by A. C. Mason
Jim gave a low chuckle. “She died several months after Patia was attacked.”
I laughed. “You’re such a super detective.”
“Damn right.”
“You’re not conceited, are you?”
“Not much,” he said with a straight face, but a twinkle in his eyes. “There’s another interesting detail about the incident. The sheriff back in eighty-nine was none other than Tank Hebert’s father, Claude Hebert.”
“Could something that occurred regarding the case have started the bad relationship between the Heberts and the Berthelots?”
“Very possible,” he said, nodding slowly. “By the way, Danny spoke to Dolly Babineaux yesterday. He was mistaken about when she moved to Cypress Lake. She arrived almost a year after Malcolm Whitehall’s murder and she had no children.”
I didn’t let my disappoint show and came back with other possibilities. “She could have lost the baby or given the child up for adoption.”
He agreed. “I thought of that…the latter option. The fact she purchased the dress store with cash only months after moving here struck a chord. If she is the same person as Dolly B, the money could be the payoff Megan alluded to. Another background search is needed.”
“She must have some connection to Malcolm Whitehall, or she wouldn’t have reacted the way she did when I asked her if she knew him.”
“Danny said he picked up the same vibe when he questioned her.”
“What other breaks did you get?”
“The warden verified Romaine’s artistic endeavors. In fact, he reported sales of his work at the arts and craft show.”
“And with Patia’s dealings in the ‘occult,’ he could very well have painted the tarot cards.”
“It’s definitely a possibility. Another big break happened right after I spoke to the warden. Heather Chauvin decided to talk to us about where she and Samantha Becnel got the information they’ve been leaking all over town. She’s coming in—with her attorney—on Wednesday. I also located Ms. Becnel, who also will come in the same day.”
“Their story ought to be very interesting,” I said.
“I’m looking forward to hearing what they have to say.”
“By the way, did you see Paula Edwards when you left the hospital?”
“No, she wasn’t anywhere around at the time,” he said. “Did you?”
“She was more or less waiting for me.”
A frown wrinkled his forehead. “What do you mean?”
I relayed the conversation with Paula.
He looked bewildered. “From your description, her conversation sounded extremely guarded. Under normal circumstances, I would be upset with you for giving out information on Megan’s status, but this might play out for the best. I’ll coordinate with Danny about putting an extra guard at the hospital.”
A question ran through my mind. “Back to the subject of Patia’s attack—what possible connection could there be to Teddy Berthelot’s or David Edward’s murder? They both would have been infants at the time... unless the attackers were…”
“Their fathers?”
“Wow, what a thought!” I reflected on the idea. “Could that be why everyone wants to put the blame on Gibb Romaine? He’s the illegitimate son of either Aristide Berthelot the second or Henry Edwards?”
“Exactly. They may be hoping he’ll get the death penalty.”
“Here’s a scenario,” I said, my mind racing through a plot. “Malcolm Whitehall knew who the attackers were and was blackmailing them. The Berthelot and the Edwards families instigated a plot to murder Malcolm and hired Johnny Francino to do the job. They ordered him to make the killing appear ritualistic.”
He grinned. “Very good.”
I held up my hand. “Wait, there’s more.”
He gave me the look that said he was more or less placating me. At least he smiled.
“Go on,” he said.
“The fathers of our victims are both still alive—although Mr. Berthelot isn’t completely lucid at present. Gibb discovers he’s really the son of one of these men and tries to get compensation, but is refused. He commits the two murders as payback.”
“Sounds like a winner, but how do I go about proving all that?”
“That’s where the brick wall jumps up in front of you.”
“Thanks a lot. Your reasoning is very good; however, there’s a flaw in the last part of the scenario.”
“What?” I couldn’t imagine what he meant. The plot sounded good to me.
“If Romaine is arrested for the murders and payback was the reason, you can bet he’ll be screaming to high heaven about his blood line. The news would be out as to what happened to Patia.”
