Sex, Love and Murder

by Sandy Semerad

  “What if the man I saw last night is still hiding in there.”

  “Oh, gracious, what an awful thought. Don’t worry, dear, I’ll have a locksmith come out and secure that outside gate. I’m so sorry about this. I hope it hasn’t ruined your trip. And speaking of which, how are your interviews comin’ along?”

  “I talked with Vice President Gable yesterday and that went well.” I decided not to mention Dan’s accident, better to write her a long letter later.

  “How exciting. Unfortunately, I never had the privilege of meeting John Gable. I always hoped I’d run into him in N’Awlins. Is he as handsome as he looks on the screen?”

  “Almost too handsome.”

  “Be still my thumpin’ heart. Lilah, if I were your age, I’d set my sights, throw out my bait and feather my nest.”

  I was quietly offended by Viella’s suggestion to hunt Gable down like a game fish or bird and nest with him. Hooking up with another man, Gable or anyone else, was the last thing on my mind.

  “Don’t be accused of all work and no play, dear. Be sure to enjoy yourself.”

  “We will. Angela wants to go on a swamp tour this afternoon and tomorrow night she tells me we’re invited to a costume party. I have no idea what we’ll wear.” I thought of Angela, smiling serenely in her sleep when I last looked in on her.

  “I have the perfect solution,” Viella said. “Upstairs, next to the ballroom, there’s an attic. In it, is a large trunk filled with dresses, like they wore in Gone With The Wind. I have, from time to time, offered a tour of the Belle. And on those occasions, I hire young ladies to dress up like southern belles. They’re in all sizes, four to ten. I’m sure you two will find somethin’ appropriate that suits your fancy. They just need a little pressing. Jennifer over at Jen’s Costumes and Such can do that for y’all. And she’ll add a little crinoline and ribbons to perk them up. You’ll look prettier than Scarlett O’Hara,” Viella gushed.

  “Angela told me we’re supposed to go in disguise. We’re already southern but thanks anyway for the suggestion.”

  “Oh shush, pick up a couple of masks, no one will know who you are,” Viella insisted. “Jennifer has a wide selection.”

  “I’ll mention it to Angela. Who knows, she might like the idea.”

  “I’m sure she will. Now, before I go, let me tell you who’s been calling, dear. Your messages go on and on.”

  I started to tell Mary I could remotely access my messages at any time, but Mary hit play on the answer phone before I could say so.

  There were five greetings from friends and three urgent pleadings from Janice Dickens, managing editor of the United Features Syndicate. I had called Janice a week ago about the Gable interview, hoping she’d want a shorter feature, which wouldn’t conflict with my commitment to do an explorative article for Politics Today.

  Janice said she was “chomping at the bit” to get a story on the wire. “I need something now, Lilah. Call me, please.”

  Before calling her back, I walked downstairs for another cup of coffee and tried to collect my thoughts. I felt uncomfortable at that moment about the secret passageway and who might be hidding there, but I decided to call Janice first before asking the policeman outside to search it.

  After hearing four rings, I figured Janice was still asleep. It was only six in California and she was a night owl who slept late.

  “Leave a message. I’ll call you back.”

  I waited for the tone, the beginning four notes from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. “This is Lilah Sanderford. I got your message this morning. If you like, I can prepare a short piece on the Gable interview and President Wilson’s scheduled appearance at St. Louis Cathedral...”

  Before I could finish leaving my message, I heard a click and a shuffling sound. I pictured Janice wearing her sleeping mask, reaching like a blind person for the phone and dropping it.

  “Lilah, hold on. Can’t get this damn thing straight. Good Lord, woman, where have you been?”

  “Interviewing John Gable.” I was hoping to whet Janice’s appetite for the story.

  “Lucky ducky,” Janice said sarcastically. “And did you learn anything that everybody doesn’t already know?”

