by Nancy Bush
“Glad to hear it,” he’d told Dorcas, even while those thoughts coalesced. “Maybe you can get me some more information, now that I’m almost legitimized.” And he’d gone on to give him a brief recap about his search for Tucker, the discovery of his sister-in-law’s body, and the questions surrounding his brother’s death as well.
Dorcas had whistled. “Jesus, man. Wasn’t this supposed to be a kind of forced holiday?”
West had ignored that. “It looks like Teresa was a con artist of some kind. Working alone, or with someone. She moved from Martinique to LA, and she lived at the ranch in Castilla with my brother for a couple of years. She met Stephen at an LA club. When I get back, I’m gonna try to follow her trail, see what she did.”
“You think she’s a homicide?”
“It feels like it to me,” he had admitted. “But maybe she fell off the boat by accident. The gendarmerie aren’t saying what they think. It’s just a little convenient that she’s suddenly dead when I start looking for her.”
“Well, okay, man,” Dorcas had said dubiously. “If Gundy asks about you, I’ll tell him you’ll see him as soon as you’re back.”
“Thanks.”
It was after his conversation with Dorcas that West had decided to use his free time to launch his own investigation. The only picture he had of Teresa was the one he’d shown Callie. But he now had a good photo of Callie and they looked enough alike that he’d decided to use it to canvass the pier as well, see if anyone remembered seeing Teresa on the pier the day she died. He hadn’t had it in his possession when he’d interviewed Sal DeGregorio—Old Sal, as everyone called him, who’d emigrated from the States years earlier—and asked him about Teresa, but it hadn’t mattered. Sal had recognized Teresa from the picture of her with Stephen.
“Ahhh . . . yeah. . . .” he had said, nodding. “That’s her, all right. Who’s the poor fool with her?”
“Her husband,” West had responded. “My brother.”
“Sorry, man.”
“It’s all right. What can you tell me about her?”
It turned out Sal had a lot of stories about Teresa. “Had a whole bunch of different names,” he’d reminisced. “I tried to tell people to steer clear, but sometimes a man just wants what he wants and he don’t wanna listen to Old Sal.”
“She picked up men and used them.”
“That’s about the size of it, though some of ’em came back for more.”
“I heard you thought she had a partner.”
“Oh, yeah. One of those guys with laser eyes. He was a watcher who liked what he was seeing. She knew it, too. Part of the fun, I’d say. But I didn’t see him this last time.”
West had quizzed Old Sal further, but that was about the extent of what he knew. When West had asked if he remembered any of the targeted men’s names, Old Sal dolefully shook his head. “They didn’t want to tell me. Didn’t want me spoiling their affairs, I guess.”
Now West looked around, trying to put himself in Teresa’s shoes. Why had she come to the pier? As a tourist? Or maybe to pick up a new target? Could she have known that Tucker was on the Sorciere de Mer?
“If she talked to Aimee,” West said aloud. It was frustrating to have his hands tied by the twin facts that he was a foreigner and he no longer possessed his LAPD identification, although the idea that he might get it back was taking hold.
It was hot. Late afternoon. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it away from his face. The gesture made him think of Teresa and Callie’s fiery blond hair. So noticeable. It was what had drawn him to Callie in the first place.
Taking out the photo, he canvassed more tourist shops and cafés along the pier.
He was about to give up, when one of the vendors suddenly pointed to the picture and said, “Oui. I sell her a foulard. Pour the hair, non?” He gestured to his own head, miming wrapping it with something.
“She covered her hair with a scarf?” West asked, excited by the acknowledgment that she’d been on the pier.
“Oui. Yes. A scarf. Theese one.” He pulled a brightly covered fabric rectangle from a rack of many. The design was a map of the island in blues and greens.
West thought about it hard. It was a disguise. She hadn’t wanted to be seen. By whom? he wondered. Egan Rivers? Her friend, Aimee? Someone else . . . ?
“Did you see her with anyone?”
“Mmmm . . . a man, maybe? No, a femme . . . ?” He gave West a Gallic shrug and held out his hands.
