Fairbanks, Nancy

by Crime Brulee (lit)

  And why exactly had Father Claude, or whoever he was, pointed his gun at me? One of the officers had said robbing tourists wasn't his usual MO, which means, I believe, modus operandi. Surely he hadn't meant to shoot me! Why would anyone want to? Especially a stranger! Perhaps he had mis­taken me for someone else. Officer O'Brien had jokingly said that some chef might have ordered my assassination. Was this Father Claude an assassin? If so, they should have told me. And they certainly hadn't seemed sanguine about catching him. "Fat chance of that," O'Brien had said. The situation was confusing and frightening and—yes—surreal. Especially, surreal. Things like this do not happen to faculty wives.

  And there was Julienne. I still hadn't located her. Nor had the police. Earlier I had been worried about leaving New Or­leans while she was still missing. Now I couldn't leave whether or not she was found. She probably wasn't in the city herself. Very likely her brother had helped her leave. With Philippe in mind, I called his hotel again. No answer. Then it occurred to me that I had been direct dialing his room. He could have left town, and I wouldn't know the dif­ference. I could have been dialing an empty room or some other person now occupying Philippe's old room. I called the hotel desk to explain my problem.

  "Oh, he's still here," said the clerk, after leaving me a short time on hold. "But I haven't seen him. Can't imagine why he never answers his phone. Hang on a minute." More time passed while I relaxed comfortably on my bed and thought about a nap. "He's been using room service every day," she said, "so he must be in there. In fact, he's got one whopping big bill, but it says here that he's a doctor, so he can afford it. Reckon he's one of our orthodontists, though why you'd come to a convention and never leave your room is beyond me. They're out there this afternoon at the pool having a high old time."

  "Dr. Delacroix is not an orthodontist, but thank you for your help."

  Philippe wa;i there, staying in his room, ordering from room service, not answering his telephoned Depression! That explained it all. He'd fallen into one of his customary depressions. Perhaps about Julienne's situation. Perhaps be­cause his chairman was threatening to fire him. Or just some chemical imbalance. But depressed or not, he could still give me news of Julienne. I rose, combed my hair, and grabbed my raincoat, although it wasn't raining, thank goodness. However, that didn't mean it wouldn't start.

  Mindful of the money I'd spent on telephone calls and taxis, I prudently walked to the corner where the Superior Inn's free shuttle let guests off in the French Quarter and caught it back to Philippe's hotel. Without asking the desk clerk to announce me, I boarded the elevator to the second floor and was knocking at his door within minutes. Then I watched the peephole until I saw it go dark. Success! He was in there. If he didn't open the door, I'd just keep knock­ing. Even the most depressed person would get tired of someone pounding on his door.

  However, the door flew open, and Philippe said, quite un­pleasantly, "What are you doing here, Carolyn?" while he tugged me into his room and slammed the door. He didn't look depressed to me. He looked angry. In fact, he swore under his breath and said something like, "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself," whatever that meant.

  His attitude made me a little nervous, but I had a per­fectly good reason for being here, even if he did consider my visit inconvenient. "Philippe, I'm looking for your sister, and you're my last hope of locating her. Why haven't you been answering your telephone?"

  Philippe began to laugh, which I took amiss, and with good reason, given all the unpleasant things that had hap­pened to me during my search. "Well, you may think this is funny, Philippe, but you wouldn't believe all the dangerous situations in which I've found myself this week while searching for Julienne."

  Philippe laughed harder, obviously in a better humor than when I first arrived, for all that I found his amusement dis­concerting. "I know all about your problems, Carolyn," he said with a final chortle.

  "You do?"

  "Of course. I know everything."

  "Philippe, have you taken too much medication or some­thing?" I knew immediately that I'd said the wrong thing, because his face twisted with rage.

