A Grave Mistake

by Stella Cameron

  Nat saw him angling his head to look and sat up.

  And then the dratted, leggy black mutt from Homer’s place came down the hall, loped into the room and flopped down at Guy’s feet. “Where was he?” He didn’t want to tell Nat how Jilly tried to foist the dog off on him.

  “She was sleepin’ on your bed. Tired out, poor pooch—and hungry. I had to give her that steak out of the refrigerator. You’re out of dog food as far as I can see. I cooked the meat just in case. She was really hungry, Guy.” Nat gave him a disapproving look. “You left her behind so I brought her home for you.”

  Jilly had called the dog “he.”

  This was his day for being outmaneuvered by females. He would take the dog and dump her on Jilly. Meanwhile, he’d act as if there was nothing unusual about a big mutt wandering around his house, eating Guy’s own dinner and sleeping on his bed. “Thanks for bringing Goldilocks home,” he said, and the dog put her head on his boot.

  Dump the dog on Jilly, which means I’ll have to go see her. He smiled.

  “I won’t ask how you came up with Goldilocks,” Nat said.

  “Good idea.”

  “A man called Pip Sedge got murdered in the Quarter.”

  Guy waited for Nat to continue.

  “Any bells ringin’?” Nat asked.

  He wanted to sit down but didn’t like to disturb the dog. “No bells.”

  “He was shot—three times.”

  “Hoo mama, that’s a first.” As soon as he grinned, Guy knew his mistake.

  “I didn’t come down to this morgue of a town because I needed your wisecracks.” Nat’s white teeth came together with a snap. He held his head by the top and the chin and snapped his neck in each direction. “You’re makin’ me tense.”

  He’d always been good at doing that. “Give me something that makes sense. This isn’t the first DB found in the Quarter with three bullets in it.” Carefully, he pulled his foot from beneath the dog’s head and took a seat beside Nat. “If I can help you, I will.”

  Nat leaned over and shuffled among the mess of papers on the rug. “I wanted to see if the name meant anything to you first. Take a look at this.” He gave Guy a photograph of a man in shirttails, shoes and socks, holding what looked like his balled-up pants to his chest. The legs were on the skinny side, very white, and defensively bent at the knee. He stood outside a closed interior door.

  Guy flicked a fingernail against the shiny paper. “This was pinned up somewhere. Quite a few places at different times.” He indicated a scatter of thumbtack holes.

  “Yeah, it was. Oliphant still had it on his bulletin board—under just about everything he’s collected forever. I recalled seeing it sometime ago—Sedge hadn’t changed much facially. He could still look like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

  “Sedge is the vic?”

  “Pip Sedge, yeah. Forty-nine, divorced.”

  The guy in the photo could be midthirties or older. Pleasant-looking in a nondescript way with wavy, mussed-up blond hair. He stared into the camera lens as if he’d been blinded by high beams on a one-way street. “This used to be on the wall in the squad room. Jeez, Nat, how long ago?” He glanced at the date. “Eleven years? I was a rookie.”

  “That’s what I figured. I knew it was a long shot that you’d remember much. I wasn’t on board yet.”

  Nat found another photo—this one of the all-too-familiar crime-scene variety. A close-up of the vic’s face. Bits of hair were still blond, the rest was caked with blood.

  “Shot through the back of the head?”

  “Top,” Nat said.

  “I’d like to know how that happened. It’s the same man. You’ve got a good eye—but we’ve always known that.”

  Nat flashed him a quick smile. “This was a dirty crime. Sedge might as well have been executed. He was in a way. But you can read all about that.”

  “Maison Bleue,” Guy said, suddenly remembering Detective Fleet, who owned the case. “On Chartres Street. Underage prostitution ring. Or that’s what they thought. The place had belonged to the Giavanelli family, but it was under new management.”

  “Bingo. But they were looking for a missing girl that night. Someone thought they’d seen her there.”

  “Had they?”

  “Seems so, but she was found at home later—dead.”

