by A. C. Mason
Time passed with me still in meditation mode. The last two days had been exhausting, mentally and physically. I plumped up one of the throw pillows and collapsed, drifting off to sleep in minutes. The sound of the phone ringing woke me.
“Hello,” I said, trying to clear the cobwebs from my head. Jim called to tell me he’d be late.
“Go ahead and fix something to eat for yourself,” he said. “I’ll pick up a burger or po’boy on the way home,”
“Okay, I’ll just make a salad for me.”
“Are you alright? You sound kind of fuzzy.”
“I stretched out on the sofa for a while and must have dozed off. I’m fine.”
“Okay, I’ll see you later, baby.”
After returning the semi-defrosted chicken and sausage to the freezer and the other ingredients back in the pantry cabinet, I whipped up a big Caesar salad and broke off a sizable piece of French bread from a loaf I’d bought on the way back from Greg’s office.
I checked my watch. Nine fifteen; I hadn’t realized it was so late. Oh well, this is such a light supper.
I finished eating and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher in time to catch the 10 o’clock news. I flipped on the television and surfed over to one of the local channels. The anchor started off with breaking news.
“This evening detectives from the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office are investigating the shooting death of Metairie real estate developer Greg St. Martin in the parking lot outside his office. Deputies were called to the scene around 7:15 when another of the buildings tenants heard shots and went to investigate. He discovered the body and called 911. No other details are available at this time.”
A sound emerged from my throat, sort of like a strangled scream. A chill surged through me like an injection of ice water. The taste of Caesar dressing rose in my throat. Had my visit caused Greg’s death? Who would kill such a genuinely nice man? Both questions paralyzed me. My tears turned into full blown sobs. Time blurred into oblivion.
~ * ~
Now he won’t have the chance to accidentally or otherwise give her any information. He’s always been in love with Susan. He could easily slip up. All the evidence planted at the scene should keep the investigation pointed to Steven LaGrange and maybe even throw a little suspicion on his sister.
Seven
By the time Jim finally arrived home from work, I’d come back to my senses. I ran to meet him as he came through the door.
His concern was evident. “You’ve been crying. What happened?”
“An old friend of mine was murdered tonight,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Here in the city?” He looked a little confused as if he should have known about a murder here in the city proper.
“No, in Metairie.” I almost started crying all over again, but somehow managed to compose myself. “It’s a long story. Come over here and sit and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Everything?” he asked, with a little suspicion in his voice.
“Yes, including what happened when I met Steven at The Grill.”
He nodded, loosening his tie as he lowered himself into his recliner.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I tried to come up with a coherent version of the events. The whole scenario left my heart and mind racing. “I’ll have to start from the beginning so all of this will make sense, so here goes. Like I told you last night, Steven warned me to stay out of the investigation. He got up and left the place and I sat there for a little while reflecting on our conversation until the cigarette smoke got to me.”
I repeated in detail the events as they happened, the clandestine meeting between Steven and Mary Catherine, my brother’s close call in the parking lot, and my run-in with Trey Williamson.
“Oh, I didn’t get to tell you. Right before you called me this morning, I got another one of those phone threats. This time the guy said for me to stay out of the investigation of Anne’s murder or I would be sorry.”
My last statement brought a frown to Jim’s face. Anger flashed in his brown eyes. “Those words constitute an honest-to-god threat, but who would be desperate enough to threaten you.”
“Especially since the main suspect is my brother. I can’t believe he’s the one making these calls.”
His tensed jaw betrayed his frustration. “I hate to admit it but you could be right.”
I could tell by his expression, he felt a great deal of reticence by admitting I might be on the right track. The admission made him uncomfortable. “I’m not saying Steven isn’t guilty of murder,” he came back quickly. “The threatening call doesn’t explain your tears. Who died?”
“Earlier today I went to see Greg St. Martin at his office.”
“Name’s familiar. Who is he?”
“He was my date for the party on the night Anne died. I wanted to see if he remembered anything about an incident between John Durand and Michael Benoit at the party.”
“And did he? What was this incident?” he asked with impatience.
“I’ll explain later. Just let me get on with the story before I break down.”
Jim nodded. He leaned forward and placed his hand on mine. “I’m sorry. Go on.”
“Greg didn’t remember anything at first, but phoned me about seven with some recollection. Later the ten o’clock news show reported he was…” My voice faltered and I felt my throat tightening. “…shot to death in the parking lot of his office building about 7:15.”
With this bit of news, Jim sat up straight in his chair. “In other words, you were probably the last person to hear from him before somebody killed him.”
“Yes, it appears so. Greg and I were the last people to see Anne alive.” They’re going to kill me too. I couldn’t bring myself to say it. The tears started to flow.
Jim rose from his chair and sat next to me on the sofa. Putting his arms around me, he whispered into my hair, “I’m so sorry, baby.”
Comforted by his embrace, I survived another crying jag.
