by Martha Reed
“Y’all sound so practical.” Gee hunched forward, resting her wrists limply on her knees. “I’m not wired that way. I’m not fighting my brain I’m fighting my heart.”
I’m with Gee. Jane’s sharp-edged interior voice skated across her soul. Fancy’s been missing for 60 hours. Gee’s right to be worried. Anything else sounds naïve.
The skin around Leslie’s eyes gently crinkled as she stirred her jasmine tea. “I see that Ken and Ryan finished re-roofing the shed. Didn’t they do a nice job? Ken was right for a change. The yard does look better without that coop. It’s an improvement.”
Gee studied the square of bare earth where the chicken coop used to stand. “I’m glad that thing is gone. Never liked it. Always felt nasty to me.” She shuddered. “All those loose pin feathers blowing around and the little piles of white crap on the ground. Gave me the yips.”
“That reminds me.” Leslie tapped her chin. “Jane? By any chance did you borrow my Wellies? My boots, my rubber boots?” She twisted sideways in her chair. “It’s the strangest thing. I always leave them on the mat by the door. Keeps me from tracking garden loam into the house. I can’t find them anywhere.”
Is that a dig? Jane subtly checked her sneaker treads for mud. Nope, I’m clean. “Haven’t seen them, Leslie.” Standing up, she stretched her cooling muscles. “Is Ken up? I’d like to thank him for fixing the shed before I forget.”
“That’s another mystery.” Leslie replaced her china cup. “I don’t know where Ken is. He was up at the crack of dawn, just after five. Got one of those strange calls again. Slipped out of bed and caught the early bus.”
“What’s Pops up to now?” Gee wondered.
“I have no idea.” Leslie shrugged. “Whatever it is, your father is keeping it a secret even from me.”
“Wouldn’t it be great,” Delilah clasped her plump hands, “if Ken was sitting in a coffee shop somewhere writing new songs?” Her kohl-rimmed eyes widened. “If he came out with a new album as a surprise?”
Leslie smiled. “That’s a nice pipe dream, dear, but Ken hasn’t written a lyric in thirty-five years. He swore he’d never do it again and he is one stubborn man.”
“Maman?” Gee toyed with her mug. “Aren’t you curious to know what Pops does when he gets those calls? Don’t you want to find out where he goes?” Leaning forward conspiratorially, she lowered her voice. “I could follow him one day and find out.”
“No, don’t do that, Gigi.” Leslie’s eyes flared wide. She held up her hand and rainbows from her diamond ring danced over the ceiling. “Your father and I have been married for thirty-three years. I don’t need to know what Ken’s up to every minute of every day. He’ll tell me what he’s doing when he’s ready.”
Wow. Jane blinked. She felt a ripple of cautious unease. Is that what love is really about? Loyalty and blind trust? Shit. Maybe that’s why I never found it. How do you ever learn to trust someone else that much?
She heard a clatter of footsteps overhead. They began to descend the back staircase into the kitchen and she recognized Aunt Babette’s gait.
“Leslie? Leslie! Where y’at?”
The elderly woman scurried around the corner landing, clutching her chest and looking breathless.
“Gigi? Oh! And Delilah, good morning, dear. Leslie? The police are here.”
“What?” The wicker chair cracked as Leslie slowly rose.
“The police, cher. At the door. I saw them coming. From my window.”
“Oh my God.” Gee paled. “It’s Fancy.”
“Don’t say that, Gee.” Delilah snapped, pointing a sharp red fingernail. “Don’t call that bad juju into being. We don’t know anything for real yet.”
Leslie squared her shoulders. “I’ll go let them in.”
She led them past the closets and kitchen cupboards, automatically setting her teacup in the deep sink. An eight-note Winchester doorbell chimed as they trooped through the swinging door into the living room. Nervously shaking out her hands, Gee trotted ahead.
“No, Gigi.” Grasping her sleeve, Leslie slowly drew her back. “This is my house. If there is trouble coming, I will answer the door.”
Thumbing the brass spoon latch, she swung the heavy door open. Two men dressed in good suits stood waiting. Raising their right arms in unison, they displayed their NOPD star-and-crescent law enforcement badges.
