Bayou Hero

by Marilyn Pappano

  Two steps took her to the doorway, one more inside. The room was huge: sitting area in front of a fireplace; a delicate writing desk overlooking a front window; a massive bed; a door opening into a bathroom and closet. It was one of Louisiana’s quirks that old houses traditionally lacked closets, but this one was an exception.

  The furniture, the art on the walls, the knickknacks on tables, the Middle Eastern rugs—all costly. It was overdone for Alia’s tastes, too cluttered, too much pattern and color and far too rich, but the room looked exactly what it was: a personal space for a wealthy couple in a lavish mansion.

  If one could dismiss the blood.

  It was a lot of blood, an entire life’s worth. It covered the admiral’s chest, saturated the sheets, soaked the mattress. There were small splatters on the wall, the shade of the lamp on the night table, the pristine white pillowcase on the opposite side of the bed, a few drops on the floor. Blood was slick. It made knives slip in wet grips, often causing killers to cut themselves. Would some of this blood belong to the killer?

  Finally she forced herself to focus on the victim. He was a few inches shorter than six feet, broad shouldered, barrel-chested. At one time he’d been solid muscle, but living the good life of the admiralty had put some extra weight on him. His hair was white, thick, and his blue eyes were open, staring sightlessly toward the ceiling. Had his attacker been the last thing he’d seen in life? Had he known him? Had he known the reason for his death?

  “The splatter is cast-off from the knife.” Jimmy gestured to the deadly blade still sticking out of Jackson’s chest. “It’s a butcher knife from downstairs.”

  “Time of death?”

  “About 5:00 a.m., best guess. We’ll know more when we get him on the table,” answered the coroner’s investigator. “He was likely asleep. Didn’t even get his hands up to defend himself.”

  “So someone comes here, breaks in without a weapon and kills four people?” What’s wrong with this picture? It wasn’t a burglary gone wrong—too many small items of great value left in place. It wasn’t a planned murder. No one on a mission to kill would come without a weapon. That left a crime of passion or a killer too disorganized to plan. A killer with serious psychological problems. “Is anything obvious missing?”

  “Don’t know,” Jimmy said. “The daughter’s going to come over tomorrow, after the bodies have been removed, and take a look around. She’s here four, five times a week according to the neighbor.”

  He gestured to the door, and she went back into the broad hallway.

  “Remember when you served me with divorce papers, you said that was the end of us?” He grinned that big ole grin. “Guess you were wrong about that. Sweet pea, we’re gonna be working this case together. You’re gonna be my partner.”

  * * *

  Landry Jackson had driven to the Garden District intending to go straight to his sister’s house, but he hadn’t been able to resist stopping at the family home. He’d parked a few blocks over, added a baseball cap to help the dark shades for a bit of camouflage and had been standing in the shade of a crape myrtle for the past half hour, just one more among the neighbors, reporters and the morbidly curious milling around. A few of the older neighbors seemed vaguely familiar, but he doubted any of them remembered him or would recognize him if they did.

  There were whispers that confirmed what Mary Ellen had told him in her hysterical phone call earlier, that the admiral was dead. They didn’t stir any emotion in him, not even the relief he’d always expected to feel once the old man passed. Certainly no sadness. No regret.

  His shrink’s voice echoed from years past. You don’t owe him anything. Being a parent doesn’t automatically entitle a person to respect or love or anything else.

  In the Jackson household, being a child didn’t entitle a person to those things, either.

  He stared at the house where he’d grown up, too much, too fast, and tried to summon a few happy memories. They were there. They just didn’t want to sneak out into the light at the moment. Mostly, he remembered relief every time the admiral went away, dread every time he came back. Mostly he didn’t want to remember anything, good or bad.

  A murmur went up around him as two people started down the driveway toward the gate. The reporter next to him was muttering into his cell phone, and Landry listened without much interest. “Primaries appear to be Jimmy DiBiase with NOPD, and the woman is NCIS. Uh, Leah, Lina. No, Alia. Alia Kingsley. Huh.”

