by Lisa Jackson
“That’s right. A half a million dollars.” He gave her a fake smile. “Quite a bit of cash.”
“There must be some mistake.”
“Nope. I found the policy in his personal papers and checked with the insurance company.”
“I can’t believe it.” Never in her wildest dreams would she have guessed she might receive another dime from Luke.
“I guess he never got around to changing it, eh?” he asked.
“I didn’t even know he had that kind of insurance,” she said honestly. “I mean, yes, when we were first married, we each took out policies, but small ones. Term insurance.”
“Is he still your beneficiary?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I let the policy lapse and changed my will immediately.” All she owned would go to her father, and in the event he predeceased her, then Zoey would get whatever assets she’d amassed. Abby had made certain that Luke would never get anything. She had assumed he would do the same. Now, hearing this from the detective, she felt as if she might have maligned him.
“As I said, a lot of money.” Brinkman rubbed the back of his neck as if deep in thought. “Half a mil. How about that? And then there’s his checking account, a few stocks in his retirement account, no house, you already got that, but all his assets add up to just over six hundred grand.”
“That can’t be right,” she said, looking over at Montoya. He hadn’t said a word since the announcement but was leaning forward, his forearms resting on the tabletop. “Luke has family. His parents and brothers.”
“I double-checked with the lawyer.” Brinkman lifted a shoulder. “Unless your ex found himself a new attorney and drew up a new will that no one knows about, the one he signed five years ago is still in effect. Which means you’re a rich woman.” He cocked his head to one side. “But you didn’t know about the will, is that what you’re saying?”
“I assumed he changed his, and he never told me about any life insurance policy, I swear.” Abby didn’t know what else to say, so she just stared at the two detectives, who seemed hell-bent to connect her to Luke’s murder.
“Looks like you just won the lottery.”
“It doesn’t feel that way, okay?”
“If you say so.”
“Look, I don’t like all your insinuations.” She turned her attention to Montoya, who, for this last round, had been mostly silent. “Do you have any other questions?” she asked, and tried to hang on to her cool. Brinkman was just trying to rattle her and she knew it.
“No, that’s about it,” Montoya said.
“Good. Because I was beginning to think I might need a lawyer.”
“Why would you think that?” Brinkman asked, his smile meant to be disarming. She didn’t trust it for a minute.
She asked Montoya, “Is there anything else?”
“Just that we found a connection between Luke and Courtney LaBelle. He was the guest speaker at one of her classes at All Saints College.”
“So he knew her?”
“We don’t know that they even met. Just that they happened to be in the same place at the same time.”
“Which would be one helluva coincidence.”
“If you believe in ’em,” Brinkman said. “Me, personally? I don’t.”
Abby felt that same old gut tightening she always did when it came to her ex-husband and younger women. “But they didn’t hook up?”
“That’s the weird thing. No indication that they even talked to each other.”
“Hard to think it was a coincidence,” Brinkman said. “But you”—he gestured in Abby’s direction—“you never met her before.”
“That’s right,” she said evenly. Getting to her feet, she glared at both men. “You seem to think that I had something to do with my ex-husband’s murder. The plain damn truth is that I didn’t and I have no idea who did. I’ve never met Courtney LaBelle, had never even heard of her. I don’t know how, or if, she knew my ex-husband. I made it a point to stay out of his business and asked that he do the same for me.”
Brinkman said, “Except you called the station the day of the program where he went off on ex-spouses.”
“No . . . oh, yes, I did call, but I didn’t say a word. Just hung up. I realized Luke was baiting me. He was really, really ticked, Detective. He’d called asking for his things and I had to tell him that I’d given them away, that I’d gotten tired of hanging on to them. After repeated attempts to get him to come and take them, I gave them all away. He was furious. The next day I heard him crucify me on the airwaves, and I did call in, but I didn’t speak to him or anyone else. Didn’t want to say anything I would regret in the long run.”
