Sex, Love and Murder

by Sandy Semerad

  Sex, Love and Murder

  by

  Sandy Semerad

  Published By:

  Books We Love Ltd.

  192 Lakeside Greens Drive

  Chestermere, Alberta T1X 1C2

  http://bookswelove.net

  ISBN: 978-1-927476-20-8

  Copyright 2012 by Sandy Semerad

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2012

  Dedication

  With much love and gratitude to: Husband Larry--who earned his piano chops in New Orleans--grand daughter Cody and daughters Rene and Andrea; Mare and Jere Semerad, former New Orleanians who faced Hurricane Katrina and won; and my publisher, Books We Love Ltd.

  Previously published as Mardi Gravestone

  Prologue

  Fat Tuesday, February 15

  (St. Louis Cathedral, New Orleans)

  If you had seen me on that day you would have said I was a hyper child, not the mother of a teenager. I couldn’t sit still, much less find a comfortable position in an unforgiving church pew.

  I was nervous about meeting the President of the United States, and the harder I tried to focus on the questions I wanted to ask, the more fidgety I became.

  I don’t recall how many times I checked myself in the mirror and redid the hair pins on my French twist. I do remember thinking about how my life had changed since Martha--the cemetery psychic--gave me the crystal necklace.

  ~ * ~

  At that moment, the large, tear-shaped stone refracted green and gold, party yellow, electric purple, blood red, and sad blue. A Jackson Pollack impression of St. Louis Cathedral if ever there was one.

  “Costume congregation--eerie carnival aura,” I scribbled in my reporter’s pad while struggling to describe what I was seeing. “A comic contrast to the rich murals and stained glass windows of Louis IX, Christian King of France.”

  The Cathedral was standing-room only. Several people wore masks. They’d fit right in at the Voodoo Lounge, but not there, in a place once sanctioned by the Pope. I couldn’t relate. I had no reference point.

  I thought of the church I was forced to attend as a child. It was an outhouse in comparison to this. Yes, Gerry First Baptist in Gerry, Alabama was functional, but not much else.

  I sometimes wish I could escape my memories of back then. They’re reborn whenever I smell oak or a certain mustiness I came to associate with Jesus on the Cross. The smell would have been pleasant if not for the Reverend Barker’s sermons on hell-fire and damnation.

  Mother made me go to church, sick or not. One reason was, she provided the organ and piano music. Without her, Gerry Baptist was sadder than a funeral in Seattle. I don’t think I’d be wrong to say, Mother was the main attraction. Many in the congregation would agree, with the clear exception of Ada Bell Fletcher. Mrs. Fletcher frowned and went “humph,” every time Mother played the hymns in that boogie-woogie style of hers.

  Mother said Mrs. Fletcher had no room to judge. She and the Reverend Barker did a lot worse than the boogie-woogie at the Night and Day Motel--or as we used to call it, the Hourly Lay.

  Wishing I could push back the memory, I finger-combed an unruly strand of blonde hair into my French twist. A tall Secret Service man in black walked down the center aisle, blocking my view. He seemed more fitting as a pall bearer than as guardian for the President. This agent was quite handsome, a Richard-Gere type. He reminded me of Jay, the way his wavy, steel gray hair framed his face. But Jay was more casual. He’d never be caught dead in a suit like that, though I had to admit it was lint free and immaculate.

  Unlike my own attire, a crocheted dress I’d ordered from some catalog because it was on sale, and I loved the color, a rich burgundy. I’d worn the dress a number of times without having it cleaned. Oh well, so what. I was a seasoned reporter doing a job. At least I’d washed my hair that morning and dabbed on a bit of makeup. Quite a feat, considering the events of the past week: two murders and precious little evidence.

  I thought of the diary I’d found. It pointed to the guilty party, but like a complex news story with no lead sentence, left more questions than answers.

  My personal life was even more confusing. I, Lilah Sanderford of all people, had become entirely too hormonal: like a teenager in love, too much, too fast. I needed a break, needed time to clear my mind, consider the evidence.

