Mardi Gras Gris Gris

by A. C. Mason

  “But what if you are required to testify in court?”

  “So I’ll testify,” he said in an irritated tone. “I’m not the one who’s on trial.”

  I knew how Mother’s thought processes worked. If Dad had to appear in court, she would be embarrassed about how this would look to their country club friends.

  When I checked my watch, I discovered it was almost time to go pick up the kids. “I’ll give Jim a call and see if he can leave the station right now. If so, I’ll have him pick up Matthew and Caroline from school.”

  “Good,” Dad said. “We haven’t seen the twins since Christmas.”

  “Yes, since you want to keep them estranged from their grandparents,” Mother chimed in.

  I wanted to mention the fact she did exactly what she accused me of doing with her parents. Steven and I didn’t know the Kellys until we were seniors in high school due to her estrangement from them.

  “I’m not keeping them away from you,” I said, thoroughly irritated. “You can come out here to visit any time you like. New Orleans has too many bad memories for me. That’s why I don’t come into town often.”

  Rising from my chair, I stalked off to the kitchen. I dug my cell phone from my purse and punched in Jim’s number. He answered right away. Guess he’s really worried.

  “Are you free for a while?”

  “Why? Is everything okay?”

  “Mother and Dad showed up here unexpectedly,” I said.

  “Oh boy. Did my officer give them any trouble?”

  “Sort of. I intervened in time to prevent a confrontation.”

  He uttered what I call a half laugh. “Are they still at the house?”

  “Yes, there’s something you need to hear. Dad knew Malcolm Whitehall. In fact, at one time they were close friends.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I asked him if he would speak to you about Mr. Whitehall and he said he’d be happy to tell you what he knows.” I explained the plan about picking up the kids and he agreed.

  “It shouldn’t take me more than twenty or thirty minutes to get home.” He sounded more upbeat than he had when I first called. Maybe hopeful would be a more accurate word to describe his tone.

  “Good. I’ll tell them you’re on your way.”

  When I returned to the living room, Mother was all smiles and sweetness. Dad must have had a talk with her while I was out of the room. She stood looking at an artwork display on the wall.

  “I’ve been admiring the paintings you have presented here,” she said, referring to the New Orleans scenes.

  “Thanks, this is how I want to remember New Orleans.” Gazing at the scenes of French Quarter architecture made me long for the days when I still held my storybook image of the Crescent City.

  “This is my favorite,” Mother said, pointing to one painting.

  “Mine too.” Hard to believe my mother and I actually agreed on something.

  This particular artwork depicted second and third floor French Quarter residences with lacy black wrought iron balconies. At street level were a café and several other small shops. The spire of St. Louis Cathedral rose in the background. If only the city remained as peaceful as this scene.

  Then I came out of my daydream and remembered my manners. “Can I get either of you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

  “Nothing for me,” Dad said. “What about you, Elizabeth?”

  “Some tea would be nice,” she said.

  “I’ll brew up a pot.” Personally I needed something a lot stronger than tea. Maybe Long Island Tea? I guess a heartier drink was out of the question at the moment.

  Twenty minutes later, Jim pulled up in the driveway. Soon the kids were bounding into the house followed by my serious-looking husband.

  “Grandmother and Gramm-pa came to visit,” I told the kids. “Come and say hello.”

  Matthew rushed over and hugged each grandparent. Shy Caroline slowly walked toward my mother and then gave her a kiss. She presented Dad with an equally gentle peck on the cheek.

  Caroline had many more feminine qualities than I had at the same age. When I wasn’t in my room thinking up fantasy stories, I was outside climbing trees or playing cops and robbers with Steven and his friends. I could see wheels turning in Mother’s head. If she couldn’t make her daughter into a true society girl, perhaps her granddaughter would make the grade instead. Not if I can help it.

  Jim greeted Dad with a hearty handshake and gave my mother a brief hug. Then he and Dad went off into our home office/guest room to discuss Malcolm Whitehall.

