And So it Began

by Owen Mullen

  Behind me, the accusing tone could only come from one person.

  ‘I know what you’re doing.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Can’t you ever not be a cop?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  Catherine spoke, low and serious. ‘You’re patrolling or snooping or something. You stick out. If I can spot it, so can everybody else.’

  ‘I’m not snooping, as you call it.’

  ‘If you don’t want to be here, don’t come. If you don’t like it … You look like a creep. I mean it.’

  ‘I can’t sit in there all day, Cee. And you’re wrong. I do want to be here. I want to hear Molly. But when my instincts as a cop tell me to check things out, I’m going to follow them. It isn’t a choice. If anything happened while I sat around doing nothing, I’d never recover. So you understand one thing. I’m gonna follow them. End of discussion.’

  My tirade knocked her back on her heels.

  ‘I came to tell you we’re going for something to eat. Coming?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like that.’

  Something to eat was melon and sandwiches in the car. Ray must have noticed we had gone quiet. Back inside, the show went on. I did my best not to upset my sister. About two o’clock, the final of Molly’s section began. Thirty minutes later, it was over. Another victory for talent – at least that was our opinion. Molly beamed as she collected her scroll, and we moved into the corridor.

  The next minutes were spent congratulating the winner, who basked in the praise: a family circle with Molly at the centre, just the way she liked it.

  ‘Hello again, and hi to you, Molly.’

  We stopped talking. Catherine searched her memory for a name to go with the face.

  ‘Roy. Reba Roy. Perhaps you don’t recall. We met a few weeks ago when Molly won.’

  ‘Oh, of course. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thank you. Catherine, isn’t it? I remember because your little girl was so sweet.’

  ‘Don’t make her head any bigger than it already is or she won’t fit into the car. Let me introduce you. This is my husband, Ray, Vincent Delaney my brother, and of course, Molly.’

  ‘Reba Roy.’

  She shook hands with us in turn and hunkered down to speak to Molly. I made a who’s-this face at Catherine. She gave a how-should-I-know shrug back.

  ‘I wouldn’t forget you, not with that lovely voice.’

  Molly blushed. All of a sudden, a shy little girl rather than a runaway winner.

  ‘You just keep beatin’ everybody, don’t you?’.

  ‘I lost once.’

  ‘Really? Someone was better than you, honey? I don’t believe it. Must’ve been a swizzle.’

  Molly agreed. ‘It was. I was the best.’

  The woman said, ‘She’s special. You must be very proud.’

  Ray answered, ‘We are.’

  Reba Roy was in her early forties: slim and good-looking with auburn hair pushed back behind her ears. When she spoke, in an accent most definitely from south of the Mason-Dixon Line, her green eyes sparkled. I liked her.

  Catherine captured Molly’s hand. ‘Excuse us. We need to go get our stuff.’

  Ray said, ‘I’ll bring the car round to the front.’

  They moved off, leaving us alone.

  Reba smiled and pointed a finger at me. ‘Heard about you. You’re against this, aren’t you?’

  Before I could answer, she made her own position clear.

  ‘Can’t say as I blame you. It gets a little gratin’ at times. The kids are cute, but the adults …’

  She pulled the edges of her mouth down into a miserable expression. I laughed.

  ‘All that hootin’ ‘n hollerin’. And some of the attitudes. Why do they assume everybody’ll just love their free-range kids? I’m a mom, I understand it, but if I wasn’t …’

  Her brown eyes changed with a new thought. She nodded at Molly walking with her mother down the hall. ‘Must love that kid a lot,’ she said more to herself than to me.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Easy to see why.’

  Our side had had a good run; it was time to ask about her.

  ‘Got skin in the game?’

  ‘Only got one, and yes, my daughter, Labelle. She’s older than Molly. She’ll be on later. You’ll hear her if you’re still around. She’s good but not real good. Right now, she’s with my husband, Peter. We spell each other so nobody has to sit through the whole damn thing.’

  I loved the way she spoke. Not just the accent – the easy way she explained herself.

