Dead Man Talking

by TM Simmons

  ~

  A pink-tinged dawn lightened the eastern sky as I barreled east on I-20 in the Jeep I’d bought when I traded in my Buick, the hatchback loaded and Trucker and Miss Molly in the back seat. Traffic was mostly semis, a few cars mixed in. I couldn’t do a darn thing for Katy until I got there, and I wasn’t getting anywhere trying to make sense of the little I knew. A dead body in the pool. Blood. Murder or an accident? And a ghost in residence, a ghost whose talks with Katy indicated might not be the most controllable paranormal I’d ever dealt with.

  Still, ghosts didn’t kill people, despite mistaken common lore. Common lore at times was total bunk. Common lore said ghosts were tied to their place of death, but some of my residents were from different states. Common lore said ghosts had abilities they didn’t, probably supposed facts fostered by fear and lack of knowledge. Ghosts manipulated objects and materialized in various shades of visibility. Others sent messages. But besides a sad tale or two I’d run across of someone suffering heart failure when confronted by an unexpected ghost, every ghosthunter I knew believed ghosts lacked the power to actually kill a living person.

  Accident or murder? Damn, I wished Katy lived closer!

  My cell phone perched on the console, but I knew my ex-husband wouldn’t be patient with that sort of disruption. Besides, the monster eighteen-wheelers in the traffic meant I didn’t need that distraction. I hadn’t gotten around to buying a headset for the phone yet. Then the phone rang and I grabbed it, glancing at the caller ID. Jack.

  “How’s Katy?” I asked without a hello.

  “How close are you?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll let her know.”

  “Jack!” I yelled, anticipating a disconnection.

  “I know you’re worried, Chère,” he said, “but I can’t talk about this over the air.”

  “I don’t give a whit about your damned investigation. Just tell me how Katy is besides ‘all right!’ For God’s sake, step out of your cop mode. Katy and I are like sisters!”

  He hesitated, then said, “Emotionally, she’s pretty whacked out. Seems she’s worried about what the neighbors are gonna say.”

  Stunned at Jack’s words and hard tone, I couldn’t think of anything to reply. When we’d socialized with Katy, Jack had appeared to like her. What changed his attitude? “I imagine she’s worried about more than the neighbors,” I finally managed. “Someone died in her pool.”

  “Yeah,” Jack responded.

  “Well, an accident like that happening on my property would — ”

  “It was no accident, Alice,” Jack cut in. “And that’s all I’m going to say.”

  He hung up, and I tossed the phone on the passenger seat. Not an accident? That left murder. My psychic senses were right. Thank goodness the turnoff to Jefferson loomed ahead. I switched on my blinker. Concentrating on the twists and turns, I made it to Esprit d’Chene’s beautiful stone gate in ten minutes flat. But as I swerved in to barrel down the long, live-oak-lined driveway, a cop car blocked my path. The Jeep’s tires flung crushed white oyster shells as I skidded to a halt a bare inch from the side door. That didn’t endear me one iota to the balding, uniformed policeman standing there with his hand on his gun butt.

  The cop unsnapped his holster strap and walked over to my window. While I sat there, heart pounding at the near miss, he wiggled his finger in a roll-it-down motion at the tinted window. I complied. “Officer, I — ”

  “Alice Carpenter?” he interrupted with a sniff and a hitch of his gun belt.

  “I’m her. My cousin Katy lives here. Jack — Detective Roucheau — he’s expecting me.”

  He held up a hand to halt my babbling and sniffed again. “Detective said to keep an eye out." All at once he noticed Trucker. Jabbing his hand on his pistol butt, he stepped away.

  “He won’t hurt you,” I protested. “Can I please go on up to the house?”

  He dropped his hand, but didn’t re-snap the holster strap. “Detective said it’d be all right. But —" He eyed me suspiciously. “You got any ID?”

  Gritting my teeth, I reached for my purse, then remembered it was stowed in the hatchback. Amidst the usual mess in my car, one of my books lay in a stack of papers on the front floorboard. I grabbed it, turned it over to the publicity photo on the back jacket, and handed it to him. “That’s me.”

  That didn’t soothe his suspicions. He studied the photo, then my face. “I clean up well,” I fumed. “Look, keep the book. I need to go.”

  “Maybe my mama would read it." He thrust it back. “Can you write your name for her?”

  I grabbed a pen from the console and opened the book. “What is her name?”

  “Celia.”

  “S-E — ”

  “Naw,” he interrupted. “C-E-L-I-A.”

