by Leo King
Kent leaned over and patted her arm. “Rodger is talking about Mary, Gladys. Mary Castille. Sam’s mother, not yours.”
Instantly, her voice grew nasty and her mouth puckered even more. “Oh, she was a black widow, that one. A real gold-digger. I wasn’t fooled by her sweet charm and frail body. She was a devil. A vixen!” She turned to Rodger. “I told Vincent he had no business with someone like her in the house. But did he listen to me? No, of course not. Older Brother always knows best. Then little Princess comes along and, surprise, surprise, has a weak heart! So what does Big Brother do? Use the powder and get poor Robichaux nearly killed. Mary bats her eyes and turns on the charm and he just falls for it like every other man.”
Rodger stared at her, disbelieving what he had just heard. So they had done something to Sam when she was a little girl. The rest of her statement sounded like incoherent rambling.
Gladys continued to rail, “And Edward! Poor, misguided Edward! Bad enough that he was a policeman, such a vulgar profession, but to marry a harlot and a whore? Such a disgrace!”
“You just called Mary Castille a whore,” said Dixie, still pacing near Rodger. “Was she flirting with both Vincent and Edward? Was she sleeping with both of them?”
“I hardly think that is an appropriate question,” Kent said sharply, sitting up in his chair and staring at her with disapproval.
Dixie pursed her lips and mumbled, “Sorry. So, Madame Castille, why do you refer to Mary as a whore?”
“Oh, they both were,” Gladys said, hands shaking as she sipped her tea. “Those harpies had their claws reaching for the family fortune. If it wasn’t one, it was the other.”
Rodger was still trying to sort through everything she had said when Dixie again spoke up. “Madame Castille, when and where did Edward get married?”
Gladys looked up at her. The nastiness was gone, and in its place was a grandmotherly grin. “He married her here in the mansion. We use the ballroom because the light in it is so pretty. This was right after he found out she was with his child. Oh, you should have seen how angry Vincent got. Oh, the scandal of it all! Why, my dear departed sister, Marguerite—she fainted six times that day.” She clasped the pendant around her neck and sighed.
Rodger’s brow furrowed. Something about what she had said seemed incorrectly worded. He wondered if it was intentional, or if it was the ramblings of an old woman.
“Wait, Madame Castille,” he said. “So, Vincent got angry at Edward for marrying Mary? Why would Vincent be angry that Edward married the mother of his child? Was it because she was of low birth?”
“No, no, no,” Gladys snapped at him, her white face getting red in seconds. “Edward didn’t marry the mother of Vincent’s child. What kind of question is that? Are you making fun of me, young man? How dare you!”
The strain in her voice made him flinch. He hadn’t expected his question to get so badly misinterpreted, but that’s what seemed to have happened.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Kent said, holding out his hands. “Gladys gets confused easily if you don’t speak in clear, short sentences. I won’t have you upsetting her.”
“Madame Castille.” Dixie leaned on the back of the only vacant sofa. “How many weddings were there in that ballroom?”
“Oh, we’ve only had one recently,” Gladys said in a most conversational tone. The malice was gone as if it were never there. “And it was such a lovely affair, we—”
“I really must insist that you desist,” Kent said, standing up and putting a hand on her shoulder. “Again, you are confusing her with large sentences. You have to be concise and slow.”
Gladys smiled shakily and he patted her shoulder. “Detectives, why don’t we pick this up later in the week? On Thursday? If you send me the questions in advance, I can advise you on how to ask them. That way, you won’t risk confusing her.”
Rodger, who been silent, stood. “Thanks for your assistance, Kent. We appreciate you taking the time to see us. We’ll be in touch with any follow-up questions. Have a great day.”
As they shook hands, he noted that Kent had been keeping his left hand stuffed in his pocket the whole time. What is he hiding?
Dixie looked confused as Mason was called for and they were ushered outside. Once they were heading to the car, Dixie confronted Rodger. “Why did you stop me back there? I thought we were past that?”
