by Herren, Greg
“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t have access to the safe. Any jewelry I had that was worth anything is in a safety deposit box at the bank. Wendell never gave me the combination to the safe. I have no idea what he and Cordelia kept in there. You’d have to ask her. Or the police.”
I moved on. “You said that it was about three years ago that your marriage troubles started. Around the time of Katrina?”
“That didn’t help, but no, the trouble started before then, in the spring right after Mardi Gras, I think.” She closed her eyes, thinking back, and opened them again. “Yes, things started to deteriorate around then.”
“Any idea why?”
She went to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of ice water, took a long drink, then sat down and faced me again.
“The initial problem was Carey, my son. You have to understand a few things about this family, all right? Cordelia’s family, the Spencers—well, they were the closest thing to royalty we had in Louisiana, and she was the last one of them. When she was young, things were different. The notion of Cordelia carrying the family banner into politics was just not possible. So her father married her off to Willy Sheehan. The Sheehans were another political family, just not as prominent or as long established as the Spencers. All the Spencer eggs were put in the Sheehan basket, if you want to mix a metaphor. Wendell was their only son. His cousin Quentin had no interest in politics, and Wendell’s only child was a girl. After we’d been married four years it looked like I wasn’t going to give them a crown prince any time soon, so he and Cordelia decided to turn Carey into the royal heir. Wendell had already adopted him.” Her eyes glinted. “And I wouldn’t allow it. I made it clear that my son wasn’t going to be railroaded into politics unless he wanted it. I think Cordelia would cheerfully have shot me. Things were never the same after that.”
“And Carey’s father? How involved was he in your son’s life?”
Her face hardened. “He has nothing to do with Carey—Carey’s never even met him. Leave him out of this.”
“I can’t promise the police will do that.”
She laughed. “Please, Mr. MacLeod. Cordelia killed Wendell. I saw her with the gun. But she’s Cordelia Spencer Sheehan and she’s connected. Everyone in this state owes her favors. She isn’t going to jail. She’ll lie—hell, she already has—and they’ll come after me.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?”
“You don’t know my mother-in-law. There’s no such thing as being too paranoid where she’s involved. Trust me on that. Cordelia is an amazing liar, Mr. MacLeod, and she’s been around the block a few times in her life. Her husband was governor, for God’s sake. Do you really think the district attorney is going to want to take on the Sheehan family? I’m sure she’s already pulling strings, making calls. Evidence will be lost. Welcome to Louisiana politics, Mr. MacLeod. It’s is a very ugly business.”
“But won’t being a Sheehan help you in the same way?”
“In Cordelia’s mind, I am not a Sheehan—not by a long shot.”
“Do you think any of your husband’s political enemies could have killed him?”
“I told you, Cordelia killed him. But she doesn’t hold all the cards this time out. This time, I hold the trumps, and today she and I are going to have a little chat.”
She leaned back in her chair, smiling slyly.
“What do you mean?”
“She doesn’t know yet, but when I drop my little bombshell, she’ll stop telling the police and everyone else that I killed her precious son. After all those years of trying, he had to rape me to get me pregnant. And it’s the long hoped for crown prince.”
She got up out of her chair, walked over to the railing and leaned against it, facing me. “I’m carrying the last Sheehan son. I’m sure Cordelia won’t want her grandchild born in prison. She’s going to have to pin her crime on someone else. Things are going to be a lot different around here from now on.”
My head was spinning. Return the retainer and walk out of here, don’t get involved with these people, a voice whispered in of my head. But I, too, was caught in a trap not of my own making. If I dropped this case, whatever hold Cordelia had over Barbara would blow up in my face. I could lose my cushy job with Crown Oil. And Cordelia Spencer Sheehan undoubtedly had friends in Baton Rouge who could pull the necessary strings to get my license revoked. There wasn’t any way I could get out of this case.
I stood up and offered Janna my hand across the table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sheehan—Janna. If I have any other questions, I’ll give you a call.”
She took a card from her purse and slid it across the table, then shook my hand.