“Thanks a lot,” West said, realizing he’d tapped the man out.
She’d been on the pier and her actions solidified his theory that her death wasn’t an accident. Once Tucker was safely in his custody, he was going after Aimee again with some more questions. He’d teased her with the promise of some good old American dollars for Tucker, and he was about to up the ante.
Chapter Twenty
Naomi, Clarice, and even Jerrilyn were already robed and in the prayer room when Daniella was released. She’d had to use the large bowl purposely left in the attic as a chamber pot. She could feel the back of her neck heat when she brought the bowl down and emptied it with all of them watching her as she passed by on her way to the bathroom. Pulling her robe over her head, she seethed with resentment that burned through her veins like lava.
She met the others and they all stood in their places waiting for Andre, though Clarice had moved into Teresa’s old spot.
“What did you do to get sent to the attic?” Naomi asked her, but Daniella didn’t answer.
“She brought Robert Lumpkin here,” Clarice said, shrugging apologetically to Daniella.
Jerrilyn gave Daniella a scathing look. “Jesus Christ, don’t tell me you did that on purpose.”
“I didn’t,” Daniella said, but the sound of her voice wasn’t convincing.
“You know what this is? It’s bullshit,” Jerrilyn declared. She ripped off the robe and stood naked in front of them. In a stage whisper, she said, “You know he’s fuckin’ crazy, don’t you? Seriously mad. I don’t mind playing the game, but you gotta know when it’s over.”
Naomi looked affronted. “Shut the hell up.” To Daniella and Clarice she snapped, “Jerrilyn’s just pissed because Mittenberger got sick of her. Took his toys and went back to his wife.”
“Not true. You’re such a fucking bitch.” Jerrilyn got in Naomi’s face and they glared daggers at each other.
“Don’t be mad,” Clarice said in a little girl’s voice but her gaze traveled between them avidly.
Naomi snarled, “We all know you’ve been playacting the whole time.”
“Like you haven’t been? All of you . . .” Jerrilyn swept a look to Clarice and then to Daniella.
“I love Andre!” Clarice vowed hotly.
“You can’t even call him the Messiah ’cause you know he’s not,” Jerrilyn pointed out. “How long’s that going to last before he decides you’re a liability, like Teresa?”
“Teresa did bad things,” Clarice said, her voice shaking with anger or maybe fear.
“Yeah, like the rest of us deserve halos. You’re the worst, Clarice,” she sneered, “because you actually think you’re something special. Go home to Mama.”
Clarice’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “You’re terrible!” she cried.
“I’m a realist,” Jerrilyn declared loftily, stalking away to her room. “You’re the stupid little whore.”
“Jerrilyn!” Naomi was stiff with outrage.
“Yeah, yeah . . .” Jerrilyn waved at them airily, not bothering to turn around as she stepped into her room and slammed the door.
Daniella was transfixed. Jerrilyn was leaving?
Clarice was blinking back tears. “Where’s she going? I hate her!”
“Where’s Andre?” Daniella asked.
“He’s late,” Naomi said distractedly. “I’ll be back.” She hurried after Jerrilyn, knocking lightly on her door. Whether Jerrilyn let her in or she just bullied her way, Daniella couldn’t tell. But th
at left her with only Clarice whom she really decided she didn’t like. But she couldn’t afford to make an enemy of her, especially now, when she’d really screwed the pooch again because Lumpkin had stopped by.
It just wasn’t her fault that he’d seen Andre, but no one cared.
Maybe it was your fault, the devil on her shoulder pointed out gleefully.
She inwardly sighed. She’d just been so mad that they’d all left her behind that she’d gone out looking for someone to show her a good time. But after a few missed opportunities where no guys seemed interested in her, she’d gone back to Ray’s and, lo and behold, there was Lumpkin, hanging out at the bar, talking to the bartenders with one eye on the door. Had he really thought his dream girl in the red dress would come back? Probably. Stupid ass.