“Good morning.” The bald white man with no neck said. “I’m Detective Felix Bordelon. This is my associate, Detective Antwon Dupree.”
Jane recognized Bordelon from NOLA’s Missing and Exploited Person’s Unit. Dupree, a younger black male with sun-faded natural hair towered over his right shoulder.
Bordelon adjusted his thick glasses. “We need to speak with Gigi Pascoe. We were given this as a secondary address. Is she here?”
Chapter Twenty
“Fuck. I knew it!” Gee groaned. “Something bad’s happened to Fancy.”
“Why do you say that?” Detective Dupree squinted, his voice a rich baritone.
“Please, step in.” Leslie indicated the room. “We’re all family here.”
“No need to entertain the neighbors any more than usual,” Aunt Babette acidly remarked.
Jane felt the balance of possible outcomes tip as Bordelon crossed the threshold. It’s bad. Big bad. The detective’s eyes reflected bitter knowledge and sorrow. Notifying the families is the toughest part of the job. Look. He’s not meeting anyone’s eyes.
Gripping a laptop in one broad hand, Dupree followed. Their leather shoes slapped the floor and their steady tread bounced off the plaster walls like the ticking of a pendulum clock. They took up a standing position, side by side, over the coffee table.
Reaching behind her, Gee felt for the sofa and sat. “You have news? About our friend?”
“Yes.” Detective Dupree frowned. “I’m afraid we do.”
“Afraid?” Delilah squeaked. Collapsing next to Gee, she reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers and resting their interlocked hands on her lap.
“Please take a seat,” Aunt Babette asked. “You two just standing there makes me nervous.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Bordelon choose the ladderback chair. Squeezing into an upholstered armchair, Dupree opened his laptop on a side table. Pulling a notepad and a pen from his breast pocket, Bordelon repeatedly cleared his throat.
“911 logged a call at 6:13 a.m. Metro CSI responded immediately. A K-9 unit recovered the body of Lester Wayne, AKA Fancy Abellard from a storage facility in Mid-City.”
Oh, shit. Jane suddenly felt ill. “Which storage facility?”
Bordelon checked his notes. “Guardian Self Storage on Canal Street. Why?”
Gee shifted sideways, looking waxy and green. “Jane? Don’t you work there?”
“It is. I mean, I do.” Jane’s temples throbbed. Pressing them with both hands, her blood pressure spiked so rapidly that she saw silvery stars like a firework display shooting across her peripheral vision.
Dupree studied her suspiciously. He slowly blinked like a tortoise. “And you are?”
Jane licked her parched lips. It didn’t help. “Jane Byrne.” CSI found Fancy’s body at 6:13 a.m. That means Christophe must’ve found her corpse and called it in almost the second I left the building. “I do work at Guardian. Security. Lob shift.”
Dupree looked puzzled. “Lob shift?”
“Lobster.” Jane shook her head. “Nights. I work nights. Ten to six.”
Bordelon checked his wristwatch. “It’s eight-eleven now. Where have you been?”
“I went for a run.” Tugging her damp T-shirt, she nodded at the poodle. “And came home to find this.”
“Home?” Dupree asked. “You work at Guardian Storage, you knew the victim and you live here, too?”
Shit. Shut up! Jane scrambled. Shut your fucking mouth! Stop volunteering information. It’s making things worse!
“Jane rents our tenant apartment,” Leslie inserted softly. “It’s
a separate unit off the courtyard.”
Dupree’s fingers hovered over his keyboard. “And you had no idea there was anything wrong at Guardian Storage this morning?”
Always cooperate with the police. Jane squirmed. Always. They’re looking for deception, mismatches and lies. She recalled the missing in-and-out client access details on Guardian’s exit log and Cal’s unexplainable wad of cash. That looks suspicious as hell. If I throw Cal under the bus it’ll take their focus off of me.
“There’s an issue with one of the exit cams that’s been noted in the security log,” Jane offered, “but shit like that is always happening.” Faking a serenity she didn’t feel, she rested her hands on her knees. “Cheap bastard owners won’t invest a dime in building maintenance. That whole place needs big work just to get it to code.”
Dupree maintained his steady unsettling gaze.
Don’t offer them anything more. Silence is a police tactic and they’re using it on you.
