Marry a rich old man, give him a bath, put him in a draft.
The thought made Deanna wince. Mrs. Havenall knew that one bit of gossip about her mother. Maybe she knew more. Now that Deanna was officially on the case, she decided she would find out what she could from Mrs. Havenall tonight.
But I’ll have to tread carefully. Once word gets out ....
Deanna shuddered, not wanting to complete the thought.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“WE’LL GET RIGHT ON the case, Mr. Snyder. Thank you for your confidence in us.” Barney Smalls closed the front door to the office and waved the retainer check at Blatch. “Just to be sure, do we have liftoff?”
Blatch winced. “Yes. Deanna’s still on board.”
“Excellent. As you can see, so is Snyder.”
Blatch tilted his head. “He’s cool with Deanna working the case?”
“Yep.”
Blatch shook his head in marvel at his partner. “How’d you pull that off?”
Smalls tapped the corner of the check on his forehead. “Superior intelligence.” He smiled as if he’d just grabbed the last donut. “It took some convincing, but I got him to come around.”
“What’d you say to him?”
“I basically asked him how he’d feel if someone accused his own mother of murder.”
Blatch’s jaw fell open. “What?”
“Yeah. That’s what Snyder said. Then he thought about it for a moment and admitted that if the roles were reversed and it was his mom in the hot seat, he’d do anything to prove her innocence. So I asked him, ‘What if she was guilty? Would you want to know the truth?’”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Hell yeah.’ So that’s when I went in for the kill, so to speak. I told him that’s exactly how Deanna feels, too. Snyder got it. I think he actually sees her as an asset now.”
Blatch shook his head. “That’s amazing. And, in case you’re interested, what you told him is actually the truth. Deanna said pretty much the same thing.”
“I figured she would.”
Blatch’s brow furrowed. “How could you know that?”
Smalls reached in his wallet and pulled out a twenty and a ten. “She left thirty bucks on the front desk. In the middle of all that chaos, she took responsibility for her actions. You can’t buy that kind of integrity, Blatch. I knew she’d want to do the right thing.”
Blatch stood speechless, mouth agape.
“Oh yeah. Snyder mentioned again how he wants to keep this whole thing on the down-low. No cops for now. Said it was a deal-breaker if they found out.”
Blatch closed his mouth and shot Smalls a look of concern. “You thinking Snyder’s got some skeletons in his own closet he doesn’t want knocked around?”
Smalls nodded. “Pretty much. But hey, I’m sure he didn’t make a skeleton out of his own sister.”
“Good. Keeping things quiet is what Deanna wants, too. She doesn’t want this blowing up and ruining her life, either. We only get the cops involved if the letter turns out to be genuine.”
“Capeesh,” Smalls said. “So it’s settled. Zipped lips all around. So it’s down-to-business time. First things first, we need to verify the authenticity of the confession letter.”
Blatch nodded. “Right.”
“We’re gonna need to search Deanna’s house. Get our hands on the stationery. Lift her mother’s fingerprints. Think you can get Deanna to cooperate?”
“I already arranged it for tomorrow morning.”
Smalls frowned. “Tomorrow? Why not this afternoon?”
Blatch shot his partner a look. “The woman just found out her mother may be a murderer.”
“So?”
“Cut her some slack. She could use some processing time, Smalls. I told her to take the rest of the day off to get her act together.”
Smalls rubbed his chin. “I hope she doesn’t use the time to hide evidence.”
Blatch felt oddly defensive. “Smalls, she wants to know the truth. Good or bad. She told me so herself.”
“And nobody ever lies about a thing like that. Not even to themselves. Geez, Blatch. You’re not soft on this girl, are you? If you are, get your head out of the clouds before you make another mistake.”
Blatch nearly blushed. “Gimme a break. All I’m saying is, don’t give Deanna more of a cross to bear than she deserves.”
“You’re right. She’s a good egg.” Smalls grabbed his coat. “I’m dying for a coffee. You want to come?”
“Yeah.” Blatch reached for his coat, then changed his mind. “No. Pick me up one. I’ll stay here and clean up this mess.”
