Sweet Dreams Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  And her Uncle Beau’s voice in her ear, deep and round from a third scotch: “Come, Michaela, let’s play a little game of make believe.”

  Micki shoved that memory deep into the dark recesses. The place nothing good lived. Certainly, nothing she was prepared to examine in the light of day.

  She reached the scene, parked behind the single cruiser. Police tape stretched across the entrance, blending weirdly with the purple, green, and gold Mardi Gras swags adorning the columned mansion’s facade. Tinsel wreaths of the same colors hung on the double doors, sparkling fingers fluttering in the breeze.

  The toot of a horn startled her and she glanced in her rearview. A man climbing out of his vehicle. Like her assignment, a temporary partner. She grabbed her gear, climbed out, and went to meet him.

  Her first impression was of an aging goodfella, softening around the edges but still intimidating. “Carmine Angelo,” he said, holding out a hand.

  She took it. “Micki Dare.”

  He smiled, a big toothy grin that changed him from crime boss to somebody’s daddy. “You’re new to the Detective Bureau.”

  “I am.” They fell into step together. “Promoted the first of the year.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” She’d beat out a number of other candidates—all men, some with more time in uniform—which hadn’t made her any friends. “What do you know about the vic?” she asked.

  “Besides that she was rich and now she’s dead? Nada.”

  They reached the first officer; Angelo greeted him by name. “Chuckles, good to see you, man. My partner du jour, Micki Dare.”

  He nodded at her. “How’re ya?”

  She returned the nod. “Okay. What do we have?”

  “Housekeeper called it in. Found her employer, one Vivianne Stanley, in a pool of blood in her Queen’s room.”

  Micki cocked an eyebrow. “Queen’s room?”

  “You know. Mardi Gras. Rex’s Royal Consort. 1969.”

  Angelo unwrapped a piece of peppermint gum and folded it into his mouth. “That’s N’Awlins,” he drawled, “once a queen, always a queen.”

  Rex: one of the oldest, most exclusive of the Mardi Gras organizations. More phony bullshit.

  “Housekeeper’s name?”

  “Margaret Cook.” He shook his head. “Looks like Stanley was beaten to death with her scepter.”

  Micki looked up from her notepad. “Excuse me, did you just say—”

  “Yeah, I did. Her scepter.”

  Angelo snorted. “Those things aren’t much more than tin foil and paste.”

  “Not this one. Like everything else, stuff was made to last in the old days.”

  Micki jumped back in. “The housekeeper’s here?”

  “In the kitchen with the rest of the staff. Yardman and cook. Stanley’s personal trainer. Apparently, his arrival precipitated finding the body.”

  Micki glanced at Angelo. He met her eyes and nodded slightly. The coincidence of the trainer’s arrival could be nothing—or everything.

  “My partner’s babysitting. Called another cruiser, got nobody. It’s that time of year, I guess.”

  Angelo grinned. “You’ve got us.”

  Chuckles chuckled and Micki instantly understood the nickname. “Paramedics called?”

  “On their way. Supposedly. We’ll see how long that takes.”

  Angelo winked at her. “Mardi Gras; can’t live with it, can’t kill it.”

  “We could try,” she muttered as they entered the house.

  She moved her gaze over the opulent interior, taking in details, absorbing. Waiting for that one thing to jump out and shout at her.

  “Where’re you from, Dare?”

  “Mobile.”

  “So you’re familiar with Carnival.”

  “Intimately.”

  “Hence the disdain.”

  “You got it.”

  More crime scene tape. The inner perimeter. They ducked under. The Queen’s room, essentially an office. Writing desk. Credenza. Discreet file cabinets.

  Except for the eye catching, life-size display: Queen’s garb—beaded gown, faux fur stole; photographs of the young and lovely Vivianne; framed newspaper clippings; display cases filled with memorabilia.

  So eye-catching she almost missed the real deal: Vivianne Stanley on the floor in a pool of blood. Stanley’s head was a mess. Scepter there, by the body, bloodied. Even from this distance she could make out fingerprints on the scepter’s staff.

