I signaled for coffee, internally argued back, “I disagree. We know nothing of their childhoods. And, the more I think about it, the more I believe he’s our man. Did you notice what big hands he has?”
“Noticed that.”
“And he might be so lacking in horse knowledge that he’d select the wrong horseshoe: the hind. Just because he was around horses does not mean he learned anything about them.”
“True, but–my gut is saying he honestly loved her.”
“You have a gut?! I thought you were my gut!”
“I am. But I have to have a Source, too, you know. Let’s just say calling it my gut simplifies things.”
My coffee arrived. I sat and tried to understand how my gut could have a gut and eventually gave up. I mean how crazy was I? Having a conversation with…myself? With my gut?
By the other window, Superman cocked his eyebrow exactly like Sean Connery. I felt jealous. He looked good doing it too. I sighed.
That blonde was really watching. When I saw her glance back over at me, I smiled, mysteriously, inscrutably, and wondered if I had the bravado to saunter over to Mr. Keith’s table and re-acquaint him with myself. Taunt him a little about the next horse show for which Am and I were lookin’ pretty darn good. Did I have the nerve?
Second Brain made an attention-getting sound. “You also still like Anton Delon for the killer?”
“Yes! Now you’re talking! That’s some scary guy! Hates women, too.”
“Even though you have been told by Lila that he subsidizes a battered women’s shelter?”
“Even though.” I placed crab and lettuce into my mouth, chewed, swallowed, dabbed with a giant starched napkin and said, “You had to have noticed how he threatened me. Or were you asleep when I was going through that encounter with him?”
“I seldom sleep. I am your woo-woo,” said Second brain.
“I know that! So, as my woo-woo don’t you just know these things for sure?”
“Most of the time. And on this one, as your woo-woo, I am suggesting that even though he’s one scary guy, Anton Delon is not your man.”
I was pouting over this, preparing a comeback, when I heard,
“Keet!”
Mr. Keith Tolliver’s head jerked up. The gorgeous Madame Maigrèt, clothed in long blue silk, swayed around the mâitrè de toward him. Myself, along with the brazen blonde, stared opened-mouthed at this astounding creature who was kissing Superman on both cheeks and making sexy French sounds. The whole room slowed their eating and watched the New Orleans’ scene unfold.
“Madame Maigrèt! Comment ça va?” How are you? said Keith suavely.
“Ah, Keet! Trés bien! Et tu?” Very good, and you?
“Bien! Quelle plaisier, Madame.” Good! A pleasure, Madame.
“Pour moi aussi.” Todd was on his feet. Keith said, “Care to join us, Madame?” She murmured more sexy sounds as she assumed the chair Todd had pulled out for her. My ears were growing, yearning to hear their conversation. I wondered if she’d ever glance around and notice me?
“Own-lee for a minute, Keet, I am meeting frien’s, la.” She turned and waved at a table of businessmen near the centre of the room. Vigorously, they waved back at her.
From behind, I heard a whispered “…that’s that voodoo…”
Voodoo, I thought and stared with new eyes at ‘Keet.’ He seemed to be very familiar with Madame. The boy had gotten around in years past, had he not? Their heads were together; they seemed to be whispering seductively. The brazen blonde drooped in her chair. I thought she was starting on a new martini. Then in one swift and glamorous motion, Madame swept to her feet, bussed Keith on both cheeks, and gave her hand across to Todd who actually kissed it. Then she turned and saw me. Her hand rose in the air and gaily she waved. “Breen!” She sallied past tables to me.
“‘Ow are you?” she queried as I stood and we kissed air beside each other’s cheeks. I stayed on my feet. The businessmen were getting restless. Madame continued. I wondered if ‘Keet’ was noticing this!
“I am so glad to see you now, Breen,” the voodoo queen was saying, and she dropped her voice, “some information that may interest you has come before me. Pritchard eez in serious trouble.”
“What is it, Madame.”
She made an appealing little Gallic shrug, “Gambling, I zink.”
“Thank you, merci” I replied. And she teetered off on high-heeled pearl-blue sandals. I could see lacing around her tiny ankles. It disappeared up under her frothy dress on child-slender legs. As she crossed the room, the way gallantly cleared for her by the mâitrè de, the five waiting men stood up so abruptly a chair fell over. A waiter rushed to right it, and Madame sat to competitive masculine growls of greeting. My eyes happened to meet the blonde’s. We exchanged rueful smiles. The men around Madame Maigrèt continued with low rumbles like a pride of lions.
