by Martha Reed
“I hope you enjoy Hell, bitch.” Gee spat. “Because that’s where you’re going.”
“Shut your mouth!” Ryan shouted. “You don’t get to talk.”
“Grab some zip ties, son.” Cheryl ordered. “Same plan as before.” Her tone was chillingly reasonable. “Drive them out to Honey Bayou and feed ‘em to the gators, like you did them others. Easy-peasy.”
“I’m not so sure ‘bout that.” Ryan tapped the knife’s blunt edge against his lips. “These two disappear and you’ll bring the cops down on us twice in two days. I know they’re stupid, Ma, but they won’t overlook that.”
Cheryl dropped her chin. “You got a better suggestion?”
“How ‘bout we ... march them back to their house and burn it down? Place is a firetrap already. A little arson will cover everything.”
“Leslie Pascoe’s my best friend!” Cheryl protested, looking perplexed. “I’d hate to take her house from her. She didn’t do nothing wrong -”
“Sure she did.” Ryan pointed the knife at Gee. “She planted that evil seed right there when she took him in to raise. You need to listen to me this time, Ma. It’s the best answer we got.”
Fuck that. Jane heard a pebble rolling under Gee’s shoe. She’s ready to make a move. We need to do something. Her ears popped and she heard an oddly thrumming wah-wah-wah sound like a hovering helicopter. Shit. Fucking PTSD. Not now. The shotgun wavered from her chest to her navel as Cheryl’s shoulders dropped.
“I trust your opinion, son,” she stated uncertainly, “but things are getting outta control. It’s getting messy.”
“I’ll say it is,” said Aunt Babette.
Stepping into the garage, she neatly folded her dripping red umbrella. “Saw what you two girls was up to from my window. Called 911. The police are on their way.”
“You fucking nosy old bitch!” Ryan raised the knife.
“Watch him!” Gee rose up on her toes, ready to leap. “Watch him, Aunt Babette!”
“What are you going to do, Ryan? Kill us all?” Aunt Babette alertly cocked her head. “I should’ve stopped you years ago when I caught you stomping on Leslie’s chickens. Cheryl?” She squinted. “Shouldn’t have let it get this far. Shouldn’t have let him do it.” She lightly tapped her heart. “I should’ve said something, but I didn’t know you two were killing people.” Dropping her arms to her sides, she straightened to her full height. “I won’t let you harm my family. This all stops right now.”
Jane ducked as the row of blacked out glass panes simultaneously shattered.
“Everybody down!” Win Carter shouted. “On the floor! FBI.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Hearing the backhoe’s start-up high-pitched whine, Jane glanced at the kitchen clock. 8:09 a.m. A little early to be making this much racket, but if it means I can stop peeing in a bucket I’m not complaining.
She flicked the dotted curtain aside to check on the plumber’s progress. Leslie’s tidy kitchen garden looked like a trenched-out war zone. The mustard yellow digger growled a deeper note as it started scooping up and setting aside shovelfuls of sloppy muck. Ken and Gee were supervising the project, their arms solemnly folded across their chests. Their family resemblance was even strikingly obvious since they wore matching scowls.
Mr. Piddles perked up expectantly as Jane picked up the cane.
“Walkie, Mr. P? Want to go outside?”
She limped across the courtyard, taking it extra slow and carefully picking solid ground for every step. The backhoe’s caterpillar tread had churned the garden’s mushy ground into treacherously unstable muddy ruts and she had an entirely new set of sore muscles to explore after yesterday’s strenuous exercise. Gee spotted them coming.
“Hey, Jane. How you feeling today?” She grinned devilishly. Bending low, she scratched the itchy spot between Piddle’s shoulders. “Yesterday sure raised the bar. Never been part of an FBI raid before. Got me so wound up I couldn’t sleep. Hanging out with you sure is exciting. Anything more I should be getting ready for next?”
“Fuck off.” Jane planted the cane, wincing as her nostrils filled with the mushroomy odor from the disturbed clay. “How’s it coming?”
“What’s it look like?” Ken noted sourly. “Fucking sewer line.”
“Come on, Pops. You must’ve known this was gonna happen sooner or later. That pipe’s a bazillion years’ old. Look at it. S’made out of cast iron.”
