Bayou Hero

by Marilyn Pappano

  She didn’t release his hand. “You’re coming with me. It’s just a few blocks from here. Then we can find something to eat.”

  His gaze slid down her body, all soft skin and muscle, then back up to her face. “We just ate enough food for four.”

  “We didn’t have dessert.” She pointed to the right of the cathedral. “Jack’s house is over that way.”

  He followed her, mostly because she still held his hand, partly because damned if he didn’t like the feel of her slender, strong fingers wrapped around his. The sensation was split somewhere between reassuring and sensual, and he could use massive doses of both right now.

  Murphy’s house wasn’t quite what Landry expected for an honest New Orleans cop: large, historic in age, well maintained, multiple stories, a lush green courtyard out back just visible through a wrought iron gate. Another unexpected surprise: a sign hanging above a small door opposite the main entrance that welcomed customers to Evangelina’s to have their palms read and their futures foretold.

  New Orleans had its legitimate psychics, and way more than its share of frauds. This seer married to a police detective—which did she claim to be, and which was she really?

  “I hear she’s legit,” Alia remarked after ringing the bell at the main entry. “I don’t know. I’ve never had much interest in that sort of thing.”

  If Evangelina Murphy was the real thing, maybe she could answer all of Alia’s and her husband’s questions and leave Landry with a little dignity intact.

  He would have made Murphy for a cop if the guy had come into the bar. It wasn’t the gun on his hip or the badge on his belt. He just looked like a cop: law-and-order, tough, had seen a lot. Alia introduced Landry to him, then Murphy introduced his wife, Evie, on her way out the French doors into the courtyard.

  “Would you like to join us outside, Landry?” she invited. “We’ve got cookies and lemonade.”

  Landry was pretty sure he saw Alia’s ears perk up and her nose wrinkle in an appreciative sniff. “You talk shop,” he said with a wink. “We’re gonna go have cookies.”

  Chapter 9

  “You miss lunch today?” Murphy asked.

  Alia brushed her chin to make certain she hadn’t begun to drool. She loved cookies and lemonade. And cupcakes and limeade. And pies and tea, cakes and coffee, ice cream and root beer, chocolate and anything.

  “No, I ate,” she admitted. “I just tend to eat all day. How’d you get home so quick after catching a homicide?”

  “I’m just killing time. I’m meeting with the oldest daughter and her husband in an hour at their place on Chartres, then with the younger daughter two hours after that.”

  “What about the son?”

  Murphy’s dark eyes widened. “I didn’t know there was one. The wife only mentioned the two girls.”

  “Jeffrey. Landry said he has a substance abuse problem.” Had Jeffrey died since Landry had last seen him? Or had he disappointed his parents so deeply, they pretended he no longer existed? Or maybe disappointed his father so much, he pretended he didn’t exist?

  Murphy toyed with a bandage on his index finger. It was lime green with purple dinosaurs on it. “Why would a woman who just found her husband stabbed and mutilated forget to mention she had a third child?”

  It was a rhetorical question: because she thought he might have committed the murder. Mrs. Wallace might have blamed her husband for Jeffrey’s problems, for his failed rehabs, for not allowing him to come home.

  If Jeffrey was guilty, that likely meant no connection between this murder and the others. Jeffrey might hate his father, but why would he hate Landry’s father?

  “How many stab wounds did your guy have?” Alia asked.

  “Fourteen.”

  “Mine had more than thirty.”

  “Mine had his tongue cut out.”

  “Okay, you win on that. Why? A message to keep quiet about something?”

  “That’s the usual idea.”

  “You think there’s something unusual here?”

  Murphy gave her a sideways look. “You navy people must get way more interesting cases than we do if you don’t. By the way, Landry Jackson...isn’t that Admiral Jackson’s kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He a suspect?”

  She shook her head. “His boss alibied him. We just had lunch,” she went on. “He knows a place that makes great Vietnamese food, and I needed great Vietnamese food.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to explain to me. I’m not in your chain of command.” Murphy disappeared into the kitchen, then returned with a paper plate of cookies and a plastic glass of lemonade. “Sorry for the dishes. Our kids are hell on breakables.”

  They settled at the dining table, Alia reaching for a cookie before her butt was fully in contact with the chair. They were home-baked—sniffing out home versus commercial, fresh versus day old, was one of her talents—and they were dotted with yellow specks of lemon zest. Incredible. She might marry for an unending supply of cookies this good.

  “I called DiBiase to compare notes, but he was, uh, busy. He gave me your number.”

  Alia snorted. She knew too well what Jimmy’s busy looked like on his days off. “That’s okay. I’ll make him squirm for the details tomorrow.” She took another cookie. “How did the killer get into the Wallace house?”

  “There was a broken glass in the back door. The alarm wasn’t armed.”

  “Same as Jackson’s. Weapon?”

  “Knife from the kitchen.”

  “Narrowed the time of death any?”

  “Likely between 2:00 and 5:00 a.m. Same method of entry, same weapon, same approximate time.” Murphy scowled. “I’ll find out what I can about Jeffrey, but a doper going all psycho on his father is one thing. Going all psycho on one of his father’s friends...”