I was full. I dug in the big bag for my wallet. The waiter was approaching and I asked him for the check. He nodded and darted briskly off. In moments, I was paying out cash for the bill and a tip. I rose. Cast a glance at Keith and at Madame. Both were engrossed in other conversations. I saw the blonde looking my way. Time for me to exit.
I rose, squared my shoulders, sucked in my tummy like a vacuum cleaner, and strolled from the restaurant. I knew for sure the blonde watched.
At home I rode Am, then worked on my article about Marcie for the Morgan horse magazine. At six I had a Spa Lean Cuisine salmon dinner. Had to get back to seriousness about shedding my ten pounds. Fat doesn’t look so great on a dressage competitor, especially in a shadbelly. Then I wrote some more. But I felt a growing anxiety. I should be hearing from Theo. He was going to talk to Anton at a twelve-step meeting this evening and should be getting back to me.
At nine-thirty I felt tired and worried. Had Anton lost it and shoved little Theo into some back alley and gotten nasty with him? Who did I know who knew things about Twelve-Step programs and their members? I remembered my friend Tiffany had once confided to me that she’d gone to a few. I thumbed through my ancient Rolodex and found her number. Hoped it wasn’t too late. She answered on the first ring. A breathy voice. Tiffany was tall, but built like a 1950s movie star and came complete with long corn-yellow hair and huge baby brown eyes. Her full mouth just naturally maintained a moue. Men loved her, more than she realized. After the preliminaries, How are you? Long time no talk to? Apologies, and then I strode right in.
“How long do Twelve-Step meetings last, anyway?” I asked.
“Can I ask why?” Tiffany’s ex-husband had been a member of AA. She’d gone to some functions with him when they were trying to get back together, years ago. I got the feeling she maybe attended a few meetings for herself, but nothing solid on that. It is called Alcoholics Anonymous, after all.
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to find out who killed that horsewoman.” Maybe Tiffany hadn’t heard. She lived in a three-bedroom brick ranch house in Kenner, with two kids, and her second difficult husband. She might not be up on the latest news, because she was so busy with the kids, the husband and her home-based small business. She ran a maid service and sometimes when maids were too hungover to show for work, Tiffany had to be ready to pitch in do the cleaning herself.
“Ooooh!” She was loving this. “You mean the woman over there on the Northshore, something about Morgan’s?”
“Right. You know what a Morgan is?”
“A horse, I guess.”
I chuckled. “You’re so smart.”
“I like to think so.” We laughed.
“To answer your question, Bryn, they only last an hour. They’re pretty strict about ending on time.”
“This is one at some big club in New Orleans–”
“I know it. I’ve been to there. It’s pretty social. There’s a big room outside the actual meeting room. Pool table, TV, sofas, magazines, very comfy, coffee maker of course. People sit around and gab long after meetings end.” She h
ad inside knowledge.
“You ever hear of a man called Anton Delon?”
“Anton? Sure have! He was my first husband’s sponsor.” Anton was a popular sponsor.
“What did you think of him?”
“Hmm.” A child wailed in the background. Tiffany yelled. “Craigy! Give Alicia back her pencil!” To me: “They’re doing their homework.” She chuckled. “Sort of.” Then she was silent again. “Okay, Bryn, I think Anton is shrewd.”
“I’d say sly and shrewd. What’s your take?”
“Hmm. My ex loved him. Anton could do no wrong. But I thought he was a bit of a sicko. Always talking about younger women. Verbally brutalized his wife. I heard him ramble on, ‘sharing,’ putting her down. Good thing she never came to meetings. It made me very uncomfortable that this man should be the one sponsoring, guiding my husband. And I was right, of course. He molded George’s soft little brain and made him mean as hell towards me and I was supposed to take it because, after all, the poor dear had so nobly given up the booze. Anton, I think, loved putting women down then influencing other men to do it too.”
It was my turn. “Hmm. Here’s the deal. The husband of the dead woman is also sponsored by dear old Big Daddy Anton.”
Tiffany made an aghast sound. “Let me guess. You think Anton put this guy so over the edge in his hatred of women that he killed her?”
“Not quite. The husband seems to have loved her very much. Very tender toward her.”
I heard Tiffany snort.
