"So, the theses and the dissertations are online," David said, disrupting my thoughts. "Want me to email you the link?"
"That would be great," I said as I headed for the hallway. "I'll go pull it up now."
To avoid arousing Veronica's suspicions, I tiptoed into my office and sunk quietly into my chair. Then I opened David's email and clicked the link. Within a second of entering Troy's name in the advanced search field, his thesis title popped up on the screen. Poison and Poisoning in the Venetian Republic. And I gave myself a good, swift, mental kick for not looking up his research sooner.
It didn't take long to find what I was looking for. As I'd suspected, there was a section in the paper that described the cosmetic use of belladonna among Venetian courtesans—and its fatal effects from misuse.
I chewed my thumbnail while I pondered the ramifications of Troy's thesis. The focus on belladonna looked bad, but it didn't prove anything. I had to have more evidence. Specifically, I needed to find out whether he had a history of mental illness. Of course, if he did have any mental health records on file, they wouldn't be available to the public. So I had to find someone who knew him well, someone other than Delta. The only other person I could think of was his dissertation advisor, but Troy had never mentioned his name.
"I thought you were leaving for the day!" Veronica exclaimed.
I jumped at least a foot—the guilty kind of jump, not the startled one.
"I didn't mean to scare you," she said, sashaying up to my desk. "I came for the Jones file. I want to get this case wrapped up ASAP."
"Sure," I replied, feigning nonchalance. I reached into my lower right drawer and pulled out a manila folder.
Veronica took the file from my hand and sat in front of my desk. "You know, we really haven't had a chance to talk about Bradley."
"What's there to say?" I asked, unprepared for this line of questioning.
"Oh, I don't know," she replied as she straightened a bent corner of the file. "I just thought you might want to vent."
Of course, I wasn't one to be short on opinions. But the shock of Bradley's betrayal had left me kind of numb. And now wasn't the time to try to open that wound, not when I had a killer to catch. "Honestly, I haven't had time to process what happened. But even if I had, I don't think I'd have much to say about it."
She tilted her head. "Why's that?"
"Because it was so unexpected and yet so utterly predictable," I retorted. "Even though I didn't trust Pauline, I never really believed that Bradley would leave me for her. But then, I have such a dismal history where men are concerned, so why should I be surprised?"
"Has he ever given you an explanation for why he did this?"
"Well, when I called him about Corinne's case this morning, he tried to tell me that things weren't what they seemed."
She flinched. "Did he explain what he meant by that?"
"No, and I didn't ask," I replied, picking at my chipped purple nail polish.
"Aren't you the least bit curious?" she pressed. "That's a pretty provocative statement under the circumstances."
"I saw them spoon-feeding each other over candle light, Veronica. Do you think I'm going to believe a word he says?" I shook my head. "Uh-uh. I'm through with that guy."
"I suppose you know what's best," she replied, rising to her feet.
That was highly debatable, but I kept my mouth shut. This conversation needed to end—because I was through discussing Bradley and because I had to track down Troy's dissertation advisor before it was too late.
"Anyway, you'd better get going," she ordered, shaking the folder at me, "or I might change my mind and put you to work."
I managed a weak smile. "Then I'm leaving now."
As soon as I heard Veronica enter her office, I googled the Tulane Department of History and scanned the list of faculty members. Only one specialized in the Antebellum Era, a Professor Claude Miller, and his office hours were from two until five. Since it was only eleven, I had plenty of time to run some errands and grab lunch before heading to Tulane.
On my way out of my office, I saw a photo from the case file on the floor. It was the close up of Ivanna on her deathbed.
I picked up the picture and stared at Ivanna's image, marveling once again at her fairy-tale-like beauty—her rose-red lips, her porcelain skin, the fair hair that framed her face like a golden fleece. And I was reminded of something Troy had said the first day I met him, that Ivanna's hair had been arranged exactly like Evangeline's. It occurred to me that since there were no known photographs of Evangeline in life or in death, the only way he could have known what her hair had looked like on the day of her murder was if he'd scoured over the historical records of the crime scene. Like a man obsessed.
I laid the photo on my desk. I'd return it to the Jones file tomorrow. Right now I had the rest of the day off—to find Troy's dissertation advisor.
As I walked through the first floor of Tulane's Hebert Hall, I hoped that the twenty or so students sitting cross-legged at the end of the corridor weren't camped outside Professor Miller's office. But no such luck.
I approached a geeky-looking kid at the end of the line. His pasty, acne-spotted skin practically exuded panic, along with copious amounts of oil. "Are all of you waiting to see Dr. Miller?"
He nodded. "We've got an essay exam tomorrow on colonization," he replied, glancing at the professor's door. "It's worth forty percent of our grade."
I slid my back down the wall as I eased onto the tile floor beside him. Thinking of the lengthy wait that lay ahead of me and not the lopsided grade breakdown, I said, "That sucks."
"Right?" he commiserated, clutching a notebook to his "I know H.T.M.L. (How to Meet Ladies)" T-shirt. "Especially since we lost our teaching assistant like a month after class started."
