"Do you know whose bones these are?" she said.
He looked up as if he was going to answer, but when their eyes met, he turned away.
"What?" she said. "Who?"
But he was already leaving. A car door slammed, an engine turned over and tires squealed.
She walked around front, carried the paintings inside where they'd be safe, and sat on the front steps to wait for the police.
CHAPTER 5
Tony drove with the fury of an avenging angel, cutting through city traffic as if he was running through the pack at Le Mans, ignoring the chorus of angry horns in his wake. Claire's arrival had delayed his discovery, but Geneviève would have known it was inevitable. What would she do now?
She was nothing if not formidable. She'd dared to invoke his dead father's memory, to pretend grief for the man she'd killed.
Geneviève had killed his father. He was sure of it, although he couldn't imagine why. Not money. She was the one with money, the one who owned the house and the farm and God knows what else. Her first husband had been rich, and she'd fleeced him in the divorce. Certainly not passion. She'd told him that his father was the love of her life, but he couldn't recall any sign of tenderness on either side. By the time Dad had died, even a nine-year-old kid could tell their marriage was in the toilet.
He swerved around a slow car and accelerated to make the yellow light. Why didn't she just throw him out?
Hatred was the only possible motive. Geneviève nursed her grudges into full-blown hate. After ten years of a bad marriage, she must have hated her husband enough to kill him, hated him enough to hide the paintings that were his life's work.
Tony's hands tightened on the steering wheel. That hadn't stopped her from playing the young widow role for all it was worth. Geneviève Layton Devereux Burke wanted the spotlight, the center of every stage and the lead in every drama.
"I just don't know how I'm going to manage, and with a child to care for," she'd say, wiping away a crocodile tear. But when she told him his father was never coming back, her eyes were dry...
Geneviève had been alone in the house when he and Meemaw returned from Uncle Will's. He'd started to run out to the studio to say hi to Dad, but she'd grabbed his shoulder and held him back. It was past his bedtime. He'd started to argue, but her frown stopped him. He knew all too well that she had a quick temper and a ready slap.
He changed into pajamas and knelt beside his bed, his stomach churning with anxiety. Dad was supposed to follow Geneviève up to Uncle Will's farm, but he never made it. Everyone said, don't worry, his father hadn't come up because the roads were out, hadn't called because the phones were out. But the grown-ups would stop talking whenever he walked into the room, and now he was back home, and still no Dad.
"I want Dad to listen to my prayers."
"Jim had an accident." Geneviève leaned against the door, her arms folded across her chest. "When the water went down, they found his truck in a ditch." She wrapped her arms tighter. "He must have been washed down river. He's gone, and he's not coming back this time."
He started to cry and she said, "Remember him in your prayers. He's up in heaven and he'll hear you." She turned and walked away.
Most women would have hugged a stranger's child, but Geneviève had left her own son to grieve alone. Now, twenty-five years later, he knew why...
He parked in the Sunny Gardens visitors' lot and hurried up the walkway. Ahead of him, a middle-aged society blonde walked with her arm around a tall man who looked at least a hundred years old. He mumbled, "Pardon me," and stepped off the sidewalk to pass them. The blonde's glance turned into a double take with narrowed eyes. He thought she was going to chastise him for pushing past, but she turned back to her companion without speaking.
When he entered the building, the concierge looked up, and her face froze mid-smile. He caught his reflection in the mirror behind her desk and understood the startled reactions. He forced himself to slow down, to relax his shoulders, and unclench his jaw and fists. "Hi."
"Good evening, Mr. Burke." The concierge's voice and expression remained cautious.
"I'm hoping my mother will let me use her shower." His smile apologized for his filthy clothes and dirt streaked face. "I'll just sneak down the hall to her apartment."
"Mrs. Burke is in the main parlor." She waved toward the big room on the right, where elderly men in sports coats and women in dresses sat around chatting, glasses in hand.
