Mostly Murder

by Linda Ladd

  “Madonna Christien is as crazy as a loon, that’s what. She’s been stalking me for three months and making my life into a living hell.”

  Okay. Claire scribbled something on her notepad, most of which looked like scribbles because it was. But it looked official and gave her time to think and hopefully would make him worry some more.

  It didn’t make him worry some more. “Your handwriting looks like chicken scratches,” he said, grinning at Zee. Zee grinned back, of course, rather maniacally, too. Claire tilted the notebook so Holliday couldn’t see what she wasn’t writing.

  “How did you meet Ms. Christien?”

  “I met her through one of the Saints cheerleaders. Wendy told me a friend of hers wanted my autograph for her little boy, so I said okay. I like little kids.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “At the Superdome, down on the field, right after a game. I was down there congratulating some of the guys I represent. Madonna had one of those stupid posters some paparazzi jerk took of me down in Miami when I was on spring break.”

  “You were saying about Ms. Christien?”

  “She said it was for her son, and that he was too sick to come to the game. We talked for a minute or two, but then she started acting a little weird, so I made an excuse and took off. Later, I wondered if she really even had a kid.”

  “How was she acting weird?”

  Holliday hesitated and looked at Zee. “Weird, as in coming on to me. She wanted me to come over to her house, actually started insisting that I had to. She said she had something for me, kept on about that, and then she said some voodoo doctor told her that the gods were pushing us together and that we’d be getting married inside a year’s time. That’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

  “What voodoo doctor?” That was Zee, apparently afraid Mama Lulu’s name might come up.

  Holliday shrugged. “She didn’t say. After that first day, she started sending me all kinds of gifts and cards and flowers, you name it. Addressed to her true love.”

  Aha, Claire thought. “And did you keep any of these gifts?”

  “Are you kidding me? I gave most of them to Wendy to give back to her and to tell her to leave me the hell alone. I might have a few things lying around that I overlooked. I sure didn’t want to encourage that woman.”

  “And who exactly is Wendy again?”

  “Wendy Rodriguez. Rodriguez is her married name. She’s divorced. She’s the cheerleader who introduced us.”

  “We’ll need to talk to her, too.”

  Holliday shrugged again. “She’s not hard to find. What’s this all about, Detective?”

  Claire ignored his question. Something about his story didn’t quite add up to her, something about the way he said it, as if it had been rehearsed. “So you are saying that you hardly know this woman, Madonna Christien?”

  “That’s right. Just that one meeting and a couple of times she was waiting for me outside this house. She tried to talk herself inside, but my butler wouldn’t let her in the door.”

  “What happened when you did encounter her?”

  “Nothing much. That’s when she gave me the gifts. When I refused to take them, she’d throw them over the fence out there in the yard. Sometimes she’d just leave them on the hood of my car or at the gate for me to find. What’s this all about, Detective?”

  Claire remembered the photos in Madonna’s voodoo closet, the ones of Jack Holliday that appeared to have been taken without his knowledge. That fit. One point for him. “What you’re describing sounds like the work of a stalker, Mr. Holliday. Is that what you’re telling us? That Madonna Christien was stalking you?”

  “Damn straight. That’s exactly what she was doing.”

  “Was?”

  “I haven’t heard from her in a couple of weeks. I hope that means she’s finally given up. That woman’s unstable, I’m telling you. You know, she’s not right up here.” He tapped a forefinger against his temple.

  Claire wrote some stuff down. Then she met his eyes, and they locked on hers, as black as India ink. There was definitely a concerned look in them at the moment. So, okay, time to get down and dirty. “If she was stalking you, sir, can you explain to us why she was the one who took out a restraining order on you?”

  Frown. Massive meeting of straight dark eyebrows. So much confusion in that expression, or was that just guilt? “I don’t understand. I’m the one who took out a restraining order on her.”

  Well, now. Claire hadn’t been expecting that one, if it were true. But Rene would have told her if that were the case. “Mr. Holliday, we have obtained a copy of an official restraining order issued by the NOPD, prohibiting you from approaching within one hundred feet of Madonna Christien.”