  “Well, for one thing, the President’s kicking off her goodwill tour by addressing what is sure to be a wild party crowd at St. Louis Cathedral on Fat Tuesday. She’s certain to draw criticism although the tour is designed to squelch the controversy surrounding her proposed drug legislation which, as you know, is quite progressive.” I paused for a quick breath. “Before Congress begins its hatchet job on her drug proposal, the President’s régime plans to have pilot programs underway in four major cities. After speaking at St. Louis Cathedral, she’ll fly to Atlanta, New York, Chicago and Los Angeles where city mayors plan to open up drug centers. In those centers, drug therapist and other professionals will use various methods to treat addicts. They plan to take first-offender junkies, rehabilitate them with hypnosis, aversion-treatment techniques, job training and employment. Policemen in the target cities fit into the plan as well. They will no longer arrest marijuana users. On the contrary, marijuana will be sold in the centers as part of an overall experiment.”

  “Did Gable say why Wilson is speaking in New Orleans?” Janice sounded confused. “You said they’re not opening up a drug clinic there, though the city is overrun with druggies, alcoholics being the most prevalent.”

  “He made a speech in Atlanta during the campaign predicting a landslide victory,” I explained. “Wilson objected, believing the race would be close. She told Gable, probably in jest, that she’d wear a costume and speak during Mardi Gras if the democrats won by a landslide. Gable says she’s making good her promise because she’s a woman of her word.”

  “Lead with the angle on why Wilson is speaking in New Orleans this Tuesday,” Janice said. “And weave in the drug crap. Shoot the story over to my computer ASAP. What about pictures?”

  “They’re not digital. I’ll need to have them put on a disk.”

  “You haven’t done that yet?” Janice asked, impatiently.

  “Janice, if I told you what’s happened to me in the last few days, you wouldn’t believe...”

  “Does it involve Gable?”

  “Sort of.” I enjoyed keeping Janice in suspense.

  “More details, please.”

  “Sorry, it’ll have to wait. I’m in a rush to get a story off, remember?”

  “Make it good, Lilah. If my publications pick it up, your by-line will be plastered all over the country.”

  ~ * ~

  Angela awakened to the sun beaming through the mosquito net on her bed. She rubbed her eyes, grainy from sleep and watched dusk particles swim in a ray of light.

  It felt warm and cozy lying under the crisp sheet. Last night seemed like a dream. Mama probably freaked out from a shadow. Hope Daddy knew what he was doing when he gave her that gun with hollow point bullets that’d stop an elephant.

  Angela glanced at the small cypress riverboat near her bed. Its intricate carving intrigued her as did the baby’s cradle, draped in the same mosquito netting as her bed. She couldn’t help but wonder about the cradle’s infant occupants.

  After a while of languishing in comfort, her growling stomach demanded attention, and she wondered where her mother was until she heard her voice.

  She followed it toward the Napoleon room and was shocked to see a police officer in the bedroom there with her mother, though she shouldn’t have been surprised after last night. She tried not to stare at the officer’s badly scarred face. He looked like one of those burn victims.

  The officer nodded a greeting to Angela as her mother explained why he was there. “This is Officer Clay with the parish police. He’s keeping watch over us.”

  Clay was fiddling with something behind the floor-length, gold mirror. “What’s wrong?” Angela asked.

  “Officer Clay was kind enough to come in and check out the hidden passageway behind the wall. Ms. Viella told me about
it this morning,” Lilah said.

  Angela didn’t like the fact that her mother seemed distracted, propped up on a chaise and typing on her lap top computer.

  “You’re kidding, a hidden passageway? For what?” Angela walked to the mirror and stuck her head through the narrow opening. It looked like a dark, scary tunnel.

  “Mrs. Viella said Captain Mullette was a pirate and a slave master. He stored stolen goods in there.”

  “Gross.”

  “I’m thinking the man I saw last night hid behind that wall. That’s why I’m having Officer Clay take a look. Mrs. Viella said she’ll have it securely locked today so we don’t have to worry.” Lilah paused to give Angela a distracted smile. “And another thing, the handyman, Mr. Blasey, has vacated the premises. Mrs. Viella said he’s out-of-town visiting his sick brother.”

  “Mother, I’m starving,” Angela said, frowning. She was disappointed to find her mother engrossed in work without mentioning breakfast.