I told myself not to take the bait because I didn't want to spend the next hour or so listening to history department gossip. But I'd just polished off a huge plate of chicken Tchoupitoulas at Coop's Place and was in serious danger of falling asleep. "So, why'd you lose your TA?"
"He dropped out of school," he muttered. "I guess he finally realized there was no future in a PhD in plantation chic."
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. Even though I knew who he was talking about, I had to ask. "Was his name Troy Wilson, by any chance?"
The geek's jaw dropped. "How'd you know?"
"I met him around once or twice."
"Well, if you see him again," he began, cocking a brow high on his greasy forehead, "tell him Cody Putfark said 'thanks for nothing.'"
"I will," I promised in an appropriately solemn tone. Then I leaned my head against the wall and thought back to all the times Troy—and Delta, for that matter—had mentioned that he was actively pursuing a PhD. Now that I knew he'd been lying, my anxiety level was starting to rise. In the back of my mind I'd been hoping that I was wrong about what was going on at Oleander Place. But it looked like Chandra's colleague, Xavier, was right—the solution had been right in front of me all along.
My "Baby Got Back" ringtone sounded, and a couple of students snickered. I looked at the display and wondered what they would do if they knew my psychic sidekick was calling.
"Hi, Chandra," I answered.
"Hey girl," she replied with an unexpected show of intimacy. "Lou and I were watching the news this morning, and we saw that the Oleander Place murders have been solved."
"Yeah, the police got their man," I said, careful not to emphasize the word their.
"You must be so relieved," she said, pronouncing relieved with an ear-splitting squeal. "Now you won't have to go to that awful plantation anymore or deal with that horrible woman. And you'll have more time to work on your relationship with your honeykins."
I cringed at the reference to Bradley (and at the word honeykins). I had no idea why everyone suddenly wanted to talk to me about him, but I wanted it to stop. "Um, we're not together anymore."
"No!" she cried with such emotion that it set her jewelry
to jingling. "What happened?"
Chandra was starting to stress me out. I mean, she of all people could use her psychic skills to get the scoop and spare me the painful rehash. "Turns out that Three of Cups card you dealt me was right on the money. There was a third person in our relationship—his secretary."
"I'm surprised to hear that," she said in a faraway tone. "I didn't get the impression that the third wheel was a love interest."
Now I was really getting annoyed. I'd paid her for that tarot card reading, and now she was admitting that she'd held out on me? "Well, I don't know what made you think that, but I hope it wasn't your psychic intuition."
She sniffed. "I'll have you know that I'm never wrong about these things."
"Whatever," I said, standing up to relieve my aching behind. I'd originally thought the floor was causing the pain, but I was starting to think it was this conversation. "Listen, did you need to talk to me about anything else? Because if not—"
"Evangeline or Ivanna is back," she interrupted. "With a vengeance."
"You mean, that spirit's getting aggressive with you?"
The geek eyeballed me and then pretended to be absorbed in his notes.
"In the sense that I can't get her out of my head, yes," Chandra whined. "Ever since that Dr. Geyer got arrested, she's been pulling at that French door like crazy. I see her night and day, awake and in my sleep. I wish she'd just open the damn thing already!"
I thought the timing of the spiritual activity was odd given the new developments in the case. "What do you think is going on?"
"That's what I was going to ask you."
"Me? I'm not the medium here."
"Clearly," she scoffed. "But I've never had a spirit harass me like this. So something must be happening with the case."
If there was a spirit harassing her, it was probably because it knew that the killer was still on the loose. But I couldn't say that to Chandra or anyone else until I could prove it. "You'd have to ask the police."
"They're not going to talk to me."
"I don't know what else to tell you," I said, glancing up as two students entered Dr. Miller's office.
She sighed. "Then I guess I'm going to have to go out to the plantation and find out what the spirit wants."
I had to stop her. If my fears were correct, the murder spree hadn't ended at Oleander Place. "I wouldn't go now if I were you. Even though the case is solved, the police are probably still trying to find evidence to connect Adam Geyer to the scene."
"But I have to do this, Franki. That spirit's trying to tell me something, and it's my duty to figure out what that is."
"What about all those scary ghosts?" I asked.
Angling a wide-eyed glance at me, the geek scooted closer to the student in line in front of him.
"I've been thinking about that," she said. "And you were right. If I'm going to be in this business, I need to overcome my fear of ethereal beings."
This was not the time for personal growth. I had to try another tactic. "But what about Officer Quincy? If he hears you've gone back out there, he'll have you thrown in jail."
"I told Lou all about him," she huffed. "And he said that if that crooked copper lays so much as a finger on me, he'll have his badge."
Damn Lou, I thought. "Wait. Didn't Lou say that you weren't allowed to go to the plantation?"
"That was before the case was solved. Now, why are you so dead set against me going out there?" she asked, her voice thick with suspicion.
If she only knew that dead was the operative word. "Look, I can't go into the details, but right now is a bad time to go to Oleander Place."
