Secrets, Lies & Homicide

by Patricia Dusenbury

  "She became persona non grata just like that?" Mike snapped his fingers.

  "I don't know the details, but as a divorcée and even after she remarried, Geneviève was one scandal after another. To my eye, she was a wild and free spirit, bursting the bounds of conventional society. My parents had a different perspective. Looking back, I suspect that some of the men she bedded were married to friends of my mother."

  "Could any of them be living here?"

  "It's possible."

  They exited the elevator on the main floor. Curious stares followed them through the reception area.

  "I'd like to hear more," Mike said. "Let's find somewhere private."

  "I can't, not now. I squeezed this in as a favor to the family. I have to get back to the office."

  "I'll walk you to your car." Outside and out of earshot of the curious, he asked, "What else can you tell me about Geneviève's life post-divorce?"

  "The short version. She married an artist and gave birth to a son who's a wild one in his own right. Her second husband died young, but she never remarried. Her son grew up, and she moved to a farm north of town."

  "When was the last time you saw her?"

  "The summer after I graduated from high school—that would have been 1966. I contacted her, and we met for lunch." He paused and when he resumed speaking regret shaded his voice. "Geneviève charmed and sparkled and asked about my plans. Unlike most of my friends, I'd chosen a college out of state. She approved. In fact, she advised me not to return to New Orleans."

  "Paul, I've never seen this side of you."

  "Geneviève was my first love. You have a soft side hidden somewhere, don't you?" Paul chuckled, his usual equanimity restored. "My parents found out about our lunch date. They were not pleased to say the least."

  "That was your last contact?"

  "Years later, she called my office. I did some legal work for her, for her son really. It's been ten years since we last spoke, but I care that Geneviève was murdered."

  "What about her son?"

  "I represented him several times. Nothing too serious, really, and nothing recent. He moved to Europe and became a successful racecar driver. Tony Burke. You've probably heard of him. I believe he's back in town."

  "That he is," Mike said. "And he had a very public argument with his mother the evening before she was killed." He didn't press for information about Tony's old legal problems and none was forthcoming.

  "Is Tony a suspect?" Paul didn't sound as surprised as he should have.

  "Everyone's a suspect until we find the killer. That includes ex-husbands and old lovers. Those husbands of your mother's friends, do you know their names?"

  "You're serious?" Paul said. When Mike nodded, he shook his head. "I don't."

  "Your parents might."

  "I'm not at all sure they'd tell you."

  "You could ask them for me. I'm most interested in the late sixties."

  "That's twenty-five years ago." Paul looked skeptical. "I'll ask, but I'm not sure they'd remember."

  "Ask about Roger and Geneviève's relationship post-divorce. They should remember that."

  After Paul left, Mike checked in with Bea then drove himself back to headquarters. When he met with Smith and Monroe, he'd tell them to look for Tony Burke's name in files from ten years ago. Paul's involvement meant a conviction was unlikely, but if they were lucky, they'd find an arrest record that would tell them if Burke had a history of violence.

  * * * *

  Paul Gilbert returned to his office in a somber mood. Today had been a day for ghosts. Memories of Tante Geneviève had haunted him since he'd learned of her death. An early client had been among the curious residents of Sunny Garden, standing apart except for a middle-aged woman, clinging to his arm. Their eyes met briefly, and the other man nodded but didn't smile.

  Paul had needed a moment to recognize Edward Cantrell and hoped his shock at the man's deterioration hadn't shown. He'd defused a potentially messy situation for Edward, who'd left his wife and family for a woman a generation his junior, perhaps the woman beside him now. He thought he remembered gossip about Edward and Geneviève. He'd ask his father.

  Suzanne was still at lunch. She'd left a pink message slip on his chair, a treatment reserved for the highest priority calls. Tony Burke wanted to talk to him. It was urgent. Et tu Tony? Paul had neither seen nor spoken to Geneviève's wayward son in a decade, and he was in no position to help him today. He dialed the number and left a message conveying his condolences. He didn't approve of Tony, but he felt sympathy for the child he'd been, the man he'd become.

