.”
“How is Stuart’s art gallery going?” I steadied my body against the doorframe.
“Oh, great. I told you that. He’s doing fabulous. Aren’t you coming to his next show? If you can’t, there will be more. He had a meeting with some guy last night and he was pretty excited about it…some new project he might want to take on. Listen, have yourself a good night. I’m exhausted. See you tomorrow.” She walked over, gave me a hug and walked down the hall towards the front of the building at the same moment Roy made his way into my office.
“Let’s go. We need to check this out.”
Juliet turned around before she reached the exit.
“What are you two going on about?” She pulled her heavy floral purse tighter around her right shoulder blade.
“Just a follow up on something.” Roy glanced in my direction and walked out the front door towards our car.
“He’s in a hurry. Something going down?” She pulled her hair into a ponytail, bangles clinking against one another on her wrist.
“We’re checking up on a lead. Be careful driving home and tell your mom hello for me.” I touched her elbow and we walked out together. I slipped into our car as she unlocked her own, watching us drive out of the parking lot.
“He didn’t answer the phone at his studio. Any news from Juliet?”
“She hasn’t spoken to him since last night when he was meeting with someone. Fuck, Roy, I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Me, too.” Roy placed his portable police siren on top of the car and we drove towards Stuart’s warehouse, near the river.
“LaRocca, get to the Myers Studio ASAP,” I shouted on the radio mic. Halfway there, we found ourselves stuck in evening traffic despite the car’s blaring police siren.
“Come on, jackass. Move! Jesus, what the hell is wrong with these people?” Roy honked his horn that was followed by others returning the favor.
“He has to be at the studio. Carpenter murders them at places where they practice their art: the music room, t
he dance studio, Connie’s home…”
“I know, honey, but there’s nothing I can do about the traffic. Do these people have utterly no respect for law enforcement? For Christ’s sake. We are kind of at the mercy of these fuckheads. Finally.” He maneuvered around the car in front of us, slamming on the gas. We darted through back streets towards the river and finally arrived at Stuart’s studio.
“Wait…wait, Brenda.” He stepped away from the car, pulling out his gun. Walking towards the front door, he motioned for me to follow behind him. He put his hand out, stopped me and gave the ornate wooden door a knock.
“Stuart? It’s Detectives Agnew and Shapira. Are you there?”
I stood close as we both waited. Roy tried the door, locked.
“Do you hear something coming from inside?” He leaned his ear against the door.
“Yeah, music. A radio, maybe?”
“Sounds like it.”
“Roy, kick the door open. For God’s sake, kick it open!”
He kicked the door three times before it swung inwards away from us. He stepped inside, pointed his gun into the gallery. I pulled out my own gun and made my way to the other side of the studio.
“Stuart?” he called out into the large space. Three large globes lit up the gallery, displaying his photography of various sizes all along the walls. Large pieces hung from the ceiling while some lay in large plastic folders on easels. The studio had two levels, but both floors were vacant except for displays of photography and a few sculptures. The first floor held three bookcases containing titles on photography, art, and interior design. A radio played Blue Oyster Cult’s “Burning for You”. It came from a small office in the back of the studio.
“He’s not here.” There was a darkroom towards the back of the building, next to the small office, its door slightly ajar. I pointed towards both rooms. He nodded and crept towards the darkroom, rapping his knuckles on the door. “Stuart?” All was silent. We heard a car pulling into the small gravel parking lot and looked at one another in confusion.
“Stuart!??!” Juliet stumbled into the studio, towards me. She kicked off one of her heels and sent it flying across the room, where it landed next to a sculpture representing an angel. Nothing mattered at that point and even if a piece of artwork was damaged, it only added to the surreal atmosphere of the situation.
“Oh, Christ, keep her back, Brenda.” Roy stood against the darkroom.
“Juliet, Juliet, honey, listen to me. You need to come back outside with me.” I struggled with Juliet in her apparent state of hysteria and managed to pull her out of the studio and towards the police car. As Jake pulled in next to our car, I motioned for him to keep her out of the building. I transferred her body into his arms as she proceeded to ask him a million questions.
I reentered the studio and stood next to Roy as he opened the dark room door. He switched on the light and leaned against the doorframe, placing his hands behind his head in frustration. The song by Blue Oyster Cult, playing from Stuart’s office, was coming to an end and so was Roy’s patience.
Stuart was dead, drowned in developing fluid with one feather floating in the liquid. Roy pulled out his walkie-talkie and called the station, “Strode, come to the Myers Studio near the river. Jesus Christ, this isn’t good and we have his fiancée here in a state of panic. Send Plouche. Have Jake drive Juliet home or back to the station…don’t let her back in here. We found her fiancé. He’s the fourth victim.”
* * *
Chapter Twenty
I stood in Stuart’s office doorway, observing the vastness of the studio, a place he took years to nurture and create.
Bless Juliet’s heart.
From that day forward, she would wake every morning without the person she loved joining her; and she would go to sleep every evening without being able to kiss him goodnight. In the end, I advised her to do what I had done myself: write a letter to the deceased. Write one full of anger, love, sadness, everything – write until you spill it all out on the page and then tuck it away where no one will see it. Visit the letter when you want to, sleep with it under your pillow or place it under a candle when you need to say a prayer. I knew. I had done all of these things.