"Why?"
"I just said that I couldn't get into that!" I exclaimed.
The geek shielded his mouth as he whispered something to a group of students staring at me.
I lowered my voice. "Can't you just trust me on this?"
She hesitated. "I guess."
Thanks for the vote of confidence, I thought. "Good. Then just sit tight, and I'll be in touch soon."
I hung up and breathed a sigh of relief. At least Chandra was out of harm's way. Now I just had to get in to see Dr. Miller so that I could be sure about the others.
It was ten after five when the geek emerged from the professor's office. To avoid eye contact with me, he held his head so high that he was basically staring at the ceiling.
I stood up and dusted myself off. When I stepped into the doorway, I was met by a bookshelf filled with what looked like rare and expensive books. There was another shelf to my right, forcing me to turn left to enter the tiny room.
An elderly man behind an old wooden desk looked up from a paper he'd been reading. "Are you a student in one of my courses, young lady?"
"No Sir. I mean, Dr. Miller," I stammered. Something about the professor and his antique books made me feel like I was in the principal's office. But since I was pushing thirty, I was thrilled with the young lady line.
"Then how can I help you?" he asked, removing his reading glasses.
"I came to talk to you about Troy Wilson," I replied, handing him my business card. "I'm a private investigator."
The already deep lines on his forehead deepened further. "Is Mr. Wilson in some kind of trouble?"
I nodded. "He is."
"Well, I don't understand why you would come to me," he blustered in a burst of impatience. "Shouldn't you go to the police?"
I held up my hand in an attempt to calm him. "I plan to do that, Dr. Miller, but I need some information first. I was hoping you could tell me whether Troy had any history of mental instability."
He rested his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands in front of his mouth. "I think you can appreciate that I'm not at liberty to discuss my students' personal affairs."
I took that as a yes. "Certainly."
"It's odd that you would come to see me today," he said, staring into my eyes.
I squirmed like a schoolgirl in my seat. "Why do you say that?"
"I haven't seen Mr. Wilson for several months," he began, leaning back in his chair, "and then he called me out of the blue about an hour ago."
"Oh?" I was anxious to know where this was going, but I was afraid to prod for fear that he would refuse to answer.
"He wanted to say good-bye," he said, looking into my eyes again.
I swallowed hard. "Good-bye?"
"Yes. He said he was going away."
My anxiety level set off on a steady climb. I didn't like the sound of this. "Did he say where?"
"He was deliberately vague." He looked down at his desk. "Of course, I realized that he wanted me to think he was moving somewhere, but I assumed he meant that he was going to some sort of facility."
From the pointed way Dr. Miller was looking at me, I knew facility meant mental hospital.
"But now," he continued, "it appears as though he may be going to jail. May I ask what for?"
At this point, my anxiety had reached its peak. I knew I had to leave, and soon. "Like you, I'm not at liberty to say. But thank you, Dr. Miller," I said, rising from my seat. "You've been a huge help."
I exited the maze of books and jogged down the hallway. When I reached the main door, I shoved it open and broke into a run. Then I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1.
Because I knew where Troy was going, and it wasn't to a mental hospital or jail. He was going to Oleander Place.
One last time.
23
When I pulled onto River Road, it was after seven o'clock. Rush hour traffic had turned the easy forty-five minute drive into an hour-and-a-half ordeal. Although the delay had me frantic with worry, I took some comfort in knowing that the police would arrive at Oleander Place before me.
But as I approached the plantation, I didn't hear any sirens or see flashing lights. To be on the safe side, I pulled over just before the house and shut off the engine. There was an eerie silence in the air that caused the hair to stand up on my arms. Something wasn't right.
I tapped the first
number on my call list.
"9-1-1," a woman responded. "What's your emergency?"
"My name is Franki Amato. I'm a PI, and I called in a possible code 30 in progress at Oleander Place on River Road an hour and a half ago."
The woman fell silent as she searched for the record of my call. "The St. James Parish police have already been out there, ma'am. The officers on the scene saw no signs of a homicide."
"Listen, this is urgent. Three people have been killed at the plantation in the past two weeks. And I know another murder is about to happen, if it hasn't already."
"We'll send someone out."
"Thanks." I hung up and shoved the phone into my front pants pocket, praying that the officers would hurry. But I knew from experience that even though I'd called in a possible homicide, the police were hard pressed to find time to deal with possibilities.
As I exited the car, I glanced at the full moon and hoped that the lunar eclipse wasn't happening tonight. Based on what I'd learned from Chandra's wannabe werewolf clients, people did some pretty crazy things during an eclipse. And the killer I was hunting was already plenty crazy enough.
With my gun in hand, I ran the hundred yards to the hedge and peered through the branches. What I saw took my breath away. The entire house was aglow in a flickering orange candlelight, like a giant jack-o-lantern. And the Southern live oaks that lined the walkway like camouflage-clad soldiers during the day now resembled a platoon of grim reapers forming a pathway to doom.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 51