  Holliday just stared in disbelief, first at Claire, then at Zee. Zee remained suitably sober, thank goodness. Finally, Holliday said, “Well, that’s news to me.”

  Claire wondered if that was true. She said nothing, hoping to fluster him some more. He didn’t seem to fluster all that easily. He just looked like he didn’t understand where they were going with all this. “Again, Detective, I’m asking you what this is all about. Frankly, I don’t like the direction your questions are taking.”

  Okay, maybe he did know where she was going with all this. “Can you account for your whereabouts for the last four days, sir?”

  Holliday stood up. They cricked their necks looking up at him. “I’m not answering any more questions until you tell me exactly what’s going on.”

  “Madonna Christien was found dead inside a deserted house on a bayou in Lafourche Parish.”

  His mouth actually fell open, just slightly and just for a second, but she had to say that his look of utter shock did not appear to be manufactured. Maybe that meant he didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. Or maybe that meant he hadn’t expected them to zero in on him so fast.

  “Am I being accused of something? If so, I think my lawyer would like to be present.”

  “I haven’t accused you of anything, sir.” Well, actually she had, tacitly, in a roundabout, tacky sort of way, of course, but she wasn’t going to admit it. “Can you tell us your whereabouts for the last four days? Or would you like to borrow my phone and put in a call to your attorney?”

  Holliday looked at Zee, then back at Claire. He didn’t look all that friendly anymore. Probably didn’t want to share his charity leftovers, either. “I’ve been in Dallas for the last two days, and I have about a hundred media people and seventy-five thousand eyewitnesses to prove it, not to mention millions of people who watched my interview on Fox Sports.”

  “I think we can accept that. What about the day before you went to Dallas? Were you here in New Orleans?”

  “No. I was in New York.”

  “And you have witnesses who can verify that assertion, I assume?”

  “Of course. I met with my private investigator and an old friend of mine. They can both vouch for my whereabouts.”

  “And their names are?”

  “John Booker and Nicholas Black.”

  Okay, it was Claire’s turn to drop her jaw. She and Zee looked at each other. Her partner looked as surprised as she did. “You were with Nicholas Black? In New York City?”

  “Yes, you may know of him. He does a lot of television talk shows. He’s a psychiatrist, a famous one. He treats lots of celebrity patients.”

  Well, there was Blatant Big Lie Number One, since Black had been and was still working in London. But usually where there is one lie, there is a whole truckload of lies. Maybe she could catch him in the one he was weaving around himself. “Is he treating you for some kind of psychological defect, Mr. Holliday? Is that why you were in New York?”

  Holliday laughed, amused by the silly old detective. “No, ma’am, he’s an old friend. I’ve never needed his professional services, but I’d trust him with my life.”

  Me, too, Claire thought. She had, in fact.

  Claire met his eyes and tried to make him wo
nder what she was thinking. But the Black thing was throwing her, big time. “And you don’t mind providing us with their telephone numbers?”

  “No, I don’t mind, but they’re gonna be back in New Orleans on Tuesday. I can arrange for them to meet with you, if you like.”

  Okay, now, Hunk Holliday obviously didn’t know she and Black were a couple and for going on several years now, so how close a friend to Black could Holliday possibly be? Their pictures had certainly been plastered in the newspapers a time or two. And why hadn’t Black ever mentioned him to her? Maybe Holliday was just trying to arrange a meeting so he’d have time to call and brief them on what lies to tell her. Now that would put her own special true love in a very uncomfortable position, but so be it.

  “Can you tell me the airline and flight number you took to and from New York?”

  “I flew myself. I have access to a plane. My flight plans are probably still on record.”

  “You’re a pilot?”

  “That’s right.”

  Claire’s phone started to sing “Blue Bayou.” Holliday smiled. “Cool ring tone. I love Roy Orbison.”

  “Thanks.”

  Claire moved a few steps away. “Detective Morgan.”

  “Hey, girl. This is Rene. Where are you?” He sounded a mite breathless.