This was a surprise. Geneviève had been emphatic about not socializing with the other residents, whom she viewed with disdain. She must be looking for cover. Fine with him. If she thought he'd back away from a public confrontation, she was mistaken.
"I'll just check in with her first." He moved on before the concierge could tell him he wasn't properly dressed.
Geneviève was sitting alone by a pair of French doors on the far wall, gazing out at the garden. He appraised her with a stranger's eye and saw an elegant woman, dark hair pulled into a chignon, clothing and make-up beautifully understated. She sat erect, as if riding one of her precious horses, and seemed unaware of the people around her or of him, standing in the doorway. Is this what a killer looks like?
He studied her face, the features so like his own. She was still attractive, but after years of frowns and sneers, the ugliness inside had begun to show. In another ten years, if she lived that long, she'd look like a witch. His certainty, which had wavered at the sight of her, returned. He cut through the crowd and stopped in front of her chair, his feet inches from hers.
She looked up and her eyes, hard with defiance, met his. She'd been expecting him.
Rage overwhelmed reason. He knocked the glass from her hand and hauled her to her feet, pulling her so close that his breath mingled with hers. "You bitch. You lying, murdering bitch."
"Have you lost your mind?"
He pushed the French doors open and dragged her, stumbling and clinging to her walker, into the garden.
"Let me go, damn you. I'm your mother."
"I'm damned because you're my mother."
"You're drunk." She raised her good hand to slap him.
He grabbed her wrist. "I just found Dad's bones."
"Let go. You're hurting my arm."
He loosened his grip but didn't release her. "Twenty-five years, it's been nothing but lies. Dad's body was missing because you hid it. In my toy box, for Christ's sake. That's why you boarded up his studio."
"You're crazy, drunk and crazy." She maneuvered her walker so that it was between them. "You must have found the skeleton Jim used for his drawings."
"Bullshit."
"Don't you talk to me—"
"I found his bones buried in sand in my toy box."
"Jim was afraid the skeleton would float away in the flood."
"Right, like his body floated away. There was no accident. You made it all up."
"His truck was found in a ditch ten miles south of New Orleans."
"You're lying."
"I have copies of the newspaper articles and the police reports. If you insist, I'll show them to you."
"I saw his head caved in. Did you lose your temper and take a swing with the first thing you laid hands on? Like you used to beat the hell out of me. Or was it planned? I wouldn't put either past you."
"You're such a fool. How did I kill a man twice my size? And stuff his body in a little chest?"
"I don't know how, but I know you killed him."
"Do you really think I drove his truck into a ditch and then walked ten miles back to town in a hurricane?"
"I'm not giving up. I'll hire detectives. They'll find proof. There's no statute of limitations for murder. I'll see you hang."
Something akin to fear sparked her eyes. "I swear on my mother's grave that I did not kill your father."
"You'll say anything, won't you?"
"I swear on my mother's grave," she repeated.
All of Tony's energy left him. He let go of her wrist, disgusted by the touch of
her skin, and turned around. A room full of shocked old people stared at him, their mouths agape. No one spoke or tried to stop him as he strode back through the parlor and out the front door. He didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do, but he could not spend another moment anywhere near the monster who was his mother.
CHAPTER 6
Sunday morning, Iris Burton left for work a few minutes early. She wanted to stop and buy beignets, a little treat for her favorite patient. Not that she was really a nurse, but aides have patients too, and Geneviève said she was better than the real nurses. "Iris, you're a breath of fresh air," she'd said the first time Iris brought her morning meds.
She carried the beignets back to her car, warmed by appreciative glances from the few tourists out this early on Sunday morning. The other aides, even the real nurses, wore those ugly pastel pant sets that Geneviève said looked like cheap children's pajamas. Iris agreed. She always wore a proper uniform, a white dress, white stockings and high-heeled white shoes. Right now, those high heels were killing her feet—she'd waited tables until two last night—but she walked briskly, head high and a slight smile on her face.