  Fifteen minutes later, the two men emerged from the room with serious expressions on their faces.

  “Thanks for giving me all that information,” Jim said.

  “I hope what I told you helps your case,” Dad replied.

  “Would y’all like to stay for supper?” I asked.

  Dad looked at Mother for an answer. She didn’t utter a word, but I must assume the look she gave him was a negative response.

  “Thanks,” he said, kissing me on the forehead. “We need to be getting back to the city.”

  I forced a laugh and pretended to be joking. “Can’t take all this fresh air, huh?”

  He laughed and gave me a hug. “You know what they say…you can take the man out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the man.” He really meant you couldn’t take the city out of my mother.

  A short time later, we said our goodbyes to my parents and watched as their car backed down the driveway. I looked after the dark BMW until it disappeared around the corner.

  Jim walked over to Officer Hahn’s vehicle and spoke to him. The young officer looked pleased by his boss’ words. I knew why shortly. The patrol car’s engine fired up and pulled away. Jim had dismissed him from duty.

  I thought he should dismiss the whole security detail…period. I waited until the kids ran back inside and told Jim so.

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “Nothing is going to happen.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You don’t know he’s going to try anything. I still think he was bluffing.”

  “What if he’s not?” His jaw muscle tightened.

  “Can we discuss this rationally after the twins go to bed?”

  “All right, we’ll discuss it later.”

  At 9.30 the kids were in bed, so I finally had the chance to sit down and read the Cypress Lake newspaper which was now a daily. Teddy Berthelot’s funeral was tomorrow so I immediately flipped to the obituaries and scanned down the page to his notice.

  Aristide Theodore Berthelot III (Teddy)

  A New Orleans native and Allemand Parish resident, died on Saturday, February 16 in Cypress Lake. He is survived by his parents, Aristide T.II and Rosalyn LaCour Berthelot of Cypress Lake, two sisters, Denise Berthelot, Cypress Lake, and Marilyn Berthelot Martin (spouse Timothy), nephews Jonathan T. Martin, Jeffrey A. Martin, and niece Jennifer A. Martin, all of Chicago, Ill. Visitation will be Saturday from 9:30 a.m. until Mass of Christian Burial at 11 a.m. at St. Paul Catholic Church in Cypress Lake. Interment to follow at Cypress Haven Memorial Gardens.

  The obit was surprisingly short and to the point. With all the publicity about the murder, the family probably decided against extoling his virtues—if he had any. I should be ashamed of myself. It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead. He may have brought on his death himself, according to his sister, but no one deserves to be brutally murdered.

  Jim appeared from the kids’ bedrooms where he’d taken his turn at tucking them in for the night. He stood in front of the sofa and peered down at me. “Shall we talk about the security now?”

  “Definitely.” I patted the spot next to me. “We can’t talk with you looming over me.”

  He sat beside me. “Why do you believe he’s bluffing?”

  “You have gut feelings about things. Well, so do I. Besides, I’m certain neither we nor your department can afford this round the clock surveillance. The Sheriff’s Of
fice needs to patrol the whole parish. Danny certainly could use his deputies elsewhere.”

  For quite a while, Jim appeared to consider the facts I laid out. Finally he spoke. “Okay, I’ll call off the security, except for any time you and I are both away from the house and the kids are here with a sitter.”

  “Agreed.”

  Twenty-nine

  February 23

  I felt terribly irreverent. One should not be excited about attending a funeral, but this wasn’t an ordinary funeral. A murder victim was being laid to rest. At the same time, the anxiety almost overwhelmed me. No doubt there would be an emotional backlash on my part after I saw Teddy Berthelot’s body. After all, I had seen the man die.

  When Jim asked me to go with him, his offer surprised me. Detectives can sometimes get a lot of information by showing up at the funeral of a homicide victim, but I thought he would not have wanted me to attend for obvious reasons. However, he and Danny decided that attending with their wives would make their attendance seem less official.