“Those are my cell and private phone numbers,” she said. “Call anytime.”
She went down the gazebo steps and along the walk to the back of the main house. The door shut behind her.
As I crossed the lawn, I reviewed what I knew. Janna wasn’t telling me the whole truth, which meant she probably wasn’t telling the police either. Shots fired, and she comes downstairs with a poker? That was almost as stupid as Cordelia picking up the gun. What was she hiding?
I walked around to the front of the house, and stood there. The property was definitely a showplace. Surrounded by an eight-foot-high brick fence, for privacy, the lot took up the entire block and was filled with gigantic live oaks. The house itself, a variation of the Greek revival style raised cottage with a double gallery at the front and a third floor with gables, faced the uptown side street. A fountain bubbled in the area delineated by the circular driveway, which ended in two electronic gates. I’d driven my own car through the gate to my right. It was still open, presumably so I could leave. On the other side of the fence, I could hear the traffic on St. Charles.
I opened the car door and hesitated. Something wasn’t right.
I stood in the driveway. Wendell Sheehan’s black Mercedes was there, presumably where he’d left it the night he died. I walked over to it and glanced up at the second floor of the house. The big windows on the right must be Janna’s bedroom. Then it hit me.
Janna had said her room was at the top of the stairs. How on earth did Cordelia get to Wendell before Janna did, if they both came down almost immediately after hearing the shot? Even if Janna had stopped to call 911, she should have gotten to the first floor long Cordelia. Cordelia claimed she’d looked in on both her grandchildren and only then come downstairs. Yet according to Janna, Cordelia was already in the drawing room when she got there, and she’d heard the second shot while she was on her way down.
What the hell had happened that night?
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Janna’s number. It switched immediately to voice mail. I hung up and tried the other number.
“Sheehan residence,” a female voice answered.
“This is Chanse MacLeod, I just met with Mrs. Janna Sheehan.” I made my voice as charming as possible. “May I speak with her, please? I forgot something I needed to ask her.”
“Mrs. Sheehan is resting and asked not to be disturbed. I’ll let her know you called.”
The phone disconnected.
My job had just gotten a lot harder.
Chapter Three
There’s a storm heading for the Gulf,” Paige said casually as she unwrapped her poʼboy from the grease-blotted butcher paper it had been wrapped in. She might just as well have said It sure is humid this afternoon and not the seven words nobody in New Orleans ever wanted to hear again. All of her attention was directed at the sandwich in her hands. She took a healthy bite, and mayonnaise squirted out the sides onto her fingers.
I was sitting in my easy chair, about to bite into my shrimp poʼboy, my teeth just inches from the French bread. I put the poʼboy down.
“You’re not serious.” I said.
Sweat formed in my armpits, and a numbness seemed to paralyze my brain for a moment. It was too soon, far too soon. Almost forty years had passed between Hurricanes Betsy and Katrina; s
urely we were entitled to another thirty-eight years before the next direct hit.
I didn’t even want to think about evacuating again, of packing what I could fit into my trunk and hitting the road for six weeks or even longer. Frantic questions raced through my mind. Would the levees hold? What if it came up the river this time the way Betsy had in the ’60s? What if, what if, what if. A couple of mild hurricane seasons had made us all a little complacent.
Paige licked the mayonnaise from her fingers and smiled. “Ginevra is its name. Right now it’s only Category 1, but once it hits the warm water in the Gulf…” She gave a half-hearted shrug as though to say what can you do? “Anyway, right now we’re in the direct center of the cone of probability, for whatever that’s worth.” She took a healthy swig from her beer bottle. “Absolutely nothing, that’s what it’s worth. It’s just a projection like always, and you know it can turn east or west. But people are starting to get nervous, which I guess isn’t surprising.” She made a face. “I really hate the term cone of probability. Why don’t they just say the sorry, you’re fucked cone and be done with it?”
I exhaled with relief, willing the stress out of my body. There wasn’t any point getting upset or worried or freaking out yet.