“What?” She caved. “What more do you want? I don’t know anything about this! Where,” she stuttered, “where was she found?”
Bordelon thawed first. “Inside a locked storage unit.”
“On Level Three?” Jane blurted.
Dupree pounced. “You do know more about this!”
“All I know,” she repeated carefully, forcing herself to relax as her thigh muscles trembled, “is what is outlined in the security log. Clients have been complaining for months about the stink on Level Three.” Hold up. It has been months, Jane realized. I’ve processed complaints about the stink from the day I arrived, from my very first day, way before Fancy died. It was the first thing Numa had me investigate on my rounds on Day One.
“Get a court order.” She suggested. “Guardian can release the owner’s name on the unit. That’s a solid lead. That’s where I’d start.”
“Warrant’s in process,” Dupree stated shortly.
Aha. Okay. They’re already on it. Jane re-centered. Waiting for the judge to get to court and sign off on it is more likely and that won’t happen until at least noon. She smiled knowingly. Judges can be tardy. Nothing new there.
“I can’t believe Fancy’s dead.” Gee whispered, staring at the floor between her feet. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I know, honey. I know.” Leslie’s shoulders slumped. “I am so, so sorry.”
“How did she die?” Gee looked up suddenly, her voice brittle. “Was it an accident?”
“No.” Bordelon checked with Dupree, who nodded grimly. “It was blunt force trauma.”
“But what does that mean?” Aunt Babette’s raised voice cracked.
“The preliminary report indicates a skull fracture with multiple broken ribs. Fingers were broken in both hands.” Dupree dry rubbed his palms together. “For what it’s worth, Ms. Abellard fought her attacker.”
“Someone hit her?” Gee leapt up, her face tightening like a fist. “Some feet pue tan beat Fancy to death?”
“Not exactly.” Dupree’s suspicious gaze returned. “We believe Ms. Abellard was kicked to death.”
“Fuck!” Gee shouted. Striding to the window she gripped the frame, her shoulders hunched to her ears. “I hate this!”
“Easy, Gee.” Delilah’s eyes flared wide. “Stay chill. He’s only telling us what happened. He didn’t do it.” She rose, her face as wan as the moon. “Was it a hate crime? Was Fancy targeted because she was queer?”
Gee spun around. “That is a great question.”
Dupree smoothed his tie. “We have no information on that point at this time, but I can promise you we’re keeping a close eye on that possibility.”
“I hope you are,” Delilah insisted. “Because that’s the fear we live with every single day.” Crossing the room, she linked her arm with Gee’s, drawing her back to the sofa. “We’ve been warned we might see something like this, an increase in violence against LGBTQ because of Trump.”
“Fucker.” Gee muttered darkly. “Fucking lowlife thug, preying on people’s fears. You know he stole that election. You know he did.”
“We’ve been warned things could get worse,” Delilah agreed.
“I can’t imagine how things could get any worse,” Aunt Babette interjected.
“Agreed.” Bordelon thoughtfully polished his glasses. “I know that nationally we’ve seen a slight uptick since the election.”
“Uptick!” Gee spat. “Is that what you call it? Fancy is our friend not a fucking statistic!”
“Gigi, please, sha.” Leslie implored with a frozen smile. “Try to stay calm.”
“We’re all aware of the hate crime situation,” Dupree inserted hurriedly. “My partner misspoke. Human rights are human rights. We don’t get to pick and choose. Law enforcement officers are sworn to uphold the Civil Rights Act for everyone,” he emphasized, “including LGBTQ.”
“Correct.” Matching his thumbs, Bordelon tented his hands. “If this is a hate crime, we will pursue the charges of that criminal act. Our stated departmental policy is ‘even one is too many.’ Any acts of intimidation, vandalism, or violence,” he ticked the points off his stubby fingers, “gets elevated to the FBI and the U.S. Attorney General’s office for investigation.”
“That’s a crap guarantee.” Gee scowled. “We don’t know where Sessions stands on LGBTQ rights. The man’s a Trump supporter from Alabama.”
“If Sessions gets confirmed as the new U.S. Attorney General,” Delilah added. “The Senate might still reject his nomination.”
