by A. C. Mason
We strolled across the street and entered Court House Café. Several male customers sent admiring looks our way.
I figured they were all looking at Megan and not me. The lady lawyer was a very attractive woman dressed in a navy blue power suit, powder blue blouse and navy pumps. At her neck she wore a single strand of white pearls. Megan probably got a lot of those looks.
“We should get the booth with a view of City Hall so we can see when the guys come back,” I suggested.
Megan agreed and we settled onto the red vinyl seats of a booth in front of a window facing the street.
A waitress brought two cups and filled them with dark strong brew. Steam rose from the cups and sent the wonderful aroma of fresh brewed coffee wafting into the air.
“Can I get you some pie to go with your coffee?” Being quite obvious, the waitress studied Megan with interest—more like nosiness because Megan was a stranger to Cypress Lake.
“No, I’m good,” I said, pouring cream from the tiny container into my cup.
“Nothing else for me either.” When the waitress left, Megan turned to me. “You mentioned earlier that you married your husband when he was a detective with NOPD. What’s the story behind the move to Cypress Lake? It must have been a difficult transition for a New Orleans girl like you.”
“Jim grew up near Foretville and went to New Orleans when he was about nineteen or twenty. The Chief position came up when his childhood friend Bill Kaufman was elected mayor. Bill wanted a new man to head the department, so he asked Jim if he was interested.”
She took a sip of coffee. “He wanted to get away from NOPD.”
“I was all for him leaving the New Orleans police, but I never wanted to move out to a place I thought was in the middle of nowhere.”
Megan laughed. “I gather you really like it here now.”
“The transition turned out to be a lot easier than I expected.” I smiled at the thought of how hard I resisted the idea of moving here.
“What eased your transition from big city to small town?”
Tilting my head to one side, I thought back to my arrival in Cypress Lake. “After my ordeal connected to the April Fools’ Day murder of my sister-in-law and years of turmoil in the aftermath, I needed to get away from New Orleans. At first I was worried about being alone—being pregnant with twins—but the neighbors more or less took me in.” Megan arched her brow at my mention of the twins. “The townspeople were friendly and the area was peaceful…until a week ago.”
Megan’s expression clouded. “You’re referring to the murders, I assume.” She averted her eyes and glanced out the window for a moment. “Whoever killed those men used the same method of operation as the man who killed my father. Are you familiar with his case?”
“Only a few details. I understand he was killed after a parade in New Orleans. His killer used a knife and left a gris-gris bag.”
“The murders here are quite interesting to me because of the method of operation. The man who killed Dad was convicted and is still in Angola.”
I hesitated before speaking. “I know your business with Jim and Sheriff Marchand is private. Are the murders here the reason for your visit?” I figuratively held my breath.
“Actually, my original reason for coming here had to do with a piece of property I own in Allemand Parish.” She leaned forward and spoke in a lower voice. “A contact I have in the District Attorney’s Office in town notified me about someone illegally camped on the property. Then my contact also informed me that the Allemand Parish law enforcement agencies had set up a task force to deal with the murders. I thought I might offer my services in some way.”
A feeling of discomfort came over me. The last time someone I knew offered to help solve a crime, the end result was not good. “If you don’t mind me asking, what type of help did you have in mind?”
Megan gave a slight wave, displaying her perfectly manicured nails. “I don’t mind your asking. You may or may not be aware that the file on Dad’s murder was one of those old ones destroyed during the flooding from the levee breaks during Katrina. I could give them useful information about the case.”
“That’s logical.” I still had reservations about Megan working closely with Jim for unknown reasons. Was I jealous of such an attractive woman being in close proximity to my husband for an extended period of time? I dismissed the thought. “About your property… I believe either Jim or Danny intended to phone you about the squatter, but simply haven’t gotten around to doing so.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly. These homicides must be taking up all their time.” She gave me an inquisitive look. “What department did your husband work in for NOPD?”
“Homicide.”
“I thought his name sounded familiar. He probably testified for the prosecution in one or more trials where I represented a defendant.” Her lips curved in a slight smile. “Of course we were on opposite sides in those cases. I’m sure I gave him a hard time.”
“Oh, you must be the reason he came home in such a snit several times after testifying in court.” I tried to keep my voice light. “I’m simply curious so you can tell me to mind my own business. What made you decide to be a defense attorney in lieu of working as a prosecutor?”
“A friend of mine was convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. DNA and a fabulous defense attorney proved his innocence. I was impressed and wanted to help other defendants.” She smiled. “You’re probably wondering why I didn’t change over to the DA’s office after Dad’s murder.”
“I would have in your position.” I drained the last of my coffee.
“Believe me, I thought long and hard about doing so, but in the end I decided my place was in defense.” She turned her attention out the window. “I believe the chief and the sheriff have returned.”
I shifted my gaze toward City Hall. “Yes, they have.”
Megan slid out of the booth and signaled the waitress. “I’ll get this,” she told me.
“Thanks for the coffee and the conversation.” I remained seated.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“No, you go on. I can see Jim at home.”