  ‘Unfortunately, we’re going home now.’

  ‘Well, next time.’

  I shook her hand.

  ‘Tell me something, Mr Delaney.’

  ‘Just Delaney’

  ‘Tell me, Delaney. Do you worry about your niece? Because I know I do with Labelle. Your sister told me you took a view on the pageant thing. Is Molly’s safety the reason?’

  ‘One of them, perhaps.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here sufferin’ like the rest of us?’

  I laughed again. This woman was something.

  ‘Maybe it is.’

  She put her arm in mine. ‘Let me walk you to the door. Got a question I need to ask. Do you still keep up with any of the people you used to work with?’

  She held up a hand.

  ‘When Catherine and I met the first time, she told me about her brother; ex-cop, now a PI in the city. Hard-headed; prejudiced on some issues.’

  She hurried to reassure me.

  ‘Not exactly how you see yourself? Don’t sweat it.’

  Reba Roy apologised for my sister. ‘She didn’t mean to say anythin’. She was uptight about tellin’ you they’d been to a show. It sort of came tumblin’ out. Wasn’t supposed to happen, it just did. Nerves.’

  She took my arm again.

  ‘The reason I ask is this. I enjoy comin’ to watch Labelle, but I sure do have some sleepless nights. It wasn’t ever my idea; it was Peter’s. He thought it would be good for her.’

  ‘And is it?’

  ‘I think I’d have to admit, we’ve all taken something from it. I’m still not convinced. Peter’s keener than I am, keener even than Labelle. She’ll outgrow this stuff in a year or two. Wouldn’t be right if she didn’t.’

  We were at the door. Through the glass, I saw Ray waiting in the car. Catherine and Molly were taking their time. Reba Roy was working up to her point. I thought I knew what it was. We stopped and uncoupled our arms.

  ‘I’m taking an awful long time to say this, aren’t I?’

  She fidgeted with her fingers.

  ‘Just ask. Whatever it is, just ask me.’

  ‘Okay. You know kids on the pageant circuit are bein’ attacked. Your cop friends must talk about it.’

  I hesitated. This was a surprise. Somebody taking the danger seriously.

  ‘Doesn’t that worry you? Some maniac runnin’ wild? It sure as hell worries me. I’m sorry,’ Reba Roy said. ‘I get carried away sometimes.’

  ‘No, that’s all right. I’m the same. I feel better being here.’

  ‘I understand. Must be difficult to just stand by, with your background and all.’

  ‘Standing by isn’t an option.’

  Her attention was drawn away. ‘There’s Peter!’ She waved at a man across the corridor. ‘Peter! Peter!’

  He stopped, uncertain where the cry was coming from then saw her and came over.

  ‘This is my husband, Peter.’

  Peter Roy’s handshake was strong and definite. He was older than me and a shade taller. His hair was longer and brushed his collar every time he moved his head. He wore a blue button-down shirt under a V-neck sweater, slacks and suede shoes. His wife gazed up at him; he placed a protective hand on her back. They seemed to fit each other.

  ‘Peter, this is Vincent Delaney. You remember I told you about the little girl with the beautiful voice? Well, this is her uncle.’ />
  He looked like a college lecturer, right down to the leather patches on the elbows of his tweed jacket.

  ‘Lucky man. Reba told me she was the cutest thing.’

  The timbre of his voice surprised me; higher and much less commanding than I expected. It didn’t go with the laid-back rest of him.

  ‘Where’s Labelle?’

  The urgency in his wife’s question was unmistakeable.

  ‘Watching the others do their thing.’

  ‘Peter, we agreed. Labelle is never to be left alone. Not even for a minute.’

  ‘She’s happy enough, Reba.’

  He looked at me. Women, his expression said. Always on edge about something. Knowing what I did put me firmly with his wife.

  ‘We gotta go. Nice to meet you, Delaney.’

  They hurried away, her charging ahead, him trailing behind. I scanned the face of everybody who passed, wondering if the killer was right in front of me.

  Can’t you ever not be a cop?