  “Conducting an interview. I’ll call you back.”

  “Jack Holliday’s listenin’, I take it? I was hopin’ I could get you before ya’ll got there.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, get this. We ran the fingerprints on the wineglass we found in Madonna’s house, and they came back to Jack Holliday.”

  Claire moved farther away and turned her back on Holliday and Zee. “He’s in your database?”

  “Yeah, believe it or not. Nothing serious. Disorderly conduct during Mardi Gras when he was in college. He and some of his Tulane college buddies got into a scuffle on Bourbon during a parade. No charges were pressed against them, though, and they were released the next morning. But they were printed and put into the NOPD database.”

  Claire finished the conversation and hung up. Holliday and Zee were staring expectantly at her. She said, “You better call that lawyer, after all, Mr. Holliday. Your fingerprints were found at the murder scene inside the victim’s apartment.”

  Chapter Eight

  After Claire’s announcement concerning Holliday’s fingerprints, the big football agent finally began to look concerned. “That’s impossible.” He hesitated, and then he said, “I’ve never been there. I don’t have a clue where she lives.”

  “How do you explain your prints being found there?”

  “I can’t explain it. But I can prove that I wasn’t anywhere near New Orleans since last Tuesday night. That ought to clear me, right? That should cover the window of opportunity?”

  Law enforcement speak, that was. “If I were you, sir, I would call that lawyer right away. Until I can talk to and verify your alibi witnesses, you’re going to be a person of interest to us.”

  Holliday already had his own phone out, speed dial pressed, giving a quick SOS to his lawyer. “He’s on his way,” he said after he hung up.

  “Do you have John Booker and Nicholas Black on speed dial, too, Mr. Holliday?”

  “Yes, ma’am, be my guest. Use my phone. They’re both still in New York.”

  Au contraire, Jack. On the other hand, his offer was an encouraging sign. A guilty man would first want to brief his cronies on what to say. Maybe he was innocent. Or maybe he was just crafty. He didn’t look or act like a guilty homicidal maniac who liked to sew, and Claire had seen lots of guilty homicidal maniacs. The sewing part, not so many.

  She moved into the adjoining dining room, which had one giant chandelier dripping with plenty of sparkling crystal prisms over a big shiny oak table, one that sat twenty, at least. She found the number for John Booker first. Booker just happened to be one of Black’s best friends, not to mention his go-to private investigator. She knew Booker pretty well herself, and had even worked alongside him. She pressed the button for his number and waited. Somebody picked up on the other end after the first ring. “Hey, Jack. Saw you on Fox yesterday. You still got the magic.”

  Claire said, “Well, hello there, Booker.”

  Dead silence. “Claire? Is that you?”

  “This is Detective Claire Morgan with the Lafourche Parish Sheriff’s Office.”

  “What’s going on? Is Jack in trouble?”

  “You could say that. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Okay. Is he all right? Are you working homicide again?”

  “Holliday’s fine. Tell me, Mr. Booker, have you seen Mr. Holliday in person any time recently?”

  “He flew up here last Tuesday night and stayed with us at the Ritz-Carlton for a couple of days.”

  This time it was Claire’s turn to frown. “Us?”

  “Nick and me. Didn’t Nick tell you where we were staying?”

  “In London?”

  “London? No. We’re in New York.”

  “Have you been in New York the whole time?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Okay, that was not the answer she was hoping for. Black had told her he was working in London, had called her from there several times. Last night, in fact. She felt her jaw began to tighten. What the hell was going on?

  “Which days did you see him?”

  “C’mon, Claire, what’s this all about?”

  “I’m waiting, Mr. Booker.”

  “He got here around noon on Tuesday. We picked him up at LaGuardia, and he stayed with us here at the hotel until he left for Dallas on Saturday.”

  “And why was he there with you?”

  “We were discussing something. A case. I’m a private investigator, remember?”

  “A case concerning what?”

  “Good try, Detective, but that’s confidential between Jack Holliday and me, and I think you know it.”

