Sex, Love and Murder

by Sandy Semerad

  Jay tilted my chin up toward his gaze. His dark brows knitted downward, touching his long lashes. “I’ll come by your place later, then.”

  I backed away, looking for my purse. “I’d feel uncomfortable with Angela in the house and...”

  “In other words, I’m rushing you.”

  “I’m not ready for this, Jay.”

  “Lilah, am I crazy? Aren’t you feeling what I’m feeling? You responded to me.”

  “Most women with hormones would respond to you.”

  He looked puzzled. “I’m not interested in most women. I want you.”

  I didn’t know what to say, or if it mattered what I said. Jay wouldn’t understand, and he probably wouldn’t believe that Sam was the only man I’d ever known sexually. “Jay, I’m not ready.”

  “I know it’s frightening when you get involved,” Jay said. “No punch to the head or gut ever hurt me as much as heartache.”

  I tried to leave but my legs refused.

  “If you need more time, I understand. I care enough to wait. I’m not like the guy in that old country song, What Part of No Don’t You Understand. And I don’t want to lose what I found with you just because I lost control.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but I was thinking it should be illegal for any man to be this damn irresistible.

  Jay started stroking my hair. “What are you doing tomorrow? I’d like to see you.”

  “Tomorrow I’m going fishing with Billy Joe Harris and Mama Sis.” I explained my relationship with them.

  Jay listened, then asked, “What about tomorrow later?”

  “Angela and I have been invited to a costume ball. I promised her.”

  “Maybe you can come in the club afterwards. Remember what you said about your occupational hazard of questions? My occupational hazard is working through the night into morning.”

  I managed a smile. “We’ll try to stop by.” His eyes brightened. “What are your plans for Sunday?”

  I told him about my scheduled interview with Lotta Love.

  “I don’t work Sunday night and if your free, we’re invited to my parents’ house for dinner,” he said.

  “In Baltimore?”

  “No,” Jay laughed. “I thought I told you, they moved to New Orleans when my father’s company transferred him.”

  “Your parents don’t know me and...”

  “Every Sunday I have a standing invitation,” Jay said, interrupting. “They’d love to meet you and it’ll give me a chance to prove I wasn’t hatched. My mother and father are great. And you’ll love them. Everyone does. Afterwards, we can go out dancing if you’d like.”

  Not wanting to commit, I said nothing.

  “I can pick you up at five. Say ‘no’ and I warn you, I’m a pitiful sight on my knees.”

  His eyes looked as innocent as a newborn’s, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe having dinner with his folks wasn’t such a bad idea. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “You look and smell good enough to eat,” the woman at the gas station said to Ben Comeaux. She was eyeing him in his purple silk shirt and white wool slacks, and he remembered how his late mother used to brag about his appearance: “Faraud comme un paon, dressed up fine like a peacock.”

  “What fragrance are you wearing?”

  “Georgio,” he answered, hoping his good looks would come in handy when he surprised Lilah Sanderford at Belle Viella.

  Thirty-minutes later, he drove up to the turquoise and yellow mansion in La Place, disappointed and shocked to find Officer Clay stationed outside. Poor bastard, Comeaux thought. He’d never seen such a disfigured face on anyone who wasn’t already dead.

  Rather than ask Clay how he got to be so damn ugly, Comeaux decided to act official. He showed his badge, then explained his involvement in Duffy’s accident.

  Clay seemed convinced. He provided an encyclopedia of information about Lilah calling the police on an intruder and Blasey skipping town under the guise of visiting his sick brother. “Is the Sanderford woman around?” Comeaux asked, knowing she wasn’t because her van was gone. “I need to talk to her.”

  Clay yawned. “She said she’d be home by ten.”

  Seeing how tired Clay looked, Comeaux got an idea. “Why don’t you go home and catch a few winks. I’ll watch after things till you get back.”

  After Clay drove off, Comeaux found the door key in a flower pot and searched the mansion. He went through everything suspicious, including Lilah and Angela’s luggage. The sheer lace bras and bikini underwear made his dick hard, and he decided to jack off, thinking about the Metarie chick he’d rammed a couple of days ago with his nine-inch uncircumcised Cajun kingpin.

