Deadly Southern Charm

by Mary Burton

  Lillian’s fingernails dug into the skin of her palms and her heart raced. This was it. “Did you see who set the fire?”

  Ignoring the question, he said, “The camera showed the flames starting in two places from inside the house.”

  “Two?”

  “The kitchen on the western end, closest to the Manns, and another room on the eastern end, on your side. Spread so fast, the fire destroyed the house before we could get here.”

  “Well,” she said, “there you have it. Regina is nothing if not smart.”

  “Regina Mann was in New York, Miss Parker. I told you that.”

  “Mr. Mann then, or someone who works for them.”

  “No.” Greg averted his eyes, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you have a gas can, Miss Parker?” Lillian’s heart thudded in her ears and cold fingers crawled up her spine. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. “I can ask for a search warrant if I need to.”

  Anger flared again. “You will do no such thing, young man.” She touched a hand to her head, smoothing her already combed hair. “Of course, I have a gas can. The boy who mows my front yard on Saturdays uses it to fill the mower.”

  “The tape showed someone leaving the Horning house.” He held up his hand. “No, the face isn’t visible. Whoever went in and out of that house knew to hide their face. But there are some things that help identify the, uh, arsonist.”

  Seconds ticked by. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Spit it out.”

  He shoved his large hands deep into his pockets. “This person was small, below average height, like you.” Her heart beat faster with each word. “The person moved very slowly, in the direction of your house, using a cane with one hand and carrying a gas can in the other. A bright yellow gas can with something painted on it.”

  Lillian’s breath caught in her throat. Trudy’s children had decorated her gas can, given it to her for her birthday last year along with painted flowerpots and a new mailbox.

  “What color is your gas can, Miss Parker?”

  “Yellow is a common color.”

  He took a step forward. The sky behind him darkened. “Where is the gas can now?”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “Mrs. Mann didn’t set that fire, Miss Parker. This vendetta you’ve waged against Mrs. Mann has worried a lot of people. According to the Thurmans, you called their children and their neighbors after they sold to Mrs. Mann. You threatened them. You’ve become unreasonable. It’s got to end now.”

  “I never threatened anyone. They’re only saying that because they sold out.”

  “They moved. It’s not a crime.”

  She heard the steady plunk of rain against the large window.

  “Mrs. Mann said Trudy agreed to sell her house last week, last Friday, in fact.” The color drained from Lillian’s face. “She told you Friday, didn’t she? Is that when you found out? When you took her the bread? Did you get angry? Is that why she left in such a hurry?”

  Every part of Lillian’s body went numb. Her legs. Her arms. Her mind. She saw his lips move but heard nothing.

  “Were you angry with her, Miss Parker? Angry that she would sell and worse, to the one person you hated most, Regina Mann?” He paused to take a breath. Lightning cracked in the distance and thunder echoed over the water. Rain pounded against the roof and windows. “You knew her husband was out of work, that they needed money. She was depressed. Did you know that? Did you know she was seeing a doctor?”

  Lillian’s head came up. “Who told you Trudy was depressed?”

  “Her husband. Their marriage is breaking up. He’s very concerned.”

  Lillian snorted. Trudy’s husband had the sensitivity of a snake. If he thought she was depressed, it could only be because she wanted him to think that. Trudy had hired a detective and a lawyer, not a doctor. “What did Mrs. Mann tell you about buying the Horning house?”

  “Why does it matter now?” Greg asked.

  She almost laughed at the blank look on his face. “Indulge me.”

  Greg hesitated, and then shrugged. “She only said they came to a verbal agreement on Friday. Trudy would sell her house to Mrs. Mann at the end of the month.”

  “A verbal agreement.”

  “The papers were supposed to be signed tomorrow.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know. Mrs. Mann seemed desperate to reach Mrs. Trimble.”

  “I bet she did.” Lillian sat back again, a slow smile spreading across her lined face.