“It’s simple,” he said as he tossed her keys to her. “Kent was stonewalling us. Someone has been stopping me from speaking to Sam for twenty years. Someone has been making sure we don’t get the facts surrounding Castille family affairs, such as Edward’s marriage. All morning, I’ve had a feeling it was Kent who was doing these things.”
They both got inside the car.
“Now I’m certain of it.”
Dixie whistled. “So you think Kent is our killer?”
Rodger hummed to himself, trying to organize his thoughts. “He’s definitely hiding something. In her own way, Gladys was trying to help us. Kent didn’t want us to hear what she had to say. Maybe he’s not the killer, but he’s involved. My gut says so.”
As Dixie started up the car, she got a thoughtful look on her face. “From what Gladys said, it almost sounds like those sisters both got married. Also, she made it sound like there was another wedding recently. Maybe a cousin of Sam’s or something? Any way we can follow up on any of that?”
She acts more like Ouellette than a detective at times, he thought. Her natural leadership skills are really starting to come out.
“I’ll see about getting the wedding license for Mary and Edward,” he said. “I’m not sure about the whole bit about having a wedding recently. There are very few members of the Castille family alive that I know about. Well, there are a lot of distant relatives with the Castille name, but none of them would matter when it comes to this. Just Sam and Gladys. Like you said, maybe a few cousins?”
As Dixie drove, she nibbled on her thumb, tension showing on her face. “Possibly. Shake the family tree and see what falls out. For now, I’m thinking of sorting through our information on the Nite Priory. If it’s all a ruse, like Jonathon said, then someone is using the Knight Priory of Saint Madonna in order to keep us off their trail.”
Rodger nodded and said, “So what do you want to do?”
Dixie’s lips curved into a smirk. “Drop you off at your apartment and get back to mine. I have a hot meal, a hot shower, and a hot guy waiting for me. Then I ponder my way through this Nite Priory crap.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle at her statement. Having had only the briefest and most fleeting of relationships himself, he had never experienced the all-consuming romance she had with Gino. It was utterly alien to Rodger, who would rather spend his evenings wrapped around a nice bottle of whiskey or a fine cigar.
“All right, then,” he said. “Take me home. I need to make some phone calls, anyway. Then before heading to the office tonight, I’ll go tell Michael what I learned from this utterly revealing interview.” His voice dripped with bitter sarcasm.
She laughed.
Outside of his townhome a little while later, as Rodger started to get out of the car, Dixie unexpectedly hugged him and said, “Rodger. You’re a damn good cop. Don’t let anyone say otherwise. Not even you.”
He smiled with a little uncertainty. He wasn’t sure what was bringing this on.
She must have picked up on his unease, because she said, “Hey, just giving a friend some love. You look like you need it.”
He hugged her back almost anxiously. “Yeah, well… not too much love. Else Gino will get jealous.”
Dixie winked. “Ha! Well, if you were thirty years younger, Gino might have a reason to be jealous.”
Rodger paused again, his smile fading. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. He was about to say something when she poked him teasingly. “Come on, old man, it’s a compliment. Learn to take them, because you’ll get a lot more when you catch this killer.”
He smiled a
gain. This time, however, it was genuine. He hadn’t been complimented much before, and in the past few days, two women and his partner had given him considerable compliments.
As he headed into his apartment complex, he found himself wishing that there were more people in the world like Dixie, Sam, and even Michael. People who, once they got to know you, did their best to make you feel good about yourself.
Once inside the inner gates, he heard the voice of his landlady, Ms. Parkerson, calling out to him. “Rodger Bergeron, there you is. I needs to speak with you.”
He waited for her to catch up to him. He wasn’t sure what she wanted. He had already paid her this month’s rent. “What can I do for you, Ms. Parkerson?” He tried to sound as congenial as possible, but he was pretty exhausted.
“There’s a package waiting for you,” she said, holding it right up under Rodger’s nose.