  No, I can’t. And believe me, Catherine, you don’t want me to.

  19

  The Monday meeting was short: under an hour. Only the local guys were there because the weekend had produced no new activity from the killer which meant the FBI could put their travelling show on hold. Nobody had anything new to report. Delaup gave out the same directive as before: keep looking. Then, he headed off to get an update from the officers handling the hunt for Julian Boutte.

  Danny caught up with me in the corridor. ‘How goes it, Delaney?’

  ‘All right. What about you?’

  ‘Same old, same old.’

  ‘So I hear. Delaup isn’t exactly an ideas man, is he?’

  He shrugged the criticism away. ‘He’s solid enough. It isn’t easy to find a way into this one.’

  ‘Guess not. Anything else?’

  ‘Well, we lost a couple of guys last week. Drugs bust that went wrong.’

  ‘Heard about that. Any sign of the perps?’

  ‘None. No sign of drugs either.’

  ‘Suspicious?’

  ‘Not really, just a disappointing lack of evidence.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘One of them was the guy you asked about.’

  He glanced at me but didn’t push it and changed the subject. ‘Not getting very, far are we?’

  ‘Still early days.’

  ‘For us, maybe. Not for the next victim out there it isn’t.’ Fitzy shook his head. ‘This is one smart mother. Wherever he is he must be laughing at us.’

  I slapped him on the shoulder. ‘We’ll get him.’

  He needed convincing. ‘And so far, no sign of Boutte. Thinking is he’s left the state by now. I don’t buy it, though it takes the heat off.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Juli has friends in Algiers. Plenty of people willing to hide him for as long as it takes. He’ll show himself when he’s ready.’

  Danny was uneasy. ‘Yeah. When he’s ready. What about you?’

  ‘I’ll be ready for him. I’m ready now.’

  The journey to work wasn’t as much fun as it used to be. The problem was me. The murders were bad without having Molly at potential crime scenes. My reaction was no different from anyone else’s: Reba Roy had shown me that. But it gnawed away at me just the same. No contact from Stella. I wanted to call but didn’t. Maybe it was the same for her. I’d have to pick up a phone to find out. In the end, I stewed. Whatever happened to faint heart and all that? Those issues managed to keep the guitar in its case and the harp in my pocket. Throughout, Lowell turned out to be a pal, watching me a lot.

  Harry Love hadn’t been over-the-moon when my background investigation on Johnnie G turned up nothing. I might not be hearing from Harry again. The single piece of good fortune was the extortion case. No more word from the traders. I assumed that was good news.

  Lowell’s chase after me at the side of the road was looked on by both of us as his morning walk. When he got to my office, his first and only priority was to lie down in the corner. Mid-morning brought an unexpected call from Harry Love and another job.

  ‘Sorry about the last one, Harry. Nothing to find.’

  ‘Let’s hope this one has a skeleton rattling. And invoice me.’

  Harry L gave the details, and I told him I’d get on it right away. If there was anything he could use, a couple of phone calls would find it.

  20

  Three things caught Eadie Renaldi off-guard.

  The first was her mother’s enthusiasm, her energy, and yes, it had to be admitted, an unexpected talent for detail. The second was “those goddamned piano lessons,” to use her mother’s description. Eadie was astonished to discover she actually could play a bit. Nothing great, but not bad. Amazing, considering she hadn’t touched a keyboard in over twenty years. She found herself able to anticipate the chord changes without effort; busking.

  But her mother’s voice was the big surprise. Listening to her sing, Eadie realised there must have been a time when it had been very fine indeed.

  ‘The immediate task is to get our Katie some stagecraft.’

  ‘How will we do that?’

  ‘By singing and dancing. Watching and learning.’

  ‘We aren’t preparing her for Las Vegas, Mama.’

  ‘Is that right? Let me ask you a question.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Eadie wasn’t sure where the conversation was going.

  ‘How good do you want her to be?’

  ‘Well, it’s only a kids’ pageant. Let’s not get all Broadway about it.’

  ‘All right. So how good?’

