by Susan Fleet
The banshee-rasp stopped. Mrs. Reilly gazed at her, frosty-eyed.
“Well. I thought you might like to hear about the history of the house. But suit yourself.” She opened a drawer and held out a brass key. “But mark my words, young lady, I’m keeping an eye on that hurricane. If it looks like it’s going to hit us, I’m going to close the place and get out of town.”
“I understand, Mrs. Reilly. You have a nice day.”
She towed her suitcase through the dining room to the staircase. No elevator of course, not in a house built in 1893. She would have to lug her suitcase up three flights of stairs. That might be an advantage.
Up on the third floor she wouldn’t be able to hear that banshee screech.
CHAPTER 26
A loud thump jolted her awake, mercifully ending a nightmare. The four-poster bed was comfortable, and the sheets smelled fresh and clean, but the Blue Room was hot and stuffy. Not only was the air-conditioner in the window unable to cool a third-floor room with steep-slanted eaves, it was noisy, clanking a syncopated rhythm to accompany her racing heart.
The luminous dial of her wristwatch stood at 1:35.
She tried to get back to sleep, but when she shut her eyes, Randy’s face appeared, the instant before he fell over the cliff, eyes bugged out in terror. To calm herself she pictured her Japanese watercolor. In her frantic haste to escape, she had left it in Nashua. She focused on the birds circling the snow-capped mountain, willing the birds and mountain to protect her.
She finally fell asleep, but at four a.m. the air-conditioner began rattling like a hailstorm. Faint moonlight filtered through the tree outside the window, casting shadows on the steep-slanted walls. Sinister shadows like the ones that used to scare her when she was a kid in New Orleans, home alone in her bedroom.
She closed her eyes. This time Oliver’s face tortured her, eyes accusing, blood spouting from a hole in his forehead. Moaning, she sat up, shaking with tremors. Would she ever have any peace? Unwilling to confront more ghosts, she turned on the bedside lamp and got out of bed. Yesterday when she came up to the room, her first task had been opening her laptop to access the Wifi connection. She padded barefoot to the small table in the corner and turned on her laptop.
The Weather Channel had an update. After pounding Haiti as a Category-4 storm, Hurricane Josephine had weakened, but forecasters expected it to hit Jamaica sometime today. In Haiti the storm had killed 80 people. Due to erratic wind currents in the upper atmosphere, forecasters couldn't predict where the storm might go, but they expected it to hit the U.S. coast within the next five or six days. New Orleans was within the cone of possible land strikes.
She massaged her throbbing temples. After the Katrina debacle, New Orleans officials had instituted a new policy, mandatory evacuation orders 48 hours before a possible hurricane strike. That meant she had three days, four at the most, to complete her mission. She shut down the laptop, went back to bed and fell into an exhausted sleep.
She woke at nine-thirty, took a shower and chose an outfit suitable for a woman ostensibly here to interview for a teaching job at Loyola: a high-necked green blouse, an ankle-length paisley-print skirt and leather sandals. Unwilling to leave certain important items in the room, she put them in her tote: her diary, her Laura Lin Hawthorn passport and the gun. With her floppy beach hat in hand, she went downstairs and entered the foyer.
“You’re too late for breakfast," Banshee shrieked, eyeing her accusingly. "I shut off the coffeemaker at nine-thirty and put away the pastries.”
“No problem, Mrs. Reilly. I’m going for a walk.”
The woman looked her up and down. “That green shirt looks nice on you. It flatters your hair.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t hear you go out last night.”
“No. I was tired. Your bed is very comfortable. Do you live here?”
“Where else would I live?” said the screech-voice. Banshee gestured at a door beside the reception desk. “I have a beautiful apartment right here on the first floor.”
“Really? I’d love to see it sometime.”
“Why?”
“To see the fixtures you were telling me about last night.”
“Well. I can’t show you now. I’ve got to stay here to answer the phone. I just got two more cancellations. That’s a bad storm brewing out there.”