Smalls glanced at the coffee stains splattered halfway up the hallway walls and smirked. “Which one?”
“Smartass.” Blatch watched the office door close behind Smalls, then headed for the breakroom. As he filled a bowl with soapy water, he worried if maybe his partner had a point. Would Deanna hide evidence of her mother’s guilt if she had the chance? Blatch thought about his own mother. He’d bury an elephant carcass to save her hide.
Crap, Blatch thought. What if he’s right? But he’d given Deanna the rest of the day off. He couldn’t go back on his word now. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t take a drive over to her house, just to get a lay of the land.
Blatch abandoned his clean-up plan. He marched to the reception desk and rifled through papers in search of the payroll form Deanna had filled out.
When he found it, his mouth went dry. Deanna’s address was on Coffee Pot Bayou, three blocks from his mother’s house on Cherry Street.
Nearly dead in the center of the disappearance zone.
Chapter Thirty-Six
AT PRECISELY SIX O’CLOCK, Deanna knocked on Mrs. Havenall’s front door. Her knuckles had barely grazed the wood panel before the door flew open. A figure lurched toward her—a wild-eyed woman with curly black hair, waving a bloody knife. Deanna flinched, raised her arms, and strangled back a scream.
“Long time, no see, Dee,” the woman giggled. “God, you look just like your mother—except for your nose.”
Deanna swallowed hard. “Thanks, Jodie.”
Jodie Havenall laughed again, then blurted her sentences in a manic staccato. “Oops! Hit a nerve there! No offense. Hey. What’s with the flowers? Peace offering?” Before Deanna could answer, Jodie turned her head and gave Deanna a sly, sideways grin. “Tell me the truth, now. Did you do something naughty?”
Deanna felt dizzy. Overwhelmed. In a flash she remembered why she’d limited contact with Jodie.
She never knew who the woman was going to be.
As a psychologist, Deanna understood what Mrs. Havenall had to bear when she’d confessed to her several years ago that Jodie suffered from Manic Depressive Disorder.
Depressed, Jodie could be as sad and listless as a homesick puppy. But in a manic phase, spending time with Jodie could feel like clinging to the back of a madwoman driving a speeding motorcycle. All one could do was hang on for dear life as she whipped and whirled around unseen curves in both the landscape and the conversation.
In a word, Jodie Havenall was intense—to the point of being unnerving. It was as if the energy she conserved during her depressed periods burst forth all at once in a manic torrent too swift for her to contain.
“I didn’t do anything naughty. It’s just a gift,” Deanna said in the calm, measured tone she used with her touchiest patients. She smiled cautiously and stared into Jodie’s unblinking, sapphire-blue eyes. “What’s with the knife, Jodie?”
Jodie looked at the shiny, ten-inch blade in her hand as if she’d forgotten it was there. “Oh. This old thing? Come on in. I’m almost done with her.”
Deanna swallowed hard again and cautiously followed Jodie inside and into the kitchen. Her throat tightened another notch when she didn’t see Mrs. Havenall anywhere.
“Have a seat,” Jodie said, and pointed to a barstool with the knife. “Glass of wine?”
“Uh...sure. Where’s your
mother?”
“Primping.” Jodie poured a glass of white wine and handed it to Deanna. She took a sip, then watched Jodie hack at a raw chicken on a cutting board as if the knife were a machete.
“I heard you were pursuing a career in art,” Deanna said, then cringed at how stiff her own words had sounded.
Jodie laughed. “Pursuing. That’s one way to look at it. Now, if I could only get some art aficionados to pursue me with their wallets.”
“I told her she should become a realtor, like my cousin,” Mrs. Havenall said, coming into the room.
Deanna nearly jumped from the stool, propelled by relief. She wanted to hug Mrs. Havenall, but stopped herself.
“Mother,” Jodie hissed, rolling her eyes. “Realtors are a dime a dozen around here. As thick as mosquitos, and twice as annoying.”
“At least they can pay their own bills,” Mrs. Havenall quipped, a touch of sarcasm souring her tone.
Jodie scowled. “It’s not like I’m not trying, Mom.”