  “Looks like Chuckles called it,” Angelo said.

  Micki murmured agreement and moved on. “Perp didn’t bother with stealth. Crime of passion. Unorganized.”

  “Looks like first blow came from behind.”

  “Stanley stumbled, turned—” Micki indicated the blood trail, spatter on the fancy-ass rug.“Our UNSUB kept at her.”

  Fury. Hatred. Jealousy. Trifecta of ugly.

  Personal. Very.

  In unison, she and Angelo fitted on gloves, inched closer, squatted beside the body.

  The scepter had left a fleur-de-lis imprint on Stanley’s remarkably unlined forehead. A lone rhinestone had come free and imbedded there; it seemed to wink up at them.

  “How old you think she was?” he asked.

  “Queen of Rex in ‘69, that would make her seventy plus.”

  He cocked his head and snapped his gum. “Pretty well preserved. Neither of my grannies looked like this.”

  “My grandma did. All it takes is money. A lot of it.”

  Micki felt his questioning gaze on her but didn’t acknowledge it, stood and crossed to the desk. She frowned slightly. Obviously, Stanley had been a neat and tidy sort, yet several files laid open on her desk. Drops of blood, bloody fingerprints. Perp was looking for something.

  Micki thumbed through. Mailing lists. Returned RSVP cards. Several invitations to said event.

  Queen’s Tea. Windsor Court Hotel. Today at four P.M.

  “You found something?” he asked.

  She looked at him. He had made his way from the body to the display case along the back wall. The lid of one case stood open.

  “Invitations and RSVPs for an event today,” she answered. “Perp’s prints all over them. You?”

  “Two things missing from this display.

  “Scepter?”

  He nodded. “And crown.”

  She frowned, moved her gaze over the scene one more time. “So, where is it?”

  “Good question.”

  From the foyer came the sound of the paramedics arriving. More officers. She wouldn’t be surprised if the chief showed up. Vivianne Stanley wasn’t just any vic, she was New Orleans royalty.

  Chapter Two

  2:00 P.M.

  Micki and Angelo agreed to interview the housekeeper first and had asked the other two to wait on the patio. They’d both seemed eager to get out of the house and into the sun.

  Hunger had taken a left turn into a bad attitude. Micki decided if she didn’t get a sandwich soon, she just might bite somebody’s head off.

  It didn’t help that they’d decided to conduct interviews in the enormous kitchen; she was having a hard time keeping her focus on the housekeeper. The lunch spread on the counter—including a triple layer chocolate caked decorated with strawberries and coconut—was starting to make her twitch.

  “May I fix you a plate?”

  Micki jerked her gaze to the housekeeper. Kind eyes. Somebody’s mother. Not hers. Not by a long shot.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cook, but no.”

  “It’s just going to go to waste.”

  “No, really—”

  “Nonsense.” She stood and crossed to the spread. “Mr. Stanley is out of town and it wouldn’t be proper for me to take it.”

  “Why not, Mrs. Cook?”

  “Because it wasn’t offered to me. You’re guests in this house.”

  She’d been called a lot of things by potential witnesses, but never that. It had a nice ring to it, she decided. No way s
he was going to refuse a third time.

  The woman fixed the two plates, brought them to the table, then went back and poured two glasses of iced tea from the pitcher.

  Two tumblers, Micki realized. Two plates. “You say Mr. Stanley is out of town?”

  “That’s right. A business…” She stopped, eyes widening. “I haven’t…how am I going…to tell him?”

  “Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Cook,” Angelo said gently. “We’ll notify Mr. Stanley.”

  She nodded, eyes filling with tears.

  Micki went on. “Was Vivianne, Mrs. Stanley, expecting company for lunch?”

  Her expression went blank. “Yes, Steve. Her personal trainer.”

  “The one out on the patio? Mr. Stone?”

  “That’s right.”