  That last lunch, back in '66, was the first time he'd seen Geneviève from an adult perspective. He'd inquired about her husband and son, and she'd responded with an airy wave of her hand. She had no idea what Jim was up to, and she didn't care. "Don't follow in my footsteps," she'd said. "Marriage is a trap, and children are bloodsuckers." Tony had been six at the time. Poor little tyke might as well have been an orphan.

  He walked over to the window and stared out at the darkening sky. Roger was right; it looked like rain.

  CHAPTER 11

  Claire tossed the dirty sheets into the washing machine, turned it on, and then pulled the vacuum cleaner out of the closet. She opened the windows wide, swept and scrubbed, cleaned and wiped, shook out rugs and pillows, but only time would banish the miasma left by Tony's sad story, his terrible accusation and Bea's sharp questions. She put the last load of washing in the dryer and drove over to Tony's house. He had asked her to look for the old photographs.

  Two unfamiliar sedans and a van sat in the driveway, but she walked through the house and out the back door without encountering anyone. The skeleton still lay on the grass, the skull askew. She followed the path through the overgrown shrubs. A man stood by the studio steps, smoking a cigarette, and sounds of activity came from inside.

  "What are you doing here?" she said.

  "I was about to ask you the same thing."

  "My company's working on the house. At least we will be once those bones are gone."

  "Ah, Claire Marshall. I should have guessed." He introduced himself. "Don Sherrill, NOPD Scene of the Crime unit." He nodded toward the studio. "The scene, we think."

  "There are some things I want to do in the house."

  "No problem, and we'll be taking those remains with us when we leave this afternoon. But we're going to want you and your workers to stay out of our crime scene for a while longer."

  "No problem. There's no reason for us to go in there." She looked up at the eaves, at the big spiders still tending their webs. "Watch out for black widows inside. Tony killed several."

  "Everyone's wearing gloves and protective clothing—standard protocol—but thank you."

  She walked back to the house and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The narrow staircase leading to the attic, a half floor under the eaves, was accessed through a door concealed in the master bedroom closet. Dim light coming through shuttered vents revealed a jumble of boxes, chairs, side tables and cabinets. How on earth had they gotten all this furniture in here? She turned on her flashlight and surveyed the clutter. Geneviève had said the photos were in an old sideboard.

  The likeliest candidate stood beside the back chimney. A search of its drawers produced a dozen black and white photos, group shots taken in the living room. Small print in the borders dated the pictures from June 1958. Claire turned them over and read the names written on the back. Geneviève Devereux. These pictures had been taken before her marriage to Tony's father, but not long before. Jim Burke was in half the pictures, beaming at Geneviève and once with a possessive arm around her.

  She recognized several other names: a local fiction writer who'd gone on to write several best-selling novels, a prize-winning poet. One of the women was a painter of some note. Chez Geneviève had been real.

  Geneviève would have been in her late twenties or early thirties when these pictures were taken. Even faded snapshots captured her beauty a
nd vitality. Claire had seen few traces of that woman during her visit to Sunny Gardens. Geneviève's eyes had sparkled only when she talked about her horses. They'd glittered with malice when she looked at the other residents of Sunny Gardens and with hatred when she saw her ex-husband. She had disparaged her only child and might have killed his father.

  Whatever had happened on Geneviève's life's journey had transformed that laughing young beauty into a bitter old woman and, in the end, a murder victim. Saddened, Claire returned the pictures to their envelope.

  Certain stones are better left unturned, certain doors better left closed and certain forces never unleashed. Opening the studio, which Tony wouldn't have done if she hadn't pushed it, had destroyed a delicate balance and brought fresh tragedy. Some responsibility for Geneviève's murder was hers.

  She couldn't go back and change anything that had happened, but she could go to the farm as Geneviève had asked. She could help exercise the horses and be sure they were being well treated. It was a small thing but worth doing. She still had the trainer's phone number—Kyle somebody. She went back downstairs and rooted though her pocketbook until she found it.