  Guy murmured, “Too bad,” and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fleet, God rest his soul, he thought this photo of a bare-legged Sedge was hilarious. Laughed every time he walked by. He used to say, ‘The douche bag got kicked out by a sixteen-year-old while she took a call from her boyfriend.’ Then he’d remind anyone who’d listen that, thanks to him, the guy in the picture ‘never did get his rocks off.’

  “He also didn’t get arrested,” Nat said. “Comin’ up with anythin’ at all on him was dumb luck. I worked for Oliphant a few times. He was Fleet’s partner.”

  “I was just one of Fleet’s water boys.” Back in the days when he still thought the good guys always won in the end. “I don’t even know what happened to the case.”

  Nat aimed a long forefinger at the papers. “Reckon it’s in there. You may want to read it. If you lose any of that stuff, I’ll be sharing a drawer with Pip Sedge. Don’t ask me why, but none of it’s been entered.”

  “I’ll make sure you get it back before it’s missed.”

  “I’ll make sure I take it with me in the mornin’,” Nat said. “It may not have a thing to do with anything, not now. But we need to be sure.”

  Guy didn’t comment on the fact that Nat intended to spend the night. “Look, maybe I’m obtuse, but I don’t get why you came to me with this. Sedge’s murder doesn’t have to be connected to the Maison Bleue case, and I know almost nothing about that.”

  Nat took a folded file card from a pants pocket and handed it over. “The original is in the evidence room. I copied what was on it.”

  “Jazz Babes,” Guy read aloud. This was Nat’s evening for guessing games. “Okay. Is it a club?”

  “Affirmative. It’s the club that used to be Maison Bleue. Sedge had a matchbook from the place in his pocket when he died. Look at the back—most likely scribbled there by Sedge.”

  Guy looked. “Toussaint?” he said, meeting Nat’s innocent eyes. The rest said, “Backs on Parish Lane—wall—gate unlocked.”

  “Is there a Parish Lane in Toussaint?” Nat asked. “I didn’t find it on a map of the town.”

  “Parish Lane is behind Main Street on one side and Catfish Alley on the other. You think Sedge was coming here with stuff on his mind? Like going through an unlocked gate and getting to someone’s place?”

  “That’s what I think. I sure don’t have anything else.”

  “This is your case?”

  “Right on, Mr. Holmes. You can do what I can’t, not without half the town finding out there was a stranger creeping about. But you can wander along Parish Lane and figure out where this might be. You’re part of the scenery. You won’t get a second look.” He took back the card.

  Guy stared at the dog. The dog stared back. “Just about all kitchens are in the backs of houses.” Goldilocks heaved to her feet and settled again—with her head on his left boot. “There’s a wall down both sides of Parish Lane. All the way down. And a lot of gates.”

  5

  Losers only have themselves to blame.

  Sometimes you can’t help sliding toward the gutter, but if you don’t dig your heels in before you reach it, you deserve what you get. And if you once win your way into a place where you want to be, you never let down your guard because someone is always waiting to take away what you have.

  And if someone stands in the way of you getting everything you’ve set your sights on and you can’t take it anymore, the answer is simple. Get rid of the obstacle.

  Tonight is the perfect night. Too hot, too breathless, too still. The kind of night that woman can’t stand.

  Nothing has been forgotten, and nothing will be forgotten when it’s ove
r. No one will cry for her—they all hate her guts—only most are afraid to do anything about it.

  This is going to be so easy, like drowning a paralyzed rat in its own blood.

  She’ll come soon. Stupid fool. All blubber and sniffle, then the hysterical laugh and fluttering touch. She might as well say, “Kill me, I’m so lonely I want to die,” only she never would because she’s invented her own rosy lie of a life.

  Good thing she’s got a someone who reads her mind and gives her what she’s begging for.

  This closet smells like her, like bruised camellias and used skin no man wants to touch anymore.

  Makes me want to puke.

  But the closet is the perfect hiding place.

  Footsteps on the carpeted stairs. Unsteady footsteps and a thud each time she falls against the wall. She’s stopped. Don’t let her pass out down there.

  Glory, glory, she’s moving again.

  There’s a soft pink light, turned down real low, by the bed. Of course the silly bitch won’t have anything but all white on that bed. What do you call that old-fashioned stuff where they cut holes and embroider around them? Cutwork. That’s it. And she has the coverlets made for her. They cost a fortune. She’s a drain, a waste, a user of what she’s got no right to—and she is in the way.