“I know, dear. But hardly anyone makes a living by being some artsy-fartsy fringe person.”
“Fringe person? Thanks, Mom.”
Jodie slammed the knife into the chicken and twisted. The sharp crack of the bird’s breastbone sent shivers through Deanna’s already frayed nerves. Anxious to change the subject, Deanna handed her homemade bouquet to Mrs. Havenall. “This is for you.”
Mrs. Havenall’s eyes danced. “Thank you, dear!”
“You’re welcome. You know, since you mentioned it, I could use a realtor.”
Jodie turned to face them, still holding the knife. “Are you really thinking of selling the place?” She looked genuinely dejected at the prospect. “Your place is so full of fond memories.”
Mrs. Havenall nodded. “Jodie’s right, Deanna. I thought you’d ... well, we were both hoping you might decide to stay.”
Deanna had always had a soft spot for the crumbling old mansion. But now that it was potentially the scene of multiple murders—a real-life house of horrors—she found herself unable to stomach the idea of living there.
“It’s ... uh ... too much for one person,” she stuttered, grasping for an excuse. “And I’ve been away so long, I don’t have any friends here.” She glanced at the two women and blushed. “I mean, of course, besides you two.”
Jodie shot her a leering grin. “Awe, come on, Dee. Give it some time. You might grow to despise it here all over again.”
“Jodie!” Mrs. Havenall scolded. “Stop it. Melody, please forgive her.”
Jodie laughed. “Melody’s dead, Mom.”
“I know that!”
“You just called Deanna Melody.”
“I did not!”
“Did too!”
Mrs. Havenall turned to face Deanna. “Did I?”
Deanna shrugged. “It’s okay.”
Mrs. Havenall shook her head. “I’m sorry. Force of habit, I guess. But you know, you do look just like her. When she was your age, I mean.”
Jodie smirked. “Finally. Something Mom and I actually agree on.” She turned to her mother. “Okay, Mom. Chicken’s cut up. What next?”
Mrs. Havenall glanced at the massacred chicken and stifled a scowl. “You two get out of here,” she said a bit too cheerfully. “Go on!” She shooed the women with her hands. “You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
DEANNA AND JODIE TOOK seats on opposite ends of the prim, blue couch in Mrs. Havenall’s immaculate living room.
“Sorry about what I said about no friends,” Deanna said, toying with her wine glass. “It’s just that—”
“Hey, no offense taken,” Jodie cut in. “I don’t consider you my best buddy, either.”
Deanna cringed. “I’m sorry, Jodie. I never got to say goodbye to you. That summer before I left for grad school. When things ... kind of fell apart ....”
“You mean when Mom had me committed?”
Deanna’s mouth fell open. “That’s what happened? I thought you two had a big blowout—that she sent you to your aunt’s for the summer.”
Jodie pursed her lips to one side. “That’s what she told everybody. But the truth is, I lost it, Dee. I didn’t know what to do with myself after college. I guess I went a little bonkers.” Jodie flashed a mock, maniacal grin. “But I’m all better now.”
Deanna grinned despite her unease. “So where are you living now? Your mom says you’re just in town for the weekend.”
“She would say that. It’s her cover story. She can’t accept the fact that I live in a commune.”
“A commune?”
“An artist house share. It’s in Kenwood just off Central Ave. I’m afraid the arrangement doesn’t jive with Mom’s Protestant sensibilities. She wants me to come back and stay with her here. She says she’s all alone in this big old house. That there’s plenty of room.” Jodie winked. “But you know how it is, Dee. There’s not a house on the planet that’s big enough to live with your mother in.”
Deanna raised her glass of wine. “I hear that.”
Jodie sighed. “Sorry about your mom, Dee. And don’t take this the wrong way, but in some ways, you’re lucky. You don’t have to face your mother’s constant disapproval anymore.”
Mrs. Havenall poked her head into the living room. “Dinner should be ready in a few minutes. So what are you girls talking about? Not me, I hope.”
Jodie shot Deanna an I told you so glance. “Art, Mom. I just invited Deanna to my gallery opening on Friday.”