She was livid now, her cheeks burning, her old rage boiling to the surface. “What the fight with Luke on the phone and the subsequent radio show did was convince me that I needed to get the hell out of Dodge, or in this case, New Orleans. To put as much distance between my ex and myself.”
“Seems like death might do that,” Brinkman observed.
“Are you kidding? The man’s looked upon as a saint now! I’m getting phone calls from reporters day and night. People who want to talk to me to get to know and I quote ‘the real Luke Gierman.’ It’s a joke. All Luke ever wanted was to get his fifteen minutes of fame and maybe stretch them out to a full half an hour. Being killed got him what he couldn’t get while he was alive. Unfortunately, some people still think I’m the link to him.”
Brinkman snorted out a laugh. “Like Priscilla Presley is to Elvis.”
“It’s not quite the same,” she said through her teeth, trying to tamp back her temper. She knew Brinkman was goading her on purpose, hoping for a reaction, but she couldn’t help herself. “I just want to move on. To start over.”
“I thought that’s why you came back here in the first place, to return home and start fresh with the husband. You’re a local girl, right?”
She was instantly wary and looked over at Montoya. He was still seated at the table, watching her. She heard a rush in her ears. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Grew up here, went to school here, and weren’t your parents Jacques and Faith Chastain?”
“They are my parents. My father’s still alive.” The rush was getting louder.
“And your mother?”
“Is dead.” She skewered the fatter detective with her eyes. “But you knew that, didn’t you? You’re just trying to bait me.
Why?” She turned her angry gaze on Montoya. “What is this?”
“We found a link between the victims. Courtney LaBelle’s parents worked at Our Lady of Virtues Hospital at the same time your mother was a patient there. Clyde LaBelle was a psychiatrist and Virginia Simmons was a social worker.”
Abby gazed at him in confusion.
Montoya added, “On top of that, Courtney, who went by Mary, was only going to college to appease her parents. She’d already decided to become a nun.”
“I thought the church was struggling for people to join the orders.”
“Courtney LaBelle apparently wanted to join. She’d already talked to the Mother Superior at Our Lady of Virtues. They’re tearing the old hospital down, but the convent stays.”
“This is your ‘link’?” she asked. “The hospital? But Luke had nothing to do with it. He’d never even been there that I know of. We were married after my mother died.”
“Do you remember Courtney’s parents?” Montoya asked.
Abby shook her head. “Virginia . . . Simmons, did you say her name was?”
Montoya nodded. “Yeah.”
“No.” Try as she might, she couldn’t call up an image of the woman, but distorted images of the doctors at the hospital played in her mind. She remembered a tall, nearly gaunt man with a trimmed beard and oversized glasses that magnified his eyes. He always stood a little hunched and he’d reminded Abby of a praying mantis.
“But Dr. LaBelle, I think . . . he might have treated my mother at one time.” She closed her eyes for a second
, bit her lip, tried to roll back the years to the time before the tragedy, when she and her father and Zoey had visited the hospital. She remembered the angel fountain, and making a wish, catching sight of the brightly colored fish swimming beneath thick water lilies. Dragonflies, their wings humming, had flitted over the surface of the pool. Bullfrogs had croaked, squirrels scolding the old calico cat that had wandered the grounds. Older people in wheelchairs had sat on broad verandahs, or in the shade of colorful umbrella-topped tables, or beneath the fragrant branches of huge, gnarled magnolia trees.
There had been staff as well, nurses in crisp uniforms and doctors with white lab coats flapping in the breeze, stethoscopes swinging from their necks, and impatience in their gazes until their eyes landed upon her or Zoey or her father. Then a calm and warmth had appeared, the icy resolve she’d witnessed fading with a wide smile and handshake and words of encouragement.
“She’s doing fine . . . yes, well . . . one episode . . . responding well to the new medication . . . shouldn’t be too much longer . . . we have several different ways to go . . . new treatments every time we turn around . . .”