Megan smiled. “This visit was such a pleasure. Don’t be a stranger next time you’re in New Orleans. Stop by my office.”
“I don’t mean to sound unfriendly, but I don’t go to New Orleans unless I absolutely have to.”
“Because of the business with Anne’s murder?”
I exhaled but didn’t answer.
“I understand perfectly,” Megan said in a soft voice. “But eventually you have to let those memories go, or they will destroy you.” She handed a ten dollar bill to the waitress and left the café.
I watched her walk across the street and enter the building with Jim and Danny. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some movement. A woman came into view walking slowly past the café window. She appeared to have a serious interest in Megan Whitehall. The woman raised her cell phone and punched a number to someone obviously on speed dial. As she spoke on the phone, she turned and looked directly inside the café.
My heart thumped. Denise Berthelot! Again!
Eighteen
Our eyes met for a brief moment. I quickly lowered my head and pretended to be studying the menu. Did Denise know Megan? And more importantly, did she know anything about Malcolm Whitehall’s death?
I took a covert glance out the window. Denise had moved on. Slipping out of the booth, I stood and walked to the door.
Out on the street, I acted as though I were checking the traffic before crossing; I really checked to make sure Denise hadn’t reappeared in the vicinity. She wasn’t anywhere in sight. Once inside my car, I sat for a while to slow my heartbeat before driving away.
Heading down Court Street, I reviewed the conversation I’d overheard. Denise certainly didn’t appear to be in mourning at all over her brother’s death. I would be devastated if someone killed Steven.
Did Teddy’s death mean only nothing more than she could inherit
a larger part of the family wealth? Who was she speaking to on her cell phone? From her end of the conversation, the person on the other end of the line must have advised her to at least act as though she were mourning.
I checked the clock on the dashboard—11:30—almost time for lunch. Not that I was hungry. Instead of heading home, a visit to the newest branch of the Allemand Parish Library seemed to be the right course for me to take. The Main Library was closer, but the more recently built facility had computers and microfilm readers. The latter would be helpful in locating articles from the small parish newspapers, since many older editions had not yet been placed on computers.
Turning left onto Moss Avenue, I continued driving until the white contemporary building housing the Acadian Branch Library came into view.
Inside, the smell of newness still lingered six months after the opening of this branch. I went directly to the microfilm readers. After studying the labels on the metal file cabinet housing the reels of film, I selected film containing a few decades’ worth of editions of the Cypress Lake Journal, a once a week newspaper before 2000.
Several reels of dim microfilm later, my eyes started to blur. There had only been two articles that even mentioned the Berthelot or Edwards families, namely the parents of the two murder victims, and those reports were in regard to charity events. Maybe 1950 was too far back. I tried a later film.
In the 1960s, the Berthelots seemed to be in the public eye more than in the previous decade—but still the parents, not Teddy or Denise. So far, none of the articles reported anything of substance. The reporters all gushed on about the generosity of this family.
This was so much like the New Orleans social group I’d hoped to escape. Guess these types are everywhere. Money buys favorable publicity. Dolly B had it right—people with money tend to get away with murder.
There’s a thought. Could the two Allemand Parish murders be payback for a previous murder or murders? I returned all the older reels to the return basket and chose film for the years 1985 to 1988.
My eyes felt dry like I’d been walking through the desert. I’m going to go blind looking at this microfilm. Maybe giving this up would be a good idea. The film beckoned me to continue.
I received a small reward for my persistence—an article dated December 4, 1988. At least, I thought, perhaps it might be significant. A photo accompanied the write-up about a holiday party held at a club in New Orleans. The headline read: Cypress Lake Residents Attend New Orleans Gala.
The snapshot and information were provided by a woman who appeared in the photo with Teddy Berthelot. I didn’t recognize her name or face. The pair stood with David Edwards and his date Paula, now his wife—or rather, his widow. An unidentified man walked behind them, turning his face to the camera as he passed. The article had an interesting notation about the singer who provided the entertainment. Her stage name was Dolly B.
Granted the first name might be a coincidence. I’m sure Dolly Babineaux isn’t the only woman in the country with that name, but I decided to print the photo and the article just in case.
~ * ~
All these lovely women suddenly appearing on the scene. The blond he’d seen entering City Hall with the two lawmen was someone he neither expected nor wanted to see. Megan Whitehall…another woman who has no business sticking her nose in this picture.
Any time now, lovely Susan would decide to enter the fray and put her so-called mystery-solving talents to work, if she hadn’t already started digging into things. Her visit to the library appeared to signal just that. He’d heard she was the one who rooted out her sister-in-law’s real killer and proved her brother innocent.
Then there was Denise Berthelot. What the hell was she up to? Maybe her appearance in front of Court House Café was a coincidence. Even though her going to the cops was a long shot, he needed to make damn sure she didn’t mess up his plans. None of these three lovelies was going to get in his way.
Nineteen
Megan Whitehall exited the Cypress Lake City Hall and walked to her car. She pressed the unlock button on the key remote. The headlights flashed to indicate the completed action.