“The Berthelots and the Edwardses believe they’re above reproach. Their mode of thinking is ‘who’s going to believe a low-life like Gibb Romaine over us’.”
“I should know the way those types think by now,” he said. “I hope you’re correct.”
“So how does Megan’s shooting fit into the scheme of things?”
“I strongly suspect Romaine didn’t shoot her,” he said.
“Why not?”
“A gut feeling—not the same MO for one thing. Another reason is timing, plus your description of Denise Berthelot’s activities shortly before the incident. My money is on her or someone she hired.” He shrugged. “Of course the evidence on that is also circumstantial. If even a part of your scenario turns out to be true, Denise might be worried Megan knows the truth about her father’s death.”
The proverbial light bulb went off above my head. “So that might also explain Paula’s attempt to visit Megan.”
“Also a possibility. Again not concrete evidence.”
“Isn’t most of the evidence against Gibb Romaine circumstantial?”
“Mostly.” A hint of frustration filtered into his voice.
“I hate to say this considering the fact no one had any idea of the true identity of Anne’s killer. From the beginning, Steven was the dreaded person of interest in that case. But who else could have committed these murders other than Gibb Romaine?”
“There’s the rub.” He didn’t speak for a short moment. “There’s another possibility, but in this one I still like Romaine as the killer. Carl Hymel hired him to get rid of any obstacles to his political ambitions.”
Thirty-seven
February 26
Mardi Gras Day
Fat Tuesday was here at last. I don’t know why I felt relieved. The odds of the two murders and Megan’s shooting being miraculously solved by midnight tonight were one in a zillion. I tried not to dwell on the topic of murder. Unfortunately, my brain deteriorated into jack-in-the-box mode and the subject matter kept popping up in my head.
To get my mind off the murders, I mentally went through my to-do list in preparation for the Ball. The sitter for this evening had been arranged; my dress was ready and a list of instructions for the sitter was prepared. Jim’s tux hung on the closet door, still in the bag from the cleaners, ready for him to wear. Now all I needed to do was to create the correct frame of mind to make this evening an enjoyable one. Meditation?
The day passed quicker than I thought it would. About five, I retired to the bedroom to get a head start. A nice long soak in the tub would be what I needed to relax my tense muscles. In the bathroom, I drew the water, poured in bath crystals, lit a few candles and stepped into the perfumed sea of bubbles.
I lost track of time and before I knew it, my fingers had started to shrivel. Heaven forbid I should attend the ball looking like a prune. I quickly got out of the tub and toweled off. At any rate, the bubble bath did wonders. Total relaxation had been achieved. Now I just had to do my make-up and slip into my sexy emerald green gown.
Jim’s eyes lit up when I finally made an appearance. “Wow! You look terrific.”
“Thanks, you look quite handsome in your tux.” I sent him a big smile.
About 8:30, the babysitter arrived. I felt a rush of cold air upon openin
g the door. I’d need a coat heavier than the stole I’d chosen to wear.
The twins ran into the room when they heard voices. Expecting Tina, our regular sitter, they both appeared disappointed. I introduced Carly to them and explained why Tina wasn’t here, stressing the fact that tomorrow was a school day.
“You two have to obey Carly and go to bed…in fifteen minutes.”
They weren’t happy about the bedtime rule. I leaned closer to them and whispered, “Please don’t give her any trouble. Love you both, so be good.” I gave them each a kiss and turned to the sitter to make certain she had all the correct contact numbers.
Jim and Mathew did a fist bump and he gave Caroline a kiss. And we left the house.
On the drive to the Civic Center, I contemplated the Mardi Gras traditions here and how they compared to New Orleans.
