by A. C. Mason
“Steven must have given you a clue,” he said.
“Yes, the name of a woman.”
“Who is she?”
“Charlotte McBride.”
“The name doesn’t ring any bells with me. Is she a member of your debutante crowd?”
“I don’t think so. Steven said she moved out of town sometime before Anne’s murder.”
“You’re just going to drive by. What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I hadn’t thought any farther than driving down her street. Steven did tell me that much about her and partially described the house. Maybe I could locate someone who knew her.”
He hesitated. “Are you alright?”
“No, I’m not alright, but I’ll survive.” We ended the call and I tucked my phone into my purse.
I left Steven’s condo more distressed than ever. The only information I gleaned from my visit here was the partial address of a woman who slept with my brother. That didn’t help me at all.
Foulard was a lovely old street not far from the area where the psychic Taylor Evans lived. Old Creole style cottages, some with peeling paint, others fully restored, lined both sides of the narrow thoroughfare. Nearly four years after Katrina, a few still sported the infamous blue tarp used to cover roof damage suffered during the storm. At one time practically every home in the New Orleans area and on the Mississippi Gulf Coast that wasn’t destroyed had a blue roof.
Scattered in between the cottages, shotgun houses and two-storied homes with wrought iron balconies added to the diversity of the neighborhood. The gardenia-like scent of sweet olive drifted through the open windows of my car.
In front of one house two boys wearing New Orleans Saints tee-shirts tossed a football around, even though the season ended four months ago. But since the Saints won the Super Bowl for the first time ever, everyone in town wanted to prolong the celebration.
An elderly woman sat in a rocking chair on one side of the front porch of a shotgun double. Maybe she could give me information about Charlotte McBride. I pulled into a nearby parking spot and exited my car. She eyed me cautiously as I approached.
“Whatever you’re selling, dawlin’, I’m not buying,” she said. Her wrinkled face creased even more when she frowned.
Standing at the bottom of the steps, I smiled, hoping to win her over. “I’m not selling anything. I hoped you could give me some information about a woman by the name of Charlotte McBride. She used to live around here.”
“What kind of information?”
“Anything you can tell me. I’m trying to locate her.”
“The only people who might want to locate poor little Charlotte are bill collectors.”
“So you knew her,” I said, excited. “I’m not a bill collector.”
She motioned with an age-spotted hand for me to come up on the porch. I sat down on the top step.
“Why did you refer to her as ‘poor little’ Charlotte?”
“First you got to give me your name.”
“I apologize. My name is Susan Foret. And you are?”
“Maddie Bergeron,” she said. “Now we got that straight, tell me why you’re trying to find her.”
“My intentions are personal and not meant to be harmful in any way.”
“Well, you won’t be able to hurt her anyway. She’s dead.”
My stomach clenched. “What happened to her?”
“She killed herself by swallowing a bunch of pills.”
“When did she die?”
She contemplated the question as if trying to bring up the date from her aging memory bank. “Charlotte died back in January of 2000.”
Before Anne’s murder. “Do you know why she killed herself?”
“She owed a lot of money, for one thing and she also got herself involved with a married man. I used to see him when he came by her place during the day. Handsome son of a gun, I’ll give him that much.”
Hopefully she didn’t notice me cringe. “How did you know he was married?”
“Charlotte confided in me. Said I reminded her of her grandmother. She talked to me about a lot of things. Right before she died, she made a request of me. She told me if he came around looking for her to say she’d moved out of town. That’s what I told him the next time he came over here.”
It appeared Steven didn’t tell me the whole truth about who called off the affair. Most likely her rejection wounded his male pride. “She must have lived close by for you to be able to give him her message.”
Maddie indicated with a motion of her head. “She rented the other half of my house.”
“I understand she collected antiques,” I said. “What happened to all her possessions after she died?”
“Her family came and moved them all out,” she said, giving a shrug.
“I didn’t realize she had family locally. Do you know their name?”
“No, they were real snooty towards me. Wouldn’t give me the time of day, and I own this house. Now that’s all I can say about Charlotte.”
“You’ve been a big help,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
“You knew a lot about her without any help from me,” Maddie said, narrowing her eyes. “My guess is you’re either his wife or another mistress.”
“Thankfully I’m not either of those.”
I walked back to my car wondering if Charlotte revealed the name of her married lover. Fear prevented me from asking the question. I then focused my attention on Steven’s other lover, Mary Catherine. I recalled a statement he made when we met at The Grill. When Steven said he had his suspicions about who killed Anne he believed the killer was male and after him, the shooter being one of the “Three Musketeers“—my theory. I took a guess as to the person he suspected at first…Mary Catherine, and she could very well have been apologizing for not showing up at the camp as they planned. But she also said it wasn’t her fault. What could she mean? Did her husband forbid her to keep the meeting? With all those security cameras he did have the perfect set up to keep tabs on her.