  "You're a stupid, interfering woman, Carolyn," he snarled and pushed me into a wing chair that stood in front of gently stirring draperies, which no doubt led to his bal­cony. "Party Central," the Yellow Pages ad for the Superior Inn had said. "Every room with a balcony overlooking our interior courtyard and pool." I remember thinking that it didn't sound like Philippe's sort of place.

  "You should have left well enough alone." He loomed over me in what I took to be a threatening fashion, although why Philippe would want to frighten me I couldn't imagine.

  Well, I wasn't about to be intimidated. "Do you know where Julienne is?" I demanded.

  "More or less," he replied, suddenly casual as he backed away and sat down at the foot of the bed. "Of course. And I know where you've been all week and what you've been doing."

  Well, that was nonsense. He hadn't been out of his room, if the desk was to be believed. "Don't be silly, Philippe. Just tell me where Julienne is, and I'll be on my way."

  "It was a mistake, Carolyn. You running around town getting people interested in things that weren't their busi­ness. Even you should have realized that by now. Couldn't you feel my power, my control? I'm the spider, spinning his web, pulling in the stupid little flies."

  That wasn't depression. That was just plain craziness. Still, I had to approach him as if he hadn't become com­pletely unbalanced. "I don't know what you're talking about, Philippe," I said, trying to sound calm and friendly. "You've been in your room all week as far as I know, but you must have helped Julienne to—"

  "Oh, I did. I was very helpful to my sister, much more helpful than she ever was to me. And I've been trying to help you, too, little sister's friend. You were just too dumb to take the hint."

  "Philippe, that's the second time you've called me stupid, which I'm not, and as for controlling me, that's silly. I haven't even seen you in years. If you didn't look so much like Julienne, I wouldn't have recognized you." He had Juli­enne's wild black hair but little else. In fact, he looked sick: terribly thin, his skin sallow instead of the rich olive that ran in the family, and he had great black circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. "Are you ill?" I asked. "You don't look at all well, Philippe."

  "How foolishly maternal of you to ask," he responded in a nasty tone. "But actually, I've never been in better health. If you didn't recognize me, it would be because you've only seen me when they were forcing me to subvert my real per­sona with medication, but that's over. I'm drug free and at the height of my powers now. I'm winning it all."

  "Winning what? And what drugs? Antidepressants? Ad­mittedly, you don't seem depressed."

  "But that's what you'd like, isn't it? To see me whining and miserable?"

  "No, of course not."

  "So I couldn't control you."

  "Why do you think you control me, Philippe?" Again I was trying to be the calm, reasonable faculty wife I usually am instead of scared stiff and confused.

  "Were you afraid when the voodoo woman told you to leave town?" he asked.

  "How do you know about her?"

  "I sent her."

  "You—"

  "I'm watching you, Carolyn. My agent knows everything you do. Every ridiculous, futile move you make. The man with the knife who grabbed your purse. Remember him?"

  I was speechless for a moment, then rallied to say, "He didn't get it."

  "He didn't?" Philippe frowned. "You're lying. You're probably still trying to get your credit cards canceled and re­instated."

  "I hit him with my umbrella."

  "And falling into the bayou? Remember that? Too bad you didn't drown."

  "If he got my purse, where did the money come from for the bus ticket to the bayou?" I asked sharply. I hadn't seen whoever pushed me into the water, but I had been pushed. And the purse snatcher, whom I hit with my umbrella, could he have been the sam
e man? And the voodoo woman—well, she was a woman. Or not. She'd certainly been ugly enough to be a man.

  "If you hadn't got here first, you'd be dead on the street, Carolyn, another tragic victim of random violence."

  A shiver went up my spine. Father Claude. Philippe had meant to have me shot?

  "Now we'll just have to wait."

  "Wait for what?' My voice was quavering. I could only hope he didn't notice.

  "He'll be back when he can't locate you, and since he ob­viously failed today, he'll have to do it here and find some way to dispose of the body."

