by Lisa Jackson
“Cool it,” she said to the lab. Hershey’s antics made her jumpy, and for the first time in a long, long while she wondered what was outside peering in.
Or who?
She felt suddenly cold and rubbed her arms.
It hadn’t helped that while the dog was going berserk to get outside, she’d received a phone call. Caller ID had identified the person on the other end as PRIVATE CALLER, so Abby hadn’t picked up.
Whoever was on the other end hadn’t bothered with a message.
Probably a telemarketer. Or a reporter.
And yet, she’d had a feeling . . . a sensation that there was something more to the phone call, something that bordered on sinister. The skin on the back of her arms prickled.
“Get over it,” she muttered, but all the same, she closed the blinds on the windows that ran across the rear of the house. She then poured a cup of coffee from what was left in the pot and warmed it in the microwave.
She was jittery because of the murders. That was it. The dog wasn’t helping matters, nor was the rush of wind that rattled the branches of the trees and whistled around the corners of the house. She told herself there wasn’t anyone hiding outside, that whatever she’d sensed, whatever the dog had heard, had been of the four-footed variety. Skunks, opossums, raccoons, even a rare porcupine wandered these woods.
It was ironic, she thought, because part of the original attraction of this isolated cottage had been the nature that surrounded it. When she’d first viewed the place, she’d noticed a snowy egret and minutes later a deer. She’d been sold. When they’d first bought the house, she’d sat in her grandmother’s rocker by the window, or on the back verandah, and loved to watch the wildlife, the herons and pelicans, the squirrels and deer . . . but that had been before things had gone bad, when she’d still had hope.
Well, she had no room for nostalgia.
The microwave dinged. Using a potholder, she removed the cup and took a tentative sip that nearly scalded her lips.
The phone rang again and she jumped, sloshing some of the hot liquid onto her arm. “Damn it,” she growled, dropping the cup. It shattered, shards of blue ceramic smashing against the floor. Coffee sprayed up against the cabinets and ran on the floorboards.
Hershey, tail between her legs, studied the mess and the damned phone jangled again. Abby yanked up the receiver, read the number on caller ID, and braced herself. “Hi, Dad,” she said, dabbing at her sleeve with the potholder and cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder.
“Hi, honey.” Jacques Chastain’s voice was a rasp, a whisper of what it once had been, and she imagined him sitting in his chair, his oxygen tank at his side, plastic tubes running into his nose. Cancer and emphysema had slowly and determinedly taken their tolls upon his body. Surgery had removed part of his throat and chemotherapy had zapped him of his strength. He was better now, improving even, but he would never again be the tall, robust, full-of-life man he’d once been. A mountain climber, a white-water rafter, a tennis player.
No more.
“Hey, Dad, how’re you doing?” she asked and tried to keep the catch out of her throat.
“Still kickin’, so I guess I’m all right. How about you?”
“Okay.”
“I heard about Luke,” he said. “A shame. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” She ignored the red welt on her hand where the coffee had burned.
“I know things weren’t good between you, but . . . I liked him.”
“I did, too. Once.” And she felt betrayed that her father would even say the words, admit to feelings that hurt her. Jacques, always the dreamer, had thought she should have stayed married to her ex-husband, that Luke would have eventually “come to his senses” if she would have just given him another chance. Abby had disagreed. She’d been of the opinion that she should finally cut her losses. She’d tried reconciliation once. It hadn’t worked.
But then, her father had never known about Luke’s fascination and affair with Zoey. And he never would. There was just no reason to ruin Jacques’s relationship with his firstborn. Besides, as they say, it was water under the bridge now. Old, stagnant water.
“Do you know when the funeral is? I’d like to come.”
“I don’t. I don’t think the police have even released his body yet. But when I find out, I’ll let you know.” Her hand was beginning to sting, so she leapt across the mess of coffee and pottery, turned on the cold water, and let it cascade over her wrist.