But seeing him had made her reverse her decision about him once again. After all, he was right there. Maybe she could finish the job Teresa had begun. She didn’t have a plan in place, but she could improvise, couldn’t she? But just as that thought had crossed her mind, Lumpkin had spied her standing there and she couldn’t miss the disappointment and annoyance in his expression when he realized it was Daniella. Oh, yeah. He wanted Teresa. Of course he did.
“What are you doing here?” he had asked her as she walked into the bar, trying to put some enthusiasm in the question. He couldn’t quite manage it.
“Looking for you,” she answered, stuffing her resentment down. “Or looking for someone,” she had amended, smiling. She’d really tried with her appearance that night. Her figure was good. She had nice legs and her breasts weren’t bad, and though she hadn’t gone home to change, she was wearing a pair of black slacks and a low-cut pink sweater that did her proud. Lumpkin’s eyes had lingered at her chest and the fuzzy material. If he hadn’t been such a toad, she might have put one of his hands on one of her breasts just to see the look on his face.
“What are you doing here?” she had asked him a bit flirtatiously.
His gaze had sharpened on her, as if noticing her for the first time. “Just winding down after a hard day.”
“What made it so hard?” she had asked, stressing the last word just a teensy little bit.
“Tenants . . . like you.”
“You have other properties?” She’d almost said, Your mom have other properties? but had caught herself at the last moment.
“Oh, sure. Lots of ’em.”
She had been pretty damn sure he was lying, but he was warming up to her. Over the course of the next hour, she had watched him knock a few strong ones back while she’d sipped a glass of chardonnay. She’d wondered if she could make him her mark. She never really got the adventures that Teresa and Jerrilyn and sometimes Naomi embarked on. Andre wanted her to stay out of trouble. Even Clarice got guys who went gaga over her innocent thing, but she pretty much always bungled those jobs, never seeing the real dough Andre was looking for. In truth, Clarice didn’t know how to do much of anything but give Andre the occasional blow job and cry and the like.
She was an annoying piece of shit.
“I don’t make a practice of hanging out with my tenants,” Lumpkin said.
“I don’t hang out with my landlord,” she retorted. She had taken out a tube of lipstick from her purse damn near the exact shade as her sweater. His eyes had avidly watched her as she ran it around her lips. She had snapped the cap back on and smacked her lips. “Maybe we should . . . think about changing that rule?”
“Well, I know where you live.” He had given her a predatory smile. “We could go there.”
Daniella had felt a thrill of anticipation. Not sexual. Good God, she hadn’t wanted this ugly bug anywhere near her. The anticipation had been that she might find a way to end his life and make Andre proud of her. “Let’s go to your place. I don’t know where you live, and maybe it’s time I found out.”
He had rolled that over for a moment and then shrugged his agreement.
They had walked outside together and he tried to play grab-ass with her, which really cooled her off. “You okay to drive?” she had asked him dubiously.
“What? You think I’m drunk?”
No shit, Sherlock, she’d thought. He was so unattractive, she was already starting to rethink her plan. She’d just been so angry about everything, and there was Lumpkin. She had known Andre wanted him out of their lives permanently and she’d thought she could do it. But could I? Really? An icicle thrill had shot through her at the thought. Could I? Maybe? Andre would praise her and make love to her and tell her how valuable she was. But could I?
“I just think it’s better if I follow you,” she’d told him, her teeth chattering with sudden fear at the thoughts swirling inside her head.
He’d snorted in agreement, then asked in surprise, “That yours?” when she turned toward the Xterra.
The hairs on Daniella’s arms had shot up, electrified. Did he remember Teresa driving it? “A friend’s.”
“Who is he?”
“Who says it’s a guy?”
He had waved at her, gotten in his vehicle, and then led her back toward his mother’s house. She had been creeped out thinking he was planning a “date” with her with Irene in the house, too, but he had driven several blocks past and into an apartment complex that needed a serious paint job. In the light of one lamppost at the edge of the parking lot, she had been able to see the corners of the building were splintered, raw wood graying from the elements.
She’d realized immediately she shouldn’t have come. She didn’t want to be alone with Lumpkin anywhere and certainly not at some rundown apartment.