“Sure, but I was hoping for later.” Ken scratched his neck. “Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost us? Fifteen thousand dollars just to rent the equipment and it goes up from there.” He snorted. “Fifteen grand to dig a ditch. I’m in the wrong fucking business.”
“What business is that?” Gee teased.
“The stacking shampoo cases in aisle four business, smart ass.” He flicked Gee’s bicep. “Jokes on you. This takes too much longer to fix and we’ll all need to move in with you for the duration. You get to sleep with Aunt Babette. You ready for that?”
“I’ll sleep with Maman.” Gee countered quickly.
“Oh hell no, you won’t.” Ken tapped his broad chest. “I sleep with your mother. That’s not going to change.”
Jane hid her smile behind her fingers. Ken’s feeling a little prickly today and I’m not surprised. She glanced at the Embry’s property, still cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. The FBI didn’t wrap it up until after 3:00 a.m. Gee’s not the only one who didn’t get much sleep.
Gee followed Jane’s sight line across Plessy Street.
“I’m just glad it’s over.” She grew pensive as the backhoe clanked forward like a German panzer tank. “Now maybe Fancy and Dee and those other people can rest in peace.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe how bad it got with Cheryl claiming she was The Slasher and that Ryan didn’t know anything about the killings, that he wasn’t involved.”
“She’s just trying to protect her son.” Ken studied Gee thoughtfully. “Parents do weirdo shit like that.”
Jane resettled her stance to spare her knee. “It would’ve been more convincing if Ryan hadn’t loaded snuff videos on the dark web off his phone. Makes it hard to claim he had no prior knowledge when his account had password protect.”
“Who ever said criminals were smart?” Ken scoffed.
“They’re not.” Jane agreed. “They’re just desperate people pushed beyond their limits or people feeling threatened or trying to protect someone or something they love. That criminal mastermind bullshit is Hollywood. At least the FBI can start working on the other IDs for those families to get some closure.”
The burly backhoe operator leaned out of his Plexiglas bubble, craning his neck at something beneath the toothy scoop and shouting something unintelligible. Leaning back into the cab, he shut the diesel engine down. It died in a descending series of rattling chuffing coughs.
“Oh, shit.” Ken grumbled. “Now what?”
Unbuckling his safety belt, the operator grasped an overhead chrome handle and swung to the muddy ground. “Yo, Ken? Something funky going on here.”
“Xavier?” Ken strode closer to the trench. “What is it?”
“Some kinda tarp.” He rolled the dirt off his palms. “Got bones sticking out of it.”
Stumbling over the dirt clods, Jane followed Gee to the trench. Crossing her arms, she shivered. Yep, that’s a human leg all right. The backhoe had apparently disturbed the skeletonized remains of an adult human being. Judging from the width of that hip basket, I’d say it’s female. The unhinged skull grinned crookedly through the plastic sheet and strands of curly black hair still clung to the ivory skull.
Xavier hawked and spat wetly. “No real surprise.” He circled his finger to indicate the general area. “Bodies popping outta this ground every day, leftover from Katrina. Plus, they kept pushing the graveyards back to build these neighborhoods. Could be a yellow fever victim from a hundred years’ ago.”
“It’s more recent.” Jane cocked her head. “The
tarp’s got a graphic on it.”
“What the fuck?” Gee gasped. “Jon Bon Jovi? It’s a shower curtain.”
Ken slowly covered his mouth with his fist. “Holy hell.”
“Sorry, Ken. That makes it modern era. I’ll need to call it in.” Arms akimbo, Xavier started stepping over the ruts, shouting over his shoulder as he returned to his truck. “Can’t be helped. County regulations. Not my decision to make.”
Leslie and Aunt Babette, their arms filled with grocery sacks, rounded the corner of the house as Xavier opened his door and climbed in.
“Ken? We’ve brought breakfast.” Leslie announced, stopping stock-still. “Look at this mess! Why y’all tearing up my garden?”
“Sweetheart?” Ken’s voice sounded oddly hollow. “He had to follow the sewer pipe. It led this way from the street.”
Gee pointed at the trench. “We found a body.”
