Sex, Love and Murder

by Sandy Semerad

  Billy Joe followed me outside. “Don’t like the idea of you leaving, Lilah.”

  Jay got out of his car and approached us.

  Billy Joe offered his hand and Jay shook it before kissing me on the cheek.

  We all indulged in small talk about Mardi Gras and the unseasonably warm weather since December.

  I studied Jay, the comfortable way he and Billy Joe interacted with each other. Jay looked very handsome in blue jeans and a snug black leather jacket over a white turtle neck. I felt a chill from the night air. Jay must have noticed my shiver. He placed his jacket around my shoulders, and I smelled the manly scent of his aftershave.

  On the drive to Rue Nicole to meet Jay’s parents, I leaned back in the seat of his Jeep and tried to mentally loosen the stress knots in my body. Luther Vandross sang The Power of Love from a cassette Jay had inserted in the tape player.

  “You’re quiet tonight,” he said. “Care to try me out as a listener.” He reached over and rubbed my shoulders. “It might help to talk about what’s eating you.”

  I closed my eyes. “I’d rather live in the moment, if you don’t mind, and forget everything else for a while.”

  His car stopped at a red light and I looked over to see him staring at me. In a flash, he unsnapped his seat belt, then planted a passionate kiss.

  My blood flowed hot as our tongues touched. The car behind us honked indicating the light had changed.

  “Damn.” Jay said, flopping back in his seat. He shifted into drive, and gunned the accelerator. His tan face was flushed. “I’m in deep trouble, Lilah.”

  I noticed his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “What do you mean?” After the emotional roller-coaster ride of the last six days, I was almost too afraid of his answer.

  “I think about you every second. Want to be with you, but when we’re together, I can’t seem to control myself.” He turned into a concrete driveway beside a white-columned, two-story red-brick home. After cutting the motor he forced his seat back. “Give me a minute,” he said, flipping a side handle, stretching his body out and closing his eyes.

  I wanted to hold him, but the bucket seats and the fact that we were parked outside his parents’ house prohibited that.

  I passed the time by powdering my face and reapplying lipstick. Then, I watched Jay as he meditated. His pose reminded me of Rodin’s statue, The Thinker.

  I closed my eyes and tried to relax, too, while concentrating on a mantra I’d learned in a yoga class, Hamsa, Hamsa, Hamsa... I silently repeated until I fell asleep with my fingers clutching the crystal.

  I was dreaming about seagulls flying when Jay gently touched my arm, then placed his hand under my chin. “For three years I’ve felt dead from the waist down,” he said. “But lately, I’ve been resurrected, big time. My body’s behaving like it’s eighteen. I guess that means I’m alive.” He smoothed my hair with his hands. “Thank you, Lilah, for making me feel alive.”

  I thought of our common bond: Sam and Cindy were gone but our passions didn’t die with them. “You’re alive, and I’m alive.” I touched his bottom lip.

  “Yeah, I’m so damn alive I can’t stand it,” he whispered, opening his lips to me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a distinguished gray-haired man standing ten feet away, motioning for us to come inside. I waved.

  Jay jerked around quickly and nodded at the man. “That’s Dad, and speaking of alive, you’re about to meet a lively pair.” Jay jumped out of the jeep and ran around to open my door. As he did, his father walked up to welcome us. He was a young-looking sixty-six, wearing blue jeans and a matching turtle-neck sweater similar to Jay’s.

  “Lilah, I’d like you to meet my dad.”

  “Call me Manny, dear.” He shook my hand firmly, then kissed my cheek.

  I smiled. “Very nice to meet you, Manny.”

  Manny hugged Jay warmly before guiding me toward the house. “Beautiful lady, you’re not from New Orleans, are you?”

  “No, I’m from...”

  “Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me,” Manny interrupted. “Let me guess, after I hear more of your dulcet tones.” Manny winked while opening the back-yard gate.

  “Dad is a self-proclaimed expert on accents.”

  Manny opened the back door for us to enter. “Welcome to our home, Lilah.”

  “Thank you for inviting me.”