  “Honey, grab some cereal, fruit and milk from downstairs while I finish this article. I’m on a deadline.”

  Angela pouted. She resented being shuffled aside while Lilah worked on some stupid article. “I thought we were going to have a nice, peaceful day. You promised we’d go on a swamp tour.”

  “I’m almost finished here but I do need your help this morning. After you eat, would you please take some film over to La Place Photo and get it put on disk. Janice Dickens at UFS is waiting with baited breath.”

  “Do I have to?” Angela put her hands on her hips, defiantly.

  “It’s only three miles down the road.” Lilah tossed her the keys and undeveloped film. “By the time you get back, I’ll be ready. We’ll have plenty of time to catch the swamp tour at noon. Lunch is included, your favorite Cajun specialty, red beans and rice and don’t forget your license.”

  Angela turned to leave, but then remembered the costume party. “What about shopping? I need a costume for tomorrow night.”

  Lilah mentioned the southern belle gowns in the attic. Angela figured her mother was trying to be frugal and might one day turn out like that old bag lady she’d read about who lived on the streets and died with a million dollars in the bank.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I told Angela to take her time shopping at Jen’s Costumes and Such. “I need to run to the bank.”

  “Okay, but hurry. The swamp tour leaves at noon, and they say it’s thirty-minutes to Bayou Goudin.”

  At 11:15, I drove up to Hibernia’s West Airline branch. Parking haphazardly, I jumped out of my van carrying Dan Duffy’s suitcase. My late mother’s advice was ringing in my ears: No matter what, act like you know what you’re doing.

  I reflected on what I’d already done that morning, the six-hundred-word article with pictures that I’d sent to Janice at UFS.

  “How may I help you, Ma’am?” an attractive auburn-haired woman asked. She looked about twenty-five and wore a purple form-fitting, double-breasted suit, a contrast to my jeans, white v-neck sweater and hiking boots.

  “I’m an out-of-town reporter covering the President and Vice President’s visit to New Orleans.” I let this information sink in before continuing. “I’ve purchased several valuable pieces of jewelry, and I need to store them in a safe deposit box, the largest size you have.”

  The young woman gazed at the crystal necklace. “Ten-by-ten inches, twenty-four deep. Let me show you.” She turned toward an open door leading to the bank’s vault, then waved her hand for me to follow. “We rent them on a yearly basis.”

  Deciding the large box would do, I set the blue case on the floor, filled out an application, and gave her my driver’s license for identification. She examined my I.D. along side my personal check for the annual cost of renting the box, then asked me to sign the signature card.

  I carried the long, metal container into a privacy room and closed the door. As quickly as possible, I opened Duffy’s suitcase and began transferring the stacks of hundred dollar bills, not an easy task arranging a million dollars and getting the top to close completely.

  Back inside the vault, a young man slid the box in its space, closed the front clasp, then locked the side-by-side keyholes with two separate keys. He handed me the keys and another signature card. I slipped one key on the ribbon behind the crystal. The large stone hid it nicely, and I was quite relieved when I finally walked out of the bank with Dan’s empty suitcase.

  The warmer than normal February air felt lovely. I inhaled it as if I were emerging from underwater before getting in my van and hiding the second key with the signature card under my feet behind the brown rubber mat.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Swamp Tour

  The red beans and rice we ate for lunch gave me a bloated feeling, making me wonder if I would survive the swamp tour without getting sick. Angela said the food agreed with her, and she felt fine as we boarded the small touring boat with fourteen other tourists. We sat on the built-in cypress benches next to a Quebec couple, who were already carrying on a conversation in French with the Cajun boat captain, Paul Guillory.

  Guillory laughed and joked with them in French in between telling stories in English about the narrow, pristine bayou. He delivered his tales like a seasoned pro, who had grown up in the swamp, raised by his grandparents since the age of two. They moved to Bayou Goudin from Quebec after his parents were murdered by French Nationalists, he said.

  Guillory claimed to be eighty-five, but I doubted it. He looked much younger, his face tan and leathery like his jacket. I wondered why he didn’t take the jacket off because he kept removing his sweat-stained Panama hat and wiping his bald head as if he were hot.