Mrs. Havenall scowled. “That’s not a gallery, Jodie. It’s just that brothel you live in.”
Jodie sighed and locked eyes with Deanna. “Deanna said she’s coming. She can decide for herself when she gets there. You can come, too, Mom.”
Mrs. Havenall’s lips pursed into a white line. “I’m going to check on the food. I’m making your favorite, Deanna. Roasted chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans.”
Jodie watched her mother leave, then rolled her eyes. “Sorry about Mom. She just doesn’t like to admit she has a daughter who would rather sleep in a ‘brothel’ than in her house. She means well. She made your favorite dinner, after all, right?”
“Right.” Deanna nodded and smiled. But it wasn’t her favorite dinner. It was her mother’s. Still, why bother correcting her? Considering the occasion, it seemed apropos enough.
“Oh. And here,” Jodie said, handing Deanna a key.
“What’s this?”
“The key to your house. Mom wanted me to give it back to you.”
“DON’T FORGET ABOUT Friday,” Jodie whispered to Deanna as she said her goodbyes at the front door.
“I won’t.” Deanna hugged Jodie. “It was nice to see you again.” She turned and hugged Mrs. Havenall. “Thank you both for dinner. It was lovely. Just what I needed.”
“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Havenall said. “Sleep tight.”
As the door closed behind her, Deanna thought, The grass is always greener. Mom had preferred Jodie to me. And Mrs. Havenall preferred me to Jodie. All that time in New York, I’d forgotten about that.
Deanna stepped off the stoop onto the walkway and sighed. With Jodie hovering around, she’d had no opportunity to ask Mrs. Havenall about whether her mother had known Jessica Snyder or Reggie Cane. Maybe it was just as well. If Mrs. Havenall had asked why she wanted to know, Deanna had no good explanation.
Deanna cut across the Havenall’s lawn and through the overgrown line of hedges toward the dim, yellow light of her own front porch. When she opened the screen door and stepped inside, Deanna could smell the sweet, sickly odor of rotting wicker and moldering fabric. The contrast to the clean, home-cooking smell she’d just left next door was stark and penetrating. Deanna lingered in place for a moment, wondering if she could ever make her house feel like a real home.
Deanna blew out a sigh and reached for the front doorknob. Somewhere nearby, a car engine started up. Deanna peered between the slats of the cheap, plastic lattice.
What she saw made her knees begin t
o wobble.
In the dim light of the streetlamp, a sedan with darkened headlights ambled slowly past her house. It looked just like the sedan she’d seen the other day—in the parking lot at her mother’s funeral.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
AFTER WATCHING THE dark sedan creep by her house last night with its headlights off, Deanna’s mind had gone haywire. She spent half the night checking the dozens of old wooden windows and doors to make sure they were locked, then going back and checking them again to make sure she hadn’t missed one. For the first time, she felt alone and vulnerable in the rambling old mansion.
Until that night, Deanna hadn’t paid any attention to just how many windows the old house had, or how terrible a condition they’d become. Several of the wooden frames had been eaten-through by termites and had collapsed like painted shells under the pressure of her fingertips. Many of the locks had rusted or been painted shut, making them impossible to secure properly. And several of the hundred-year-old panes of glass were cracked and falling out of their frames.
It would’ve been child’s play for someone to break in.
Anyone could have lured people back here to murder them, Deanna thought. Anyone.
After her third round of testing doors and windows, Deanna thought she heard someone creeping around in the backyard. In a near panic, Deanna armed herself with a fireplace poker and flipped on the back porch light.
She gasped.
A pair of red eyes stood frozen in the light for a second, then the raccoon scampered back into the overgrown brush. Feeling frightened and foolish, Deanna made herself another gimlet and kept vigil on the couch, her eye on the front door, until sometime in the wee hours of the morning, bleary-eyed and exhausted, she’d finally nodded off.
DEANNA’S HEAD BOBBED forward, jogging her awake. Disoriented, she blinked into the gray, trying to get her bearings. Suddenly, the alarm on her cellphone buzzed, scaring her into alertness. She bolted off the couch, knocking the fireplace poker in her lap to the floor.
What She Forgot Page 13