“The girl that was found with him, did you know her?”
“No.”
A second’s hesitation and Abby guessed what was coming. “I hate to ask, but was he involved with her?”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“No, I suppose not,” he said as she ripped a kitchen towel from the handle of the oven door, bent down, and while holding the receiver to her ear in one hand, picked up the biggest pieces of the cup and tossed them into the trash can under the sink.
“But it was a double murder, right. Not the murder-suicide that was first reported?”
“I’m not certain of anything,” she admitted. Carefully, she swabbed at the floor where the coffee had spilled onto the hardwood. How could she answer his questions about Luke? She wasn’t even sure of the truth herself and the police weren’t talking. No one seemed to know for certain what had happened, least of all her.
“Oh . . . well,” Jacques continued as she finished mopping the floor and threw the stained, dripping towel into the sink. “So how are you doing? This has got to be difficult.”
“Still kickin’, so I guess I’m all right,” she said, repeating his answer.
Her father chuckled.
“How’s Charlene?” she asked, though she’d never been close to her stepmother, a vain woman who was pushing sixty, looked fifty, and claimed to be in her “late forties.” Where nature had failed her, plastic surgeons had come to the rescue, which was no big deal if she would just own up to it. She didn’t. These days, who cared? The woman bugged Abby.
“Char’s fine, fine. Keeping busy,” he said and his voice brightened with hope. “As soon as the doctor says it’s okay, she’s going to bring me back home.”
A lump tightened Abby’s throat. “And when will that be?”
“Oh, soon, I think.”
It was a lie. They both knew it. But Abby wasn’t going to call her father on it now. Let him hold on to some false hope that he would return home to be with his wife in their rambling house on half an acre in Shreveport. Why take away his dreams? Maybe there was a chance that he would get better. As she talked to him, she crossed her fingers and fought tears.
“Well, I was just checkin’ on you, honey. You let me know if you need anything, okay?”
“Sure, Dad. You, too.”
“And let me know about that funeral.”
“I’m not the one who’ll be making the arrangements. It’ll probably be one of Luke’s brothers, or his parents.”
“But they’ll call and give you the information,” he said steadfastly, as if they were all still one happy family.
“I’m sure I’ll find out.”
“Good, good. You take care, honey.”
“Will do. You, too, Dad.” She hung up depressed, thinking of her small family and how disconnected it was. Her father was alone in an assisted-care facility. She knew that each day he hoped to return home and probably never would. Zoey was in Seattle, still trying to mend fences, but thousands of miles away. Abby was here, in southern Louisiana in a house that she would soon sell so that she could move away.
Or run away, her mind taunted.
She mopped the floor and washed down the cabinets before trying to clean the stain from the sleeve of her shirt. Impossible. The skin over her wrist hurt like crazy. She ignored the pain and, with Hershey at her heels, walked into the living room, where Ansel was dozing in his favorite spot above the couch. Abby sat on a corner of the love seat and the dog hopped up onto the cushions without waiting for
an invitation.
Abby started to scold the Lab, then thought better of it. She scratched Hershey behind her ears and the dog placed her lower jaw on Abby’s leg, rolling her expressive brown eyes upward to stare at Abby’s face. “You know just how to get to me, don’t you?” Abby said and chuckled. On the nearby couch, Ansel stretched and yawned, showing off needle-sharp teeth and black lips.
Life could be worse, she thought, wondering about taking both animals to the West Coast. She glanced to the fireplace, where the ashes of her last burning were still black and curled in the charred firebox.
Pictures of Luke.
It was too bad that he’d been killed, but the truth of the matter was that he’d been a louse of a husband. She wasn’t buying into the Luke Gierman local town hero.
But then, she knew better.