  After he’d finished, Comeaux thought he heard a car outside, but it turned out to be the wind blowing a broken tree limb across the gravel driveway.

  He looked at his watch. It was almost ten, the time Clay said Lilah would be getting back, but Lord only knew what time she’d finally drag in. It would more than likely be a long wait, and he’d best greet her outside in his patrol car to avoid a hissy fit.

  By ten thirty, Comeaux was supremely bored. To avoid nodding off, he arranged--in the order he’d received them--all of the e-mails from RUG, the address of the stupid bastard who paid him to investigate Duffy. Comeaux then paper clipped the e-mails in one neat stack. RUG’s most recent message was on top. It said someone would pick up Duffy’s luggage from Comeaux’s house at 1 p.m. Sunday.

  Comeaux smelled a setup. Why would anyone but a stupid fuck want Duffy’s stuff, a left-handed guitar, a bunch of poems, underwear, socks, three shirts, two pairs of pants, a smaller bag containing a razor, comb, shaving cream and after-shave lotion?

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I stopped at the Winn Dixie on the way back to the Belle, but after my evening with Jay, I had a difficult time deciding what to bring for the Saturday fishing trip with Billy Joe and Mama Sis.

  At the deli counter, I hemmed and hawed before ordering two pounds of smoked turkey, sliced thin; two quarts of potato salad and a coconut pie for Billy Joe.

  In the check-out line, I remembered how Sis liked to fish with earth worms, and I asked the young male cashier where I might buy some. He directed me to a convenience store a mile down the road.

  It was 11:15 when I finally got back to Belle Viella and spotted the white New Orleans police car in the driveway. At first, I thought it was Billy Joe, checking on me, then I saw Ben Comeaux get out. He smiled. “Evenin’ Mrs. Sanderford.”

  “Is there a problem, Sergeant?”

  His eyes undressed me as I stepped from my van. “Oh, no. Just wanted to make sure y’all were alright.”

  Comeaux walked toward me. I noticed the peculiar way he glanced at my van. Dan’s suitcase, now empty, was under the middle back seat, not visible from where Comeaux was standing, but, if he searched my car, he’d find the luggage and see the name, address and airline label attached. Also, he might uncover the safe deposit keys and signature card under the mat on the driver’s side. Comeaux stretched against the window. “Glad to see you’re okay.”

  I wondered why Officer Clay had left. “There’s supposed to be a La Place policeman out here.”

  “Said he had to leave.”

  “Did he say when he’d be back or if they’ll be sending someone else?”

  Comeaux smirked. “If you feel uneasy, I’ll be more than happy to check out the house for you, make sure no intruders are around.”

  Not on your life, I thought. “Don’t bother. We’ll be fine, Sergeant.”

  He frowned. “From what I understand, that handyman,” he pointed in the direction of Blasey’s living quarters, “could still be snooping around. They don’t know for sure whether he made it to his brother’s or not. He could’ve just made up a cock-and-bull story for all you know. And I’d feel real bad leaving you here alone without makin’ sure y’all are safe, if you know what I mean,” he said, winking.

  I glared at
him. “My daughter and I won’t be alone for long. So, there’s no need for you to stay.” I wanted him to believe I was expecting company.

  He reached over and touched the crystal around my neck. “Real pretty.”

  I felt imprisoned by this man, but determined not to let him in the Belle under any circumstances. Yet, I couldn’t leave him alone with my van.

  I was fuming over what to do when my cell phone rang. It was Billy Joe. “Hey, good news. I picked up a fishing license for you and Angela today.”

  “Thanks Billy Joe. I hadn’t even thought about doing that.”

  “You don’t sound right.” As usual, he could tell.

  “I’m standing outside the Belle talking with one of your colleagues.”

  “Clay?”

  “No, for some reason Officer Clay left.”

  “Who’s there now?”

  “Sergeant Comeaux.”

  Comeaux eyes narrowed.

  Billy Joe groaned. “Lilah, listen to me, Comeaux doesn’t have any business over there. He’s bad news. Tell him I’m on my way over, then maybe he’ll leave.”