  As we walked into the house, an attractive white-haired lady with outstretched arms greeted us. Jay hugged her. “Lilah, I’d like you to meet the greatest cook in New Orleans, my mother, Jeanne.”

  “Hi, Lilah,” Jeanne said. She and Manny looked to be the same age. She was my height, slender, with a large bosom and wore a black tunic with matching stirrup pants and silver flats. “He’s exaggerating, of course. All sons and daughters say their mothers are the best cooks. Don’t you think?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. My late mother never seemed to enjoy cooking. “I think I’ll reserve comment until after we’ve eaten. It’s very possible Jay is telling the truth.”

  We all laughed, then Jeanne apologized for the plastic playhouse in the middle of the living room. “That’s for Manny and the grandkids,” she said. “Next time you come out maybe it’ll be a little straighter, but I can’t promise. I think homes were meant to live in not show.” In spite of what Jeanne said about her house being a mess, I thought it looked clean and neat, except for a few toys here and there, and I liked the eclectic decor of traditional, modern and oriental.

  Rather than eat in the formal dining room, Jeanne arranged the food buffet style and we served ourselves, then carried our plates out to the screened-in porch where we dined sitting on the floor at a long oriental table.

  During the meal, Manny correctly guessed Alabama as my home state. Afterwards, he and Jay talked about music. Manny, like his son, was a musician. Last year, he retired as a district sales manager after twenty-five years, and picked up his trumpet full-time to join J.T.’s Dixieland Band.

  Jeanne already knew I was a journalist, widow, and mother. She asked me about my interviews with Gable and Lotta Love, but she respectfully stayed away from any personal questions.

  As we cleared the table, the conversation turned to Dan. “One of his nurses told us today, he’s much better,” Jeanne said.

  “They’ve removed the tubes from his nose and mouth,” Manny added.

  I was surprised to learn from Jeanne that Dan was recently divorced.

  “Susan was a lovely girl but she grew tired of his partying. She told me years ago she thought Dan was drinking too much, and gave him an ultimatum.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked.

  “Soon after she divorced Dan, Susan married a Baptist minister, if you can believe it. And Susan’s Catholic,” Jeanne said.

  In front of his parents, Jay kissed and caressed my left hand. I felt a bit uncomfortable with this, but I tried to appear nonchalant.

  When the time came to wash the dishes, Manny pulled Jay upstairs to see his new trumpet.

  “Jay’s always been a wonderful boy,” Jeanne said, watching her husband and son retreat upstairs. “Never gave me any trouble.” Jeanne smiled broadly and placed the glass I handed her in the dishwasher. “He must really like you, Lilah. He’s hasn’t brought a girl here for dinner since...”

  “Cindy,” I said, completing Jeanne’s sentence.

  With a dripping plate in her hand, she stared at me. “You know about Cindy?”

  “When I had dinner with Jay Friday night, I saw Cindy’s picture, and he told me she had passed away.”

  “Did he tell you how she died?”

  “No.”

  “They said it was a drug overdose. I think it was a mixture of drugs and alcohol.” Jeanne glanced out the kitchen window into the dark night as if it helped her to remember. “She was such a sweet girl. Sang like an angel. She and Jay were together seven years. Almost like a daughter to us. But even though we loved her, I’m happy they didn’t marry. It would hav
e been a big mistake.”

  “Did they talk about getting married?” I asked.

  “Yes. Cindy wanted to. But they were so different. She ran around with a wild crowd and Jay didn’t care for her friends. And he objected to her drug habit. She tried to hide it, but even Manny and I knew she had a problem.” Jeanne touched my arm. “We were really worried about him when she died.”

  “It’s fortunate, you’re a close family,” I said, setting another glass in the rack.

  “We needed outside help to pull him through his deep depression. Cindy was his first and only serious relationship.”

  I listened, surprised to hear such personal information from Jay’s mother.

  “Jay’s always been shy but determined, not a pushover, by any means,” Jeanne continued. “If he wants something he goes after it. But he never seemed that interested in dating until he met Cindy.”

  I dried my hands on a dish towel. “Why?”