“Another time then.” She turned and headed for the door. “I’m going for my walk.” Not just any walk, to plan an escape route.
“When’s your interview?” Banshee called after her. “If there’s an evacuation I might close.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see.” She went out the door and shut it behind her. When she turned and looked, Banshee was watching her. The woman was insufferable. Should she find another place to stay? That might be difficult with a hurricane coming.
She opened the wrought-iron gate, turned right and walked along the fence to the corner. A black SUV drove toward her slowly, seeking a parking space perhaps. She put on the beach hat and averted her face. Her palms dampened with sweat, and not from the brutal heat and humidity. She needed an escape route that didn’t include the front door. If she had to leave in a hurry, jumping out a third-floor window wouldn't be an option.
Beyond the wrought-iron fence that enclosed Parades-A-Plenty was a modest two-story house. No fence. It appeared to be a private residence, children's toys scattered over the lawn. She strolled into the yard. Flowerbeds with pink azaleas and orange day-lilies lined this side of the Parades-A-Plenty fence. She paused at the azaleas to inhale the luscious aroma. To anyone watching, she might have been studying the flowers. She wasn't.
Through the fence, she studied the back side of Parades-A-Plenty. The door centered in the porch probably led to Mrs. Reilly's apartment. She eyed the wrought-iron fence. It was only five-feet high. In a pinch, she could get over it. She continued along the fence to next house, a three-story Victorian like Parades-A-Plenty, enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. But this one was taller, well over six feet. No escape that way.
Her best escape route was through the yard with the azaleas. She turned and strolled back the way she'd come. An older white-haired man stood on the porch with his arms folded, staring at her with suspicious eyes. Her heart thumped her ribs. She gave him a pleasant smile and kept going. When she reached the sidewalk she turned left and didn't look back.
_____
10:15 a.m.
Frank eyed the thunderclouds hovering over the road ahead. Dark and sullen, just like his mood. He hated working on Saturday. Leaving Kelly's enticing bed this morning had royally pissed him off. He could think of far more pleasant activities than driving 23 miles across the causeway that split Lake Pontchartrain down the middle.
Ten minutes ago he'd called Evelyn, got shunted into voicemail. Again. She was still avoiding him, but why would he expect her to change now? Avoiding him had been the story of their marriage, in bed anyway. Not now, Frank, maybe tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year. Or when the Pope got married . . .
But the primary cause of his foul mood was Roger Demaris and his fucking deadline. The clock was ticking. Nab whoever killed Arnold Peterson by Wednesday, or Demaris would pull them off the case.
Four days, and right now he had nothing.
When he'd called Joereen Beaubien on Thursday, she said she was busy until Saturday. Seventeen years ago when she divorced BoBo, she'd collected a megabucks settlement, and her daughters, fathered by BoBo, were married. What the hell did she have to do that was so important, buy clothes at the ritzy stores in the Mandeville mall? No. She just didn't want to talk to him.
Many former New Orleans residents now lived north of the lake, having abandoned their flood-ravaged homes after Katrina. Following the map, he located her house, a big Georgian colonial with an attached two-car garage. He parked in the driveway. Joereen was waiting for him at the door, tall and slender in a sleeveless lavender dress and a bouffant blond hairdo. “Mrs. Beaubien? I'm Frank Renzi.”
With a wooden expression, she said, “Hello Detective Renzi. Come in.”
He followed her into a living room with a cathedral ceiling and whirling ceiling fans. After the heat outside, the room felt chilly, but the décor was attractive, art reproductions tastefully grouped along pale-green walls. He sank onto a four-cushion emerald-green sofa with white throw-pillows. Joereen took the matching wingchair opposite him.
“Thanks for making time for me,” he said, offering an ice-breaker smile.
“You said you had questions about BoBo.” No smile.
Her eyes were cornflower-blue and her face was gorgeous, no wrinkles, no mascara, a touch of lip gloss. When she'd married BoBo in what was by all accounts an extravagant ceremony in City Park, BoBo was 27. Joereen was 20. Now she was 44, and still a striking woman.