“Anyway,” I continued, “the husband did introduce Anton to his wife so he could help her sell a valuable property. Their farm. There were some really dirty dealings which I have not sorted out yet, but my thought is, during all this nefariousness, Anton is the one who killed her.”
“Hmm. He could do it. He’s got it in him, Bryn.”
“Yeah. Thought so. He did it plenty in Vietnam. So do you think the husband could elicit any information from Anton? Given how cunning the man is? I asked him to talk to Anton tonight and–” from the living room my cell phone began to play the Marseillaise. “Tiffany. Gotta go! Think that’s the husband calling my cell right now.”
“Okay. Hope I helped.”
“Thanks. You helped. A bunch.” I put the phone down and ran to the living room and dug for my cell in the handbag. Got it. Pressed the Talk button and said hello.
I heard Theo’s distinctive accent. “Hi there, Mz Bryn. Well what a night. I sat and talked with Anton for a half a’ hour. You know? Since I talked with you I’m noticin stuff he says in a different light. He’s always slammin wimmin, for example. Always puttin them down. Used to think it was jus’ light jokes but now I’m not so sure. ‘Specially his wife. Calls her an old crow, a bossy bitch, says no woman’s any good past the age of nineteen. But he stays with his wife ‘cause she’s rich. He says that right out. So nobody takes him serious. Who’d say such a thing in front of people if it was the truth? Now I don’t even know why I used to think that was so funny. Like tonight. Everyone does. Even the wimmin laugh. He once said that sometimes a woman needs some sense slapped into her. Good for her. Gets her attention. Ha. Ha. Ha. I ain’t laughin right now to you. Jus’ reportin.”
“I understand, Theo. This is interesting information. Do you have more?” It was noisy behind him, so I added, “Where are you? It sounds like a bar.”
“Sure ain’t no bar!” laughed Theo. “Still at the club. On the pay phone here.” He raised his voice to be heard above the din. “This is another thing that’s kinda weird now I think about it. He sponsors about six or seven real pretty young girls. All of ‘em ex-hookers. There’s this unwritten rule in AA. No man’s supposed to sponsor any woman, or vice versa.”
“And this is a man who supports a battered woman’s shelter.”
“I heard that too. Seems peculiar, don’t it?”
“Well, you are certainly reinforcing some of my thoughts about Anton Delon, Theodore. Coming across the drink tonight?”
“What? I ain’t drinkin nor druggin tonight nor any other night.”
“No. I meant the drink–you know, the lake.”
“Oh! That must be Canadian talk.” A forced chuckle. “Yeah, Bryn. Cross the drink.” He laughed for real this time. “Gonna bunk down at the old homestead, the farm, look after those horses. MacWain says to me: ‘Help yourself.’ So I’ll stay out there. Clean those stalls. Get the stallion back home too.”
“I may run by and visit you in the morning. Thanks, Theo. Be safe.”
“Oh yeah. Shore will. Later, Bryn.”
I set the phone down on the table. I hadn’t gotten that attorney’s information. Oh well. Tomorrow. I would do a barn check myself and then to bed. I got up and stretched and the dog also rose and stretched too. We sauntered out to the kitchen. I snagged a bottle of water from the fridge and unscrewed the top, and then I opened the back door to the stable. I stepped out into the hot night, crickets in the hay singing, Am shifted in his stall. He was so black he disappeared in the dark. I caught only the gleam of his eye–and remembered the oily gleam of Lightning Strikes Once’s eye as he stood over his fallen mistress–and shuddered. I moved to the stall and stroked Am’s velvet nose.
“Hey man, saw the competition today,” I whispered. “You feel like beating some fancy equine come Saturday?” He snorted but probably because my petting was tickling. But maybe not.
“We’ll do our best.” I stood back. “Tomorrow, troops, I have to visit Mrs. Anton Delon and to find a Ms. Kitty Z. Abeletti. Then at night, Madame Maigrèt.”
I stepped to the threshold of the barn. The big doors stood open, as always in the springtime. I looked up in time to see a partial moon. In front of it, high winds ripped clouds like someone tearing papers. Closer, the oak branches moved, shivering thousands of glossy leaves, their green now black in the night. I yawned. My eyes watered. Little aches had sprung up all over my body.
“Lulu, let’s head for bed.”