Nearing my car I expected to see Trey leaning against the Chevy waiting in ambush, but he was nowhere in sight. Instead someone had left a message printed in dust on the back window of my car. Leave it alone or else.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This looked like the sort of childish endeavor Trey would dream up. He didn’t even stay to see my reaction. Or did he? I glanced around trying to locate him with no results.
The air smelled like an imminent rainstorm, a mixture of wet asphalt and traffic exhaust. At the sound of a not too distant rumble of thunder, I turned toward the west and observed dark clouds billowing in the sky. A storm was brewing and not far off. A few fat drops splashed on my arm. As soon as I slipped inside my car, rain and wind buffeted my car with a vengeance. Typical Louisiana weather—the sun shining one minute and storming the next. Of course, if I had bothered to check the weather report for today, I might have expected a shower. At least I made it into the car without getting soaked.
Torrents of water streamed down so hard only the hood of my car remained visible. A loud clap of thunder startled me. I’m a big sissy when it comes to lightning and thunder so I decided to wait until the storm slacked up before heading back home. A funny thought occurred to me and believe me, I needed a good laugh right then. If Trey did write the message and was hiding somewhere to see my reaction, I hoped he received a thorough drenching.
Driving through the city my mind filled with images of death. The story about Charlotte McBride’s suicide brought back haunting memories, the recollection of finding Anne dead and seeing Greg’s body in his casket. I could smell the metallic odor of the blood soaked foyer where Anne lay, and those awful sickeningly sweet flowers around the porch. With every piece of evidence I discovered, the whole scene came flooding back to me.
The traffic light up ahead turned yellow; then a split second later flipped to red. I came out of my daze just in time to slam on the brakes. Drivers around me either flashed a dirty look
or simply laughed. I felt stupid. Thank goodness Jim was at home when I arrived. I needed comfort and support.
~ * ~
Witnessing Steven LaGrange’s arrest was like chocolate candy for my eyes. He looked so scared, poor baby. Just wait until the media gets wind of his arrest. Sweet revenge for Charlie. Susan didn’t look so good herself. The emotional toll must be getting to her. Oh well, that’s the price she has to pay for supporting such a bastard.
Twenty
“She’s dead?” Jim asked, surprised. “How and when did she die?”
“According to her neighbor, Maddie Bergeron, Charlotte McBride committed suicide sometime in January of 2000. Is there any way you can find out more about her death?”
“Her death occurred about a month before I got my promotion and went to Homicide.”
“So you didn’t hear about it,” I said.
“That area wasn’t in my district, but Phil Berthelot might be able to look into it. If it’s a suicide, I don’t know what more there is to tell, except maybe the method she used. What do you want to know?”
“I’m curious about her family. The way Steven spoke of her, she didn’t seem the type to have relatives here in town.”
“You have family in the city, but you don’t necessarily associate with them,” he said.
I sighed with exasperation. He always played the devil’s advocate. “True, but I want to know the name of her family so I can figure out where I know Charlotte McBride.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Wonderful, you’re a doll,” I said.
He smiled. “I know.”
I decided against telling him about the message left on my car. No sense in giving him something else to worry about. Besides, the rain washed all the evidence away. Instead I playfully swatted him on his cute rear end.
“Now don’t get your hopes up too much. Phil may not have time to look into the file.”
Another sigh escaped my lips. I suddenly realized how tired of this whole deal I’d become. Every time I made any progress, a barrier popped up and blocked my path. Yet I couldn’t seem to quit.
Jim’s expression grew serious. “Bill Kaufman called while you were gone.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t changed his mind about your position, has he?”
“No, in fact he wants me to start earlier.”
“How much earlier?”
“Next week. I’m taking a trip to Cypress Lake tomorrow to meet with him and the Council members. It would be nice if you accompanied me.”
Irritated, I stared at him for a long moment. “I can’t go tomorrow. Not with the situation the way it is.”
“What situation are you referring to?” he asked, glaring at me.
“Steven, of course.” He knew very well why I couldn’t go with him. “What other reason would I have?”
“There’s not a damn thing you can do for Steven right now,” he shot back. “If I start this job next week, are you coming with me?”
“Not unless the state of affairs has changed here.” I regretted the words as soon as they came out of my mouth. They weren’t going to change by next week.
“Fine,” he said. He turned away from me and stormed out of the house. I heard the engine of his truck come to life. So far this day had been a disaster from the start.
Why was I carrying on this relentless campaign to save my brother at the risk of losing my husband? The realization hit me with a jolt. I had become an addict in my search to prove Steven’s innocence, the same as if I regularly injected needles full of drugs into my blood stream. Disaster seemed imminent for my relationship with Jim, but the need to continue the hunt pulled me in the opposite direction from my husband. I felt compelled to maintain this quest no matter the cost to my marriage, or despite any physical danger to myself.
Considering his immoral behavior, did my brother really deserve such a sacrifice from me? My heart told me he didn’t murder his wife. He told me he didn’t commit the crime. Therefore, I needed to feed my addiction and carry on the search for the truth.