  Micki eyed the plate in front of her. Besides the chocolate cake, there was bacon quiche and flaky, miniature croissants, both glistening with fat. A fat and carb nightmare. What kind of personal trainer ate that? Certainly not Mr. Iron Abs, Arms, and Ass out on the patio.

  Luckily, her job didn’t require her to wear spandex shorts. She took a big bite of the quiche and almost melted like the butter used to make it.

  Angelo stepped in. “You hesitated, Mrs. Cook. You’re certain she didn’t expect someone else?”

  “Well, Bitty Vanderlund was here earlier. I just assumed lunch was with Steve…Mr. Stone.”

  “Do Mrs. Stanley and her trainer have lunch together often?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “And how often do they see each other?”

  “Several times a week.”

  “This Bitty Vanderlund,” Micki managed around a mouthful, undeterred by the fact Angelo hadn’t touched his plate of food and was taking all the notes. “They were friends?”

  “I suppose so. They’re on committees together.”

  Angelo looked up. “Vanderlund. That’s not a typical New Orleans name.”

  “I heard Mrs. Stanley call her an outsider before.”

  Definitely not friends then. “What were they working on?”

  “No idea.” She thought a moment. “With this being Mardi Gras, Mrs. Stanley had many events underway.”

  “Like the Queen’s Tea?”

  She looked surprised. “Yes.”

  “I saw event RSVPs on her desk. What exactly is that?”

  “An event for former queens of Carnival. Mrs. Stanley was chairing this year’s event.”

  “Was this Bitty a former queen?”

  “I don’t know, but—” She hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because she’s not from here. Not originally, anyway. But she’s very nice.”

  And in a stratified society like New Orleans, that made a difference. Same in Mobile.

  Angelo stepped in. “What time did Mrs. Vanderlund leave?”

  “Ten-thirty. No, closer to eleven. I was on the phone with the caterer. Big party here tomorrow tonight. Oh dear, what do I do now?”

  “And Mrs. Stanley was fine at that point?”

  “Well, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t she have been?”

  Angelo, Micki could tell, was struggling to keep his expression neutral. “Mrs. Cook,” she said gently, “because she’s dead now.”

  Her expression went blank. Shock, Micki decided. She tried again. “You showed Bitty out, but didn’t see Mrs. Stanley?”

  “Oh, I didn’t show her out. She called out goodbye and left.”

  Angelo became alert. “You didn’t see her?”

  “Like I said, I was on the phone.” She brought a hand to her head. “I don’t feel so well.”

  “Why don’t you get some fresh air? And tell Mr. Hernandez to come in.”

  The woman gratefully agreed and started toward the door. Micki stopped her on her way out to the patio. “One last question, Mrs. Cook. Did Mrs. Stanley have a secretary or personal assistant?”

  “Yes,” she said, looking uncomfortable, “but she…fired her last week.”

  Angelo jumped in. “Why’s that?”

  She blinked. Twice. “I don’t know.”

  Which was complete bullshit. Micki would bet Mrs. Cook knew everything that went on in this house, from something as minuscule as a purloined pastry to as major as the reason a personal assistant was up and fired at the most inconvenient time.

  Micki glanced at Angelo. “Firing your assistant right before Mardi Gras? Mrs. Stanley must have had a really good reason.”

  Angelo agreed. “It must have been something bad.”

  “It was all a big mistake.” She twisted her fingers together. “You’ll have to ask Ginny about it.”

  “Ginny? That’s her name?”

  “Yes, Virgina Boudloche.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cook. We’ll need to get her number from you before we leave.”

  Chapter Three

  2:40 P.M.

  They spoke to the yardman next. He knew little. Bitty Vanderlund had arrived as he was leaving for the nursery. Something was eating the azalea bushes; Mrs. Stanley was not happy about it. He had arrived back at the property only minutes before Mr. Stone.

  They saved the trainer for last. A fact he was bristling with indignation over.

  “This is outrageous,” he said. “I’ve had to cancel three appointments.”