  Not for long now.

  Come right on in, whore. Look at you, you’re too drunk to stay on your feet, but you’re still drinking. Just make it to the bathroom, sweetie, that’s it. Shit!

  Great. Flat on your face. Gin all over the rug. Makes me want to laugh. That’s right, up you get, hold on to the bed—that’s it. Now, into the bathroom with you.

  You can’t clean up the rug. That’s right, you pick up that glass and see if there’s a drop left.

  Hurry up.

  More than a drop, huh. But you don’t want anything in the drawer. Just go in that bathroom. We’ll get you all clean and white.

  What the hell is she taking? Lordy, Lordy, it could be the painkiller from when she broke some ribs. The stuff that sent her to la-la land. Quite a story about that. Got a headache, baby? Drinking doesn’t pay, not when you can’t hold it. You made that gin go a long way. Forget the pills. Mixture like that could kill you….

  Everything’s ready. The box of razor blades. They’ll say you bought them for the job. Unwrap a blade. Careful.

  It’s getting hotter. I hate it like this—unless I’m in a pool—or skin to skin and getting it off.

  Don’t just stand there, crying. You’re even uglier when you cry.

  Move, damn it, move!

  That’s…shit, shit, shit. Why’d you have to pass out on the bed?

  I’m going to walk right up and see just how out of it you are. Lock the door and go look at her.

  Out cold. And she’s sweating like a pig. Let’s get this done, piggy. Wake up too soon, and I’ll tell you I’m saving you from yourself.

  I’ve got to make sure she doesn’t bleed on me. Push her arm above her head.

  She’s out of it.

  I’ll keep down and make one tidy slit. No, not too tidy, it ought to jerk around a bit like she’s having trouble aiming.

  My hands are shaking, dammit. Chill out. Nobody’s going to interrupt you.

  See how easy the blade slides. The blood wells, then pours. All over the white coverlet—such a shame. Whoa, good job I got myself out of the way.

  Now the other one, Miss Piggy.

  Damn, she’s heavy. No falling off the bed. That’s it. Cool. I wish this had been in the bathroom.

  If she cut one wrist here and got to the bathroom for the second, would it look strange?

  Stay there, baby doll, while I take a look and decide. Oh, yeah, the shiny white bathroom. You’d bleed everywhere on the way. Best finish it where you are.

  What was that? She’s fallen off the bed. Just like her to mess things up. Nobody else to have heard her bump onto the floor like that, but I’ve got to get out of here. Hurry.

  She looks dead already.

  Used razor in left pocket. Can’t risk leaving it. Could have marked it somehow. Quick, got to leave the weapon. Another razor. Rip paper off one side. Finger and thumb, and squeeze. There you go, Miss Piggy. Now, stick it in the wound. Hah, it’s going to stay there, like an ax in wood.

  It’s perfect. It feels like sex. The rush. Ride it, go with it.

  I’m outta here. Next stop, a great fuck.

  6

  Father Cyrus Payne sat on the stairs inside the rectory. Using an old, broken-bladed but extremely sharp knife, he peeled an apple, the skin falling in one long, unbroken strip. He glanced repeatedly at the front door. From his right came the muted click of Madge’s keyboard as she worked late in her office. Madge always worked late. He gave a satisfied sigh at the thought. She was his assistant, the best he’d ever had, but she was also his best friend and he liked having her where he could see her when he needed to.

  He couldn’t settle to do anything, so he’d given up and planted himself where he could see when Guy Gautreaux approached. Cyrus would have volunteered to go to Guy’s place if the Impala hadn’t been out of commission. Gator Hibbs had shown up at the accident scene and left Cyrus with a small, rusty pickup. It ran. That was about the best you could say about it. The lights dimmed without warning and Cyrus didn’t want to drive the vehicle at night, or in isolated places like the location of Guy’s house. Cyrus was still grateful for Gator’s kindness.

  Madge’s keyboard stopped clicking and she put on one of the hundred or so zydeco CDs she owned.