  Fat chance on this Fat Tuesday. My mind was mush. I couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything for long, except superficial stuff like my appearance. I took a mirrored compact out of my tote to check for lipstick teeth and smeared mascara but promptly dropped it when the pipe organ thundered out Hail To The Chief.

  Katherine Georgia Wilson entered the back of the church dressed as a glorified Mardi Gras queen. “Resplendent in her golden crown and cape--Gold for power.” I wondered if I’d be able to decipher my scratchy handwriting. “The President’s cape is laced with green and purple ribbons, traditional Carnival colors.”

  Always the campaigner, Wilson worked her way through the crowd, shaking every extended hand until she came to the altar where she turned and waved, crisscrossing her arms above her head.

  “What an honor it is to speak to you in this beautiful Cathedral the final Tuesday before Lent.” Wilson’s deep, velvet voice assaulted the pin-drop silence. As if savoring the moment, she paused, smiling serenely from behind the miked podium. Picture perfect.

  I grabbed my camera and jockeyed with other journalists for position. Finally capturing the moment with my lens, I imagined my photo of the President adorning magazine covers around the world.

  Pop. It sounded like a fire cracker and startled everyone, even the transfixed mime wearing yellow spandex.

  I inhaled a peculiar odor, a combination of cotton candy and burning incense.

  Pop. Horrified, I watched the gold crown fly from Wilson’s head and heard the deafening cries of the crowd coupled with my own.

  Pop. I felt a numbing sting, and realized I’d been shot too as I swirled downward inside the black wash of unconsciousness.

  Chapter One

  February 7

  La Place, Louisiana

  “Angela, help me find the exit.” Driving west past New Orleans on Interstate 10, I glanced at the map Mary Viella sent me, wishing I’d stopped to ask for directions a mile back, but no, not me, Lilah Sanderford. I can be stubborn.

  “Don’t tell me we’re lost.” Angela frowned and pouted her bottom lip. At that moment, my daughter resembled an angry toddler rather than a college student, but I couldn’t let her play my heart strings, in spite of the fact she looked more like Sam every day, making me miss him so much I almost couldn’t stand it.

  I tossed her the map. “Stop being so grouchy and do something useful.” The late afternoon sun was blinding. I tried to drive as I fumbled in my tote for sunglasses. “Ms. Viella said it’s impossible to miss the signs.”

  Angela gave the map a cursory glance. “A lot of good this does,” she said, glaring at me like I was her worst enemy. “The only roads it shows are I-10 and U.S. 61. Makes no sense out here in the boonies.”

  “Stop complaining, try to enjoy yourself.”

  “I don’t wanna be stuck out in the sticks somewhere, Mama, and miss the Carnival.”

  “You’re not gonna miss anything. We’ll be mostly in New Orleans, but at the same time--”

  Angela interrupted me, imitating my slow, southern accent. “We’ll have a ‘plantation experience.’ Whatever that is.”

  I exhaled a loud sigh, showing my displeasure. I was tired of defending my decisions. Unfortunately, I was having misgivings about this one. I’d never met Mary Viella nor seen the Belle Viella; yet, I’d arranged to stay there after answering a classified ad in the Seaside newspaper: “Owner of historic
plantation wishes to swap mansion during Mardi Gras week for beach house same time...”

  At first, the arrangement seemed like a good idea. I was planning to visit New Orleans that week anyway. I’d already set up an interview with Vice President John Gable, who was scheduled to be Grand Marshal in the Mardi Gras parade. Also, Mature Magazine had assigned me a story on Bourbon Street legend Lotta Love, a high-kicking sixty-year-old sex symbol.

  “The brochure Ms. Viella sent was impressive, don’t you think?”

  “I was impressed with what Billy Joe said about the Belle being haunted.” Angela’s eyebrows jumped up and down as she pulled her long, honey-blonde hair into a ponytail.

  I wondered why in the world Billy Joe, my best friend since childhood, would repeat such a stupid rumor to Angela. It’s fine if he wants to be superstitious and believe all of that New Orleans folk lore but why pass it on as fatherly advice to an already emotionally distraught teenager?