  After a hurried scribble, I handed the book back and reached for the gearshift.

  “You gotta walk,” he said. “And stay on the grass. We got crime folks lookin’ at tire tracks in the driveway.”

  “Haven’t other cars gone up this way?”

  “Detective Roucheau came in the other gate. Ordered the rest to do that, too.”

  There was another gate across what Katy referred to as the back lane. The locals knew about it, as did Jack from a couple of family visits, and it would’ve been closer for him from the cottage he rented. But driving around would take just as much time on the winding farm-to-market roads as walking from here. I opened the door, then glanced at my pets, doubtful about leaving Trucker here with Mr. Quick-to-Grab-His-Gun.

  “You’ll have to leave 'em here,” Mr. Quick confirmed grudgingly. “Leave your a.c. on, and I’ll keep an eye on 'em.”

  I set the parking brake and flicked the air conditioning on high. With an apologetic glance at the dog and cat, I pushed the button to roll the window nearly up, more to keep Mr. Quick away from Trucker than anything else, then scrambled out. On second thought, I tossed Miss Molly a stern look. “Your litter box is in the hatchback.”

  The cop overheard. “I ain’t a cat person. Can’t expect me to do nothin’ if I catch her squattin’ where she’s not supposed to.”

  “The dog’s name is Trucker." Frustrated and worried, I glared at the officer. “He wouldn’t take it kindly if you messed with the cat." With a last stern look at him and my pets, I hurried up the drive. Mr. Quick’s sniff hung in the air behind me.

  Any other time I would have enjoyed the quarter-mile walk. Gigantic, evenly-spaced live oaks lined it, branches intermingled from either side to spread coolness even in summer. Wispy gray nests of Spanish moss floated in the higher branches. Dawn had given away to early morning light, and birds twittered in the trees or swooped from branches to a white board fence. I jogged too close to a peacock strutting from behind a live oak, and his raucous screech startled me as much as I startled him. I grabbed my chest and barely checked a kick. He flipped his head and sauntered away, fanning that multi-eyed tail as though brushing away a pesky fly. What Katy saw in those blasted birds was beyond me. Their eerie cries at inopportune moments can scare a person a heck of a lot worse than a ghost!

  Around the curve in the driveway, I moved further into the grass to avoid two crime techs squatting inside yellow crime tape. They glanced up briefly, then went back to work with their cameras and tire casting gunk.

  Ahead the Esprit d’Chene manor house rose into view. No one would dare call it a mere house. Three stories, with spindle-set balustrades circling both the first- and second-floor verandas, Esprit d’Chene sprawled majestically amidst well-tended gardens, shrubbery, flowerbeds, and red-brick footpaths. Despite my worry, awe at her beauty filled me. She always reminded me of a grand lady overseeing a flock of minions barely beneath her notice. Jean Leveau, my many-times Great-Grandpere Jean, spared no expense when he built Esprit d’Chene for the lady of his choice, my petite, flaxen-haired Great-Grandmere Alicia. Counted among the founding families of Jefferson, they moved here from New Orleans back when Jefferson’s econo
my boomed, since the town grew on Big Cypress Bayou. At one time the bayou was northern Texas’s only link to the waterways, and magnificent steamboats ferried passengers, lumber, and cotton up Big Cypress to Caddo Lake to bring the luxuries genteel ladies needed to furnish their homes in splendor. Until the dastardly Corps of Engineers blew up the Red River logjam and dropped the bayou water too low for the steamboats to turn around.

  Murder shouldn’t happen in this exquisite setting, but a slew of police and state troopers marred Esprit d’Chene grounds, originally designed for dainty ladies in pastel organza to wander with men who cherished them. Various breeds of cop cars parked helter-skelter along the driveway from the back lane — Jefferson and Longview police sedans, county sheriff and state patrol cars, and a couple unmarked vehicles. And lord, there was the medical examiner’s hearse.

  As though he’d been watching for me, Jack Roucheau hurried down the veranda steps to meet me. During the past two years, we’d maintained contact, and even had lunch a few times when I needed crime research for a book. He’d contacted me first when someone — Twila, I always suspected — told him that I was moving from New Orleans. I’d have had to call him anyway, since I’d discovered a few of his left-behind possessions.

