by A. C. Mason
“My visit concerned a personal matter.” I wasn’t sure how much to say without appearing guilty of something. Better to have them believe I committed adultery than to be suspected of accessory to murder.
“And what might that be?” Vincinelli asked. I didn’t appreciate his vocal sneer.
“I asked him about a particular incident at a party ten years ago when he was my date. He said he’d have to think about it and would get back to me, which he did by phoning me.”
The two men turned on their poker faces.
“When you spoke to him, did you hear any background noise?” Poche asked.
“I heard what sounded like traffic.”
“No voices nearby?” Vincinelli asked.
“Nothing but traffic in the background.”
“It’s kind of hard to believe you would drive all the way over to Causeway Boulevard just to ask him about an incident that took place long years ago, especially since you’ve had no contact with him in eight years. Couldn’t you have telephoned him instead?”
“Causeway Boulevard isn’t terribly far away,” I said, irritated. He acted like I’d driven all the way to Baton Rouge. “My visit was a spur of the moment idea. I decided to drive over there.”
“What exactly was this party incident? It must have been extremely important.”
Panic set in at that moment. What should I tell them? Imagine the response from these men when they learned I was investigating Anne’s death on my own to prove my brother’s innocence. As luck would have it, I didn’t have to answer his question. All three of us turned at the sound of the front door opening.
Partially rising from my chair to check out the identity of my unexpected visitor, I caught a welcome glimpse of Jim in the entryway. He paused in the doorway. For a moment we locked gazes, then he turned in Vincinelli’s direction and strode toward him. Jim offered his hand. The burly detective rose and the two shook hands.
“Good to see you, Tom,” Jim said. A stranger wouldn’t have noticed the strain in my husband’s voice, but I did. He even managed a believable laugh. “Are you giving my wife a hard time?”
Vincinelli appeared uncomfortable. “We’re just asking some questions. Do you know Poche?” he said, gesturing with his head in the other detective’s direction.
“No, I don’t think we’ve met. Jim Foret.” He reached in front of Vincinelli and shook Poche’s hand.
The detective introduced himself as Germaine Poche. Both he and Vincinelli remained standing. A few awkward moments followed.
“Well, I think we’re finished here,” Vincinelli said, breaking the silence. He turned back to me. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Foret. Nice meeting you.”
The feeling wasn’t mutual. I simply nodded, and didn’t bother to smile or even look pleasant. Jim glanced at me with a mental telepathy look that said ‘stay put’.
“I’ll walk you boys out,” he said to the detectives.
Once they were all outside, I moved over and stood behind the closed door to hear their conversation.
“I asked you as a courtesy to let me know when y’all were coming over here, so I could be present,” Jim said, the tension in his voice obvious.
“Letting you in on the interview with a close relative is against our department policy and most likely yours, too,” Vincinelli said.
“And you always follow regulations, right?”
The detective didn’t respond to Jim’s accusation. “You’re too close to the situation,” he said, instead. “That’s why NOPD took you off the Anne LaGrange case. Here’s a piece of advice. The murder weapon turned out to be your brother-in-law’s stolen gun.” He exaggerated the word stolen. “He’s being interrogated as we speak.”
Jim didn’t say a word in response to this revelation, but I wanted to scream. My legs felt weak, and I needed to brace myself against the wall. Just as he explained to me, the cops didn’t believe Steven’s gun was actually stolen. Vincinelli’s irritating voice started up again.
“Just wanted to give you a head’s up about the murder weapon. But while you’re at it, you might want to check into why your wife really went to visit St. Martin. She told us she wanted to ask him a question about an incident at a party ten years ago. That’s kind of crazy if you ask me.”
I visualized an infuriating smirk on his face, one to rival Trey Williamson’s.
“What do you think was the real intention for her visit, Vincinelli?” Jim asked.
“Maybe she set the stage for her brother to do away with St. Martin or maybe she could be, uh, into something else.”
I resented his slur, but I didn’t want the insults to escalate into a knock down drag out between my husband and Vincinelli. I started to open the door, but stopped short when I heard Detective Poche’s voice. His words weren’t clear, but evidently he stepped in to save the situation from going further downhill. Everything went quiet except for the sound of footsteps on the brick walkway.
Dazed, I walked back into the living room and glanced out the window in time to see the detectives heading to their car. I flopped down on the sofa and closed my eyes. My head ached. Jim had apparently gone out on a limb for me. Things were really screwed up now. The Jefferson Sheriff’s Office detectives have Steven in their sights and maybe me, too. If they’re referring to Steven’s gun as the murder weapon, the ballistics must be a match. Heaven help us if the bullets also match those taken from Anne’s body.
Totally engrossed in my lamenting, I didn’t hear Jim come into the room, but I felt his presence. He sat beside me on the sofa and put his arm around me. I leaned my head against his shoulder.
“How bad was the interview?” he asked.
“Not too bad at first, but you came home just in the nick of time,” I said, lifting my head to face him. “Did you know they were here?”