So what if she was tired enough to lie down and go to sleep on the sidewalk? The people noticing her didn't know who she was, but someday everyone would know her name. And she'd be driving a big new Mercedes not her parent's hand-me-down, eight-year-old Chevy Impala. No, better than that. Her chauffer would be driving her limo.
Her parents didn't understand. Last time she talked to them, her father said what he always said about being ready to pay the tuition as soon as she was ready to go back to college. It wasn't as if she'd flunked out. Her mother had signed off with the usual dumb joke about moving back home. I haven't turned your bedroom into a sewing room, not yet. Iris told Geneviève it made her want to sew her mother's mouth shut.
Geneviève had laughed and said her family didn't understand either. Geneviève understood. She'd been there, and she knew. She warned Iris about men, not her mother's dumb story about free milk and a cow, but from a worldly perspective. "Men have their place," she'd said with a smile and a wink, "but never depend on a man to get you where you want to go. And for God's sake don't let one knock you up."
Iris had promised caution, although she had neither a boyfriend nor the time for one. She wasn't living the life she'd imagined, but it was temporary, and she made the best of things. At the Blue Lantern, she practiced her acting by adopting different personas for each table. Customers loved it and left good tips. The old people at Sunny Gardens were a less receptive audience. Half of them were too deaf to hear an accent.
She parked in the employee lot and checked her make-up in the rearview. She'd only started working here last month, when her parents stopped helping with her rent, but she already dreaded Sunday mornings. Not only did they come after Saturday night, but everything took longer because of all the friends and family visiting or come to pick someone up for church. She tucked a stray curl under her little white hat and reminded herself to stay positive.
She waved and called buenos dìas to the first person she saw, one of the gardeners who probably really did speak Spanish, and then bonjour and guten tag to two women out for a pre-breakfast walk. Although she didn't really know any language but English, she could say hello in several. The first impression is the most important.
When she got to the front door, the security guard said, "How's our little Tower of Babel?"
"Vunderful, yust vunderful." She batted her eyelashes like a sultry Russian spy, and they both laughed.
Iris stowed the beignets in her locker and fetched her cart from the meds closet. Singing softly to herself, she walked down the hall to Geneviève's apartment. "Fame. I'm going to live forever." She knocked lightly. "Good morning, it's Iris."
Other people answered their door looking a mess and wearing frumpy housecoats, but even at seven a.m., Geneviève was dressed with her hair and make-up done. The others griped about this or that when all they were doing was getting old. Geneviève, who'd been thrown from a horse and seriously injured, never complained. This morning, however, she looked pale and make-up couldn't hide the dark circles under her eyes.
"Are you all right?" Iris said, even though she knew Geneviève would never admit anything was wrong.
"I'm tired. That's all."
"It's nice out." She handed Genviève the pills and a cup of water. "We could have coffee in the garden today. I brought us a treat."
"I don't know."
"I'll check back when I finish. You'll see. Once your pain meds start working, you'll feel better."
Iris's next stop was Mrs. Benoit, who usually treated her like a piece of furniture. This morning, the stuck-up old grouch actually looked at her and spoke. "Did you hear about last night?"
Without waiting for an answer, she said, "Geneviève Burke had a big fight with her famous son. He stomped in looking like a bum, grabbed her right out of her chair and hauled her out into the garden. At the cocktail hour, in front of everybody, but no one was close enough to hear what they were saying." Mrs. Benoit was fighting back a smile.
Iris wanted to slap her so bad her hand itched.
"They argued for a few minutes. Then he stomped out, and she went back to her apartment. It was like a movie when the lone cowboy rides into the sunset, except she was thumping her walker down the hall."
"No one helped her?"
"It happened so quickly, we were too surprised to move. You would've been too. After he left, people tried to help, but she wanted none of it. She insisted she was fine and refused to call the police—not on her own son. Said he was her cross to bear."
Iris shook her head in dismay. Poor Geneviève. No wonder she didn't want me to meet him.
"Someone sent for Dwight Chastain. I happened to be in the hall when he tried to talk to her. He's in charge of the whole place, but she wouldn't even open her door, just told him she needed a moment's peace. Have you seen her this morning?"