  David Edwards’ service had already taken place. Jim had foregone his funeral and left the formalities to Danny and Mike Celestine because the services were held in Beau Chene.

  I donned my trusty navy blue dress, navy pumps and accessorized with a string of gray pearls and matching earrings. After checking my appearance in the mirror, I grabbed my purse, along with a gray blazer and went to the family room where a pacing Jim waited impatiently for me. He looked quite handsome in dark pants, a blue shirt—no tie, and a sports coat.

  “You look very nice,” he said, giving me a typical male once over. Of course, to me he wasn’t a typical male.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “You don’t look half bad yourself.”

  He gave a small laugh. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get this over with.” He pulled car keys from his pocket and ushered me out the door. “Keeping with our attempt to give the appearance of being unofficial attendees, we won’t use my unit. Danny and Rachel are riding with us.”

  “We aren’t going to do the old married couples thing,” I said with conviction.

  He wrinkled his forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m riding in front with you. Rachel and Danny can sit together in back.”

  He didn’t say anything for a second or two, then started laughing. I joined in. Danny and Rachel walked up and interrupted our lighthearted moment.

  “What’s so funny?” Danny asked. “We could use a good laugh.”

  “You and I won’t be able to sit together in the front seat,” Jim said, giving him a look of faux disappointment. “Susan has informed me that we aren’t doing the old married couple seating arrangement with the men in the front and ladies in the back.”

  “Damn. I was looking forward to getting away from the old lady,” Danny said. His Paul Newman blue eyes twinkled as he looked at his wife.

  Rachel laughed and playfully punched him in the shoulder. Her action was humorous in itself. She needed to stand on tiptoes to reach his shoulder.

  The levity masked the individual emotions we each experienced. Jim and Danny surely felt pressure to solve these murders and frustration at not being able to bring the killer to justice.

  Rachel probably feared the idea of viewing a murder victim just as I did. Although I wasn’t privy to the event or events she had endured, my intuition told me the situation involved another murder other than the one for which her brother had been accused.

  Our cheerfulness lasted until a block away from the church. Time to put on a serious face.

  Upon entry to the church, we and other mourners were greeted by a receiving line of Berthelot family members. Teddy’s casket was located at the end of the aisle near the altar and his body could be viewed by visitors if they chose to do so before the service began.

  Teddy’s father, now wheelchair-bound as the result of a stroke, bobbed his head absently to words put to him by a middle-age gentleman I didn’t recognize. Aristide Berthelot II gazed at the man with vacant eyes. I wondered if he understood what was being said.

  Rosalyn Berthelot looked quite stately in a black dress of designer quality as she stood next to her husband’s wheelchair, her diamond rings glittering in the light.

  Denise gave me and Jim a tightlipped smile as we passed through the receiving line offering condolences. I guess we weren’t her favorite people.

  Marilyn Berthelot Martin introduced herself to us. Although she gave a brief smile, her expression displayed a mix of grief and fatigue. She seemed a lot nicer than her sister Denise—much friendlier too. She and her husband, who stood next to her, had flown in from Chicago to attend the funeral. Their three teenage children milled around behind the receiving line looking bored.

  Most wakes or visitations for the deceased in South Louisiana are basically reunions with relatives and sometimes old friends one only sees at funerals or weddings. I heard muted laughter and caught phrases like ‘It’s been years since I last saw you’. Or ‘the last time I saw you, you were only so tall’.”

  After completing the receiving line, Jim and Danny walked over to speak to a group of men. It seems after people reach a certain age, the males separate from their female counterparts and congregate with their buddies no matter what the occasion. Rachel and I did the same, speaking for a minute or two with several women we knew.

  Then I noticed Tracy Kaufman, the mayor’s wife who seemed to be trying to catch my attention. The woman to whom she was speaking had her back to me at first. When she turned to reveal her identity, I understood why Tracy might need an escape hatch.