  “For sixteen years, Jay went to Catholic boys schools, that’s why. I don’t think he knew how to talk to girls. The only females he knew were aunts and cousins and, of course, his sister Teresa. She’s fifteen years younger. With four boys, you can imagine how we spoiled the baby girl. Jay used to say that if all the girls were like Teresa, he didn’t want any part of them.” She chuckled and patted my hand.

  I laughed, remembering the photo of Jay and his three brothers. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

  “No, he didn’t, Lilah. He loves his sister. But there was a time we thought he had no interest in marriage and having a family. We assumed Jay’s insecurity developed from his childhood when he had perthes.” Jeanne paused and looked at me. “Did Jay tell you about his illness?”

  “I saw a picture of him in a wheelchair and he explained.”

  “He was an active boy when he was stricken and the many weeks in the hospital were very difficult. When he finally came home, it wasn’t much easier. He couldn’t go outside and play football and baseball like the other boys. But,” Jeanne pointed a soapy finger in the air, “he took up the piano during that time and loved it. It was his escape and a real Godsend.”

  “He plays beautifully.”

  “I know. I love to hear him play and sing. Even the old-time musicians tell us how gifted he is. And he’s a marvelous songwriter too, so original. But I must stop bragging.”

  “You have every right to be proud of your son. He’s very talented. And Jay’s made an incredible physical recovery. I noticed his boxing trophies.”

  “I could hardly bear it when he took up boxing.” Jeanne shuddered. “It’s such a violent sport. I never could understand why he wanted to fight. You’d think with his leg pain, boxing would be the last thing he’d do.”

  “Leg pain?” I asked.

  “From the perthes. It’s in our family: His cousin, Michael, had it too. Michael is five years older than Jay. He was in so much pain he needed a hip replacement. Now he’s as good as new.”

  “What are you telling Lilah, Mom?” Jay said. He was standing in the kitchen doorway and may have overheard part of our conversation.

  Jeanne appeared stunned. “If you want to know, why don’t you come in and join us,” she said, winking at me. She walked over and kissed him. “You know what you need?” Jeanne continued talking without waiting for a response. “You two sit down over there, and let me fix you a drink.” She waved her hand at the blue loveseat positioned against a wood-paneled wall in the den which extended from the open kitchen. “Get loosened up, and we’ll have a jam session.”

  “I promised Lilah we’d go dancing. Maybe next time, Mom.” Jay walked over and slipped his arm around me.

  “Your dad has a new trumpet and I’m sure Lilah would love to hear you play the fight songs,” she insisted. “They’re a tradition in our house, Lilah. I get out the pom-poms and march around the room.”

  Jeanne stood perfectly straight, waving her hands in the air. “It’s great fun.”

  “Sounds like it,” I said. “I’ll pass on the drink, though.” I walked toward the loveseat, and Jay followed. He sat close and placed his arm along the back behind me, then began massaging my neck.

  Jeanne left the room returning with a cardboard box filled with crepe paper pompoms in different colors. Manny followed behind her with his trumpet.

  “At one time, I was a cheerleader,” I said, looking into the box and choosing two crimson pompoms. “But now I’m of the opinion it’s sort of sexist.”

  “Baloney, if I could play the trumpet and you could play the piano, Jay and his Dad would be running around acting foolish. That’s the way it is in this house.” Jeanne selected two gold and black pompoms.

  We followed Manny and Jeanne through a narrow hall into the living room. Jay took a seat at the upright piano that stood flush against one wall. Framed family photographs graced its top.

  I admired the pictures of Jay, stunning in a black leather jacket. He looked like a combination of James Dean and Elvis Presley. In another photograph, he was wearing a black tuxedo and playing the piano.

  After the music began, I discovered Jeanne was right about the fight songs. She and I acted like children, prancing through the living room barefooted and waving pompoms while the guys played every fight march they knew starting with the University of Southern California and ending with the Notre Dame Victory March.

  We were having so much fun, I almost hated to leave and go out into the cool night. Jeanne insisted that I wear her wool shawl. “It’s chilly, dear. You’ll need it.”

  “I hate to take your wrap,” I said.