In her mind’s eye, Abby saw herself as a child, walking up the broad front porch with its terra-cotta pots overflowing with pink and white petunias and yellow black-eyed Susans. Wasps and hornets had buzzed in the eaves, and conversation had whispered across the broad, manicured lawns.
She recalled the huge door swinging open to a yawning darkness within. That’s where everything changed. Even as a young child as she’d stepped foot over the threshold, where the noises of the outside had been cordoned off, and the sunlight only filtered through windows with thick shades or the stained glass on the staircase landing, she’d felt fear. Anxiety. Sensed that something had been very wrong.
The hushed words, the prayers intoned, the soft, but certain sounds of moaning and dismay had crept through long, narrow corridors with dark, walnut wainscoting and hunter green wallpaper. The smells of urine and vomit and human decay had been disguised by antiseptic, bleach, and pine-scented cleanser, but Abby had smelled the odors that had never disappeared, had only been masked.
There had been a doctor who had treated her mother, but his name had been something else, not LaBelle. What was it? Holman? or Hellman? No, Heller! An unpleasant taste rose in the back of her mouth at the thought of him, but she couldn’t remember much. Heller had been just one of the members of the vast staff. She thought hard. LaBelle?
Abby’s insides seemed to crush in on themselves as she remembered Dr. LaBelle hurrying down the stairs, his gaze drifting to Abby, then jetting quickly away. She had a vision of him signing papers on a clipboard, what she thought was a patient’s chart, then looking up from his paperwork to talk to her father. He’d appeared impatient, as if Jacques’s questions about his wife had been asinine, or mundane, or a complete waste of time. Dr. LaBelle had carried with him the air of superiority and the put-upon tone of someone who had tirelessly gone over the same questions time and time again. He’d given the impression that he was far too busy to spend much time with a patient’s family, that he’d had more important things to do. It had been as if Jacques and his two daughters were an imposition, one more chore he’d been forced to deal with.
Now, she opened her eyes and felt a chill as cold as December settle in her stomach.
“Yes . . . I remember him now,” she said, a bad taste filling her mouth. It was hard to think of LaBelle as a father, a man who was hurting at the loss of his child.
“But you never met his daughter.”
“No. I didn’t know anything about him. Once my mother died, I never went back to the hospital again, never talked to anyone who had worked there or been a patient.” She met Montoya’s steady gaze. “I tried to forget everything that ever happened there.” She was still grappling with the fact that Luke had been killed with a girl who was connected, even loosely, to Our Lady of Virtues. “Does Dr. LaBelle remember Mom?”
“We’re checking into that.”
Abby was blind-sided. All of this had to be a coincidence, that was all. The police were being thorough, checking every lead they could find. The connection to the hospital was thin, weak at best, and she was grateful when the interview was over and Montoya clicked the recorder off. “I think we’ve got all we need.” He offered her the hint of a smile. “We appreciate your time. If you think of anything else, just give me a call.” He pressed a card into her hand and she curled her fingers around it.
“Of course.”
She walked them both to the door and watched as Brinkman, the minute he was outside, shook a cigarette from his pack and lit up.
Montoya had just stepped onto the porch when she grabbed his arm impulsively. “Detective.”
He paused. Glanced down at the fingers surrounding his forearm, then looked up at her face. Dark eyes searched hers, and for a second, under such intense male scrutiny, her breath caught in her throat.
“Look,” she said, but didn’t let go. “Off the record, despite any amount of money I might inherit from Luke, he was a jerk, okay? I wasn’t in love with him any longer and I did want to get away from here, from him.” Her fingers tightened a bit. “But I didn’t kill him and I’m sorry he’s dead.” She held his gaze and inched her chin up a fraction. “And your link to the victims, through the hospital, that’s pretty damned thin.”
“Maybe the link isn’t the hospital,” he said in a low voice that caused her heart to knock.
“But—”
“Maybe it’s you.”
“What do you mean?”
He wasn’t smiling, his thin lips compressed. “Be careful, Abby,” he suggested. “Lock your doors. Set your alarm, if you’ve got one. If you don’t, then call a security company and have one installed ASAP.” His eyebrows pulled into a single dark line. “Watch your back.”