The Helios Ball was the last fling before the end of Carnival in Allemand Parish. At one minute past midnight on Ash Wednesday, the somber season of Lent began. The theme of the ball semi followed the New Orleans tradition of Rex, King of Carnival meeting Comus at Comus’ ball on Mardi Gras night. Helios’ version differed in that King Helios met the Midnight Visitor instead of another krewe’s king. An elaborate ceremony was performed signifying Helios the Sun’s dying rays taken over by the somber realization of Lent and bringing all celebration to an end. Theoretically, that is. People in South Louisiana are always celebrating some occasion, Lent or not. Take St. Patrick’s Day, for example.
As Denise Berthelot indicated, she represented the Midnight Visitor—the symbol of Ash Wednesday in her black gown. The symbolism involved—the death of Carnival and of the Sun—made me wonder if the killer of Teddy Berthelot and David Edwards intended a member of the royal court to be his next victim. What a morbid thought. I needed to think positively.
We arrived at the Civic Center and exited the car. A cold breeze blew in from the river. I pulled my black wool coat close. After the previous days of mild weather, the temperature tonight made me wish for summer. Well, maybe spring.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Jim muttered.
“Who are you talking about?” I turned in an attempt to see the person whose appearance had struck a note of anger in Jim’s voice. He purposely blocked my view.
He exhaled. “Never mind. He’s leaving.”
In the dim illumination the Civic Center’s flood lights cast on the water and help from the full moon, I finally managed to see a boat carrying a man and a woman headed down the bayou. They both faced away from me so I couldn’t identify the couple. From a distance the man’s physique resembled Gibb Romaine, but the woman didn’t seem familiar. “Who were those people?”
“Romaine and his sister Patia,” Jim said. “They probably just came into town for some reason, maybe for supplies and are headed back to their place.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as the boat disappeared from view. “Good, we don’t need any more trouble.” But I wondered what stores might be open at this time of night for anyone to buy supplies on such a big holiday. I dismissed all the negative thoughts. Tonight would be a fun evening for me and Jim and a release of tensions from a week of violence.
Raising the hem of my green satin gown, I walked up the stairs into the Civic Center with the expectation of spending a delightful evening at the most important affair of the Carnival Season in Cypress Lake. Hopefully the feeling of impending doom that lurked in the back of my mind wouldn’t materialize into reality.
~ * ~
His small boat didn’t compare in any way to the luxury yacht he planned to buy when he finished collecting the money he obtained from all his blackmail victims—and from his birth mother. Then there were all sorts of possibilities ahead for inheritance money from the man who had sired him. He wasn’t about to refer to him as his father.
At least he didn’t have to spend the effort with a pull starter on the outboard motor, which reminded him of his lawn-cutting days as a teenager trying to earn money. He’d bought the boat and motor cheap, installing a steering wheel on the dash and cables from the motor for an ignition start. The revisions weren’t simply to avoid the sometimes labor-intensive start, but to provide a faster getaway if one became necessary.
Naturally, his luxury yacht must include a beautiful woman to accompany him on his cruise around the world. Susan Foret fit the bill. He hadn’t figured out yet how to accomplish the feat yet, but he intended to have her—somehow, some way.
Thirty-eight
Sequined ball gowns, glittering tiaras, tuxedos and a multitude of feathers and other trinkets in the traditional Mardi Gras colors of purple, green and gold were the order of the evening. King Helios and his royal court completed their grand entrance all donned in dazzling white satin costumes trimmed in gold. An orchestra played all the customary Carnival songs and a few old standards.
The mouth-watering aroma of meatballs in barbeque sauce mingled with the spicy scent of shrimp and the sweet smell of the dozens of King Cakes arrayed on a large buffet table.
As usual for any event in South Louisiana, the open bar, featuring everything from beer, wine, and champagne to mixed drinks was the most popular spot in the place. The two bartenders had their work cut out for them with the large crowd in line to purchase their favorite beverages.
Like Rachel proclaimed at the parade last Saturday, I would always love Mardi Gras no matter how many birthdays I celebrated. The familiar spectacle reminded me of a ball when I was a senior in high school. In an event held by one of the New Orleans krewes, I took my place with the rest of the court as one of the maids. Walking up the aisle toward the king and queen thrilled me back then and probably still would if I had the opportunity to do so in the future.