  “Nonsense, I’ll get it from Jay later. Don’t you worry about that or anything, not even Dan or his accident. I’m sure everything possible is being done and he’ll recover, though I must tell you, Lilah, I don’t understand why there’s a police outside his hospital room, do you?”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  “Mah blue-eyed soul brother. Been a while,” the big black man said. I thought he bore a striking resemblance to Barry White and said so after he greeted us by sandwiching Jay in his giant arms. Jay introduced him as T.W. Jackson, the owner of Fatso’s.

  Jackson led us through his small rustic club to a private booth in the back with a clear view of the stage. After he left, Jay slid in the booth beside me and explained that Fatso’s is usually packed, but not on Sunday night.

  Only ten couples danced while a young woman, the color of maple syrup, gave a soulful, yet mellow, rendition of Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans. Other patrons lined the bar or sat at nearby tables and booths.

  In an effort to relax, I ordered a glass of white wine.

  Jay slipped his arm around me, then ordered a beer for himself.

  I met his glance and noticed how his eyes glistened in the bar light. He took my hand then, and I wondered if he could feel my pounding pulse as I struggled to control my breathing.

  “I don’t want this evening to end,” Jay whispered.

  I closed my eyes and mentally tried to slow my pounding heart.

  “You okay?” he asked, his fingers stroking my cheek.

  “Not really. It’s been a crazy week, full of unexpected surprises, and I’ve had about as much excitement as I can stand,” I gasped, taking another breath.

  “I know the feeling. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Thanks, but no. I’m the only one who can put my life back on track.”

  “Tell it like it is...” the words from a well-known Aaron Neville song flowed like musical tears from the mouth of the lovely dark singer on stage. She looked tiny and vulnerable in a black slip-dress as she wept the words.

  After our waiter brought our drinks, Jay led me to the dance floor and pulled me tightly to him, singing softly in my ear.

  I closed my eyes and moved with him. His body felt firm and strong. I wanted to climb inside and gather his strength as my passion rose like a giant twister.

  “Let’s leave,” Jay whispered as the music stopped.

  I nodd
ed.

  With his arm around me, we walked toward the front door. A tall, thin black man stepped in our path, then gave Jay a high-five.

  “Lilah, meet Piano Man Chelsey,” Jay said. Chelsey’s smile showed a gold front tooth with a star in its center.

  “One of your fans over there got a reques’, Jaybird.” Chelsey extended a crinkled finger in the direction of a tall blonde woman, wearing a long sequined silver and purple gown.

  I noticed the dress had a thigh slit, revealing shapely legs. The woman wore silver earrings that dangled to her shoulders and glistened in the bar light. Her short hair was combed back in a duck’s tail, reminding me of a classy fashion model.

  The woman waved at Jay.

  “I’m not working tonight, Man. Maybe next time,” Jay said, gripping Chelsey’s arm.

  “I never been to one of your gigs, when you ask me to play keys and I turn you down, did I? She just wants one little tune, man.” He gave Jay a napkin. Written on it in red ink was the title of an old Elvis Presley song, One Night with You and the name Trudy under it. “Surely your lovely lady don’t mind.” Chelsey smiled his gold-toothed grin again.

  Jay looked at me, searching my face.

  “I don’t mind,” I said.

  Jay led me to a nearby table before jumping on stage behind the miked piano.

  As he played and sang, he closed his eyes seemingly unaware of anyone. Trudy danced alone on the floor glancing up at him.

  A painful knot formed in my stomach as I remembered what Angela said about the groupies who follow musicians. Trudy certainly wasn’t a typical groupie. Most men would no doubt find her irresistible.

  Trudy took what looked like a business card and a one-hundred dollar bill from her silver evening bag, then greeted Jay as he hopped off the stage. He nodded politely and talked with her for a moment before she stuffed the money along with the card in the pocket of his leather jacket.

  I was shocked by my own anger, but in a way relieved, figuring he’d be easier to resist.

  “Sorry about that,” Jay said, pulling me to my feet and leading me out the door.

  I walked with him to his Jeep, silently fuming. I turned away when he tried to kiss me.