“A body? What kind of body?” Quickly setting her sack down on the porch steps, Leslie reached for Aunt Babette’s burden and set it down neatly, side by side before trotting over. “In my garden?”
Clutching her beaded necklace, Aunt Babette slowly followed.
“Ken?” Peering into the trench, Leslie grasped his arm. “I don’t understand what’s going on.” She inhaled sharply. “That is a body. What’s it doing here?”
She fell back a step as the color drained from her face, leaving it pinched and as gray as clay. “That’s a shower curtain.” She slowly turned to face Aunt Babette. “You bought one just like it at Weldon’s Five and Dime, Babette, remember? Jon Bon Jovi. You had such a crush on him.”
The skeletonized foot hanging outside the protective plastic sheet was still wearing a stacked platform shoe with a band of colorful plastic flowers sewn on its toecap. Leslie’s eyes glazed over. She started to shake. “Wait a second. I recognize those shoes.”
“Quickly, Ken,” Aunt Babette ordered. “Cover her back up.”
“Too late.” Ken stared unfocused into the pit. “I know who this is.”
“Sweetheart?” Leslie’s eyes filled with sorrow as she faced Gee. “I’m sorry you had to learn about it this way.” She twisted her fingers together. “I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am.”
“Maman?” Gee’s face fell slack. “How do you know who this is?”
“I didn’t know about this!” Leslie pointed her finger. “I didn’t even know Marianne was dead until just this very minute.”
“How could you not know?” Gee shouted. “She’s buried in your garden!”
“I don’t know how she got here.” Leslie wailed, looking panic-stricken as she glanced between Aunt Babette and Ken. “Yes, I hit her, but when I came back outside she was gone. I thought she woke up and left! You’ve got to believe me! I’ve been waiting for her to come walking back into my house for thirty years!”
“Someone buried her,” Gee stated. “Pops? Was it you?”
“Me?” Ken looked startled. “I don’t think so, Gee.” He coughed nervously. “I might have. I don’t even remember our fight.”
Jane checked on the backhoe operator. Xavier was still on his phone, talking animatedly. He’s reporting a homicide and he thinks one of the Pascoes did it. “He’s talking to the police. Leslie? From what I’ve heard so far, they’re gonna tag you for murder and arrest Ken as accessory.”
“They can’t do that! He’s innocent!” Leslie clenched her fists. “Ken had nothing to do with this. It was all my doing!”
“Not all of it,” Aunt Babette inserted softly, clutching her beads. “I buried her. I heard the fight and saw what happened from my room. I saw you hit her with the shovel, Leslie. I did see that. I ran down and found Marianne laying in the driveway, right where you left her.” She kneaded the beads with her thumbs. “I had to do something. Couldn’t let them take you, cher. Had to protect the family. You’re all that I’ve got.”
She nodded repeatedly. “We’d just tilled the garden. The ground was nice and soft. I dragged her there on my shower curtain and I laid her to rest.” She smiled uncertainly. “Cher? I felt much happier when you built your chicken coop over her grave. That way, no one would till her up in the spring.”
Jane felt a rising ripple of horror. She hated even asking the question, but her forensic experience with head wounds and concussion protocols raised a terrifying possibility. There was something more that she needed to know. “Aunt Babette? Before you buried Marianne did you make sure she was dead?”
“Mon Dieu! What do you mean make sure she was dead?” The elderly woman looked confused. “I never checked her pulse. You mean I might have buried her alive?”
“The coroner may be able to determine that,” Jane emphasized. “In any case, it may throw doubt on who actually committed the homicide.”
“And that’s a good thing, right?” Gee stated quickly, glancing between the two other Pascoe women. “If they can’t prove who did it, isn’t that reasonable doubt?”
“This is your birth mother we’re talking about here, Gee.” Jane stated.
“I know that! But I’m torn.” Gee clapped both hands to her face. “I have two mothers. And I never really knew this one.”
“Hold on a second.” Ken squinted with fierce concentration. “If Marianne Tanner never left this house, then who stole my axe case with all of The WarBirds songs in it?”
Leslie gasped. “Oh! I’ve still got that, sweetheart. I kept it for you all this time, safe.”