“I found Carpenter’s card on Stuart’s desk among some other letters, also unopened. The initials are different in this one. Stuart must’ve disregarded it altogether. Listen to this: An artistic family thread can bring about some unpredictable results. T.M.,” Roy said and looked at me, handing over the card, shaking his head.
“In the poetry book to Elsie, he wrote his name, Thomas M. Carpenter,” I said, taking the card from his hands.
“Yeah. It looks like Stuart wrote down in his appointment book, Thomas Milano…not Carpenter. He scratched the name off of the page when Carpenter arrived. The time all works out, too. Thomas’s appointment was at 10:00 pm and I’ll guarantee that the coroner says Stuart died around 10:35.”
“Milano. He’s using his Italian name. Since this is his fourth victim, maybe he’s finally comfortable with using his real last name.”
“You’ll be interested to see the sketches Carpenter brought with him. He left them here on purpose. You’re not going to like this.”
Roy handed me the illustrations. I sat down at Stuart’s desk, looking at each one. Unsettling, creepy. The sketches were of me. All of me: peering down into the courtyard from Roy’s kitchen window, holding my White Russian at Fleur de Lee’s, jogging near the river. All me. All done in pencil and charcoal. I felt nauseated and stood up.
“My God. He was there. I knew it,” I said as I disappeared into Stuart’s bathroom.
Why me?
Roy stood in the bathroom doorway. I didn’t want him seeing me vomit but at that point, it was the least of my concerns. He walked over to a medicine cabinet, opened it and pilfered around. He took out a small bottle of mouth wash and knelt next to me.
“Here, Baby. That’s some creepy, fucked up stuff right there. He’s been obsessed with you.”
“No doubt. You know, I didn’t really know Stuart. I only met him once. If Carpenter showed those to him, he probably didn’t even recognize me.”
I stood up, washed my hands and gargled with the mouthwash. I didn’t want the dust from the charcoal on my fingertips. Roy massaged my shoulders.
“I’m sorry I second guessed you. He has been following you, Brenda. This whole fucking time.”
* * *
Chapter Twenty-One
Stuart T. Myers
Stuart was accustomed to clients scheduling their meetings at all hours, day or night. Whatever suited their needs. He worked hard to build up his clientele over the years and ensuring their loyalty. Besides, he needed to work extra hours in order to afford the big wedding Juliet wanted. Were it up to him, they would elope and save the money for a luxurious honeymoon but he wasn’t going to have much say so in the matter. He met Juliet at his gallery, watched her during the whole art opening, until he found the perfect moment to introduce himself. She played coy at first but once he obtained her name and number for his mailing list, she was hooked. He was done with dating and one-night stands. Now that his business had found its own voice, he wanted to share it with someone. It had to be her.
At ten pm, he scratched his new client’s name off of the appointment book: Thomas Milano. The moment Thomas entered the studio, Stuart knew that this was someone special.
I have an eye for this kind of thing…
“Hello, Mr. Milano, feel free to place your portfolio on my desk. Take off your jacket, relax. Do you want a drink? I have scotch, wine, gin.”
“Yes, scotch would be most appreciated.” Thomas sat his portfolio down on a long wooden desk next to a sculpture of an angel with its wings transforming into several different variations of birds. As he studied the sculpture, Stuart poured him a neat glass of scotch.
“You like it? It’s from a visiting artist, Gabrielle Vicine. She’s great. I showcase a lot of different artists. I’m all about getting the wor
d out. You sound Italian. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? She’s from Florence, well respected by her peers. I love how the feathers of the wings are becoming birds. It’s a unique piece. She’s visiting again next month and bringing some more sculptures with her.”
“Yes, I’m originally from Venice, but I moved here as a child so I don’t remember much of the place. I apologize. I’ve never heard of her, but the sculpture is beautiful...rather intriguing. You have nice taste, Mr. Myers.” He took the glass of scotch.
“Call me Stuart. We have to support one another…I know I wouldn’t be where I am today if people hadn’t given me a chance…invested some belief in me. Show me what you got.” He stood close to Thomas and observed him as he opened the large black portfolio of work.
Several illustrations depicted a woman: jogging down the levee, drinking a cocktail at a nightclub, and looking down from a high-rise window onto a courtyard. Impressive. An old fling of Thomas’s or maybe a romantic interest? It was hard to tell.
“I would like it if you could showcase these here at your gallery. I was thinking that you could take photos of similar scenes, display them next to one another. The idea of different views on the same experience. Does that interest you?”
Thomas’s voice was soothing, the sound of his words drifting through the air like thin smoke. The woman in Thomas’s drawings seemed familiar.
Where have I seen her before? A friend of Juliet’s?
“These are really good. I’d be happy to display them, and I like your idea of adding my own take on it. That could be a whole show unto itself. We might even think about adding some other mediums…sculpture perhaps. Who is this woman? You seem to have a strong connection to her.”
“Do you recognize her? She’s a close friend. Beautiful, isn’t she?”