“Have you eaten anything tonight?” Jim asked.
“I fixed a salad earlier. Why? Didn’t you pick up something to eat?”
“Yeah, I ate a burger about ten. Just making sure you did.” He paused a few moments, studying my face. “Is it the Sheriff or the City who’s investigating the murder?”
“I couldn’t swear to it, but I believe they said Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ll make a couple of calls in the morning and see what I can come up with. But I need to warn you; they’re probably going to be calling on you.”
“Why talk to me?” I asked, shocked. Then my brain kicked in. “Never mind. Because I was the last person to talk to him before he was killed.”
“Was he calling from a land line or from a cell?”
“From the background noise, it sounded like he called from his cell. He could have been in the parking lot when he talked to me.”
“Sounds logical since this is where he died only a short time later. Of course, if his murder was a random robbery, his cell most likely has been stolen.”
“So there’s a possibility the detectives won’t be coming by to talk to me,” I said hopefully.
“Maybe,” he said with not much conviction. “I doubt it though since you went to visit him at his office. They’ll want to interview everyone who met with him today.”
I knew how cops were, and didn’t relish being interviewed, but I didn’t have anything to worry about as far as being considered a suspect. The majority of distress I felt about Greg’s death stemmed from my belief he’d still be alive if I hadn’t gone to see him.
Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep after turning in for the night. About three in the morning my brain finally shut down and I drifted off to sleep. When I awoke several hours later, Jim had already left for the office, unfortunately having pulled the holiday shift. He left me a note in his place on the bed.
“Hang in there, baby. Everything will work out. I love you.
” He’s such a sweetheart. Even after seven years of marriage it’s no wonder I loved him more now than I did when we first met.
Dragging myself out of bed, I headed for the shower. Before I reached the bathroom the phone rang. Grabbing the receiver in a hurry, I noticed too late. The caller’s number was blocked. My heart thumped like the beat of a drum. “What do you want from me?” I yelled into the receiver.
“What happened to Greg St. Martin is because of your meddling. I warned you to stay out of the investigation. Now you and your brother are really going to pay for Anne’s murder.”
My pulse roared in my ears. Paralyzed, I held the receiver to my ear until the recorded voice of the operator broke into my trance. If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again.
I needed to call Jim about the new threat, but my body and mind wouldn’t cooperate. Collapsing on the bed, I felt exhausted, unable to move. The phone rang again, but I let it ring. When Jim’s voice came on the answering machine I picked up.
“Were you still asleep?” he asked.
“No, I…” My voice shook. “I just received another one of those calls. The man informed me that my meddling caused Greg’s murder and that now my brother and I were really going to pay for Anne’s murder.”
Jim mumbled what sounded like an obscenity. “The number was blocked again?”
“Of course, he’s careful to not give away his identity. Is there any way you can find out where the call originated?”
“Fill me in later with the dates and times for all of them as best you can remember,” he said. “I’ll see what I can find out.” A short pause followed, and he lowered his voice. “I just wanted to tell you I gave Bill the okay about accepting his job offer.”
“Good, maybe there I won’t be receiving threatening phone calls.” My heartbeat slowed to a more normal rhythm. I began to relax a little. “Did you turn in your resignation to NOPD?”
“No, not yet. I asked Bill to give me a couple of days to get things straight before he announces his choice to the rest of the officers and the City Council of Cypress Lake. I’m going to let him know when I’ve submitted all the paperwork.” He paused for a long moment. “There’s something you need to know. In light of this most recent call, I hate telling you over the phone. I’d rather tell you this in person, but I can’t get away right now.”
“Sounds ominous.” My throat tightened, not knowing what to expect. “What is it?”
“This morning I spoke to Tom Vincinelli?”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a detective with the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office. He told me Greg St. Martin’s cell was still on him so they know you were the last person he called. ”
“I suspected as much. But there’s bound to be more.”
“They found the murder weapon lying in the grass at the edge of the parking lot. It’s the same caliber as Steven’s missing gun.”
I couldn’t breathe for a moment. He’s being set up. The caller said he would pay for Anne’s murder. But he also said I would pay.
“Susan? You still there?”
“If the gun is his, the whole thing is a set-up,” I cried. “This is what the caller meant when he said Steven would pay for Anne’s murder.”
“Whether it’s a set-up or not remains to be seen.”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot believe my brother killed Anne or Greg,” I insisted.
“Listen to me. If you continue to involve yourself you could become a suspect along with your brother.” Anger flared in his voice. “Your involvement gives the appearance of collaboration.”
“You mean Steven and I conspired to kill Greg? Why would I do such a thing?”
“As I said, it gives the appearance of collaboration, and this puts you under suspicion.”
The following moments were spent taking deep breaths. “And all comes back on you, doesn’t it?”
“If my wife is under suspicion for murder, it’s not going to look too good on my record, and could jeopardize my chances for any other job.”