  What a brilliant young woman Trudy was. How long had she been planning the fire? Lillian knew she’d been packing up pictures and mementos for weeks. “I need these at home with me,” she’d said. “With everything going on, they give me comfort.” Trudy had known about the Mann’s camera, even commenting on it once. “It gives me the creeps, you know, having this thing watching our every move. I look away every time I go in and out the door.” The cane was the perfect touch.

  And Regina Mann had handed Trudy the perfect opportunity. By overpaying for every property on the street, she’d doubled the value of the remaining houses. Arson might not pay when you burned your own house down, but it did when someone else started the fire—someone on video with a yellow gas can and a cane. Trudy would collect and keep her land. The house might be lost, but Lillian wasn’t worried.

  “I found the old house plans,” Trudy had told her not long ago. “The ones my great-grandfather used. If anything ever happens to this house, I’ll rebuild it exactly the same.” She’d squeezed Lillian’s hand. “I promise you that.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to it,” Lillian had said.

  “I know,” Trudy had smiled, “but just in case.”

  “Where is the gas can, Miss Parker?” Greg asked.

  Lillian looked back at him. When had Trudy borrowed the yellow gas can? Last week? The week before? It didn’t matter. “I don’t remember,” she said. “It’s kind of a blur.”

  “Is it empty?”

  Lillian felt sure it was but said nothing. Outside, the rain had stopped. The sky was turning blue, the kind of blue that made Lillian want to drink it in, to fill her soul with its light and purity. Just for a moment, the pain fell away.

  “I’m really sorry, Miss Parker. I’m going to have to put this in my report.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t know what will happen after that.”

  She nodded. She knew.

  There would be a scandal. They’d call her something like Crazy Old Miss Parker or something worse. That’s the way these things worked. But she was old and sick, and she didn’t mind. Lillian would stay in her house, and she’d die long before the case ever got to trial. And after she was gone, Trudy would get the house, thanks to Regina. It was her parting comment that had prompted Lillian to update her will, making Trudy her beneficiary. It was a fitting bequest, she thought. The Horning house and the Parker house. They were two of a kind after all. Regina might get most of the houses, but she’d never get those.

  Lillian looked back at Greg, her eyes bright. “You do what you have to do.”

  WHO KILLED BILLY JOE?, by Genilee Swope Parente

  Chief of Police Clareese Guidry’s head was down in concentration and her mind was on the homicide scene she’d just left. She was headed to Verna’s Cajun Café, the local family diner and central hub of information in the small Louisiana town of New Iberia.

  The murder victim was Billy Joe Randolph, a thirty-six-year-old male. Billy Joe had been a popular figure in New Iberia, coach of the local Little League, active in church and the town’s public information officer. He’d come to town a little more than a year ago and quickly became an important part of the community. The local newspaper ran a feature just last week about his campaign to build a badly needed children’s medical clinic. Many people talked about him as if he were a saint.

  Yet someone had whacked Billy Joe with a baseball bat, cut him with a sharp tool, and shot him in his office. Clareese pictured Billy Joe’s bo
dy lying where a janitor had found him this morning, on his back, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. She would have described the look on his face as shock. How could someone determined to savagely murder him have surprised him?

  The whole situation didn’t make much sense. Other than a few stray pieces of paper on the floor, there were no signs of a struggle in the office. Nothing was reported stolen. Crime scene processors had dusted for prints and found many, but Billy Joe had hundreds of visitors to his office at City Hall.

  The prints on the bat lying next to his body had yielded no match in the criminal database. The rifle on the floor had only Billy Joe’s prints—it was his own 22-caliber hunting rifle. They’d found no bloody instrument in the office that could explain the gashes near the bullet hole.

  Billy Joe’s body was positioned next to a small table holding building plans for the new clinic. Claresse surmised he had been going over the specs when someone attacked him. He fell or was knocked to the floor and landed face up with one arm flung across his chest. He had no defensive wounds on his hands.