He flinched away from the box, his nerves on edge.
“I held onto it in case someone tried to mess with it. Looks important. It’s from Angola. Figured you’d want me to keep it safe.”
He exhaled and gratefully took it. “Thanks. I’ll go ahead and open it inside.”
“No problem,” Ms. Parkerson said.
He started to walk off and was halfway to his door when she called out again. “Rodger, wait a minute!”
Rodger turned around, trying to maintain an outwardly cheerful disposition. He really wanted to just disconnect from people for a while. “Yes, Ms. Parkerson?”
Her voice became lower and more serious. “You gonna catch that killer soon, right? Like last time?’
He blinked. The strain on his landlady’s face was the same as on everyone else’s in the city. This case is hurting so many people. More than just the victims and their families are suffering.
He put on a sincere smile and saluted. “I’ll do my best, Ms. Parkerson. I’ll do my best.”
Rodger went inside his apartment.
He put the package from Angola on top of a pile of mail and then picked up the phone. There was something he needed to take care of before he got sidetracked by another development in the case. He dialed a number he knew by heart.
A moment later, a sweet elderly woman picked up. “Hello?”
“Mabel, it’s Rodger,” he said, glad to hear her voice. In the background, he could hear the sound of excited yipping and growling. “Sounds like Boudreaux is having a good time.”
“Oh, hello, Rodger,” said Mabel, sounding pleased to hear from him. “Yes, Boudreaux is very excited. Mommy just baked some cupcakes, and he’s deciding which one he wants.”
Rodger chuckled. The Dugas family’s Shih Tzu loved everyone in the world except him. But he was the closest they had to any children now that their son was up in Chicago. Mabel positively spoiled Boudreaux.
“Would you like to speak with Douglas, hun?” she asked. “He’s watching the news. I won’t watch. Horrible story, the murders are.”
“Yes, please. Thanks, Mabel. And pet Boudreaux for me.”
There was the rustle of movement, along with the sounds of a news broadcast in the background, and then Douglas’s voice was saying, “Hey there, Rodger. I was just watching Ouellette and Connick talking to the press. Seems that Arsenault arrested Bobby Hebert for drunken and disorderly conduct.”
Rodger stifled a cough. “He arrested the Saints’s quarterback? Does he want to get fired?”
“Arsenault’s a thug,” Douglas said with disgust. “Always has been. But Ouellette and Connick know they need him when things go south. Still, half the city is calling for his blood and the other half thinks he may have saved the upcoming season!” He laughed so hard he started coughing.
Rodger laughed along with him. Pride for the Saints, and hopes that they’d one day win the Super Bowl, was something he naturally felt as a New Orleans native.
But sadly, it was irrelevant to the investigation.
So he said, “Well, Douglas, I didn’t call to talk sports. I need to know if you still have contacts at the Orleans Parish clerk of court.”
There was relative silence as Douglas hummed thoughtfully on the other end. “I think my friend Derek still works there. Why? What do you need?”
“I need to get the Castille marriage license from when Edward married Mary.”
“Ah, OK,” Douglas said. “I can arrange that. So the wedding was in the sixties. Do you know where it took place?”
Rodger recalled what Gladys had mentioned. “Yes. The Castille mansion. Private ceremony.”
The sound of the television was muted, and Rodger heard someone scribbling. Then Douglas said, “So, marriage license from the sixties. Took place in the Castille mansion. Got it!”
“Thanks, Douglas,” Rodger said, feeling like he had taken care of something important. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem, Rodger,” replied Douglas. His voice lowered a bit. “Just come over for dinner some time. Mabel misses having you over.”
Rodger hummed to himself. “All right. As soon as this is done, I’ll come over for dinner. Take care, Douglas. Good night.”
He hung up the phone. He had just started to get up when it rang again. He blinked and picked it up, figuring that it had to be Douglas calling back. “Hey there, what’s—”
“Roger? It’s Sam.” Her voice sounded upset, like she had been crying.