  The wallpaper in the hall and up the stairs, “ducks in flight” folks called it, had finally turned yellow, mostly along the seams. He’d like to strip it and paint instead, only the place was so old Cyrus feared he’d be knee-deep in crumbling plaster if he tried.

  The doorbell rang. Cyrus saw a tall man’s shadow through a pebble-glass panel in the front door.

  “Coming,” Madge called, and shot from her office to let the visitor in, noticing Cyrus as she took off the bolt. “I didn’t know you were there.” She smiled with her dark eyes. So much warmth came from the way she looked at him.

  “I’m expectin’ Guy Gautreaux.”

  She opened the door and Guy stood there, hat in hands, around a foot taller than Madge. “Come on in,” Cyrus told him.

  “I’ll get you something to drink,” Madge said. “What would you like? I’ll bring it up to the sittin’ room. Are you hungry?”

  “There’s no need, ma’am,” Guy said. “Thank you.”

  “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen,” Cyrus said. “Okay with you if we sit out there?”

  “Like your taste in a tune, ma’am,” Guy said with a nod at Madge. He set off down the hall toward the kitchen and Cyrus followed him.

  Guy made straight for the big oak table in the window that overlooked the yard and Bayou Teche. “No coffee for me,” he said. “Madge is dedicated to you. She’s here late and she’s still got quite a drive getting home to Rosebank.”

  Madge rented rooms from Vivian Devol at Rosebank Resort. A floor in one wing of the hotel was dedicated to long-stay guests. Cyrus did his best not to show how much he worried about Madge making that drive alone. “I don’t know what I’d do without her. I’m going to have a glass of wine, how about one for you?”

  “Red?”

  “It can be.”

  “Thank you, then.”

  The man looked even more buttoned-up than usual. Cyrus glanced at him between pouring glasses of wine. Guy’s palms were pressed together and he tapped his joined small fingers on the table. Right about now Cyrus would guess Guy had forgotten where he was.

  Carrying the wine, and with a can of nuts clamped beneath one arm, Cyrus approached, and Guy went right on staring straight ahead. “Something on your mind?” Cyrus asked quietly.

  “Nope.” Sometimes you had to lie. Guy focused his eyes on his host and rested his hands on the table. “You called and asked me to come here.”

  “I know. I’d have
come to you, but—”

  “The Impala’s in the shop and you’re waiting for the verdict,” Guy finished for him. “Don’t worry about it, I like a drive at night.” A drive with Goldilocks, who had followed him down the lane to the Pontiac and jumped in as if she belonged there. All the better to get you to Jilly’s house. Shoot, that was the Wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.

  Cyrus sat at the end of the table and put down the wineglasses. “I stopped to see Jilly on my way home. I’m concerned about her.” He took the lid off the nuts, searched for a pecan, and put it in his mouth.

  Guy paused with a glass in midair. “Why?” She’d looked collected the last time he’d seen her—mussed, pink and tight-lipped, but in control. In fact, truth was she’d been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  His physical reaction was predictable. Everything constricted.

  “She never came back to answer any questions the deputy had,” Cyrus said. “Not that it matters as long as she called her insurance company.”

  Jilly had said she was going back to Cyrus and the deputy, and to tell Laura Preston to get lost. There had also been mention of nosy reporters.

  “You’re closer to her than anyone,” Cyrus said. “She and Joe have always stuck together, but his marriage had to change that some and he isn’t here, anyway.”

  Guy wanted to get up and go to her at once. “The accident shook her up, but she should have answered any questions the officer had.” This was his fault. Not because of what they’d done in the afternoon, although the circumstances should have been so different, but because he’d sent her mixed messages for the better part of a year. Right after Billie’s murder he hadn’t wanted anyone else, then he met Jilly and got scared spitless of falling for her on the rebound. He still wasn’t sure he was ready to be what she needed. But he’d driven her to act the way she had and now she would be embarrassed.

  “She didn’t answer her door until she figured I’d keep on ringing the bell. I saw her shadow move in the upstairs window.”

  Still nervous at the possibility that some goon had followed her home last night, Guy thought. “It’s good for a woman alone to be cautious, but I’m glad you didn’t give up,” he finished hurriedly.