  Was that my body Philippe was talking about? He obvi­ously didn't know that I had shot Father Claude's ear off, in a manner of speaking, and I certainly wasn't going to tell him. On the other hand, I had to get out of here before Claude plastered a bandage on his ear and reported in to "the spider." I glanced surreptitiously at Philippe. Now was the opportune time say my good-byes, since it seemed that Philippe wasn't prone to doing his own dirty work.

  "Nothing to say, Carolyn?" he goaded.

  "I have to be getting back." I stood up. "Jason will be ex­pecting me."

  Philippe leapt up and pushed me into the chair. "You're not going anywhere, and Jason won't be expecting you for at least several hours."

  "It's the last day of the meeting. Sessions end at three."

  "No, they don't, not till five, and then he'll have a drink with his colleagues and doodle little chemical structures on cocktail napkins and trade academic gossip. Why, he proba­bly won't be home until at least seven, by which time you'H be long gone. So don't try to lie to me, Carolyn. It won't work."

  I gulped and settled into the chair, not even a particularly comfortable chair. What to do? It is very hard to make plans while in fear of one's life. Talk. I had to keep him talking.

  And hope Father Claude had become tired of failing in his missions, hope he wouldn't want to tell Philippe that he had been shot with his own gun by a forty-something wife, mother, and food critic.

  Since he was known to the police, Father Claude must be a career criminal. In which case, this whole debacle would be professionally embarrassing. It would probably ruin his reputation if it got out. The police were looking for him. Maybe they'd find him. So I just had to—what? Get away from Philippe before he decided that he was crazy enough to do his own killing. Perhaps I should remind him of his Hip-pocratic Oath: Do no harm. But oh God, what had he done to Julienne? Or paid Claude to do to her?

  "You're uncharacteristically silent."

  Philippe was grinning at me with a curve of lip that seemed particularly malicious. That might have been my imagination. His smile had always been humorless, on the few occasions when I saw it, but not malicious. "Well, Philippe, since you don't want me to leave, I was just won­dering what might be a good subject of conversation."

  "So well brought up, Carolyn. I always admired that about you. Maybe if your mother had lived longer, she could have taught you to mind your own business as well as to function adequately as a good little hostess type."

  How dare he bring up my mother? She had been the sweetest, kindest, gentlest, most rational person who ever lived, while he was a crazy would-be murderer. "What did you do to Julienne?" I demanded.

  31

  An Alligator's Dinner

  “What did I do to Julienne?" Philippe rose from his seat on the foot of the bed and dragged the second wing chair over in front of mine. When he sat down, we were almost knee to knee, and his proximity sent a shudder through me. Then he leaned forward, arms on knees, hands hanging loosely, and thrust his face into mine. I could smell the faint odor of his breath, toothpaste overlaid with alcohol.

  "I gave her another chance," he replied, seeming to take pleasure in the ambiguity of his answer.

  "I don't understand." Did alcohol explain his strange be­havior? He might be drunk instead of crazy, although I didn't find that a reassuring possibility, either.

  "Of course you don't, Carolyn, because you know next to nothing about Julienne and me, especially about me."

  "That's true," I agreed. "What kind of chance did you give her?"

  "That sounds like an accusation."

  "No, Philippe, I was just asking for clarification of what you said, that you gave her another chance."

  He nodded. "I did." Much to my relief, he settled back in his chair. "I made some requests of my sister, and she re­fused, so I gave her a chance to reconsider. I think that was quite generous of me. Considering."

  "Considering what?"

  Anger swept across his face, blazing in his eyes and tightening his thin lips, but just for a second. Then he be­came calm again. "Considering how much Julienne has taken away from me over the years."

  Was he talking about his mother's estate? Diane had said he wanted it all because it was his right. "Primogeniture, you mean?" I asked hesitantly. "The estate?"

  "That's part of it. I am the eldest son, the only son. Juli­enne got a dowry so she had no right to the estate."

  A dowry? He was crazy. "Julienne had a dowry?"