But if you were filthy-rich, you could hire a personal trainer, get your hair done twice a week. He stifled the thought and focused on his mission. Find out if BoBo killed Jeanette Brixton in 1988. And if he did, find out if Arnold Peterson had anything to do with it.
“I've heard some amazing stories about BoBo, how he started his business from scratch and turned it into an empire. What was he like?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. We were married seven years and I never did figure the man out.” Other than her lips, not a muscle moved in her face.
"Did he ever discuss the business with you?"
"No."
"Maybe mention he was having trouble with an employee or a supplier?"
Her eyes regarded him steadily. "BoBo never discussed business with me. His or anyone else's."
“In 1988 a woman was murdered in a French Quarter hotel. BoBo was a suspect."
Joereen blinked. “That was a long time ago.”
“Yes it was. Twenty years. I spoke with the lead detective on the case. Jane Fontenot. She interviewed you after the murder, right?”
“Yes,” she said, her face a smooth mask. Maybe she was having Botox treatments.
“Where were you living then?”
“In a beautiful Victorian in English Turn, near the country club.”
Interesting. The Peterson home was near the country club. “You told Detective Fontenot that BoBo was home the night of the murder. He was with you all night, you said. Is that right?”
Two more blinks. “Yes.”
“Seems like BoBo had a lot of friends."
For an instant he thought she was actually going to smile. She didn't. "Yes, he did."
"Was there anyone he was especially close to?”
Her expression didn't change but her hands tightened on the arm of the wingchair. “BoBo had a lot of friends. Rich and powerful friends. Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“What does that mean?”
A tiny shrug. “It means let sleeping dogs lie.”
His irritation escalated to exasperation, then fury. In three days it would be high noon. Collar a suspect or you're off the case.
He gave her a hard stare. “It might also mean that you lied to Detective Fontenot. If we find out BoBo murdered that woman, you could be charged as an accessory to murder.”
Her cornflower-blue eyes widened. Still she said nothing.
“Did BoBo slap you around?”
Her eyes shifted away. “BoBo had a temper, that’s for sure.”
“I read the transcripts of the divorce proceedings. You accused BoBo of domestic abuse. Is that true?”
A level stare, no change of expression. “Yes.”
“Who were his closest friends?”
“Let sleeping dogs lie, Detective.”
"Was Arnold Peterson one of them?"
Anger flared in her baby-blues. “Detective Renzi, I have a lot to do today. Unless you have a subpoena or some legal order to ask me these questions, I’m going to ask you to leave.”
His fury was off the chart, but he forced himself to maintain a cool exterior. He rose from the sofa and held out his card. “Think about what I said, Joereen. Accessory to murder is a serious charge. If you change your mind and want to talk, give me a call.”
No blinks. No smile. “Keep the card. I won’t be changing my mind.”
NATALIE
July 23, 2008
At the agreed-upon time I went to Arnold Peterson’s room on the sixth floor of the Hotel Bienvenue. As I strode down the hall I felt exhilarated, but also nervous, the way an actress might feel before going onstage to face a first-night audience and the critics. Would I get what I needed? The smoking gun required to complete The Main Event?
I got there a bit late, not late enough to make him worry that his hot babe wasn’t going to show up, just late enough to whet his appetite. When I tapped on the door, he opened it right away and gave me a big smile. “You’re even prettier than your pictures, Lucinda.”
I ran my tongue over my lower lip. “You won’t be disappointed, Arnold.”
I put my fancy gold purse on the bedside table where I could easily reach it. Then I locked eyes with him and took off my clothes. First I shimmied out of my dress. Then I took off my bra and my panties. All the while his dark greedy eyes devoured my body.
Smiling playfully, I said, “You have too many clothes on, Arnold.”
He unbuttoned his white dress shirt, unzipped his trousers, dropped the shirt and trousers in a heap beside the bed and stood there in his T-shirt and jockey shorts. I could see his erection pressing against his shorts.
“Let me help you,” I said, accidentally-on-purpose brushing his erection with my fingers.