  Eadie flustered. ‘Good enough. I don’t know. It isn’t something I’ve given any kind of thought to.’

  ‘I can see that. So, same question: how good?’

  Katie’s mom caved in. ‘I honestly don’t know, Mama. You tell me.’

  ‘The best she can be, that’s how good. Anytime Katie wants to stop entering these events, you’ll get no argument from me; my view hasn’t changed.’

  ‘But she’s a kid. She won’t always want to practise.’

  ‘Of course she won’t. We’ll all agree on times. How often and for how long, and we’ll stick to it.’

  Eadie Renaldi wondered what she’d unleashed.

  ‘Are we agreed? Good. I think we need three or four sessions a week. Anything less won’t produce much.’

  There was no stopping the older woman now.

  ‘We don’t compete until we’re ready – three to four weeks from now, I’d say.’

  ‘Remember, Katie’s got to have a childhood.’

  Mrs Russell ignored that observation and moved on. ‘The first few weeks, she’ll sing and dance to everything and anything, build up her balance and her voice.’

  ‘It sounds like boot-camp, Mama.’

  ‘It’ll be fun. In the end, Katie might not win, but she’ll have done her best. That’ll be good enough for all of us.’

  ‘Any songs in mind?’

  ‘A couple we’ll try out, I’ll tell you later. When we make a decision, we’ll see about getting the backing-track on disc in Katie’s key; that’s how it’s done.’

  ‘I know.’ Eadie smiled. This was a side of her mother she’d never dreamed existed. ‘It would be better if we chose something modern, Mama.’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Russell’s sarcasm was laid on thick. ‘You mean like “Hard-Knock Life”? That kinda modern?’

  Her daughter laughed. ‘Sorry, Mama.’

  ‘I should think so, too. Cut me a break, Eadie. I understand how it goes.’

  ‘What about after school three times a week? When I collect Katie, we’ll come right here.’

  ‘That sounds fine, if it’s all right with Katie.’

  They called Kate downstairs and put it to her.

  ‘Listen, honey, your Gran and I are talking about the pageants. You still want to do that?’ The child nodded. ‘Well, we’re thinking that some nights after school, we’ll come to Gran’s to practise. That oka
y too?’

  ‘Can I have a nice dress?’

  ‘It’s called a costume, baby, and we intend to get you whatever goes with the song we pick. The important thing is, if we say we’ll practise three times a week, we have to keep our word. If you don’t want to do …’

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘Three times a week?

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘She wants to,’ Eadie said.

  ‘All right, that’s good. This time, we’ll show them what Katie Renaldi can do. And by the way, we don’t practise. We rehearse.’

  Joe Johnson was met at the door by a smiling Mia wearing a dress for a change. Her hair was swept back off her face. She looked the way she’d looked in the days when they were on the same page. Joe remembered why he fell for her so hard. Back then, they’d sit up late and talk about what they would do and where they would go, before tumbling into bed to make long, lingering love to each other. A wave of sadness broke over him. Where had it all gone? And what did Mia want now? Well, whatever it was, she could have it. He was done.

  ‘Joe. Hi Joe.’

  His wife always had the ability to behave like nothing was wrong between them. An admirable thing, if it wasn’t for the fact that Joe knew from experience the clean-slate routine was a precursor to another crazy idea certain to cost more than they had. Perhaps Mia wasn’t so different from other women, forever thinking up things their life needed and couldn’t do without. Where was the limit? Where did it end? The only money they had was the cash in their pockets; all their credit cards were maxed out. They’d missed two out of the last five mortgage payments. It wasn’t that they didn’t have it coming in. The problem was how fast they went through it. They’d had their belt-tightening discussions, too many to count. Nothing ever changed.

  Mia threaded her arm through his, as happy as she’d been the day her first new car was delivered. That vehicle had been replaced several times since, always for something bigger, showier and more expensive. Now they were back where they started: a one-car family, the one car being the work’s van. They didn’t have a vehicle of their own anymore.

  When were they going to get one? How did he think that looked?