"I just gave Mrs. Burke her morning meds. Here are yours."
"I thought she'd open the door for you. You two are thick as thieves. Did she tell you what the argument was about?"
"You know the staff doesn't discuss patients, Mrs. Benoit." Iris disengaged herself and moved on. She knew nothing about last night, but if she did, she certainly wouldn't tell that nasty old biddy.
At the next apartment, Mr. Pasqua took his usual five minutes to open the door. He either didn't know about the argument or had better manners than to mention it. Several of the others were more inclined to snoop, because they all knew she and Geneviève were friends. Having to evade questions without being openly rude made this Sunday morning even slower than usual. By the time she finished her rounds it was after ten-thirty. Geneviève would be wondering what had happened to her.
Iris locked her meds cart back in the closet and hurried into the kitchen. The fifteen seconds it took the microwave to warm up the beignets felt like an eternity. She poured their coffee and snuck a flower from one of the centerpieces to add a cheerful note. Satisfied that she'd done all she could to make a nice little picnic, she hurried down the hall to Geneviève's apartment.
She balanced the tray at shoulder height with one hand, just as she did when making her way through the tables at the Blue Lantern—a gag pose that always amused Geneviève—and knocked on the door. "Yoo hoo. Sorry I'm late."
Geneviève didn't respond.
Iris knocked harder. She tried the knob, but the door was locked. Geneviève must have tired of waiting and gone to get her own coffee. It was her fault for being so slow. She left the tray on a hall table and went to check the dining room.
No luck there.
She looked in the parlors and took a quick spin through the garden. The gym didn't open until one on Sundays, but just to be sure, she peered in doors of the weight room, the swimming pool and the sauna. Anxious now, she hurried back to the dining room and asked the servers if anyone had seen Mrs. Burke.
"She
usually comes in for breakfast about seven-thirty," a waiter said. "I didn't see her today, but I could have missed her. It's been crazy, a typical Sunday."
"It's not like she hangs around and talks to anyone," another added. "She isn't the world's friendliest person."
Iris gave him an icy look. "She's friendly to me."
They were friends, and Geneviève wouldn't have forgotten their coffee. She'd looked so pale. Everyone said her worthless son had manhandled her last night. What if she really was hurt? What if she'd collapsed in her apartment and was too weak to call out or get to the door? She could have passed out and hit her head on something as she fell. She could be in a life and death situation.
Iris ran to the office and told the nurse on duty that Mrs. Burke was missing. "We were going to have coffee together, but I can't find her anywhere. She didn't look good when I gave her her meds. She might be unconscious in her apartment."
The nurse followed her down the hall and, after confirming that no one answered, unlocked the door with her master key. Iris pushed past her and ran into the living room. Geneviève lay crumpled on the floor. A scarf covered her face, the blue and green paisley she'd been wearing earlier.
"Oh no, she must have fainted." Iris knelt and lifted the fabric.
Geneviève's lips were pulled back in a silent scream. Her eyes bulged, the whites colored blood red. The rest of the scarf wrapped around her neck. Instinctively, Iris tried to pull it away.
Geneviève's skin felt cold and strange, more like an old balloon than a person. Dead flesh. "No," Iris cried. "No, no, no. Nooooo." She couldn't catch her breath, Someone kept screaming.
The nurse slapped her.
CHAPTER 7
Tony called Sunday afternoon. "I owe you an explanation."
"Yes, you do," Claire said.
"But not over the phone. Can I come over? I'd invite you here but my place is a mess."
"We could meet—"
"This should be a private conversation."
"Okay." Curiosity overcame annoyance, and Tony had a point. If they met in a bar or restaurant, people might recognize him and come over to ask for an autograph or talk about racing. She gave him the address of the Clarke mansion. "Push the button beside the driveway gate and I'll ring you in. Follow the drive to the end. I rent their carriage house."
Secrets, Lies & Homicide Page 4