  Landry was familiar with DiBiase from the news, the paper and his regular partying on Bourbon Street. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Alia Kingsley, though he could have and just skimmed right over her. Her hair was stark black, tightly braided, her features average with a hint of the East—Filipina, maybe, or Japanese—and her navy skirt and jacket with light blue shirt and ugly heels were just slightly this side of flattering. Did she not know how to dress to suit her less than curvy body or did she downplay her looks deliberately?

  They stopped in the middle of the drive to talk to a group of men in suits—NOPD detectives, NCIS agents—who all listened while Kingsley spoke. Her gaze roamed dismissively over the media—they showed up for every major crime—and settled briefly on the others. Landry was turning away when it reached him, like a laser between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t resist glancing back at her, their gazes connecting for an instant, then he slipped through the crowd and headed to his car.

  His skin was damp with sweat by the time he’d jogged the few blocks to Miss Viola’s house, whose driveway he’d borrowed. The old lady was waiting on her porch, a mug of hot tea on a table next to a half-eaten slice of buttered toast and a bottle of cold water. “Well?” For an eighty-one-year-old woman, she put a wealth of meaning into that single word.

  Bypassing his car, he climbed the steps and leaned against the railing near her. She offered the bottle, and he drank half of it before answering. “They’re not releasing any information yet, but the rumors appear to be true.”

  “Jeremiah Jackson Junior is dead.” Miss Viola wasn’t any sorrier than he was, though she’d known the admiral his entire life. “This much fuss for just him?”

  “No. Apparently the Owens, too, and the gardener’s truck was there.”

  “Poor Laura. And Constance...oh, she loved her work and was finally making good money at it. She takes care of my lawn, too, and she’s meticulous.” Miss Viola’s gaze wandered across the yard as if realizing she would never see Constance in it again.

  After a solemn moment, she said, “I understand why someone would kill Jeremiah, but why the others? Why Laura? The girl wouldn’t have hurt a fly and couldn’t have been much of a witness.”

  “You know the kind of people the admiral associated with.”

  “May they all rot in hell.” After sipping her tea, Miss Viola waved toward his car. “Go on now and get over to Mary Ellen’s. You don’t know how this is going to hit her. Tell her to call me if she needs a thing.”

  “I will.” Landry finished the water in another swallow, then set the bottle back on the table. He was halfway down the steps when she called out.

  “Obviously you remember where I live. Come by once in a while. I miss your face.”

  He smiled fondly and repeated his answer. “I will.”

  It wasn’t far from Miss Viola’s house to Mary Ellen’s. Like the Jackson house, it dated to the early 1800s and was large, gracious, the very image of a Southern mansion with its broad porches and tall columns. It sat in the middle of the block, large expanses of lawn on either side, an American flag flying from a bracket on one column, a small pink bicycle overturned on the sidewalk.

  Landry parked behind his brother-in-law’s Mercedes and took the side steps onto the porch. His knock at the door was answered so quickly that the housekeeper must have been hovering nearby. “Mr. Landry,” she greeted him grimly.

  �
�Miss Geneva.”

  “Your sister is in the sunroom.” As an afterthought, she added, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Don’t be. I’m not. But he politely thanked her. “Are the girls here?”

  “No, Mr. Scott dropped them at a friend’s house.”

  He nodded and headed down the wide corridor to the sunroom at the back of the house. He was sorry to have missed Faith and Mariela—they were the very best of the Jackson family—but glad they weren’t here to deal with emotions they didn’t understand.

  The sun porch spanned the width of the house, enclosed on three sides with glass, with double doors that opened onto the porch and the yard beyond. Despite the heat of the day, the windows and doors were open, the ceiling fans overhead moving the heavy air in a futile attempt to provide cooling. Mary Ellen liked the heat. Sometimes she joked that she was just a tropical girl, but once, in a particularly melancholy moment, she’d told him that she could never get warm, no matter how she tried.