  Kyle was happy to hear from her. "Anytime. Geneviève told me you were going to call, but with everything that's happened I forgot."

  "What about this afternoon?" In her present mood, she wasn't going to get any work done.

  Two hours later, Claire parked Felicia under a spreading oak and walked toward the barn. Kyle had said he'd be there or in one of the rings. Only the ring closest to the barn was being used. A sandy-haired man sat erect but easy in the saddle, a skilled rider in total control. The horse with its arched neck and prancing walk reminded Claire of a drum majorette. She leaned against the fence and watched.

  The rider, who had to be Kyle, touched his heels to the horse's flanks. The horse sped up but, instead of breaking into a trot, walked with ever-longer steps, vigorously nodding his head up and down. His front legs lifted so high their movement appeared circular, while his back legs reached forward in an almost horizontal thrust. This strange gait must be the big lick Geneviève had talked about.

  Kyle slowed the horse and walked him over to where she stood. They exchanged names and he said, "I'm glad you called."

  "I'm glad too. Who's this handsome fellow?" She nodded toward the horse.

  "Tomfoolery. Did you see the big lick?"

  "Yes." She wasn't sure what she thought about it. From the side, it might be graceful, but from the back it looked awkward, as if the horse was about to sit down. "He's gorgeous."

  Tomfoolery neighed and pranced as if he understood the compliment.

  "Gorgeous and high-spirited. He's been out on approval, but they brought him back last week. Too much horse." Kyle patted Tomfoolery's neck. "He needs a confident rider."

  "Out on approval?" He made it sound as if Geneviève sold horses. "What for?"

  He gave her a funny look. "Most people want to try a horse out before they buy it."

  "But I thought Geneviève rescued Tennessee Walking Horses."

  "She did. She bought them, nursed them back to health, retrained them and sold them."

  "She never mentioned selling them." Claire felt betrayed and then a little foolish. Of course, Geneviève had to find homes for the horses she rescued. Otherwise, she'd have no room for new horses. And it was better not to give an animal away. People take care of what they pay for. Dog and cat rescue operations charge fees; selling and charging a fee for adoption were essentially the same thing.

  "The best horses that come through here go back to the show ring. That's where the money is, and that's where Tomfoolery is headed." Kyle patted the big horse's neck again. "Soon as we find the right rider."

  "Geneviève wouldn't sell a horse to show. She hated the chains and padded shoes."

  "There are flat-shod classes, a flat-shod circuit, two associations of flat-shod owners and breeders. She sold horses. That's how she made her living." When she didn't respond he said. "Knowing Geneviève, she was afraid if you knew it was a business, you'd expect to be paid."

  "Paid?"

  "Exercising horses is work, hard work. I get paid, and you should be too. I can set it up."

  "I don't want to be paid. I want to help." She felt like crying, which was stupid. A simple misunderstanding was nothing to cry about. Kyle couldn't know that she was here because she wanted to keep her promise to Geneviève, whose death was partly her fault.

  "Hey, I'm sorry. Don't take offense."

  "No offense." She forced a smile. "I had this fairy tale vision of Geneviève rescuing beautiful horses and everyone living happily ever after. But horses take money. Food, shoes and tack aren't free. Vets cost a fortune. I know that. I just didn't think about it."

  Kyle returned her smile. "Nothing's wrong with fairy tales, and yours wasn't so far off the mark. The horses go to good homes or they don't go." His smile faded. "Geneviève abused people, but she took good care of her horses."

  "What happens to them now?"

  "Her lawyer called this morning and told me to keep on keeping on, but not to sell any horses until he can talk to her son. He's in charge now, but the lawyer hasn't been able to reach him."

  "I know Tony. My company is working on his house. Give me the lawyer's contact information and I'll pass it on."

  "Thanks. Meanwhile, if you want to start with Memphis, the bay gelding in stall three, I'd appreciate it. He's next in line. You'll see his tack has his name next to it."