  “I feel for you, Mr. Stone.” His expression made it clear to Micki that he didn’t buy it, so she got to the point. “Tell me about your relationship with Mrs. Stanley.”

  “It was professional. I was her personal trainer.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Seriously? She was seventy-two. What other relationship could we have had?”

  That emphatic a denial, especially considering the circumstances, usually meant someone with something to hide. “Mrs. Cook told us you often had lunch with Vivianne.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “She was a wealthy woman.”

  “Yeah, she was. She could afford to hire someone like me to keep her fitting in her designer labels. That’s it.”

  Angelo stepped in, unperturbed. “Your professional relationship was good. No arguments, anything like that?”

  “Of course.”

  It seemed to Micki he’d hesitated a moment before answering. “What time was your appointment with Mrs. Stanley?”

  Again, hesitation. “One o’clock.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t seem certain.”

  “Would you like to check my calendar?”

  “That would be helpful.”

  He called up the calendar on his phone, handed over the device. Sure enough, her name was entered, today at one.

  “Did you know her personal assistant?”

  “Ginny? Yeah, what about her?”

  Defensive. Interesting. “I understand Mrs. Stanley fired her last week.”

  His face took on a ruddy hue. “That’s right.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Why would I?”

  “You had Mrs. Stanley’s ear. I suspect she was quite…fond of you.”

  “Old ladies like me. I make them feel good about themselves.”

  “And Ginny? Did she like you, too?”

  “What did Margaret tell you?”

  “Mrs. Cook? She told us all about Ginny being fired.”

  A slight misdirection; she hoped it worked.

  It did. He found a chair and sat, demeanor changing from tough-guy to troubled. Resigned. “She was jealous of Ginny,” he said after a moment.

  “Because the two of you had something going.”

  “Yeah.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “She made up some shit about Ginny stealing from her. Used that as an excuse to let her go.”

  He glanced down at the floor, then back up at her. “I flirt with the old birds. Make them feel attractive. Sexy. That’s it. I never take it any further. A little charm helps pay the bills. You know?”

  “Sure,”
Angelo said. “I get it.”

  Micki wasn’t so nice. “Ever try making it strictly on your training abilities?”

  He looked pointedly at her breasts. “Did you?”

  Micki narrowed her eyes. “We can do this here, Mr. Stone. Or downtown at headquarters.”

  He flushed. “You have any idea how hard it is to make a go of it out there? Doing what I do? I’m a damn good trainer, but so are a lot of other guys.”

  Obviously, she had pushed a button. She wondered if Stanley had pushed a button, too?

  Angelo stepped in. “So, you confronted Mrs. Stanley about firing Ginny? Maybe tried to get her job back.”

  Micki took over. “Maybe things got a little crazy. Heat of the moment.”

  “No.”

  “You lost you temper,” Angelo said. “I get it.”

  “No,” he said again. “God, no.”

  “When we check Mrs. Stanley’s day planner, will we find an appointment with you for today at one? Or earlier?”

  “This is bullshit. I showed you—”

  “On your phone, Mr. Stone. You could have added or edited that entry after killing her.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what? Edit the entry or kill her?”

  His demeanor changed, indignation now mixed with desperation. Micki pressed harder. “You know what I think? You killed her, Mr. Stone.”

  “What? No—”

  “It was easy. She turned her back on you and—”

  “Ginny needs this job! I was going to talk to Vivianne today. Try to convince her to take her back.”

  His voice broke. “I was sure she’d listen to me.”

  “But she didn’t,” Angelo said softly. “And you lost it.”

  Stone looked up, expression panicked. “I didn’t kill her! I was just—”

  “Just what?”

  “I didn’t have an appointment today. You were right, I added that in my calendar while I was waiting out on the patio. To cover my butt.”

  “Or someone else’s?” Micki offered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ginny had a motive,” Angelo said. “Opportunity, I’d bet.”

  “Ginny couldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Micki manufactured a sound of sympathy. “Can you guess the percentage of witnesses and loved ones we hear that from? Close to a hundred percent, Mr. Stone.”