  Claresse couldn’t tell if the blow to his head or bullet wound to his chest was the cause of death. The gashes were on his leg and not very deep so they weren’t the cause. She hoped the coroner’s report would shed some light on the cause of death and maybe confirm her theory that this crime was unplanned and fueled by passion.

  The preliminary autopsy report was due in shortly—the coroner and the body had left the office for the county morgue an hour ago.

  It was just after lunch, but Verna’s was sure to be full and buzzing with the terrible news. She wanted to catch that buzz and sniff out a few leads. Besides, she badly needed a decent cup of coffee before heading back to her office.

  As Clareese expected, the diner was packed. She ordered a large, no-sugar, touch-of-cream and started listening to the talk, asking a few pointed questions to start conversations.

  “No, I don’t know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him or anyone who was upset with the man,” said Roberto Herbert, the local barber. Billy Joe frequented that shop at least once a week for a personal shave. “I mean, he even got along with Tommy Lee. And you know there ain’t many people who Tommy even talks to.”

  True, thought Clareese. Tommy Lee Bowens, who swept hair at the shop for a few dollars a day, rarely talked to anyone. He was a mentally challenged seventeen-year-old whose frequent bruises and trips to the emergency room led Clareese to suspect the boy’s alcoholic father took out his anger on his son.

  She turned to listen as Beatrice Jardin piped up. “Billy broke off with Diane a couple of weeks ago you know,” she said. “I don’t think he was dating anyone else, though I heard Betty Jones has a huge crush on him.” Her eyes had that unnatural gleam of someone who wanted to share gossip and knew she shouldn’t. The look appeared frequently on her face since Beatrice was the owner of Bea-YOU-tiful, a nail salon that served as another local gathering spot. Only Herbert’s Cut ’N Shave and Verna’s Cajun Café got better buzz.

  The next speaker was the shy, well-liked Alana LeBlanc, the town librarian. “I read in Crime Weekly that a quarter of all murders are committed by family members,” she said. “But that can’t be the case with Billy Joe. He told me once he isn’t close to any family, and they are all somewhere out west.” Clareese made a note to check that out.

  New Iberia’s Mayor Richard Boudreaux Johnson coughed and straightened his tie as if about to make a speech, a gesture he probably used several times a day. All eyes turned to the official.

  “It’s Billy Joe, people,” he said. “You know he only had the interests of this town in mind.” Clareese knew, however, that the mayor tended to weigh any soul’s worth on what resources the person contributed to the community—the idea for the children’s clinic gave Billy Joe a huge star in the mayor’s eyes.

  Clareese took a few more notes as people talked, but she already knew much of what they were sharing. The victim was a bachelor who spent a lot of time at work, dated Diane and a couple of local women before her, had an outgoing personality, lived in Mrs. Gordon’s boarding house, and was adored by the kids he coached. He’d started the drive to raise funds for the clinic about nine months ago, a project that had caught fire in town in recent weeks.

  The chief closed her notebook and was about to head out the door when a comment from Ralph Schmidt sitting at the counter stopped her.

  “What happens now with the money Billy Joe collected for the clinic? Guess we’ll have to find someone else to take that over.”

  Everyone looked around at everyone else. No one seemed to know exactly how it was handled—only that they’d all helped in the fundraising efforts.

  “Last Monday at the town meeting, Billy Joe reported the townspeople had saved $250,000 already,” said Selma Mae Jenkins, the clerk responsible for taking notes at the council meetings. Her voice grew wistful. “Everyone was so proud of him. That’s a lot to raise in just a few months.”

  “Maybe we should look into how we get that money into an official fundraising account,” said George Pickney, the mechanic who ran Pickney’s Garage and an elder at First Baptist, the church where many of the fundraisers had been held. “I don’t suppose he ever thought about what would happen if he up and died on us.”

  Selma slugged George on the arm. “How can you say such things at a time like this!” George rubbed his arm and looked sheepish.