She felt herself pale.
“You think I’m the link? Me? No.” She shook her head. “That’s crazy, Detective.”
“Just be aware.” He touched her shoulder and the gesture, as the first drops of rain began to fall, seemed somehow intimate. “I’ll call,” he promised and ridiculously she felt her heart surge.
Then he was gone, hunching his shoulders against the rain, climbing behind the wheel of the cruiser and driving off, taillights disappearing at the end of the drive.
Abby shut the door and leaned against it, Montoya’s warning echoing through her mind.
She stood there, frozen, a long time.
The numbers on the door of the room looked funny and uneven, but Abby knew this was her mother’s room: 307. That was it. Mama was always in the room. Abby tried the door, expected it to be locked, but it opened easily and she stepped inside.
“Mom?” she called and saw Faith Chastain at the window. She smiled, beatifically as always.
“Baby.” Her grin widened. “You came.”
But then Faith’s gaze shifted, moving past Abby to the door hanging open and the dark hallway beyond.
There was something in her mother’s gaze. Fear? Then a slight tightening of her neck muscles.
“Mom? Is something wrong?” Abby asked, dread mounting as she stepped inside. “Mom?”
Suddenly her mother’s face changed. Faith’s smile fell away. Panic distorted her features. She started walking backward, her eyes fixed on the open door, her steps taking her closer and closer to the window. “No,” she whispered. “Sweet Jesus, no.”
“Mom?” Abby called again. Dear God, what was happening? “Mom, be careful!”
But apparently her mother couldn’t hear her.
A deep male voice seemed to rain from heaven above. “What are you doing here? Get out!”
Who was this guy? Another visitor? A patient? A doctor? One of the guards?
“Leave, now!”
Heart pounding, nerves stretched to the breaking point, Abby turned to face the man but he wasn’t behind her. The door to the hallway seemed to sag. She glanced into all of the shadowy corners. Was he conce
aling himself in the darkness? Or in the closet, where the door was open just a crack? Or in the cedar chest at the foot of her mother’s bed . . . the bed! Was he hiding under it, secreting himself in the darkness beneath the thin mattress? Were those eyes peering out . . . hideous, damning eyes staring at her?
Her throat closed as she tried to see the image, but it came and went, a wraith with stark, cold features, the very face of the devil?
Her blood froze.
She had to get out of here now. With her mother. This room was evil, the very den of death.
She made the sign of the cross over her chest and looked up to the crucifix hanging at an angle over the bed. The painted blood on Christ’s ceramic hands, feet, side, and face began to ooze, running down the peeling wallpaper.
“Mama?” Abby whispered, using her little-girl voice and spying her mother’s reflection in the mirror hanging over the mantel. Tall, thin, ravaged, her clothes torn, bruises on her face, blood flowing from her wrists, Faith seemed to wither before her eyes.
The mirror suddenly shattered, distorting her mother’s image into thousands of tiny reflective shards that showered into the room.
Abby flung herself backward, away from the splintering glass, stumbling as she tried to get away from the tiny biting slivers.
“It’s not your fault,” her mother whispered into her ear.
“What?” Abby spun around, searching. But her mother was shriveling, disappearing. “Mama, what’s not my fault? Mama?” she cried desperately.
An earsplitting crack cut through the room.
Her mother’s bony arms were suddenly around her, holding her close, crushing her.
More glass shattered and the floor gave way. Together, they hurtled through the night, tumbling and falling.
“It’s not your fault,” Faith whispered again and again as they fell into the darkness, straight, Abby was certain, into the yawning gates of hell. “It’s not your fault . . .”
Abby’s eyes flew open.
She sat bolt upright.
She was in bed. Her bed. Hershey beside her burrowing into the covers. Sweat soaked her body despite the paddle fan whirring softly overhead. Heart pounding, head thundering, she gasped as she tried to catch her breath.