  He didn’t seem uncomfortable though. On the contrary, his brown eyes sparkled with anticipation as he steered the boat between tangled palmettos and moss-draped cypress.

  It wasn’t long before we reached our primordial destination. Guillory stood up to toss marshmallows into the smooth-as-glass water. Alligators appeared out of nowhere to gobble up the sweets, indiscriminately.

  Thankfully, my stomach had settled, and I was finally enjoying the tour, knowing it would soon come to an end. For a grand finale, Guillory took out a washboard on which he strummed and sang, “See You Later Alligator,” a song written by Cajun, swamp pop artist Bobby Charles.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  After Jay returned home from visiting Dan at Charity Hospital he vacuumed the pale blue carpet in his Creole townhouse. Strewn clothes were everywhere. He stuffed them in a wicker trunk before sweeping and scrubbing the upstairs bathroom. In his cleaning frenzy, he straightened hanging pictures and rearranged boxing trophies in the music room, then wiped everything dusty with a torn undershirt. Finally, he stacked his Notre Dame magazines on top of the glass coffee table.

  The place looked decent enough, he decided, then went into the kitchen to microwave and stuff three potatoes for dinner. Afterwards, he made a green salad, then marinated two large filets.

  It was only four o’clock, plenty of time to practice new licks on the keyboard, take a shower, shave and dress.

  But first, Jay felt the need to meditate. He plopped down on his royal-blue recliner and took several deep breaths, trying to clear his mind. Thoughts of Dan kept intruding. The nurse said his buddy was getting better, making grunting sounds. She seemed to think his twitching eyelids were a good sign.

  Jay’s thoughts shifted to Lilah. He felt himself grow hard. It had been a long time since he’d made love, three years to be exact, since Cindy.

  Beautiful women came into the club all the time. They’d ask him to sing and play for them, but he wanted more than a one night stand. Other guys, mostly musicians, thought nothing of having recreational sex. But Jay would rather use his hand than have a one night stand. He smiled at the rhyme, then pictured Lilah’s body, the way it looked in the black dress she wore Wednesday night. He fantasized about kissing and stroking her as he stroked himself.

  He tried to lose himself in the fantas
y, but Cindy Taylor’s face appeared. “Damn,” he whispered. He should have been able to save Cindy but couldn’t. This time around, he needed to be more careful, move slow.

  Chapter Thirty

  Belle Viella

  “I have first dibs on the bathtub,” I told Angela as we entered the Belle.

  Angela smiled impishly. She seemed happy and excited. “As long as I can wear your green silk shirt tonight.”

  “Sure. Help yourself.”

  “What are you gonna wear on your date, Mama?”

  “It’s not a date.”

  “Whatever. What are you gonna wear?”

  “Something comfortable.”

  Angela placed one hand on her hip in a vamping pose. “Wear that short, sexy, red dress.”

  “Too flashy. I only bought that little number `cause you talked me into it.”

  “Oh, loosen up, have some fun and show off your bod.”

  I considered wearing the red dress as I sank down in a hot, milk-bath, dozing with the back of my neck resting on the rounded porcelain tub rim.

  Twenty minutes later, I barely had the energy to shave my legs and scrub my body, much less get out and dry myself off with one of Viella’s soft, terry-cloth towels.

  “It’s all yours,” I yelled to Angela who was engrossed in another horror movie. She held her hand up in a stop signal not to be interrupted as I headed to the Napoleon room. I was looking forward to that four-poster bed and a long nap. It was four-thirty when I slipped under the covers.

  Angela nudged me about 5 p.m. asking, “How does this look?”

  For a moment, I had no idea where I was as I tried to focus on her. She wore stone-washed, fitted jeans and my green silk shirt. I thought she looked like a ballerina, flinging her hands over her head and twirling around. Her shiny, honey-blonde hair hung in loose curls down her back. Her face glowed with rose-colored blush and matching lipstick. The gray eyeshadow brightened her blue eyes like a dark cloud over a sapphire sky.