He pulled me closer. I felt his hot breath on my cheek, felt his erection, hard against my pubic bone. Arnold was hot to trot.
I lifted his T-shirt and stroked his bare skin. He whipped off the T-shirt and dropped it on the rest of his clothes. His torso was white and flabby. Maybe the only exercise Arnold got was when he found sexy-looking babes on the Internet and invited them to his room. Patches of dark gray-streaked hair covered his chest and his nipples were small and hard and brown.
“I can’t wait to see what you’ve got for me,” I said, easing his shorts down from his waist.
He shoved them down to his ankles, stepped out of them and pulled me close. I turned slightly to position him with his back to the four-poster bed. It was already turned down, exposing silky white sheets.
Arnold was ready to rock and roll with his sexy babe. I caressed his neck with my fingers. He ground his erection against my pubic bone. I feathered my fingers over the skin on his neck, working my right hand closer to the Dokko point, the hollow spot behind the ear lobe.
Arnold didn't notice my dancing fingers. His breath was raspy and hot on my neck.
Many sensitive nerves lie beneath the Dokko point. Mr. Larson, my TKD teacher, had stressed that the Dokko point should not be your primary target during combat. It's difficult to hit if your opponent is attacking. But in other situations, applying pressure to the Dokko point can be a powerful submission technique. Your opponent will feel unbearable pain, Mr. Larson said. But he had also warned me that too much pressure can cause unconsciousness, even death.
And I wanted Arnold Peterson fully conscious for my surprise.
His arms tightened around my waist.
Before he could get a firm grip, I made a knuckle fist with two fingers, pressed on the Dokko point and twisted to shock the nerves.
He flopped backwards onto the bed, moaning, clutching his jaw with both hands. He pulled his knees to his chest and rolled side to side, clearly in great pain. His eyes were glazed and he was breathing hard, his lips pulled back in a grimace. But I had no time to enjoy my triumph.
From my bag I removed the necessary implements for my next surprise: the handcuffs and the .38 Special. When Arnold saw the gun, he stopped thrashing. I aimed it at his forehead.
“Don’t even think about calling for help. One shot and your brain will be mush. This gun is loaded with hollow-point bullets.”
It wasn’t, but he didn't know this. In my dealings with men I had
observed that they came in two types: brainy and brawny. I figured Peterson for the brainy type. Any hint that something might destroy his precious brain would get his total attention. He stared at me. I saw terror in his eyes.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but if you’re looking for money, forget it. I’m broke.”
“I’m not interested in money.” I aimed the revolver at his forehead and made a clicking sound with my tongue. He flinched.
I held out two pairs of plastic handcuffs. “Put one around each wrist.”
He did as I said. Careful to keep the gun on him, I locked the other half of the handcuff that held his left wrist around the ornate wooden bedpost. His eyes followed me as I circled the bed and did the same with his right wrist. His chest rose and fell rapidly. I was certain his heart was beating very fast.
His dick was limp now, lying flaccid against his thigh.
Mr. Important was frightened out of his mind.
And the best was yet to come.
“I’m going to handcuff your ankles to the bed now." Playfully, I poked his testicles with my finger. He rolled away and clamped his knees together. “Don’t worry, Arnold. I’m not going to hurt your jewels. But don't forget those hollow-point bullets. Be a good boy while I do your ankles.”
Holding the gun on him with one hand, I used the other to cuff his ankles to the bedposts at the foot of the bed. Arnold didn't resist.
When I finished, I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.
Arnold was used to being in control. Now he wasn’t, and he didn’t like it.
With his limbs trussed to the bed, I felt safe enough to get dressed. My nakedness had served its purpose. Lull Mr. Important into a false sense of security, disable him and control him with the gun.
After I put on my clothes, I took my mini-tape recorder out of my purse. Only then did I allow myself a tiny bit of satisfaction. But the next step was crucial. I set the tape recorder on the bed near his mouth.
“Story time,” I said, and hit Record. “Tell me about BoBo.”