“No, I did ask him to let me sit in on any interviews with you and he agreed. I actually came by here to give you some good news.”
“I sure could use some. What’s up?”
He smiled. “Your brother has an airtight alibi for the time period the coroner’s office estimated St. Martin was killed.”
“Thank goodness,” I said, relieved. “But how did you find out?”
“This might be a mistake telling you how, but I’m feeling brave.”
I threw him a ‘roll of the eyes’ look.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Falcon and Berthelot have been keeping me in the loop. Unofficially, that is.”
“You mean, under the table.”
“I guess you could say that. Anyway, they got information from surveillance about a visitor to Steven’s home yesterday evening a little before seven. The man stayed until after eight. They ran the license plate and the visitor turned out to be his attorney. Before his arrival Steven hadn’t left the house.”
I looked at him, encouraged by the news. “What about for Anne’s death?”
He shook his head. “Your brother will continue to be under suspicion for Anne’s murder until he gives us an alibi we can verify for the night she died. Most likely he’s aware of the surveillance NOPD has on him.”
“I gather Steven is still keeping quiet about his whereabouts on the night of the murder.”
Jim nodded. “Not a word, except for his original statement about being at the family camp.”
“So why did those guys from Jefferson Parish come to hassle me? I heard Vincinelli tell you about the match and their current interrogation.”
“They didn’t know about Steven’s alibi yet.”
“NOPD doesn’t communicate with Jefferson Parish?”
He flashed a sly grin. “Depends on the circumstances. I believe they suspected you might have been intimately involved with Greg or else they figured you and Steven collaborated on the murder.”
“I overheard Vincinelli’s remarks about me, but I didn’t hear any reaction from you. Didn’t his smear campaign make you mad?”
“Hell, yes. I would’ve punched him out if Poche hadn’t
stepped in.”
I smiled at him. “It’s a good thing you planned on defending my honor.”
“How could you have doubted my intentions?” he asked with mock indignation. He shot me a curious look. “Why did you say I came home just in the nick of time?”
“Vincinelli asked me why I went to see Greg. When I explained he said he found it difficult to believe I would drive all the way over to Causeway Boulevard simply to ask a question. ‘Couldn’t you have telephoned him?’ he asked. Next he wanted to know what incident I referred to.”
“He mentioned your statement,” Jim said. “By the way, you never did tell me about this incident.”
“I didn’t?”
“No, after you told me about St. Martin’s murder, you obviously didn’t feel like talking any more. So give me the story now.
“I doubt it has any relation to the case, but…” I took a deep breath and told him about the event and the parts Greg overheard.
“You’re probably right about the conversation not being related. There is a slim chance it could be relevant, depending on whether Greg’s memory was correct about John Durand’s last statement.”
“When he told me, I picked up on those words right away. What idea didn’t he like?” Encouraged by our agreement, I asked, “Are you leaning toward Steven’s innocence?”
“I’m not leaning, maybe just slightly tilted in his direction. There’s still the problem of where he was on the night Anne was killed; or rather, who he spent the night with.”
“Unbelievable,” I said, trying to hold back a laugh.
“What?” He made an attempt to look innocent.
“I can’t believe you admitted to being even slightly doubtful of his guilt.”
He grinned. “You’re probably never going to let me live this one down.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I released the laugh I’d been holding back. What a relief after the trauma of Greg’s murder and the pressure of going through that awful interrogation even if the session was cut short by Jim’s appearance. “Seriously, what made you decide to tilt in his direction?”
“Mostly the stuff happening to you, and because of Greg St. Martin’s murder,” he said. “I honestly can’t imagine Steven making all those calls and he’s got an airtight alibi for this homicide.” He paused for a short moment in contemplation. “There are several possibilities as to the identity of the caller. One, he believes your brother is guilty and wants to make damn sure he doesn’t get away with murder because of a technicality.”
I nodded, not because I agreed with the scenario, but it made for a plausible one.
“Second possibility,” he continued. “This person killed Anne and is afraid you might get too close for comfort.”
“My thoughts exactly. I’m so glad we finally agree about the possibility.”
Jim held up his hand to silence me. “Other than Steven himself, I can’t see a man killing her. If your brother had been the victim, the chances of the suspect being male would be considerably higher.”
“So you don’t really believe the caller is Anne’s killer,” I said, feeling dejected.
“No, in my judgment, number one is the most credible explanation for the threatening calls. Regardless, I don’t like the idea of some guy harassing you.”
“So who do you think killed Greg?”
“The possibility still exists for Steven to have paid someone to kill him,” he said, again holding up his hand to stop the interruption he knew would be coming from me. “But I’m beginning to believe Greg St. Martin’s killer is someone who wants to completely destroy your brother.”
“How did you arrive at this conclusion?”
“I doubt Steven would have been dumb enough to leave the murder weapon at the scene. Although, it’s possible he dropped the gun by accident in the attempt to get away.”
Mulling over the idea, another revelation hit me. “So if the killer is not Steven and left the gun there on purpose how did he…or she get Steven’s gun in the first place?”