“Mike Pence is even worse,” Gee insisted. “He’s a known homophobe.” She combed her thick hair with her fingers. “We are fucked with this Administration.”
“For what it’s worth,” Jane offered, “the right people will be handling the investigation. The Fibbies have the talent, the Quantico resources and the national scope to process a hate crime if that is what this is.”
“They do.” Dupree’s forehead wrinkled. “Why do you know that?”
“I’ve worked with the Bureau before.” Jane raised her chin. “In Massachusetts. I witnessed a child abduction and they brought me in.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“I’m sorry.” Leslie gasped. “You what?”
“Yes. Four years ago.” Jane’s stomach rippled with nerves as she confronted the searing memory. Stop avoiding this. Look straight at it. Don’t be afraid. “In another life.”
“A child abduction, Jane? What happened to the poor bebe?”
“She was recovered.” The only way out is through. “Safely returned to her family.”
“Seems strange to me,” Dupree squinted, “that you’re near the center of things again. Why is that?”
“Random chance.” Jane’s morning weariness evaporated. Fear is energy. I can use this.
“What I want to know is when did it happen?” Aunt Babette’s face shone with focused intelligence as she twisted her hands in her lap. “That might tell us who did this terrible thing. When did Fancy die?”
Bordelon crossed his arms. “The preliminary report indicates a 46-60 hour window. The Coroner is trying for more detail.”
60 hours? Jane backtracked through her sketchy mental calendar. Saturday night. Fancy was murdered right after Leslie’s birthday party.
Dupree swiped his laptop. “When was the last time each of you saw Ms. Abellard?”
Leslie nervously glanced around the family circle. “She was here for my birthday party. That’s the last time I saw her.”
“Same with me,” Aunt Babette agreed, sadly. “Fancy left wearing the party mask I made for her, special. Walked out looking regal like a queen.”
“I was sweeping glass up off the floor,” Jane added, “but I saw her leaving like they said.”
“I gave her a lift home,” Gee stated. “Actually, we both did, Dee and me, since we were already heading that way.”
“You did?” Dupree typed a note. “You and Ms. Gardere dropped Fancy Abellard off at her house on Dauphin Street in Marigny on Saturday n
ight?”
“No, Gee. That’s not right.” Delilah looked puzzled. “Don’t you remember? You and Fancy dropped me off first because I had to get up early to run the shop inventory on Sunday morning.”
“Sorry, that’s right.” Gee rapped her temple. “My bad. It was a big night. I drove Fancy to the club after we dropped Dee off. Fancy was meeting a Tinder date, I think she said.”
“Which club?” Bordelon asked.
“Femme du.” Gee blinked. “Where else?”
“Did you go into this club with her?”
“No, I still had my own shift to cover ‘til two. At Club Oz. I’m a dancer there.” Gee picked at her blue nail polish. “I got home around two-thirty or three, after close. Dee? Isn’t that right?”
“I suppose so.” Delilah hesitated. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You didn’t hear me?” Gee blinked. “I took a shower.”
“No.” Dee looked apologetic. “I took a couple of Tylenol PMs. I was dead to the world.”
“Did anyone else see you working at Club Oz during this time?”
“Only about two hundred people,” Gee replied sarcastically. “I’m lit up center stage, climbing a pole.”
“Gigi’s their headliner,” Leslie interjected proudly. “Their star attraction.”
“Don’t let Fancy catch you saying that,” Gee joked. Looking horrified, she covered her mouth with her fingers. “This sucks. I forgot!”
“It happens.” Dupree scanned his notes. “Did Ms. Abellard have any enemies? Bad blood or grudges? Any hard feelings we should know about?”
“None that I know of.” Gee slumped against the cushion. “Dee? Anyone?”
“Fancy could be obnoxious,” Dee chewed her lip, “and some girls were jealous of her lifestyle, but I don’t think anyone hated her enough to kill her.” She glanced at Gigi. “I know she owed some people money. Money was always a problem with her.”
Dupree’s head snapped up. “Who did Ms. Abellard owe money to? Drug dealers? Pimps?”
“No!” Dee protested. “Bookies, mostly. Fancy loved playing numbers and bourre. She was addicted to it. But I think she mostly owed friends.”