“Bill Kaufman might change his mind about taking you on as chief?”
He paused a moment. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to put a guilt trip on you, but yeah, he could. That’s beside the point. Think about what this will do to you. If you’re accused of involvement your life will become a nightmare.”
I didn’t want to be responsible for ending Jim’s dream job before it even began, nor did I have any desire to be accused of murder. I started to say so, but Jim continued.
“When I told you investigating on your own could be dangerous, this whole scenario is partly what I meant. You get labeled along with Steven as a murderer. I’d hate like hell to see you get in so deep you couldn’t get out.”
I uttered a nervous chuckle. “So would I.”
“Then stop running around asking for trouble. Stay out of the way. This isn’t a body-in-the-parlor case like the ones in those stories you write. Don’t go near Steven, or speak to him on the phone, or e-mail him—or anything. And while you’re at it, don’t talk to any of these other characters from the high society crowd. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try, but keeping my nose out of police business in such a personal situation isn’t going to be easy.”
“I understand your position well. I’m having a hard time staying out of the investigation myself.”
“Does this mean you think there’s possibly some other suspect?”
“You’re reading something into the situation that’s not there,” he said firmly. “Right now, Steven looks guilty to me. Until another viable suspect turns up I’ll still believe he’s the guilty party.”
I decided not to continue protesting my brother’s guilt any further. If the gun used to kill Greg really did belong to Steven, the situation might be way beyond my control. Much as I hated to admit any error concerning my belief in Steven’s innocence, the distinct possibility of his guilt loomed in front of me.
Jim and I ended the call with the decision to discuss the events in more detail when he returned home this evening. Hopefully he wouldn’t be coming in at midnight.
I rehashed all my thoughts and didn’t like them any better than I did the first time around. Realization set in. Cheating on a spouse led some men, and women for that matter, to murder. The idea made me shudder. I didn’t want to think about the likelihood of my brother’s culpability, but the reality hit me square in the face. Steven didn’t want me looking into the event because if he did kill his wife, he probably felt relieved when Jim asked him to warn me away. Getting convicted in court could be good for the defense of his character to his family. He could forever throw out the claim of being set-up. On the other hand, if I found something concrete to incriminate him, he couldn’t deny his guilt. He wanted me and our parents to always believe in his innocence.
No, no, no, my inner voice screamed. The evidence was wrong or someone set him up. Nothing could convince me Steven killed his wife, except his admitting his guilt. A sinking feeling laced the pit of my stomach. I didn’t feel like moving. All I wanted to do was lie here, cover my head, and retreat from the world.
One other thought continued to hit me like a jab to the chin. If Jim and I were to survive as a couple I had to give up the idea of trying to prove my brother’s innocence. Twice before I promised to do just that, but something always happened to drag me back into investigation mode. Could I really pull it off this time?
Continuing to beat myself up wasn’t going to solve anything. I forced my legs off the bed and finally made it to the shower. The warm water flowing over my body made me feel almost human again. Shortly after I finished dressing and drying my hair, the doorbell rang.
Two men stood facing me when I opened the door. Even if they hadn’t been sporting side arms and badges, I would have known right away they were cops.
“Mrs. Foret?” one of them asked. The white short sleeved dress shirt and tie he wore practically strangled his beefy forearms and neck. I don’t see how men
can wear neckties. My throat tightened at the notion of wearing such restrictive clothing. Knowing their intention didn’t help my throat either.
“Yes, I’m Susan.” My heartbeat sped up.
“I’m Detective Vincinelli with the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office,” he said, and gestured toward his partner. “And this is Detective Poche.”
Poche, a tall slender African-American, seemed a complete contrast to his partner. His light caramel skin color and French surname suggested an ancestry of New Orleans Creoles.
I acknowledged the introductions with a smile and hoped my expression didn’t appear to be forced.
“We’re investigating the murder of Greg St. Martin. I understand you spoke to him on the phone shortly before he died. We hate to disturb you on Easter Sunday, but if you’re free right now we’d like to speak with you.”
“Sure,” I said with an ease I really didn’t feel. “Please come in.”
As I escorted the detectives into the living room, two recent warnings, one by Trey Williamson and the other by my husband, flashed through my mind. Did the cops believe I played a part with Steven in the murders of Greg and Anne?
Eight
“Mrs. Foret,” Vincinelli began. “How do you know Greg St. Martin?”
“I’ve known him for over ten years—since before I married, but before yesterday it had been at least eight years since I had any contact with him.” I looked Vincinelli straight in the eye. “I assume you’re aware of my visit to his office.”
He nodded, but Detective Poche responded with the expected question. “Did your visit to his office relate to his real estate business?” He wore a pleasant expression and his voice held a calming tone. I’d bet any amount of money he’s the good cop and Vincinelli is the bad one during their interrogations. Cops tend to joke about this particular scenario, but they act out the parts all the same.