  They shook their heads at the same time.

  “You know, Jackson and Wallace were good friends all their lives. Maybe something they did years ago has come back to bite them in the ass.” Alia took a sip of lemonade sour enough to pucker her mouth, sweet enough to make her taste buds do a happy dance.

  “Any idea what?”

  She glanced out the French doors on the far side of the room. Landry and Evie were sitting on the broad veranda, paddle fans overhead stirring the air. Two kids played in the yard while a third bounced on Evie’s knee.

  Something had happened to drive him not only out of the family home but out of the family, as well— something damaging enough that he didn’t want to talk about it all these years later. Could it be related to Jackson’s and Wallace’s murders?

  She looked back at Murphy and forced a smile. “My head is entirely too full of ideas, Detective. It’s weeding them out that’s the problem.”

  * * *

  Landry had never been dissatisfied with the apartments where he’d lived since he was fifteen. They’d always been a bit on the shabby side, like much of the French Quarter. They were old, run-down and lacked amenities such as air-conditioning, heat, a bedroom—except for the current one—and furnished with third or fourth-hand stuff. Failings aside, they’d been his. Besides the landlord, he’d had the only key to the lock; no one could come in unless he invited them.

  Privacy like that made up for a lot of shortcomings.

  But there was something awfully pleasant about sitting on Evie Murphy’s veranda, smelling the flowers, hearing the fountain, listening to the kids’ giggles and shouts. What he’d seen of the inside was luxurious compared to his own place, and what he’d seen of the outside, well, he could spend a whole lot of time in that courtyard.

  He and Evie had talked about the kids, about New Orleans, her psychic business, even a little about himself, while they shared cookies and lemonade. Now, with the youngest of her three dozing fitfully in her lap, sh
e said, “I’d ask you how the son of a murder victim wound up with the NCIS agent investigating the case, but then I’d feel obligated to tell you how I wound up married to the detective who once arrested me.”

  His brows rose even as he corrected her misimpression. “I’m not with Alia.”

  Her snort was similar to Alia’s, though softer, more delicate. “She’s a beautiful woman, isn’t she? Obviously, I didn’t know her when she married Jimmy, or I would have told her not to because of that faithfulness problem.”

  “Did the spirits tell you he couldn’t keep it zipped?”

  She gave him a chastising look. “Womanly intuition did. Sometimes you can just tell. He’s a good detective, though.”

  “Then between him, Alia and your husband, they should be able to figure out what’s going on.”

  Her chair creaked a few times as she shifted the girl to rest against her other arm. “It would help if the people they question were forthright.”

  She wasn’t looking at him when she said it, and there was nothing pointed or accusing about her tone—just a general statement offered in a careless voice. Landry was no fool, though. He sensed what she didn’t put into words or tone.

  “What makes you think I haven’t been forthright?”

  She gave him an innocent smile. “I didn’t say that.” A pause. “Sometimes you can just tell.”

  On the front steps, Alia had said she didn’t have much interest in psychic sorts of things. Landry never had, either, though he knew people who did. Several of the waitresses at the bar would sooner miss paying their rent than have to cut out their readings, and Miss Viola had once confessed that she’d consulted a psychic on a number of occasions.

  “Some things are meant to remain private,” he said evenly.

  “And some aren’t, even if we think they should.”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with the deaths.”

  Evie’s gaze settled on him, sharp, steady but kind. “How can you know that?”

  His mouth thinned. He wanted to believe he was right, but he didn’t know it. There was only one thing, to his knowledge, that linked Jeremiah, Camilla, Miss Viola and Brad Wallace that was important enough to kill over. But that one thing had happened so long ago. Why now? After all these years, why would it lead to murder?

  “How many people have died?” Evie asked.

  He didn’t have to take a moment to count. The number was there, in the back of his mind, dark and ugly. “Seven.”

  “Seven, three of them innocent bystanders. How many could there be?”

  Briefly he considered turning her question back on her: How could I know that? But if the killings were tied to the past—his past—he could make an educated guess. Instead, he corrected her. “Four of them were innocent.” But that wasn’t totally true. Miss Viola hadn’t deserved to die, but she hadn’t been entirely innocent. She’d known something and done little about it.

  What she’d done had saved him and Mary Ellen and that was all he’d ever really cared about. But apparently it had also got Miss Viola murdered. And Camilla. Who else was on the killer’s list? How many besides the obvious targets? Was he there? Was Mary Ellen?

  “Miss Viola meant a lot to you, didn’t she?” Evie asked softly.

  He nodded while watching the older kid, Jackson, dangle his sister’s doll over the fountain.

  “She died because she helped you.”

  His gaze flickered sideways to her. Had DiBiase told Murphy that, or was she reading whatever it was psychics read? “Probably.”

  “Her help allowed you to get to a place and a time where you could help yourself. If you help find justice for her, your debt to her will be repaid.”

  Debt. Miss Viola had never looked at it that way. Everything she’d done, she had done because she loved him. She’d told him that whenever he’d brought up how much he owed her. She had loved him, and she had died in part because of him, and it didn’t matter who else shared in his secrets. Justice for Miss Viola was more important than keeping their pasts buried.