He sat at attention. “Sam? What’s going on? What’s happening?” In the background, he heard the sound of a shower. “Is everything OK? Is Richie treating you well?”
“What?” Sam asked. “No. I mean, yes! Richie’s fine. I just…”
She took a deep breath. “I need to talk to someone. Someone who was there. You know, when my father…”
Rodger felt his palms and brow start to sweat. “What’s going on, Sam?”
“I quit Dr. Klein today, Rodger,” she said, sniffling, her voice sounding labored.
He didn’t say anything. He knew that because of his interview earlier.
Fortunately, she continued without a response from him. “I just can’t take the bullshit anymore, Rodger. I feel lied to by everyone. I don’t even know if I’m sane anymore.” She sniffled again and blew her nose. “I’ve even started to think that I’m somehow possessed. Like there’s something evil inside me. Isn’t that crazy?”
Rodger thought back on what Gladys had said about a ritual performed on a girl with a weak heart. He figured that was Sam. While he didn’t particularly buy into the supernatural aspects of voodoo, appreciating only its cultural impact, he’d seen enough recently to make him question his own beliefs. “Not entirely crazy, Sam. Not entirely.”
“And more than that, Rodger. I think… I think I saw Grandfather do something. Something horrible. I think I saw him murder. It’s like a stained glass image just behind a layer of fog…”
Rodger closed his eyes, a few tears rolling down his cheeks. He wanted so badly to tell her that she did indeed witness Vincent murdering Edward, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it over the phone. She deserved to hear it face-to-face.
“It’s banging in my head!” she cried out. “Grandfather, Dad, torture, murder, loa, voodoo, everything is just pounding in my skull. I feel like I’m losing it. I feel like I’m going mad!”
Rodger made several shushing sounds until she had calmed down enough for him to speak. “Sam, do I need to come over there?”
Sam sniffled again and said, “No. Richie and Jacob are taking me out. Richie and I are about to go out clothes shopping. I just…”
There was a long pause as she sobbed silently. “I just need to know that I can trust you. I’ve been betrayed and hurt so much recently. Uncle Rodger, I can trust you, right?”
She had him at “Uncle Rodger.”
“Yes,” Rodger said, wiping away his tears. “Yes, of course you can trust me. I’ve got your back, Sam. Don’t worry. I’m going to clear your name. I’m not going to let you die.”
There was another sniffle before Sam said, “Thank you.” H
er voice sounded completely grateful.
He was about to speak when she added, “Richie’s done showering. Rodger, I’ll call you tomorrow, OK?”
“OK,” he said, exhaling deeply. “Take care, Sam.”
He spent the next couple of hours ordering take-out, eating his dinner, and then relaxing in his chair. It was past eight o’clock when he finally got up and shuffled over to the mail. On top was the package from Angola. It was from Charles Daigle, Assistant Warden of Angola, and Rodger’s contact when he and Sam had gone to visit Fat Willie.
Opening the package, he read the letter from Charles:
Dear Rodger,
I found these letters in Fat Willie’s cell while we were cleaning it out after he died. I hope that they can help you.
Sincerely,
Charles Daigle
Rodger sat down and looked through the letters curiously. A lot of them were from females he didn’t know nor want to, who apparently found Fat Willie sexy and desirable. Some of the letters were written in language so foul, he was sure that even Ouellette would blush. However, amongst the smut, Rodger found one letter that stood out. It had been sent during the beginning of summer that year:
Mr. Willie,
Yes, as you mentioned, I am interested in writing an article about your story for the Times-Picayune. The editor I write for, Mr. Hueber, has expressed interest as well. I find it fascinating that a tale as depraved as yours has never been made public.
So, Henrietta Babineaux was the only woman you know of who ever conceived from one of your “parties”? And you said her name is Virginia? I am anxious to know where this Virginia is located, as I would like to interview her as well.
If you can provide that information, I will have a good starting point. I will look forward to your next letter and when we finally get to meet.