“This is the only reason I’m even considering leaning toward your brother’s innocence,” he said. “If my suspicions are correct about this murder, your brother’s stolen property report was legitimate.”
“I thought so from the very beginning,” I said, giving him a smug look. At the same time I felt a tremendous elation by his agreement with my deductions.
“There are still problems with the stolen property report.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“He could have just as easily hired someone to kill Anne, provided him with the gun to use, and reported the weapon stolen afterwards.”
“I’ve read about such a scenario in fiction. Do people really do this sort of thing? Or are you just naturally suspicious?”
“Both,” he said. “We’ll see what happens when the ballistics comes back on the slugs taken from Anne’s body.”
The swell of euphoria I felt a moment ago collapsed like a deflated balloon. “I have the feeling the bullets will be a match.”
“Yeah, there’s a good chance they will. Then it’ll be up to Steven to provide an alibi that can be verified.”
“It would be nice if he did.”
“You might want to say a prayer or two. He seems pretty set on not talking.”
“Good idea. Divine intervention is what he needs in his life. We all could use some,” I added. “Maybe when he’s confronted with being arrested, he’ll reconsider and start explaining his whereabouts on that night. Maybe he was at the camp, but I doubt he spent the evening alone. I can only hope and pray he’ll give us the name of a person who can verify his alibi.”
With all this talk about prayer and the Divine, my thoughts turned to Greg’s wake and funeral scheduled for the day after tomorrow. I hated to think about the experience of viewing him in a coffin after seeing him alive only days ago. The guilt I felt about his death continued to shadow me and there didn’t seem to be a way out of the blame game I was playing with myself.
~ * ~
The dreaded day arrived. Cars and SUV’s packed the parking lot of the funeral home. Spaces were at a premium. Since the only visitation for him preceded the funeral service, more people were in attendance. I should have left my house earlier, but instead kept putting off leaving home, stalling as usual. At least the weather cooperated by not raining and with a predicted high temperature in the mid-seventies this would be a nice day for picnicking in Audubon Park, or strolling along the lakefront. Attending a funeral, not so much.
I finally located a parking spot and pulled in. Just as I stepped out of my car I heard my name called. Lisa waved to me, and I waited for her to catch up before starting inside.
“It’s great to see a friendly face,” I said.
“Same here,” she said. “Greg’s murder was such a shock.” The expression of grief in her face echoed mine.
“How well did you know him?” I asked, mentally trying to recall any association between the two.
“Oh he and I go way back to childhood. His family lived right down the street from mine.”
“I didn’t realize you’d known each other for such a long time.”
“Actually, during most of those years when we were growing up, he was away at boarding school. I only had contact with him when he came home on vacation. Once I went to Jamaica with him and several other friends for spring break.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said.
A pensive expression crossed her face. “Yes, it was.”
We reached the door to the building, and both of us hesitated.
She heaved a deep sigh. “It’s going to be difficult to view the body.”
“I’ve been dreading it for days. I feel so guilty. It could be my fault he died.”
Lisa had her hand on the handle, ready to pull open the massive wooden door, but stopped after hearing my words. “Why on earth are you blaming yourself?”
“Because I went to see him the day he was killed to ask him about the inci
dent you and I talked about, the conversation between John and Michael at your party.”
“I seriously doubt your visit caused his murder,” she said, giving me a look of admonishment. She pulled open the door and motioned for me to enter. I stalled a moment by smoothing the skirt of my blue linen dress.
Stepping inside, I felt my heart rate speed up. Lisa and I walked to Parlor A where Greg’s body lay, according to the sign in the foyer. We each signed the guest register at the entrance and proceeded up the wide aisle to the coffin. The frigid air in the parlor didn’t hold a candle to the icy daggers cutting into my back. Was my imagination running wild? Maybe so, but the glare of certain people in the room sure felt real.
Looking down at Greg, I hoped he hadn’t suffered and whoever did this would soon be brought to justice. He looked quite peaceful now, although I knew his last moments were anything but serene. In order to speed up my viewing time, but not appear insensitive, I silently prayed an Our Father and a Hail Mary, made the Sign of the Cross, and turned away to search for a seat where I might be as inconspicuous as possible. I located two seats near the rear of the parlor.
After her time at the coffin, Lisa stopped to speak to someone before joining me again. The frown on her face as she took a seat beside me suggested she didn’t like what they had to say
“Is everything alright? I asked.
“Mary Catherine and Amanda have taken it upon themselves to choose my friends and to whom I can associate.”
“What?”
She hesitated a moment before speaking. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.
“They told you I was bad company, didn’t they?”
Lisa nodded. “Mary Catherine asked how I could associate with the person responsible for Greg’s death.”
I remained seated and stewed for a while. Finally I couldn’t deal with my irritation any longer and decided my best option was to remove myself from the parlor to clear my head, since I didn’t want to disrupt the service by pulling every hair out of Mary Catherine’s head.