  He understood the feeling.

  She sat in a wicker rocker, arms folded across her middle, staring into the distance at something no one else could see. She did that a lot, and if questioned about it, she laughed and said her mind liked to wander. If she could see the stark, gut-wrenching look on her face at those times, she would probably never laugh again.

  Her husband, sitting on a footstool in front of her, was first to notice Landry. “Mary Ellen, look, your brother’s here.”

  She didn’t look. Didn’t give any sign that she’d heard Scott.

  Scott met Landry halfway and shook hands. “I’m glad you came. Have you heard anything else?”

  Breathing deeply of the flowering plants that filled the room, Landry shook his head. He would let the authorities tell them that the old man wasn’t the only victim. She knew Constance and the Owens way better than he did, and he’d always been the one experiencing bad news. He didn’t deliver it. “How is she holding up?”

  “She’s been like that since she called you. Hasn’t cried a tear.”

  Scott sounded worried, but Landry wasn’t. Tears were overrated. Their mother had cried thousands of them when they were still a family. So had Mary Ellen, and Landry had shed a few of his own. It hadn’t changed anything. It hadn’t made them feel better. There’d been no catharsis.

  Navigating around furniture and plants, he crouched in front of his sister and took her hand in his. It was ice-cold. “Hey, Mary Ellen.”

  Her gaze shifted slowly, a millimeter at a time, until it connected with his. A wobbly smile touched her mouth, then slipped away. “It’s true, isn’t it, Landry? It really is true. Daddy’s dead.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  The tears that had concerned Scott welled in her brown eyes, so much like Landry’s, but didn’t spill over. “I knew,” she whispered. “I felt it all the way deep inside, but I kept thinking...”

  That it might be a mistake. That it was never good to celebrate prematurely.

  Though she seemed to be leaning toward mourning. Why? What had she seen in the admiral that made him worth mourning? Things had been no better for her than for Landry, worse even. She’d been fragile, like their mother, and in her eyes, her escape had been as bad as the situation she’d left.

  But the concept of family had always been important to Mary Ellen. She heaped her family with love and respect and expectations; she forgave them anything. She stood by them no matter what. She’d even been trying from the day he left the family to bring him back into it. She’d succeeded only as far as the next generation. No way was he going to let the admiral drive him away from his nieces.

  Mary Ellen’s eyes widened as if she’d just thought of something, and her fingers tightened around his in a grip that was painful. So much for fragile. “Oh, Landry, how will we tell Mama? She’ll be so heartbroken. He was her life.”

  Landry blinked. He’d never been sure their mother loved their father. Camilla was wellborn, but the family had fallen on hard times. Her daddy would have sold her to the highest bidder to hold on to the family property. Jeremiah, a mere ensign at the time, had been looking for a wife suitable to the illustrious Jackson family as well as his journey into the upper echelons of navy command. Landry had never figured their marriage for anything more than a business arrangement.

  “Mary Ellen, we don’t even know where she is.” After too many years with the old man, Camilla had finally taken off. Miss Viola had been the one to tell Landry, calling him at the bar, asking if Camilla had discussed her plans with him. You know I only see her twice a year. From the time he’d left home, she’d always tracked him down on his birthday and at Christmas. He’d visited with her awhile at Mary Ellen’s wedding—with the admiral glowering from a distance—and again when the girls were born. That was it.

  Mary Ellen’s expression turned wistful. “Every time the phone rings, I hope... The girls and I pray for her every night before bed.” Her gaze slanted his way. “We pray for you, too.”

  Landry wasn’t sure what to say to that. They’d gone to mass every week as kids, and he’d said a lot of prayers, but the only answer he’d ever got was silence. God’s ears were obviously closed to some people’s pleas, and he was one of them.

  Ignoring her last comment, he watched her closely as he asked, “Did you know she was leaving? Did she say goodbye to you? Did she say anything at all to suggest...?”