“Are you saying I should start planning?” I asked. My fingers itched for a notepad to start making a list: Change oil in car, get tires checked, figure out which way to go if I have to leave.
She put her poʼboy down and wiped mayonnaise off the sides of her mouth.
“Well, we don’t want to wait to the last minute again, do we? The governor’s office is in overdrive. They’re probably going to declare a state of emergency tomorrow. City Hall is in a frenzy. Can you believe it? Maybe I’m cynical, but I’ll bet you any amount of money they’ll call for mandatory evacuation really early this time—and I’m leaving.”
She took a swig from her beer.
Paige was still working for the Times-Picayune when Katrina hit, and had stayed with a group of other reporters in Baton Rouge, coming into the city every day to report what was going on. She’d never talked to me about what she’d seen, saying only, “That’s what I pay the shrink for.” She’d written a book about the whole experience, and had even found an agent to help place it with a publisher, without luck. Paige had given up on it ever seeing print, and I knew she was disappointed. But whenever I brought it up she changed the subject.
She picked up the sandwich again and gave me a sideways look. “So, you had an audience with Her Majesty the Queen. What did you think of her?”
“What do you think about her?” I countered. “You’ve worked for her for almost a year now, and I’m sure you’ve got an opinion. You always do.”
“Her Majesty never shows her face around the office,” Paige said, grinning. “Get her oh-so-correct white gloves dirty? Really, Chanse, what are you thinking?”
She took another healthy bite of the poʼboy, washing it down with another swig of beer. She hiccupped, and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Excuse me, sorry. Actually, Cordelia’s not so bad. I covered a couple of the events for her foundation when I was at the paper. She’s very passionate about helping abused women, which makes me wonder about what her marriage was like. You know she didn’t start all of that up until after her husband died. She’s a horrible snob, of course, but she’s been in or around politics her entire life and knows how to put on a good face for the hoi polloi—especially when she wants you to write a check. Then again, she could be much, much worse. She could do nothing for charity and just have lunch. I’m glad she does what she does—who’d do it if she didn’t? Her shelters and foundation have done a lot of women a lot of good. What was your impression?”
She popped an errant shrimp into her mouth.
“I didn’t like her. She has about as much charm as a rattlesnake. But then, I’m just the help.”
Paige sipped her beer and frowned.
“And she wants you to look into Wendell’s murder? It’s a mess, you can be sure of that. Cordelia’s fingerprints were the only ones on the gun, and she tested positive for powder blowback. If it were anyone else, she’d have been arrested already. But I can’t imagine her killing her own son without a damned good reason. I guess it’s just a matter of finding it. My sources in the police department—”
“Venus and Blaine?”
“You know I can’t name my sources.” She winked, crumpling up the greasy paper her sandwich had been wrapped in.
Venus Casanova and Blaine Tujague were friends of ours, and probably the two best detectives in the NOPD. I’d met Venus during my time on the force. After I left, she took a dim view of my “interference” when our professional paths crossed. But over the years, our relationship had passed from dislike to grudging respect, and finally to friendship. I’d never been sure of her age, but she had two grown daughters who had married and settled in Memphis. She was tall, had been an athlete in college, and had kept her body fit. Her partner, Blaine, was in his early thirties, a Creole from a prominent society family that had no problem with his being gay but disapproved of his being a cop. He was a good-looking guy, about five-nine with bluish-black, curly hair, blue eyes and thick muscles from hours spent at the gym. We’d become friends after joining the NOPD and for a time were fuck buddies. But that was ancient history. He lived with an older man now. Venus had stayed in their carriage house for a while after her house in New Orleans East had been destroyed by Katrina. A few months ago, she’d bought a house on General Pershing Street in Uptown. Paige and I had helped her move. Blaine and Venus became partners after her original partner retired and Blaine made detective grade. Surprisingly, their different styles meshed. They worked seamlessly together. Blaine also just happened to be the younger brother of Paige’s boyfriend, Ryan.