  It was more important than protecting Jeremiah’s reputation.

  It was damn sure more important than Landry’s own privacy, because if not for Miss Viola, he doubted he would have any sort of life worth keeping private.

  Keeping his voice even, he said, “Your son’s about to dunk your daughter’s doll in the fountain.”

  Evie smiled. “She’s not innocent herself. I’ll bet she’s threatening the same with his favorite toy.”

  Landry leaned to the side to see that she was right. The pretty little girl, who looked angelic in a white dress and bare feet, was holding a gaming system inches above the water.

  “Jackson, Isabella, stop it right now.” She didn’t raise her voice or even look to see if they obeyed. It had been that way in the Jackson household, too, but it had been fear that made him and Mary Ellen instantly obey. The Murphy kids did it out of respect for their mother.

  The French doors behind them opened, and Alia and Murphy came out. He stood behind Evie, his hand on her shoulder. With the baby in her arms, they made a picture that stirred something like envy inside him. He had never had that kind of commitment or...serenity in his life. Under the circumstances, he thought he was pretty well adjusted. He had his share of one-night stands and short-term relationships. He’d even had a few long-term, when he’d been as close to loving a woman as a lot of men ever got.

  But he’d never really committed to those women. He’d never imagined them in his life because he’d never told them what that life included. He’d never told them the truth.

  The truth shall set you free.

  It might find Miss Viola’s killer. It might protect Mary Ellen.

  It might change the way Alia looked at him, because for a lot of years, it had damn well changed the way he had looked at himself.

  He tuned back into the conversation in time to hear Alia say, “...appreciate your time. Can we get together in the morning with Jimmy and go over everything?”

  “Sure. Give me a call.”

  Landry stood and found himself closer to Alia than he’d expected. She radiated heat and the aroma of lemon-flavored cookies and something subtler—sweeter, more erotic. Something sultry.

  They said their goodbyes and left through an elaborately worked gate that opened into the alley a few yards from the street. Silence settled between them, lasting until they’d reached the sidewalk, until they turned left toward Bourbon Street. Finally, he dragged in a deep breath, swallowed hard and said, “Let’s go for a drive.”

  She didn’t ask where he wanted to go or why. She simply said, “Okay.”

  Within minutes they were outside the bar. He dug his keys from his pocket and beeped open the locks. Heat rolled out of the car, shimmering and breaking an instant sweat on his skin. He cranked the engine, turned the AC to high and rolled down the windows. It took a few moments to back out, what with the steady flow of foot traffic, then he headed out of the Quarter.

  “What did you think of Evie? Real or fraud?”

  He glanced at Alia, her smile failing to hide the fact that she was seriously interested. “No fair,” he replied. “It’s not like she was doing a reading.”

  Though she’d done just that, sort of. Maybe her husband had filled her in. Maybe she had just been making guesses. Maybe it was a psychic’s job to learn things.

  “She bakes great cookies. I would marry her for those cookies.”

  Was it that easy? All he had to do was get Evie’s cookie recipe and Alia would be his? If life were only that uncomplicated...

  “Did you know that at one point, Murphy arrested her for some suspected involvement in a murder case?”

  “Really.” Alia considered it then. “He doesn’t seem the type.”

  “If you’d ever had reason t
o arrest Jimmy, wouldn’t you have?”

  “If I’d thought I could get away with it, I’d’ve killed Jimmy.”

  “You ever get personally involved with someone in a case?”

  “Once.”

  Stopping at a red light, he looked her way again. “How’d that work out?”

  She met his gaze, hers steady and serious. “Verdict’s still out.”

  The words repeated in his brain until the blast of a car horn made him realize the light had turned green.

  He eased his foot down onto the gas and crossed Canal, then a few blocks later, Poydras. He had one of two possible destinations in mind, and both were drawing nearer with each block. He drove along Saint Charles Avenue, watching tourists as the trolley passed on its Garden District tour, sweaty and hot, red-faced but mostly smiling, having a good time, and he saw a few residents facing the afternoon the way a good Southerner should, doing nothing, escaping into cooler places, waiting for the sweltering sun to set so life could resume.

  His decision on where to go was simple enough: he turned into the driveway of the first house he reached. Miss Viola’s.

  The house looked exactly the way he’d seen it thousands of times: all neat and trim, drapes opened on the lower windows, lace panels making it difficult though not impossible to see inside, fresh flowers hanging from baskets on the porch and filling pots that lined the steps. Nothing had changed since the time he’d visited last Monday, not a thing, but everything was different.

  This house had always been his refuge, his safe place—rather, it had represented those things. Miss Viola had been the true refuge and safety. Without her, this place that had been so important was nothing but walls and a roof.

  The thud of Alia’s door closing woke him from his staring at the draped and lacy empty windows. He let go of his own car door, shoving it with his hip to bang more loudly that he’d intended.

  Alia climbed the couple steps that led to the house, but he ignored them and walked to the garden gate instead.

  He didn’t know if she wondered, but he offered assurance anyway.