Dropping down on the sofa, I closed my eyes and tried to center my thoughts. Ever since I began the campaign to clear Steven, Jim and I were like honeymooners for one minute and the next it seemed as though we couldn’t even agree on the time of day. I wanted the roller coaster of emotions to stop, but I didn’t have much hope for a successful end to this wild ride.
My cell phone rang and pulled me out of my self-pity session. The caller ID indicated the call was from Lisa.
“I’m glad you called. I sure needed to hear a friendly voice.”
“Why?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” I said. “Steven’s been arrested.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath from her. “Oh no, when did this happen?”
“About two hours ago. The police apparently decided they had enough evidence to make a case against him.”
“I don’t see how. Isn’t it all circumstantial?”
“Yes, but it’s extremely compelling.”
“Like what?”
“First, he has no one to confirm his alibi. He told me he spent the evening alone at our family camp in Madisonville. The woman he was supposed to meet didn’t show up as planned. The murder weapon belongs to him and, of course, there are all these affairs he supposedly had.”
“What do you mean—supposedly?”
I detected a hint of incredulity in her voice. “You know, how rumors are. Every time a piece of gossip about Steven was repeated, the message evolved, and by the time the last person heard the story he had slept with every woman in Orleans Parish. He admitted to two affairs which is bad enough.”
“We know the name of one. Mary Catherine.”
“Right, the other was a woman named Charlotte McBride. I’ve heard the name before but I can’t place her.”
“Sounds familiar to me too,” she said. “What did Steven tell you about her?”
“Not much. He first met her at a bar and went back to her place the same night. The affair lasted a few months until he called it off. Afterwards he heard she moved out of state. The way he spoke about her, he seemed to have a great deal of affection for her.”
“Nothing else?”
“He told me where she lived and after his arrest I drove over there. One of her former neighbors revealed some shocking news about her. It appears she committed suicide a few months before Anne died. Before she killed herself, she apparently confided in this woman about her affair with Steven.”
“Who is she? —the neighbor, I mean.
“An elderly lady named Maddie Bergeron. She owns the house and lives in one side and rents the other half out.”
“Interesting,” she said, in a oddly monotone voice.
“Yes, it is, but it doesn’t help Steven’s case at all.”
“Don’t despair. Something will turn up to reveal the truth.”
“I pray you’re right.”
We ended the call, and I went back to indulging myself in more self-pity until the house phone rang and startled me. The caller’s number was blocked. I hadn’t received one of those since before my attack at Steven’s house.
“Hello, it’s been a while since you called,” I said with false bravado. “I’d begun to think you’d given up on the idea of persuading me to give up my quest.”
“You just didn’t learn from the hit on the head,” the male-sounding voice told me. “Evidently, more drastic measures are needed to make you realize the futility of your actions.”
The caller disconnected before I could respond to the threat. My adrenalin started pumping. I would not be intimidated by this person. Wallowing in self-pity was nonproductive. A check on voice-altering electronics seemed like the next step. Granted, getting information about purchases of these devices could be time consuming and might not pan out, but I felt certain this was the place to put all the pieces of my shattered investigation back together again.
I retrieved
the trusty Yellow Pages and groaned at the long list of stores selling electronics. I picked up the phone and started dialing.
Half way through the list, I struck pay dirt. I began my prepared spiel to the store manager. By this time I had the story memorized and hopefully sounded like a parent irritated by teenage antics. “A few weeks ago my daughter purchased one of those voice-altering devices as a joke. I want her to return it, but she conveniently lost the receipt.
“Did she pay with a credit card?” he asked.
“Most likely she paid with cash.”
“In that case I can’t help you. When a customer pays cash we don’t take their names.”
“Maybe you might remember her. She has long blond hair and she was probably dressed in an outfit to make herself appear older.”
“Actually, I do remember a blond coming into the store,” he said.
A brief pause followed and I heard paper rustling. This blond must really be a knock-out. Men sure don’t forget her.
“Ah, here it is, she came in on April second,” he said.
The day after the reunion party at Amanda Williamson’s house!
“One of my employees waited on her and she did purchase a voice-altering device. In fact it was one of our most expensive models.”
“I guess it can’t be returned without a receipt,” I said.
“Well, cash for returns without receipts is against store policy, but if you bring the device in I can check it against our records and we might be able to give you a store credit.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “That’s very nice of you.”
“No problem. I understand your situation completely since I’m the parent of a teenager myself.”
Too bad I don’t actually have the device. I hung up and rechecked the directory for the address of this particular store, a place just outside the Quarter. Very convenient for Amanda Williamson to stop in and purchase one of those devices. But she really didn’t have a motive to kill Anne…unless Steven hadn’t told the truth about not sleeping with her. She didn’t have blond hair either. Of course she could’ve worn a wig.
Maybe it was time for me to quit taking my brother’s word as the honest-to-God truth. I didn’t know whether Amanda would even agree to speak to me, but I had nothing to lose if she refused. I located her number and called her on my cell. A long silence came after I identified myself. For a moment I believed she’d hung up.