  Well, slap me down and make me cry. “Right. And you say that Nicholas Black was also with you during this time?”

  “You know he is. Come on, Claire.”

  Right, she should have known, but she didn’t. “Is he there now?”

  “Yes, he’s in the living room. Would you like to speak to him?”

  If Black turned out to be a material witness and got her kicked off this homicide case because of his lies, she was going to pin his face on a voodoo doll. “Oh, yeah, I sure would. That would be just peachy keen, Mr. Booker.”

  “I’ll go get him.”

  Claire listened to sounds of Booker walking with the phone, of a door opening, a few muffled words, and then a different man’s voice, one that she usually heard between her bed sheets, all gruff and deep and sexy and turned on. It was gruff this time, but not sexy or turned on. “What the hell’s going on, Claire? Why do you have Jack’s phone?”

  Black also sounded a bit upset, guilty, even. “I understand you can verify Jack Holliday’s whereabouts in New York during the past week, Black. Which is interesting to me since you’re in London.”

  Silence again. Very guilty, very long, Black no doubt thinking, Oh, shit, what should I say, what should I say? The rush of anger that shot through her did not help matters.

  “I can explain.”

  “Well, be my guest, Dr. Black.”

  “You’re angry, I can tell.”

  “I always said you were a genius.”

  “Claire, I really can explain all this.”

  “So you said. So, go ahead, explain it.”

  Claire glanced back at her two companions. Holliday looked like he was trying to eavesdrop on what she was saying. Zee looked like he wanted to kowtow, kneel down, and kiss his hero’s ring.

  “I’m going to, but not right now, not over the phone. It’s …” Black paused there, thinking up his very own Blatant Big Lie Number One, no doubt, and then he finished quickly with, “I’ll fly in tomorrow around dinner time. We’ll sit down, have a nice dinner, and work this ou
t, but right now, let’s talk about Jack.”

  “Was Jack in New York with you?”

  “Yes. Tuesday through Saturday. He was here at the Ritz. Booker, too. Jack and I are old friends from college, out at Tulane.”

  Well, that held up with the French Quarter altercation. Black’s prints were probably on file at NOPD, too. Great, just great, and getting more so by the minute. “And you were with him continually during this time?”

  “Well, I didn’t go to the bathroom with him, but I’ve got a Royal Suite on the twenty-second floor, and he and Booker stayed here with me the whole time. We didn’t go out at all.”

  “Would you be willing to sign an official police statement to that effect, Dr. Black?”

  “Damn it, Claire, cut the Dr. Black crap. Of course, I’ll sign it. In fact, I can get you about twenty other eyewitnesses that’ll tell you he was here Friday night. We had a little get-together for Jack’s birthday. Jack’s in some kind of trouble, I take it?”

  Black had lost his calm, unruffled shrink demeanor for a moment, said crap and everything, but he got it back pretty quickly. But, in a nutshell, not only was Black not in London, he was throwing little get-togethers at the Ritz with his college drinking buddies. The hole he was digging just kept getting deeper. Soon, it was going to be over his head. Not that she tried to control him. She didn’t, and she didn’t want to, or need to, but something about all this was very disturbing.

  Black wasn’t a liar, didn’t have reason to be either, not with her. She gave him free rein to do whatever he wanted, not that he wouldn’t do it anyway, with or without her permission. And vice versa. Neither of them would put up with anything less. Black was a bit controlling when it came to her, especially her safety, but he knew better than to order her around. There could be a good reason for all this—probably not, but there could be. Hell, she wasn’t unreasonable. Sometimes. But she was mightily ticked off at the moment and wasn’t shy about showing it. “We’re conducting a homicide investigation, sir, and Jack Holliday’s name has come up so we’re checking him out.”

  “Okay, I get it. This is an official call. Listen, I’ve got the Lear, and I better come back early.” Pause and then a heartfelt testimonial. “Claire, I’ve known Jack for years and I can tell you that he is incapable of cold-blooded murder.” Then he sort of laughed, just to show her how totally absurd the idea was.