  He could see Camilla neglecting to mention it to him. Their mother-son relationship had run its course. But after Mary Ellen’s years away at boarding school, the two had been close, especially once the babies had come along.

  There were no shadows in Mary Ellen’s eyes, no guilt or deceit crossing her face, just a wounded-deer look. “No. I never understood. But Daddy said...”

  Like the bastard wouldn’t lie? Rear Admiral Jeremiah Jackson Junior would be the last man to admit that his wife of more than thirty years had taken off for a better life. The disrespect would be more than his ego could afford.

  Wherever Camilla was, Landry hoped she was happy. God knew, she deserved it.

  Soft footsteps sounded in the hall a moment before Geneva appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Scott, the police are here. They want to talk to Miss Mary Ellen.”

  As Scott nodded, Landry pried his hand free of his sister’s and stood, the muscles in his calves stinging in relief. He moved behind her, finding a spot to lean against the wall, grateful for the tall plants and busy wallpaper that would buy him a few minutes of time, and watched silently as Jimmy DiBiase came through the doorway. Following a few steps behind him was Alia Kingsley.

  They introduced themselves to Mary Ellen and Scott, expressed their condolences, took a seat and began asking questions. When was the last time you saw your father? Talked to him? Were at his house? Landry listened to his sister’s answer, one to cover them all: I was at the house last night. Scott was working late, and the girls and I walked over to have dinner with him. We stayed until eight. I had to get them home for bedtime.

  If she’d forgiven their father, she was a bigger person than Landry. Granted, he wasn’t big on forgiveness in general. He would have sooner killed the man than forgiven him—a sentiment better kept to himself under the circumstances.

  The interview had gone on about five minutes when Landry made the mistake of exhaling and setting the delicate leaves of the plant beside him fluttering. Alia Kingsley’s gaze cut his way, laserlike in its intensity, and recognition flashed in her eyes. She interrupted DiBiase in the middle of a question and bluntly spoke.

  “You were outside the house earlier.” The smooth skin wrinkled between her eyes as her gaze zeroed in on his face, cataloging it, he had no doubt, for future-suspect reference. “Why? Who are you?”

  Mary Ellen glanced over her shoulder, her eyes widening, pink spots forming high on her cheeks. “Oh, where are my manners? I’m sorry. Som
etimes he’s so quiet, I forget he’s around.” Her smile fluttered, and so did her hands. “Special Agent Kingsley, Detective DiBiase, this is my brother, Jeremiah Jackson the third.”

  Chapter 2

  As a sardonic smile slowly tilted the corner of Jeremiah III’s mouth, it popped into Alia’s mind that, unlike his sister, he had no manners. The air of quiet about him was almost predatory. He didn’t look the son of Louisiana privilege. His shorts were khaki, faded and worn, and his Hawaiian shirt, though subdued, was still a Hawaiian shirt. It was difficult to tell if his unruly dark brown hair needed a trim or was expensively cut to look that way, but there was no missing the quality of his running shoes, the aged patina of his wristwatch or the distrust and keep your distance shimmering the air around him.

  It was hard to believe the uncomfortable boy in the Jackson family portrait had grown into this confident man. But weren’t her own middle school pictures proof that a person didn’t stay gawky, clumsy and a misfit forever?

  “Mr. Jackson—”

  “Landry.”

  Her jaw tightened before she could stop it. “You were at your father’s house. Why didn’t you identify yourself?”

  “To who?”

  “The officer at the gate?”

  “Why?”

  “Surely you knew we would want to talk to you.”

  With easy, lithe movements the failed ballerina in her envied, he pushed away from the wall and moved to stand directly behind Mary Ellen. He rested one hand on the back of her chair, the other on her shoulder, and she reached up to cling to it. “I have nothing to tell you.”

  Alia ignored his flat statement. “When was the last time you saw your father?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “How long? A year? Two? Ten?”

  Landry and Mary Ellen exchanged looks. “Twelve years.”