She had driven right on past the apartment building and back to their house. She’d half-expected him to follow her home that night, but he hadn’t. Not then, anyway. He’d waited until today, right when Andre got back, and that hadn’t gone over well.
Now she asked the same question she had earlier, “Where’s Andre?” as Clarice stomped out of the prayer room and plopped down in a chair at the dining table.
“I don’t know,” she declared petulantly. “He was here and told me and Naomi that you were in the attic. I thought he was going to get Jerrilyn, but she’s here.”
“Is what Naomi said about Mittenberger true?”
“I sure hope so. I hope she disappears in a puff of smoke! She doesn’t belong with us.”
“Neither did Teresa, anymore,” Daniella reminded.
Clarice darted Daniella a look. “I didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I didn’t like her, but it wasn’t me.”
“You got to go to Miami at least.”
“We went farther than that. We went to Martinique.” She was triumphant.
“Huh . . . where’s that?” Daniella had to ask but she felt herself burn anew with indignation and fury.
“An island in the Caribbean.” She looked around as if expecting someone to be listening. “We all met there, but Andre wasn’t around. Naomi seemed to know what she was doing and just took off. I never saw Jerrilyn.”
“What did you do?”
“Me? Nothing. I hardly left the airport. I thought we were . . . I don’t know, I thought it was a game. I mean, I know it was a game. We weren’t really going to do something criminal!” She laughed shortly.
“But Teresa’s dead, right? That’s what Andre said.”
“I don’t know. Yeah . . . yeah, I guess she is. I heard someone talking about the woman’s body in the bay, so it was Teresa, right? I went right out and caught a flight home as soon as I heard.”
“But didn’t you just get back?” Daniella blurted out. “You haven’t been here.”
“I—I went home for a little while.” She glanced away and Daniella could tell she was hiding something. “What were you doing with Lumpkin?”
“Hey, it’s not my fault he came here,” Daniella said, the lie tasting bitter in her mouth. “You think Naomi or Jerrilyn killed Teresa?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she just died.” She clapped her hands over her ears.
“Y’all went there to kill her. One of you did it,” Daniella pointed out.
“I would never kill someone.” Clarice looked shocked at the idea.
“Come on, Clarice. You didn’t all take a trip just to play games,” Daniella argued. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But don’t act like I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Clarice glared at her, but Daniella glared right back. Finally, Clarice said, “Teresa was evil. It’s good she’s gone.”
“Andre liked her best.”
Abruptly she got up from the table and stalked off. “If you just want to be hurtful, I’m leaving!”
Daniella watched her leave with mixed feelings. They always got the plum jobs, while she got the shit ones. Even Clarice. And it was just because she wasn’t as pretty. Maybe not as seasoned as the rest of them, minus Clarice, who was a naive train wreck waiting to happen, but all of them were out-and-out whores, no matter what story they told themselves. If Andre said go have sex with whomever, they just went off and did it, and even if Clarice tried to act like her shit didn’t stink, if he ordered her to kill someone, Daniella bet she’d at least try to please him. Naomi would definitely do it, and Jerrilyn, that mean sex addict, she’d go right ahead and pretend it was her idea.
And Teresa had already killed. First the guy she’d married. Then the one who’d tracked her down and found her at their house. Andre had made her kill him, but Daniella kind of thought that had been the beginning of the end for Teresa . . . and maybe for all of them.
Jerrilyn’s raised voice, followed by Naomi’s, sounded from Jerrilyn’s bedroom. They were quarreling, and Daniella tiptoed forward to listen in. Before she heard more than the fact that Naomi was ripping on Jerrilyn about running out, with an underlying threat/reminder of what had happened to Teresa, which Jerrilyn just laughed at, Andre suddenly came through the front door. He was walking with purpose down the hall and nearly ran over Daniella before turning toward his own bedroom, not even stopping to acknowledge her or the argument he had to have overheard. He didn’t say one word to her, which deflated Daniella, although she felt better when he also ignored Clarice’s cheery “Oh, there you are!”