  "I haven't ridden in years." Geneviève had said her body would remember, but now that she was here, Claire wasn't so sure.

  "Then what are you doing here?" Kyle looked dumbfounded.

  "I don't know." It had been an impulse, probably a dumb idea, but she wanted to help with Geneviève's horses to honor what had been good in the dead woman.

  "I have a lot of work to do." Kyle said.

  "I can saddle Memphis for you." She felt Kyle's gaze on her back as she walked to the barn.

  The mingled scents of fresh hay, horse sweat and manure evoked childhood memories. She had loved that smell and still did. She'd never minded mucking out Hershey's stall and had loved grooming him, brushing his coat until it shone.

  She found the proper tack and carried it to stall three where Memphis waited. He stood quietly while she slipped the bridle over his head and threw the saddle on his back. Then he nickered softly, as if inviting her aboard, and rubbed his velvet nose against her cheek.

  "I like you too." She rested her forehead against his neck and decided that she would ride him after all. She adjusted the stirrups to her length, led him to the mounting block, and swung up into the saddle.

  Kyle watched their approach with an expression that mixed confusion and annoyance.

  "It's been a while," she said, "but I used to ride dressage, and it's coming back. What do you want me to do?"

  Three hours later, Claire finished putting a mare named Tia Maria through her paces and walked her back to the stable. As much as she wanted to stay, Tia Maria would have to be her last horse.

  Kyle was setting out fresh hay. "You had me going there, but you're good. Long as I'm here, you're welcome to come back. And if you change your mind about being paid..."

  "Thanks, but I feel as if I should pay you, especially for letting me ride Tia Maria. If I were going to buy a horse, this is the one I'd want." She dismounted. "Before I go, let me get that lawyer's card, and I'd like to say hello to Fast Eddie."

  He gave her a sideways look. "Who?"

  "Geneviève's favorite horse." Claire smiled. "Named after the Governor."

  "I don't know which horse you're talking about." He folded his arms across his chest.

  "A black stallion with a white blaze." When Kyle shook his head, she said, "The one that threw her."

  "Tomfoolery threw her, he's a black stallion, but he doesn't have a white blaze and I've never heard him called Fast Eddie."

  "Where are the other horses?"

  "The ones
we just rode are either in the stable waiting to be groomed or if they're done, out in the pasture with the ones I worked before you got here. Another three are out on approval."

  Claire abandoned an argument she couldn't win, but on her way out, she drove slowly by the pasture, looking for a tall black stallion with a white blaze. Geneviève might have sold other horses, but she would never have sold Fast Eddie. "Over my dead body," she'd said. Now Geneviève was dead, and Fast Eddie was missing.

  Kyle had lied. He'd known which horse she meant. When pressed, he'd tossed out the first name that came to mind, but Tomfoolery had been out on approval. He couldn't have thrown Geneviève. Kyle was a lousy liar. Was he also a horse thief? A killer?

  She remembered his hands strong but gentle on the reins and couldn't imagine them tightening around Geneviève's neck. But what did she know about Kyle? Nothing, really.

  Claire got home a little before five. She called Tony at the dealership. "I found photos from 1958. Later would have been better, but there are names on the back."

  "You're doing better than I am. I'm dodging reporters who want to know how I feel about my mother's murder and playing telephone tag with a lawyer. I want some legal advice."

  "I can drop the pictures off at the dealership or leave them at your house."

  "Are you going to be home tomorrow night?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "I'll come over about seven and bring dinner. After we eat, we can look at the pictures."

  "Okay. Sounds like a plan." She'd wait until tomorrow night to tell him that his mother's most valuable horse was missing. It would be easier to explain in person.

  Claire's next phone call was to her mother. She'd told her about Tony Burke, Authentic Restorations' celebrity client, and if reporters were harassing Tony, the national news might pick up the story about his mother's murder...

  "I was just about to call you," her mother said. "I saw on the news about Mrs. Burke. What a tragedy. Did you know her?"

  "I met her once."

  "Of course I don't know Tony, but if you think it's appropriate, please give him my condolences."