  “My favorite song,” Angela said, turning up the radio. She poised her hands like striking cobras and sang loudly: “The power of equality...”

  I figured I had no choice but to tolerate the blaring noise and childish behavior until Angela could adjust to her dad’s death.

  Seventeen months ago Sam Sanderford, her father, and my husband of nineteen years, had gone to bed with a stomach ache and died in his sleep. A heart attack killed him, the doctors said, but I blamed myself. If only I had checked on him that night. Why didn’t I sense he was dying? I could have called 911 and probably saved his life. If only Sam hadn’t run for attorney general and won. His job was too stressful. If only I’d known how much he was hurting.

  If only...

  ~ * ~

  The sun dropped behind a line of trees and I stole a sidelong glance at my seventeen-year-old daughter. She seemed lost in the loud music. Her arms dramatically sliced the air in time with the drum beat.

  Until recently, Angela was scholastically if not emotionally mature. She’d graduated from high school early and enrolled at the University of Florida. She wanted to become a lawyer just like her dad, make him proud of her even though he was dead. She was in denial until recently when she finally flipped, according to Maria, her roommate: “Flunked a statistics exam and went berserk. Kicked and screamed, tore up her books.”

  ~ * ~

  “Look.” Angela pointed to a billboard with the drawing of a yellow and turquoise house: “Belle Viella, this exit.”

  As instructed, I turned right and followed two directional signs which led us to U.S. 61. From there, I thought the trip would be easy until a green truck hurled out of nowhere in front of me.

  Angela screamed.

  I slammed on the brakes and honked.

  The red-headed man who rode in back of the gateless truck mouthed an apologetic, “I’m sorry.” The man looked to be in his late thirties and too well dressed to be riding in the bed of a beat-up old pickup. He wore brown corduroy trousers with a green and brown flannel shirt. In his left hand he held a shopping bag. His right hand gripped the blue suitcase he was sitting on.

  Realizing we were looking at him, he smiled. With a showman’s flare, he dragged a purple and yellow beaded hat out of the shopping bag and slipped it over his red hair.

  He was obviously enjoying himself. He winked flirtatiously when we stopped at the red light and then, flashed a clownish grin before reaching into the sack again. This time he unfolded a yellow and green grass skirt and stood up to tie it on.

  “He’s a king from the neck up; a queen from the waist down,” I said. I couldn’t help but laugh as he began swaying like a hula dancer.

  “It’s Mardi Gras madness, and he has a double dose,” Angela said, turning the volume down on the radio.

  When the light turned green, the driver of the old pickup gunned the motor, causing the tires to screech. The truck jerked forward a few times as if the driver were stomping the accelerator and then the brake. The dancing man somehow lost his balance. Holding his hands in front of him like some superman, he fell forward toward our van. I slammed the brake and thought at first he might fly over the roof, but instead, his head came down as in a dive and hit the windshield.

  Jesus Christ. I was helpless to do anything, except watch his limp body jack-knife backwards and roll down an embankment. He landed beside a swampy bayou. The truck never stopped. I tried but couldn’t see the numbers on the mud-covered license plate.

  Trembling all over, I somehow managed to park on the road side, unbuckle my seat belt and make sure Angela was uninjured. She sat statue-like under her seat belt with her right hand tightly gripping the door handle.

  “Poor man. I hope he’s not dead.” I handed Angela the car phone. “Call 911 and tell them we’re on U.S. 61, east of La Place and about five miles from the Belle Viella Plantation.”

  While Angela made the call I jumped out of the van, noting the deep dent on my hood, and ran down the embankment toward the red-haired stranger.

  His head had come to rest against a weeping willow tree at the edge of a bayou. The blood on his forehead looked blue against his red hair. His right foot and calf sank into the muddy water. A brown shoe on his left foot remained miraculously intact and unscuffed. The yellow-and-green grass skirt he had playfully put on a few minutes earlier remained tied around his waist. But he no longer wore the purple-and-yellow beaded hat.