CHAPTER 8
“Listen to this,” Lynn Zaroster said. She was sitting at her desk in a wide room filled with cubicles where other detectives and uniformed officers were walking, talking, reviewing files, or clicking away at computer keyboards. Lynn, all of twenty-five with an athletic body, mop of short black curls, and enough idealism to right the world on its axis, hit the play button on the tape recorder that was sitting square in the middle of her desk.
Gierman’s voice boomed through the recorder. “. . . my ex claims she gave everything she was keeping for me away, including a family heirloom, which just happens to be a handgun.”
Montoya’s gut tightened. He rested a hip on the edge of Lynn’s desk and listened.
“She says she donated it all, lock, stock, and barrel, so to speak, to a charity.”
“A charity?” Another male voice, registering disbelief.
“That’s the sidekick, sometimes billed as the cohost of the show,” Zaroster clarified. “Maury Taylor.”
Gierman was raging. “Like I’m supposed to believe that any charitable organization would take a gun. Of course it was a lie. But how safe does that make me feel? Knowing that my psychotic ex-wife is literally gunning for me with my father’s sidearm, the weapon he was issued from the police department.”
Psychotic. Interesting term.
Maury Taylor suggested slyly, “You’d better change your address.”
“Or start packin’ my own heat,” Luke confided to all of New Orleans and the surrounding area as the other man in the booth with him laughed.
The program continued in the same vein until Lynn could stand it no longer. She hit the stop button and looked up at Montoya. “What a jackass,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “I’m telling you, if I was his ex-wife, I think I would have killed him and done it on the air.” She made a gun out of her right hand, extending her index finger and cocking her thumb as if it were the hammer. “Ka-pow,” she said, the “gun” kicking back as she pretended to shoot the recorder. “Just blow him the hell away.” She lifted her finger to her lips, blew across it, then faked holstering the “gun.” Frowning sourly, she added, “Good riddance.” She glanced up at Montoya. “And one more lying, cheating son of a bitch of an ex-husband would disappear. How would you like all your dirty laundry aired in public?”
“Maybe that’s why she’s moving.”
“The ex-wife?”
“Uh-huh.”
He heard steps behind him. “Great timing,” Brinkman said. “I just went through Gierman’s papers. Found his will and insurance policies. Guess who’s listed as the only beneficiary?”
The muscles in the back of Montoya’s neck tightened. Just the way Brinkman posed the question boded bad news.
“The ex-wife,” Zaroster said again, her blue eyes narrowing.
“Bingo. Give the little lady a Kewpie doll!” Brinkman’s smile was wide. “You saw the preliminary forensic reports, right?” he said to Montoya. “Looks like there definitely was a third person in the room with Gierman and LaBelle. And the blood spatter and GRS suggests that someone had his or her hand over the girl’s when the trigger was pulled. There were traces of adhesive from some kind of tape around her mouth, wrists, and legs. Bruising, too, suggests that she had been bound at one point. Someone set the whole thing up.”
“Why would Abby Chastain go to the trouble of killing the second victim? Why not just off her ex?” Montoya posed.
“To throw us off.” Brinkman looked at him as if he were thick as cement. “I’m not sayin’ she did such a good job of it, but she’s an amateur, probably doesn’t know about forensics.”
“Everyone who has a television knows about forensics,” Montoya pointed out. He climbed to his feet, so that he was eye-to-eye with Brinkman.
“I’m not talking that CSI junk that’s on TV. I’m talkin’ the real thing,” Brinkman said.
“She doesn’t wear a size twelve men’s shoe.”
“So she had help.”
“Can it, Brinkman, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Motive or not, she didn’t do it.”
“How do you know?” Brinkman asked irritably, and Lynn Zaroster lifted an eyebrow, waiting for the explanation, too. “Let’s just say, she knows her ex was up at All Saints, and finds out who was in the class. Or maybe she thinks he was doin’ this girl.”
“The Virgin Mary?” Montoya said. “The autopsy report came back that her hymen was still intact.” Montoya was still thinking about that one. Courtney LaBelle. Ultrareligious. Went by her middle name.