  He’s a good-looking guy, six-foot, a well-toned but rangy body. A little gray has crept into the temples of his coal-black, silky hair over the past couple years. Deep brown eyes in a rugged face are a legacy from his Cajun ancestors, and tiny sun-wrinkles crease each side. Like me, he prefers jeans for daytime wear, but he’s one of the few men who also enjoys evening dress — and looks damned good in it. He still turned my knees to jelly and curled my toes, but the papers in my file cabinet meant we’d already tried that road — and failed to navigate it.

  Today he wore jeans and a knit shirt with the Longview Police Department insignia over the left breast pocket and western boots. A neon orange police vest, required attire during an investigation, overlaid the shirt. I’d once asked Jack why they wore the vests, and he’d explained that if they were chasing a perp, or jumped one hiding near the crime scene, they didn’t want to take a chance on shooting one of their own.

  “How’s Katy?” I demanded.

  “Bon jour to you, too, Chère,” he said, a guarded look in his eyes. “Katy will be fine, now that you’re here.”

  “The body." I wet my dry lips, a motion Jack didn’t miss. “Who — ?”

  He laid a comforting hand on my arm. “We’re not sure. Go to Katy.”

  It must be bad, I mused, hurrying up the veranda steps. I reached for the antique glass doorknob, then turned to see Jack staring after me, the stone face he normally wore during an investigation creased with worry. But a brown-uniformed state trooper approached, and he shifted his attention. Not before, however, he gave me a nod and motioned me through the door.

  I entered the cool foyer and headed straight for the kitchen. The tall ceilings were painted white, as were the walls above the four-foot, walnut wainscoting. A border of red-berry holly vines twined adjacent to the ceiling. I nearly slammed into the wall where the door used to be before I realized Katy had moved it. Darn her and her continual remodeling! I detoured through the new doorway. Katy stood at the counter, kneading a ball of dough. She always bakes or cooks to calm herself. My turbulent thoughts still tumbled inside my mind — and belly — from strain and lack of sleep.

  Katy heard my footsteps, turned, and raced across the room to fling her arms around my neck. A glob of dough landed in my hair as I hugged her tight.

  “Oh, Alice." She pulled back, tears gleaming. “Sir Gary’s done it now. How are we going to explain that my ghost committed murder?”

  I swiped a thumb across the tear tracks on her cheeks. “Oh, Sugar, what makes you think Sir Gary killed him?" Goosebumps crawled up my spine and over my neck. I whirled, but didn’t see Katy’s resident ghost anywhere in the kitchen.

  “He’s here,” she confirmed. “He’s not going to show himself with all these policemen around. He says they remind him of the London Tower guards." She sniffed and daintily picked up a puffy tissue from the box on the table with a manicured finger- and thumb-nail. She patted beneath her eyes, careful not to smudge what must have been waterproof mascara, since I knew darn well her eyelashes weren’t any longer than my stubby ones without help.

  “Did I tell you that Sir Gary had been imprisoned in the Tower of London once?” she asked, then glanced around to make sure no one could observe her lack of etiquette except me and gave her nose a go-to-hell blow.

  “I’m not interested in Sir Gary at the moment." I pushed her into a chair by the table and dragged another one around to face her. “What happened? What makes you think Sir Gary’s involved? Who’s in your pool?”

  “I’m not sure." She ignored my flurry of other questions as she swiped her red nose and mumbled into the tissue, “I think...maybe . . .”

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  Katy slid another cautious look around the kitchen, then leaned closer. “It might be Senator Wilson-Jones’s son.”

  “What?” I screeched, continuing despite Katy’s frantic shushing motions, “Bucky? Good God Gertie, Katy! You promised you’d never let that asshole back on your property!”

  “Alice, please,” she whispered in the face of my rant. “I didn’t let him...if that’s who it is. And I most assuredly didn’t check out who it was when Sir Gary and I found the body." She grabbed a whole handful of tissues and swabbed new tears, but I wasn’t about to offer any sympathy. Bucky! Nasty, slimy Bucky Wilson-Jones. Probably not even Bucky’s father would shed any more tears over his son’s death than necessary to keep his public persona intact.

  “What was Bucky doing here?” I hissed in a quieter, but just as deadly, voice.

  “I didn’t say it was Bucky, Alice. I said it might be.”

  “You sure as hell have some reason for thinking that. Spill it!”

  “Ummm...well . . .”

  Footsteps strode down the hallway. I knew those footsteps. I’d lived with them — and the rest of the body — for three years. He wouldn’t appreciate me questioning a witness. Katy wrung her hands — only Katy can pull off that old-fashioned gesture with aplomb — and shot me a pleading glance. I didn’t have time to ask what she meant.