  Well, I guess the money wasn’t in a church fund, Clareese thought. Could it be a motive for murder? Was someone trying to get their hands on what had been raised?

  Clareese turned to Jim Burke, president of the New Iberia Community Bank, who was sitting at the counter sipping coffee.

  “How about it, Jim? Did Joe have a special fund set up for the clinic?” she asked.

  Jim’s eyes narrowed and focused on his coffee cup.

  “I wouldn’t know. His money was not in our bank.”

  Okay, Clareese thought, I guess that’s a sore spot for Jim. But she understood. Most businesses in New Iberia chose to support the only remaining community bank in town. Maybe since Billy Joe wasn’t originally from the area, he had an account with one of the nationals. Surely he hadn’t kept it all in cash or checks in his office.

  She made a note to trace the funds, and then headed out of the diner, deciding to visit Diane Beacon, his most recent girlfriend, on her way back to Town Hall.

  Clareese and Diane had been in the same class at New Iberia High School and had coffee occasionally. Diane had gone away to college and returned a teacher at the school; Clareese had moved back to their hometown only recently after a stressful few years of city work.

  The last time Clareese saw Diane, she’d been hanging on Billy Joe’s arm at one of the clinic fundraisers. Clareese remembered feeling mildly surprised. While Diane’s lustrous black locks and curvy body assured she always had admirers, her whip-smart tongue often stopped men in their tracks. She hadn’t had many serious beaux.

  Billy Joe’s charm must have been able to cut through Diane’s shell, Clareese thought as she sat across from her classmate.

  “He really was a lot of fun,” Diane said, taking a sip from her sweating glass. “A breath of fresh air after a day spent trying to teach history to teens who don’t care. Billy and I had a good time together.”

  She smiled through hazel eyes glistening with tears. “I can’t believe he’s gone like that—murdered in his office! What happened? Who would have done this?”

  “We don’t know yet. But I’ll find out,” Clareese promised. “I’m starting with his background and the last few weeks of his life. I know you two were an item for a while. What can you tell me about his background or his family or what was happening with him? Did he have any enemies?”

  Diane’s finger traced the rim of her glass. “I can’t think of anyone who didn’t like Billy Joe. As far as his background, I don’t have much to contribute. He was a good talker and an even better listener. But he didn’t tend to talk about him
self much.”

  “Why did you break up?” Clareese asked.

  Diane set the glass on the coffee table and sat back, rubbing her forehead with one hand as if putting her thoughts together.

  “You know, I’m not quite sure. When we first started going out, what… like three months or so ago, I was a little smitten. He knew a little bit about a lot of things, and he certainly was attentive—always asking about school and my day and this town—what it was like growing up here, what the people were like. But I couldn’t get him to go very deep into who he was. I’m not exactly sure why it all fizzled before it ever got very far.”

  “Were you upset or was he angry at the break-up?” Clareese asked.

  “Not at all. If anything, I was upset with myself. He was a pretty great guy who was doing all this good for the community, and he was so well liked. But I don’t know, it just wasn’t there for me.”

  On the way back to her car, Clareese got a call from the coroner’s office. Dr. Samuel Jenkins’s report managed to throw a wrench into the already complicated crime.

  “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know the hows, Clareese, just the whats. I’m just telling you—the blows to the head and the twenty-two caliber slug I took out of his leg did not kill this man. He also didn’t bleed out, but his lungs were full of fluid.”

  “The cause of death was drowning?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Sam said. “His lungs were filled because he had pulmonary edema, which causes excess fluid in the lungs. It’s something a lot of people with bad tickers fight. I could see when I pulled out his heart that the organ was in pretty bad shape, but I don’t think he knew it. He came to see me several times for colds and other minor things, but he never mentioned any heart difficulties. If he knew, he didn’t tell me.”

  “So you think his heart just gave out on him from the shock?” Clareese said.