With her hand on the door handle, she closed her eyes briefly. Reliving her father’s murder had been a lot more traumatic than she expected. What was it she advised Susan over there in the cafe? Let the memories go or they’ll destroy you. Well, she’d just discovered that letting go wasn’t always so easy.
Something made her turn toward the street. A noise? The pain in the upper left side of her chest was sudden and intense. I’m too young to be having a heart attack. I’m falling. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Her vision dimmed and then nothing.
~ * ~
Hunger pangs interrupted my research. Might as well go somewhere and grab a bite to eat. I wasn’t having any luck so far with the search for clues anyway, except for the photo and article I’d printed. Who knows, those might not be of any use. Not a single article about the Berthelots, or the Edwardses, or even concerning Jim’s predecessor, Tank Hebert, mentioned anything detrimental about these people. Money does buy silence, a fact I certainly knew.
I left the library and headed for the new McDonald’s to get some comfort food—a cheeseburger and fries. A short distance down Moss Street, the sudden wail of a siren behind me caught my attention. After glancing in the rear view mirror, I pulled over to the side. An EMS unit with flashing lights went speeding past me, turning on Court and heading in the direction of City Hall.
Had something happened at or near the governmental complex? I tried to shake off the feeling the incident involved Jim, or someone I knew. Most likely a traffic accident in front of the station, I kept telling myself. Nothing to worry about. The lump in my throat compelled me to check out the situation. Hunger forgotten, I drove toward Court Street to follow EMS.
The emergency unit stopped in front of City Hall. Several EMTs jumped out and quickly pulled a stretcher from the rear, racing through a mass of people.
Whatever happened had certainly drawn a crowd. The only time this many people came together on the street was for a parade. No parking spaces were available nearby, so I could only watch from the car.
I craned my neck, trying to see what had taken place. Jim, Danny and a number of deputies and police officers attempted to disperse the throng of onlookers. I breathed a little easier. At least my husband was safe, but a lingering feeling of danger clung to me.
The crowd suddenly parted and three emergency medical techs, a man and two women, came into view, pushing a gurney toward the rear doors of the EMS vehicle. A blond woman lay on the stretcher, an oxygen mask covering most of her face.
My heart beat quickened. From what I could tell, the woman on the stretcher looked an awful lot like Megan. I scanned the area and located a parking lot beside a business next to the Court House Café. After zipping into the first available parking space, I ran toward the EMS unit and arrived just after one of the female technicians jumped inside with the patient, and the man slammed the doors.
Fighting panic I appealed to him for information. “Who is she? What happened?”
The male medic brushed past me. “Sorry, we need to get her to the hospital immediately.” He started around to the driver’s door.
The second female called back as she raced for the passenger side. “Are you a relative?”
“No, I’m not.”
The technician pointed toward the officers. “Talk to them.” She jumped inside the vehicle and shut the door.
The crowd began to disperse, since the most dramatic action was over. With both hands covering my mouth, I stood watching the emergency vehicle speed off to the hospital.
I felt an arm placed around my shoulder. Jim gently led me out of the street.
“Was that woman Megan Whitehall? What happened?” My voice quivered.
Jim’s face reflected the bridled anger in his voice. “Yes, it’s her. She was shot.” He held his arm around her while steering her toward the bui
lding.
“Oh, my gosh,” I gasped. “How bad was she wounded?”
“Pretty seriously. Megan was unconscious when we got to her.”
“I can’t believe someone shot her right in front of the police station. Who would do such a thing?”
“I wish I knew. Naturally nobody saw anything. Her shooting has got to be connected to the two murders here and her father’s murder.”
“This is too much of a coincidence to be otherwise.” Tears welled up in my eyes. My throat tightened as I tried to prevent the tears from falling. “We…had…coffee at Court House Café only an hour or so ago. I can’t believe this.”
“She told me she’d seen you, and LeBlanc said you came by the station looking for me.”
“I wanted to tell you about a conversation I happened to overhear.” I exhaled. “It can wait.”
He raised his brows. “If what you overheard couldn’t wait for me to get home, it can’t wait now.” He started to usher me inside.
“Wait up, Jim!” Danny shouted. He hurried across the street and up to the door where I stood with Jim.
“Did you find anything?” Jim asked.
“Not a damn thing.” His dejected tone showed his frustration. “We searched every inch of the alley between the café and the flower shop. I even had my deputies check out the roof of both buildings. No spent casings, nothing. The shooter knows how to leave a clean crime scene.”
Jim’s cell phone chimed. “Hold on a minute,” he said to Danny before answering his call. He walked a short distance away while speaking to the caller.
“You okay, Susan?” Danny asked.
I tried to smile, but my lips only managed a twitch. “I’ve been better.” I kept my eyes glued on Jim. “He might be getting a report about Megan’s condition.”
“Did you know her well?”
“She went to the same high school as I did. We weren’t real chummy, but she was a member of our debutante set. I socialized at one or two events with her back then.”
Jim ended his call and walked back to me and Danny.