Ken looked thunderstruck. “Leslie? You’ve still got my axe?”
“Yes. I kept it in the broom closet with my cleaning supplies. I knew you’d never look for it there.”
“My axe.” Ken repeated doubtfully. “You’ve got my axe.”
“Yes, dear. Do you want to see it?”
“Of course, I want to see it!” Ken thundered as he trailed her across the courtyard. “Leslie? It’s been thirty years. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“How could I, Ken?” Picking up the grocery sacks, she started up the steps. “It got too complicated.” Opening the porch door with her elbow, she slid inside. “How could I explain that I kept your guitar safe and not tell you about that night, what happened to Marianne? It was so much easier to just put it away. Out of sight, out of mind. Gigi? I am sorry you had to find out about this, this way, like I said,” she smiled winsomely, “but darling? That is how we got you.”
“Fuck.” Gee massaged her forehead. “This is a shitload to process.”
“I’ll bet it is,” Jane agreed.
Stooping, Leslie opened a low cupboard door. Reaching in with both hands, she pulled out a vintage sweeper, unsnarling a gray cord before rummaging through the bottles and buckets stored further inside.
“We need to be practical.” Aunt Babette leaned against the sink. “Get our stories straight for when the police arrive. We’re going to say that I killed Marianne Tanner, right? Can we all agree on that?”
“I hate that idea, Babette.” Ken protested. “When I’m the one who brought this goddamn problem down on us.”
“Doesn’t matter what you like or hate, Ken.” She tapped her chest. “I need to protect this family and I’m seventy-four years old. What more can they do to me?”
Jane heard an approaching siren. “Time check, people. We’ve only got a few minutes to figure this out.”
“Got it!” Leslie slid a black guitar case across the linoleum. “Look at this thing! It’s filthy! Let me wash it off. I’ll get a sponge -”
“Never mind that.” Grasping the cracked leather handle, Ken hefted the case to the counter, nervously fingering the heavily pitted chrome locks. “Don’t tease me, Leslie. My heart can’t take it. Is my axe really in here?”
“It was the last time I checked it, dear. Open it up.”
Using his oddly splayed thumbs, Ken unsnapped the case. Cracking the lid, he peered inside before flipping it back and reaching for the gleaming candy apple red jazz bass with its creamy tuxedo front and its Fender chrome plate.
Ken almost looks afraid to touch it, like it isn’t real, like it might turn to dust or vanish if he blinks.
“Hello, Ramona.” Ken grasped the guitar, his voice a caress as he lifted it off the plush black shag liner. “I’ve missed you, baby. How’ve you been?”
“Ramona?” Leslie blinked repeatedly. “Who’s Ramona?”
“The only redhead I’ve ever loved.” Inhaling shakily, Ken held the jazz bass between his hands. “That’s a private thing between her and me.” He rumbled. “The way Muddy Waters loved Lucille, the way Stevie Ray loved Number One.”
The musty leather case also housed a dozen curling yellow legal pads and a scattered handful of #2 pencils. “Pops?” Gee reached in. “Are these your other WarBirds songs? The ones you wrote besides “Love Power”?”
Ken sighed. Clutching Ramona to his chest, he shut his eyes and swallowed heavily. “Yes, Gee, those are the other WarBirds songs.”
Jane looked up as an unmarked NOPD unit, red and blue grill lights flashing pulled into the driveway behind The Boat. Sliding from his truck, Xavier pointed toward the kitchen door. The police unit’s driver’s side door swung open and Detective Dupree stepped out. Jane noted with surprise that Dupree’s normally dark hair had turned completely white overnight.
Decidedly tucking his chin, Dupree marched for the back porch, raising his NOPD detective’s badge in his left hand.
“Police!” He declared, starting up the porch steps. “Alright, people! I’m coming in. What have you got going on, now?”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The warped floorboards and the decrepit rush rocker creaked in tandem as Jane pushed off her toes. The December day was unseasonably mild. She smelled the warming earth on the breeze. The Pascoe’s plumbing problem had been resolved. The NOPD forensic team had finished their CSI and moved on. Leslie’s garden still looked battle scarred, but the yard had been releveled and the morbid sewer trench filled in.