Chapter Twenty Two
May 26, 7:15 AM
I sat with my morning café au lait. I’d finished my five minutes of spiritual exercise: reading from the Tao. Now I was reading, finally, the newspaper articles about the death of Aimée Pritchard. I’d collected them from weird, whispery Serge in the tombs of the Times-Picayune’s archives only a few days ago, but it felt like weeks.
Dated July 15, 1993, a headline read: Horsy-set Heiress Plunges into Pool to her Death. The sub-head read: Valuable Equine also Dies, Husband Bereft. I’ll bet, I thought.
I read through the story and saw it was pretty much the same as the gossip I’d heard. The bizarre death had occurred the day before on July 14, twelve years ago. The reporter noted that the husband, Cade Pritchard, 56, Petroleum Consultant, had declined to be interviewed. Doubtless too grief-stricken to speak, I thought sarcastically.
The next article talked about the police investigation, and also shared that Cade Pritchard stood to collect $450,000 in life insurance from the demise of his wife, $50,000 for the loss of the Lexus that had carried her to her death, and $1,000,000 for the death of the horse. A cool one and a half million, total, exactly as gossip reported. I read on, Heiress Auto Proves Mechanically Sound. Hank Petrie, head mechanic at the New Orleans’ Lexus dealership, inspected the car and found no signs of tampering with the brakes or the steering. Police forensic inspectors also went over it after Mr. Petrie’s inspection and confirmed his findings.
Odd. Why would a mechanic at a dealership inspect it before the police got to it? I made a note. Just how powerful had Cade Pritchard been? He sure wasn’t powerful any more. I thought of his skinny-armed pot-bellied self at the cheap motel; the sweet hooker with the missing tooth. Karma had caught up with Cade, for sure. But was it enough karma? If he killed his wife, he shouldn’t be walking around a free, if a down-and-out, man.
Drat! This article also spoke of funeral arrangements. Mrs. Pritchard had just one sister who unfortunately lived in Singapore and who wouldn’t be able to attend. Pritchard ha
d had Aimée cremated.
Then, on July 23, this headline: Veterinary Necropsy Shows Horse Died in Auto Collision, and lead with: “Arnold M. Suivant, D.V.M, stated today that his necropsy revealed the Thoroughbred race colt, Summer’s End, owned by the deceased Mrs. Cade (Aimée) Pritchard, died from penetration wounds that damaged its lungs and heart. Every rib on its right side was crushed, said Dr. Suivant, and its front legs had multiple fractures. There is no doubt this animal died from the unfortunate impact of a vehicle.” I had a quick woo-woo flash. A horse tied to a fence. Cade Pritchard behind the wheel–the car accelerating over green grass–a horrific impact–screams–I pulled myself back to my reading. Breathed. I never knew for sure if these woo-woo flashes were of reality or my imagination. But they left me feeling shaky and drained. I forced my eyes back to the newspaper clippings. I read more.
It said, “The insurance claim of one million dollars was filed today by Cade Pritchard. ‘I have no doubt that Mr. Pritchard will collect his rightful claim. This is a sad event for the Thoroughbred industry in St. Tremaine Parish, as this home-bred colt showed great promise, having won the prestigious Louisiana Derby, considered by many to be a prep race for the Kentucky Derby.’ Summer’s End was bred and raised by Aimée Pritchard and was, according to Pritchard, ‘her absolute favorite. I’ve commissioned a headstone for this animal and he will be buried in a place of honor on this farm.’” I wondered where that was–if it existed at all. Over by the people’s graveyard?
The final article said Aimée’s autopsy showed excessive quantities of muscle relaxers and alcohol in her body. “Enough,” stated Coroner, Wade S. Bonmot, M.D. speaking at the inquest, “to have caused her death, without the drowning.” Mrs. Aimée Pritchard’s death was ruled “Accidental.”
There were pictures of the Pritchards. I studied Cade’s. A dark-jowelled man wearing a Stetson that looked too small for his head. Twelve years ago, the potbelly wasn’t so prominent and he was almost handsome. A tailored western style suit made his shoulders look broad. Aimée looked like a model on a magazine cover with high cheekbones, enormous eyes, and the startled look of a young Thoroughbred. How had such a dish gotten attached to the smarmy older Pritchard? She had a vulnerable, yet hopeful expression. That was probably it. Older experienced man, seemed to be rich, he looked like security and if she was horse-crazy, all the thrill of racing. I would sincerely like to reveal him as the murderer. All I could do now was pay attention to what people said. Inadvertent information has often solved murders.
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