  I nudged Rachel and motioned with my head in the direction of the two women.

  “I see what you mean.”

  We headed over for the purpose of rescuing the mayor’s wife from the clutches of Adele Scardina. Tracy came very close to breathing an audible sigh of relief when we showed up.

  Adele acknowledged my presence and gave Rachel a forced smile that would have rivaled the one Denise gave me and Jim. She bid her goodbyes and left on the pretext of searching for her husband.

  What is wrong with these people? I thought I’d left all the snobs back in Uptown New Orleans. I suppose those kind of people are everywhere.

  Tracy hugged Rachel and did the same to me. “I’m so glad you came over when you did,” she whispered. “That woman is the worst gossip in town.”

  “She tried to get information about the murders?” I asked.

  “Yes, I imagine she pressed you two for the same,” she said. “Susan, how are you?”

  “I’m doing okay.” I preferred not to make any further comments. Tracy seemed to understand and didn’t ask more about my emotional or physical conditions. I figured she must know about the threat to me and the twins.

  Tracy glanced around the vestibule of the church with an anxious expression on her face. “I hoped there would be some progress on the two murders by now.”

  “I know the lack of progress is very discouraging,” Rachel said. “But they can’t arrest anyone without the evidence to back it up.”

  Tracy sighed. “How well I know that. Bill had his law practice before he became mayor.”

  My talent for eavesdropping helped me pick up a few words from two women standing nearby. They appeared to be in their mid-thirties. One was a blond and the other a brunette. They definitely weren’t reminiscing about family or friends.

  “The police suspect Gibb Romaine of those murders?” the blond said.

  The brunette tugged on the hem of her extremely short black skirt. Her action didn’t make the skirt any longer. “Yes, I heard they think he killed them and he learned about those tarot cards from his sister.

  “But listen to this,” she continued. “Those cards in the gris-gris bag were hand-painted. It seems Gibb Romaine took up painting while he was at Angola and even sold some of his work at the prison’s arts and crafts shows.”

  “Really, then why haven’t the
y arrested him? The police and the sheriff are letting a murderer run around loose.”

  I exchanged a stunned look with Rachel and Tracy who had heard the last part of their conversation. The police had never made public the information about Gibb Romaine being a suspect. Neither was the part about the hand-painted tarot cards. The woman’s statement about the art work was really a shock. I walked over to them, but kept my back to Rachel and Tracy.

  “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to listen in your conversation, but I have to ask. Where did you get the information about Gibb Romaine?” I looked at each one individually.

  The brunette gave me a dirty look. “What business is it of yours?”

  “I’m sorry. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Susan Foret. My husband is the Chief of Police here in Cypress Lake.” I kept my voice low to avoid more people hearing the conversation. Luckily no one else around seemed to have paid any attention to the two women.

  The brunette blinked. Her blond friend’s face paled, almost matching her hair.

  “None of the information you just gave out was ever released to the public for security reasons,” I said, then looked at the blond. “The police can’t arrest someone simply because they believe he’s guilty.” What a hypocritical statement that was! NOPD arrested my brother because of that very reason. Even Jim had believed he was guilty at the time.

  “I’m not giving you the name of my source,” the brunette said. She and her companion hurried out of the church.

  “What did you say to them?” Rachel asked, her eyes widening. “They certainly made a hasty retreat.”

  “I know it was stupid of me,” I admitted. “I couldn’t help myself. Steven was deemed guilty…” I made quotation marks in the air. “…just because of his reputation. Even though Gibb Romaine gives me the creeps, he could be innocent. Do either of you know those two?”

  “One of them looks familiar,” Rachel said. “I believe the brunette works at City Hall, but I don’t know which office. Tracy?”

  “She works in the Clerk of Court Office. Her name is Heather Chauvin. She hangs around the sheriff’s office a lot.” Tracy rolled her eyes. “She’s something of a police groupie. The blond doesn’t seem familiar.”