  I played along. “That’s great, Billy Joe. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Glad you said that, though I wasn’t planning to come over till tomorrow unless you think it’s necessary, but it’s good to let Comeaux think I am. Now, let me talk to Molded-Ben.”

  “Billy Joe wants to speak with you, Sergeant.”

  Comeaux cradled the phone to his ear, then grunted, “Yeah.” In less than a minute, he tossed the phone back to me. “Sure are friendly with that big nigger aren’t you?”

  My face burned. “I think you’d better leave.” Comeaux raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “You mad ‘cause I called Harris a nigger? Why? They call each other niggers.”

  I flashed my most hateful look. “Apparently, you didn’t hear me. I said, get the hell out of here.”

  Comeaux stomped his feet. “I know your game, Honey, and you’re not gonna get rid of me so easily. I’ll be back.”

  I turned away from him, then heard his car door slam before he accelerated out of the driveway like a hot-rodding teenager.

  After he left, I noticed a stack of papers on the ground, near where he’d parked his car. It appeared to be e-mails from someone called RUG. I realized after reading them that Comeaux was paid to follow Dan Duffy and get his stuff, but why? It made no sense, though I knew I had to cover my tracks by removing the address label and flight tag from Duffy’s suitcase.

  After tearing up the labels in tiny pieces and tossing them in the garbage, I grabbed the spare safe deposit key and signature card. I figured they would be safer in my billfold than under a mat in my van, though I frankly didn’t feel safe anywhere.

  The Belle Viella seemed much too dark and desolate for my liking. In the foyer, I could barely make out the Grecian Statues. They looked like corpses until I turned on all the lights which thankfully worked that night.

  My watch said 12:15, and I worried about Angela who promised she’d be home before midnight.

  To avoid getting upset while I waited for her, I searched the study for a good book to occupy my time. There was a rosewood bookcase containing old hardcover volumes with unfamiliar titles. One in particular caught my attention, The Belle, House of Spirits by John Henry Martillion.

  I flipped open the faded, tan-yellow cover. The author was a medium from London, England. He stayed at Belle Viella in 1945 where he held séances. One of the spirits he communicated with, he said, was an African woman called Mia Marcel Mullette, born into slavery at the plantation a few months before the great flood of 1849. She was named after her owners as most slaves were back then.

  According to Martillion, Captain Mullette’s wife adored Mia, and adopted her after Mia’s birth mother drowned.

  “Mia had a bright mind and wanted to learn to read,” Martillion wrote. “She spoke to me in a voice as clear as any I have ever witnessed. History tells us that when Mia was twenty-seven, she asked prominent New Orleans attorney John Henderson to teach her the written word. This was three years after President Abraham Lincoln drafted the Emancipation Proclamation.”

  “Prior to one of their lessons, Henderson and Mia attended a meeting at the Mechanics Institute where legislators were supporting the rights of emancipated slaves. The meeting was disrupted by a large mob who objected to educating Negroes and giving them the right to vote. During the 1866 riot, Mia was violently clubbed, and later carted back to the Belle where her body died, but her spirit lived on in the house.”

  My reading was interrupted by the echoing sound of the front door knocker.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Saturday, February 11

  Manchac Bayou

  Billy Joe drove his black van north on Hwy. 51 and eventually found an agreeable fishing spot along the Manchac Bayou which flows east to Lake Pontchartrain and west to Lake Maurepas.

  The water glistened like black glass at this serene location where moss-dressed cypress intermingled with palmettos and oaks. Billy Joe said the ground was level enough to spread a table cloth and more importantly, the grass had been either cut or stomped down signaling a popular fishing bed and fewer opportunities for snakes to hide in the bush.

  To anyone driving by, my buddy appeared to be a serious outdoorsman in his green and brown camouflage shirt, pants and hat. As a precautionary measure, he was wearing snake boots.

  I wondered why a giant of a man like Billy Joe bothered to dress in camouflage, then wear bright fishing lures in his hat brim. “If you were in the middle of a thicket you’d still be noticed with those silly, orange and red fishing lures hanging from your hat.”