Yet an eerie feeling I couldn’t define kept returning, no matter how many times I swept it away. The whole atmosphere seemed much more sedated than usual. The two recent murders, Megan Whitehall’s shooting, and the inability of Jim’s task force to solve the cases likely put a damper on the entire event. I checked out my handsome husband in his tux and saw the worry on his face. If only I could do something to help him solve the case. My visit to Megan in the hospital provided more information, but at the same time presented more questions.
The orchestra stepped up the beat with the next song, most likely an attempt to get the attendees on the dance floor. Only a few couples took the floor. But it was a start. Soon more people joined them.
I took a sip of my white wine and watched the dancers glide by me on the polished wood dance floor.
Two glasses of wine later, a trip to the ladies room became a necessity. I looked around for Rachel, but spotted her and Danny out on the dance floor. Leaning closer to Jim, I told him where I was headed. He nodded, indicating he’d heard me, but I wondered if he’d simply acknowledged without paying too much attention to what I’d actually said. For a while he had repeatedly surveyed the room as if he were a body guard for the president searching for possible assassins.
Double glass doors led to a loggia that ran along the rear of the Civic Center. The Allemand River flowed past the property about twenty-five yards beyond the building itself. As I passed the doors, I automatically turned to look at the view. Dressed in his Carnival finery, King Helios aka Tank Hebert stood alone puffing on a cigarette, the smoke stirred by the wind and his movements. He paced back and forth, checked his watch, paced again. Was he waiting for someone? Denise, maybe?
I wanted to continue watching but nature called. I continued on my way and entered the ladies room. Using the facilities was an adventure with the long dress, hose, etcetera, but I managed to do so without having any wardrobe mishaps. After cleaning my hands, I pushed open the door with my backside, almost colliding with Denise who carried a black evening gown on a hanger.
“Oops, sorry.”
She ignored me and continued inside the ladies’ room.
I stopped short and froze when I reached the double doors. My heart raced as a scene like a pantomime unfolded in front of
me.
A masked and black-clad man faced Tank Hebert in an angry stance. Tank threw his cigarette to the concrete and raised his fist at the man. No friendly conversation here.
Wearing one of those short masks that only covered the eyes and the nose, the man was still easily recognizable to me because of his muscular frame. Even from this distance I saw his dark eyes gleaming in the lights on the ceiling of the loggia. Gibb Romaine!
A brief flash of light on metal…a swift motion toward Tank…the former police chief crumpled to the ground with blood splashing brightly on his regal white costume.
My brain finally kicked in. I rushed to the door and slammed my weight on the bar handle. A blast of cold wind hit me in the face as I moved outside. Gibb Romaine’s gaze met mine for a split second. He backed away, and then turned and ran.
I knelt beside Tank. Like the other murder victims, the knife in his chest held a gris-gris bag. He moaned and grimaced in pain. At least he was still alive. I heard a female voice behind me screaming his name. Denise raced toward us.
“He’s alive,” I shouted. “Get help.”
She again ignored me and knelt beside him. “Tank, oh my God!”
If he didn’t get medical attention soon, he would be the next victim. Obviously Denise wasn’t going to be of much help. I rose and started toward the door.
Someone grabbed me from behind. A rough hand clamped over mouth. I struggled to escape the intruder’s clutches. He was too strong. Blood pulsed in my temples.
“Don’t scream when I take my hand off your mouth,” he said in a low husky voice. In a louder voice he added, “Or I’ll kill you and Denise.”
He removed his hand from my mouth and thrust a pistol forward over my shoulder, pointing the weapon first toward Denise, and then back to my temple.
Denise regarded him with a scowl on her face. “You bastard! Why did you kill Tank and my brother?”
“I believe you know the answer to that question, Denise,” he said. “Now quit moaning over Tank and get over here right next to Susan. If you cause any problems, I’ll make good on my threat.”