  I felt extremely uneasy when I spotted an alligator treading water on the other side of the bayou. The gator’s eyes appeared cold and vicious, reminding me of the story Angela and I heard at the alligator farm near Pascagoula that morning. It was a gruesome tale about a Metairie man who’d lost his leg while working on the plumbing under his house. The man didn’t even see the gator creeping up on him till it was too late, the tour guide said.

  Thinking this poor man might also lose one of his limbs, I stepped to the edge of the water, pulled on his trouser leg and placed his muddy, wet foot on the bank.

  “Mother,” Angela yelled, slamming the van door before racing down to where I was standing. “You’re not supposed to move him. You should know that.”

  “I’m afraid of that gator over there,” I explained, motioning across the smooth, glass-like water before touching the stranger’s neck. I thought I felt a pulse but my own heart was beating so rapidly I couldn’t be sure.

  Angela stared corpse-like at the water as if she couldn’t bear to look at him.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  When Angela didn’t answer I hugged her until sirens approached. I thought of the morning an ambulance came to pick up Sam’s body. Unlike that day, I saw some hope in the faces of the two paramedics, a man and a woman, who emerged from the orange-and-white EMS van.

  They worked methodically, hooking up an IV and placing white, foam-like, braces under the stranger’s neck and back. The woman kept checking his pulse and shining a small light into his fixated pupils: “He’s alive but comatose,” she said as another siren announced the flashing blue lights of a New Orleans police car.

  A tall, uniformed officer got out, adjusted his belt and sauntered down the grassy embankment. His muscles bulged underneath the light-blue, long-sleeve shirt. He tugged at his stiff collar, momentarily relieving the protruding veins of his thick neck. He then stroked his black hair and twisted his waxed, handlebar mustache.

  “I wonder if he sings in a barber shop quartet,” I said, trying to cheer up Angela.

  She leaned close and whispered, “He’s not even wearing a badge.” We both watched as he snapped pictures of our van and talked with paramedics.

  I pulled out my Florida driver’s license preparing to hand it to the officer as he approached.

  “How you doin’, ladies?” he asked in a slow Cajun accent, politely touching the brim of his police hat. “I’m Sergeant Ben Comeaux.” His smile displayed white, even teeth before studying my license. He glanced at the laminated photo, then back to me as if checking the resemblance. I didn’t like the picture, but it was definitely me, my
shoulder-length, light-blond hair and green eyes.

  “Says here, you’re five-feet-four, 115 pounds. That’s about right,” he said, undressing me with his gaze before returning my license. “Picture doesn’t do you justice.” When I responded with a frown he yanked a note pad from his breast pocket. “Can you describe what happened here?”

  I repeated what I’d already told the paramedics. Comeaux seemed less interested in what I had to say and more focused on my breasts, as if he could see underneath my lavender jumpsuit. I hugged myself and stepped back from this man on the make. Nothing seemed to send him a message or block his prying eyes.

  In all my thirty-eight years, I’d never encountered an on-duty policeman this rude who wore so much cologne.

  I instantly recognized the scent, Polo. Years ago I’d given Sam a bottle of the same cologne, and he’d worn it only as a romantic gesture before we made love.

  “Do you know this man?” Comeaux questioned.

  “No, we’ve never seen him before,” I answered.

  He looked at me and Angela skeptically while he shuffled through the stranger’s wallet. “I’m wondering why a man with plenty of money in his billfold, credit cards, and a bank card would ride in the back of a truck and bounce off the hood of your van. Of course, he might have been drunk, getting ready for the party town and all. And then there are those who drink because they don’t like to fly, and these airline tickets here say he just got off a plane from Baltimore.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Daniel Duffy,” He read from an identification card in Duffy’s wallet, then studied me through his dark lashes, possibly to see my response but I thought I saw something more in the way he narrowed his eyes and puckered his bottom lip. I didn’t know what it was exactly but I’d seen the same look in obstinate children who refused to tell the truth. “Works for the U. S. Postal Service.”