  He lifted the large cooler containing drinks and food. Angela and I grabbed the poles, fishing rod and canvas chairs while Sis wrapped her arm around a paper sack filled with chips, napkins, paper plates, plastic cups, eating utensils and a large picnic cloth.

  Sis helped me prepare turkey sandwiches and serve the food, then asked me to bait her hook. “Come on and join us Mama.” Billy Joe said, trying to entice Sis to eat.

  She smiled with anticipation as she tossed out the line of her cane pole. “I’s not hungry.”

  “We’ll save you a plate, Mama,” I said.

  She stared at her cork. “Thank you chile.”

  Billy Joe, Angela and I gobbled our sandwiches, generous helpings of potato salad, chips and coconut pie as if we hadn’t eaten for a day. Afterwards, we relaxed, enjoying the bayou’s quiet beauty before putting the food away and trying our luck in the water.

  “Man, I love it here,” Billy Joe said, stretching out his powerful body and crisscrossing-crossing his feet. “I reckon I’ve always preferred being outside.” He propped up on his right elbow as he observed the sky, trees and bayou. “It feels free here for as far as the eye can see. And the great Creator is all around.”

  “With nobody breathing down your neck telling you what’s right or wrong,” Angela said.

  Billy Joe swept his hand toward the sky. “You just know you belong in this place. And you get the feeling God, not some imperfect man, will let you know which way to go. I just wish we had more places like this for our young folks.”

  Billy Joe and I sat for a moment in silence until my daughter complained about having to bait her hook with a night crawler. “Mama, this is nasty.”

  Sis turned to observe Angela who wiped the sticky worm goop on her jeans before tossing out her line.

  Billy Joe snapped a spidery red lure on his rod and reel line. “I’m with you,” meaning he’d never put a slimy worm on his hook.

  Angela watched her motionless cork for a few minutes, then crammed the end of her pole in the damp soil. I knew what was coming next when she pulled the picnic cloth to a sunny spot. It wasn’t long before she was sound asleep, curled up in a fetal position.

  I tossed my worm-baited, cane-pole line into the still water and sat in a canvas green chair between Billy Joe and Sis.

  Billy Joe cast out his line
inches from the other side of the bayou, then reeled it back slowly, hooking a three-pound, big-mouth bass. Sis and I squealed with excitement as he pulled the shiny, silver-striped fish to shore.

  “He’s too beautiful. I’m gonna throw him back,” Billy Joe said, after dislodging the hook from the fish’s mouth.

  “No, you not. He be good eatin’ for tonight,” Sis insisted.

  “Natasha’s not wanting me to bring back a lot of fish to clean, Mama.”

  “You never mind her. I have him dressed and in the frying pan in no time.”

  Billy Joe took a stringer out of his fishing box, then ran it through the bass’s gills and out his mouth.

  Moments later, Sis cackled as her cork sank. The fat bluegill on her line put up quite a fight until she managed to wrestle him to shore. Sis cackled again when Billy Joe added the bluegill to the bass on the stringer.

  Mama and I soon discovered we’d found a bed of bream. Between us, we hooked five of the glistening blue fish.

  Wanting to join the party, Billy Joe cast his line closer to shore hoping a bream would find his red lure enticing. But the finicky bluegill seemed to prefer worms.

  A cool wind whipped across the bayou, rippling the water and apparently chasing away the bream.

  I decided the time was right to share Comeaux’s e-mails. Billy Joe scanned the pages quickly at first, then reread them, frowning and biting his lips.

  I knew he was angry. Back when he played football, he often frowned and bit his lip when he was getting ready to ram an opposing player.

  “Was Comeaux in the patrol car at the scene of the accident Tuesday?” Billy Joe asked, cocking his head at me.

  “Yes. At the time, I thought he may have been in the vicinity and heard the call come in over the radio. But after reading that...” I pointed to the printout. “I realize he was being paid to follow Dan Duffy.”

  “Doesn’t make sense, Lilah. If he were following Duffy, he would have known the guy was carrying luggage, and he would’ve seen it when it fell from the truck.”