“It was Janna’s gun all right,” Paige continued, “but her fingerprints weren’t on it even though she admitted using it at a firing range just a few days before the murder. Apparently, Cordelia is claiming that Janna killed Wendell. Someone wiped Janna’s fingerprints off that gun—Cordelia says it wasn’t her. But why use Janna’s gun if the killer wasn’t planning to frame Janna? There are at least eight registered firearms in the Sheehan house. She had to know Janna wouldn’t test positive for powder residue. It just doesn’t make sense to me. My sources in the district attorney’s office told me they aren’t going to make an arrest until they’re absolutely positive. A wrong move could be political suicide. The Sheehans are just too powerful.”
Her mop of blonde-streaked red hair bounced as she shook her head.
“It’s a juicy case, though. I almost wish I was back at the paper, so I could cover it.”
“Did Venus and Blaine—er, sources—fill you in on the statements the Sheehans gave?”
“Both Cordelia and Janna went downstairs after hearing a gunshot? They’re either brave or really stupid. I would have called the police and waited upstairs until they arrived.”
“Are you familiar with the layout of the house?”
Paige shook her head.
“This is not for publication,” I warned.
She laughed. “Do you really think Crescent City is going to cover this story? I promise I won’t say anything to anyone.”
Paige always kept her word, so I continued.
“Janna’s room is at the top of the stairs. The drawing room is at the bottom of the same staircase. I don’t know where Cordelia’s room is, but her story is, she heard the shot and checked on the kids, then went downstairs and saw Wendell’s body. She said she went into shock, picked up the gun and it went off a second time.”
“With you so far.”
“Janna’s story is, she heard the shot, called 911, and was on the stairs when she heard the second shot. Cordelia is in her seventies, at the very least. I’ll give you that she is pretty spry, but how did she hear the shot, check in on both her grandchildren, and still manage to get downstairs before Janna when all Janna did was call 911? And why didn’t Co
rdelia check on Janna before she went downstairs? Even if she hates her daughter-in-law, and I’ll stipulate to that, don’t you think she would have checked on her?”
“The plot thickens. What did they have to say when you pointed that out?”
“That’s just it. I didn’t know the layout of the house until I was leaving there this morning. And now neither one of them will take my calls, or call me back. I think I’m being played. I just can’t figure out why. Cordelia made it quite clear that I’m not to focus on her family.”
I took a swig of my own beer.
“Isn’t Loren McKeithen representing Cordelia? Why don’t you call him? I know you think he fucked you over the last time you dealt with him, but you are working for Cordelia too—and if he hasn’t caught this discrepancy yet, telling him is one way to earn your pay.”
That was something, I admitted. “Did you ever meet Janna?”
“I know Janna. Not well, but I’ve met her a few times at company parties and things like that. She was perfectly nice to me. I liked her and felt sorry for her. Wendell was horrible to her. If I were Janna, I’d have capped his ass years ago. Before he stepped down as publisher to run for the Senate, he used to come back from lunch tanked. Fridays he’d go to Galatoire’s and not return. I often wondered how he thought he could get elected. Then again, it’s not like we Louisianans look down on drinking. And he did okay in the state legislature, and on the City Council. I guess the Sheehan name still carries a lot of weight.”
“How was he horrible to her? Do you think there was abuse?”
“That would be weird, given Cordelia’s work. He was very abrupt to her, but I didn’t see any evidence of physical abuse. I remember at the Christmas party last year—he just ignored her and never introduced her to anyone, either. The first time I met her was right after I was hired; they had a party so everyone could meet the new editor. You know, one of those things I hate going to and avoid like the plague if I can. He introduced me to everyone except Janna. I about fell through the floor when I introduced myself at the bar and she told me her name.” She tapped her index finger on her chin. “Wendell was kind of a pig. Always saying inappropriate things to women, touching us—never anything that truly crossed the line, I’d have knocked a few of his teeth loose if he had—but you know what I mean. Putting his arm around our shoulders, touching on the arms. That sort of thing. He thought he was God’s gift to women.”