“Well, the ex-wife, she doesn’t know that, does she?”
“This isn’t a woman’s crime,” Zaroster insisted. “All this staging. Nuh-uh.” She leaned back in her chair. “You know, my uncle teaches up at All Saints. Religion classes. He might have known the victim or some of her friends.”
“We were already up there,” Brinkman pointed out. “She didn’t have many friends. Just a roommate straight out of a coven.”
Zaroster looked quizzically at Montoya.
“She’s a Goth,” Montoya explained.
“Jesus, Brinkman. Have you been to the Quarter lately? Goth is like, I don’t know, real, real tame there.” She laughed. “Maybe I should ask my uncle if he knows of anyone involved in a local coven.”
“Check on vampires, too. This chick, she carries around her own blood on a necklace.”
Again the raised eyebrow. “Beyond Goth,” Zaroster said.
“Over the top,” Montoya admitted, then added, “Yeah, check with your uncle.” The more information, the better.
In the meantime he had his own relative to contact. He’d put a call into his Aunt Maria. So far he hadn’t heard back. But they weren’t exactly high-tech out at the nunnery. One phone, no cells, one computer, he thought. A visit might be easier. His aunt definitely believed in the human touch over technological communication.
Brinkman snorted and ran a hand through what little hair he had left. “Talkin’ to your uncle, you’ll just be spinnin’ your wheels.”
“Mine to spin,” Zaroster shot back. “As I said, this doesn’t look like a woman’s crime to me.”
“We’re not talking about a woman. We’re talking about a pissed-off ex-wife who is set to inherit a shitload of money.” His smile was oily and smug. He cocked his head toward the exit. “Let’s have a word with the new heiress.”
So this was it. The “official” interview. Abby sat stiff-backed at her dining room table with Montoya and another detective. The first time he’d stopped by, Montoya had come alone, to tell her about Luke’s death. The second time to deliver the dog. On each occasion, he’d asked a few questions, all very casually. After all, she’d been in shock.
But now he was back and this time she sensed the gloves were off.
Brinkman, the balding guy with him, didn’t even try to be friendly. His eyes were suspicious, his manner polite but cold, his expression hinting that he knew more about her than she knew herself.
All of which bugged the hell out of her.
He stood by the French doors and stared outside while Montoya sat across from her at the dining table. Separating them was a colorful centerpiece of
small pumpkins, gourds, leaves, and candles. It seemed ridiculously festive and out of place, especially with a pocket recorder balanced on the edge of the table, Montoya taking notes, and the generally grim and sober tone of the conversation.
Almost accusatory.
Almost.
She shot a hard look at Detective Brinkman with his soft gut, balding pate, and hard-ass attitude. If Brinkman was what they meant by backup, she thought Montoya was better off flying solo.
The two cops had arrived half an hour earlier, much to Hershey’s delight and Ansel’s dismay. The Lab had barked and danced excitedly at the appearance of company while Ansel had streaked into the living room to hide beneath the couch and peer out suspiciously.
Abby had offered coffee and now three cups sat virtually untouched as the questions kept coming. They’d already gone over all the information she’d shared with Montoya on his last visit and now were venturing into new, uncharted territory.
Abby told herself this was routine, that they were talking to anyone who had known Luke and the girl who had been with him, yet she couldn’t help feeling that she was under suspicion, that the police thought she was somehow involved in the tragedy, which was ludicrous. True, she’d lost all love and most of her respect for Luke Gierman, but she wouldn’t have done anything to kill him and she hoped Montoya, at least, knew it.
She tried not to fidget, but she was on edge, slightly intimidated by the recorder and the necessity of two men to double-team her and ask questions. She’d thought they were about finished when Brinkman, rotating to face her, no doubt to judge her reaction, asked, “So, did you know that you were still listed as the beneficiary on your ex-husband’s life insurance policy?”
“What?” She was floored. “Life insurance?”