  "Of course. Mother gave her half the household stuff, not to mention all those bonds, when she married. I wasn't given any bonds when I married, no sheets, no dishes, no—"

  "I didn't know you had been married," I stuttered. Had he? Julienne never mentioned it.

  "That's because you don't know anything, even your own field. How could you have majored in medieval history and not know the rules of inheritance? Don't you know about primogeniture? And dowries?" His tone was hector­ing, and he leaned forward again as if to intimidate me. With some success, I might add.

  "Yes, of course I do, but... but Philippe, that was cen­turies ago."

  "Oh, really?" Now his tone was scathing. "My mother didn't seem to think so; she's the one who talked about her daughter's dowry."

  Now that he mentioned it, I did remember Fannie and Julienne joking about a dowry, but that's what it had been: a joke.

  "Or maybe you want to talk about modern law? Or moral law? Or ordinary fair play, about which I'm sure you know nothing either? Well, Mother always favored Julienne un­fairly over me, and Julienne exerted undue influence on her in the years after my father died. Any court would find in my favor."

  "But Philippe, your mother wasn't of ... of unsound mind."

  "And I am? Is that what you're saying?"

  "No," I whispered, because he really was frightening me. And how sound was his mind? This wasn't simple depres­sion. Or clinical depression. It wasn't depression at all. It was something else entirely, something for which he refused to take medication, as he'd said himself.

  "And the estate was the least of my sister's sins."

  Keep him talking, I told myself, even though his mood seemed to bounce frantically from calmness to rage with each change of subject, each new thought that came to him. "What did she do?" I whispered.

  "When my wife died ..." His face became grim. "When my wife died ..."

  He couldn't seem to get beyond that phrase. "I'm sorry. What happened?" I prompted.

  "She committed suicide."

  How terrible! She'd committed suicide? And Philippe had always been prone to depression, at least in his youth.

  "Oh, don't look so tragic. It was a whim."

  "A whim?" I stammered.

  "Yes, a whim. Postpartum depression, they said. She could have waited it out if she'd had any sense. I told her that."

  Postpartum depression meant there had been a baby.

  "And I protected her from their medications."

  Good lord. His wife had been seriously depressed, and he hadn't allowed her doctors to relieve that depression? Per­haps repressed guilt over his wife's suicide had unbalanced his mind.

  "But she was just as dead as if she'd had a good reason to kill herself. And then my sister—my sister—" His voice dripped venom. "Julienne, ever the helpful, greedy sibling, had me committed and took my child. With my mother's connivance. They said I was bipolar, a danger to myself and oth
ers, but that was just an excuse to dope me up and de­prive me of the good times. My father ..."

  Bipolar. Manic-depressive, in other words. The new terminology was probably the result of some politically correct desire to mask the real nature of the disease. And he was in the manic phase right now, unmedicated. Because he liked the manic phase. He considered mania the good times. That explained all the talk of power, of being the spider who con­trolled the flies that ventured into his web. I was a fly. Had Julienne been a fly?

  Now he was talking about his father. I concentrated on this new subject.

  "... just because he had periods of brilliance. Do you re­member when he made all that money on the market? I'm doing the same thing right now, but I, fortunately, don't have my mother following me around, terrified that I'll lose the family savings." He laughed exuberantly. "I'm going to make more than my father ever did with no one to nag me to death the way she did. 'Promise me you'll nevah do that again, Maurice.'" His voice had assumed a feminine quality in a scathing imitation of Fannie Delacroix. " 'If you don't promise me, Maurice, Ah'll have to have you committed.'"

  Oh my God! Was he saying that his father had been bipo­lar as well?

  "She drove him to his death with all her nagging, but she never managed to control him, did she? No pills for my fa­ther. No loony bins."

  Was Philippe saying that his father had committed sui­cide rather than submit to treatment?

  "You're speechless, Carolyn. You didn't know all these things about your favorite surrogate mother, did you? The charming Fannie. My mother hated men. She'd rather have had you for blood kin than me."