by A. C. Mason
She fired again and again. Gasping for breath, I scrambled behind the table to escape her wild shooting. The sound of breaking glass filled the room. Shards of pottery and splinters of wood flew into the air like surreal images in a tumultuous chaos.
I closed my eyes and braced myself against the table leg. The smell of gunpowder, voices, crashing noises and another gunshot assaulted my senses. As abruptly as the madness began, everything fell silent, except for a click from the now empty gun.
“Put the gun down, Lisa.” Detective Phil Berthelot’s calm voice broke the silence.
I slowly opened my eyes and moved into a crouched position. Jim pushed his way between the two uniformed officers guarding the doorway. They didn’t attempt to stop him from entering the scene. Relief washed over me. He rushed to my side and quickly inspected my wounds.
“Here, come sit down over here.” He helped me to my feet and over to a chair. He smiled. “You’re going to be okay.”
My legs felt as limp as rubber bands. “Easy for you to say,” I whispered. “How did you find me?”
“I tried calling you several times, but you didn’t answer. When you called me and didn’t say anything I knew something was wrong. Just about that time Berthelot patched a call from Melanie through to me.”
“Melanie? Is she alright?”
He nodded. “She told me the story about the conversation you two overheard.”
“I’m amazed. Thank goodness she told you the details. But there was no mention of Lisa. How did you find me here?”
“After I hung up with Melanie, Berthelot telephoned me to give me a run down on the Charlotte McBride suicide. Back then he was the one who went out to investigate. He suspected she had been force-fed all the drugs they found in her body, but he couldn’t prove it. So when the coroner reported the death as a suicide and the leads ran out, he had to give up the case. When he told me her family’s name was Olivier, I made an educated guess you were at Lisa’s.”
“Thank goodness you guessed right,” I said.
My cousin’s change of heart about talking captured my thoughts again. “But what made Melanie call you? At her house I was told in no uncertain terms she wouldn’t testify to what the men discussed because she couldn’t get Michael in trouble.”
Jim shrugged. “Evidently she changed her mind.”
“Mel mentioned getting a divorce, but I didn’t think she would actually go through with it.”
“She made the call from her parents’ house, so maybe she moved out.”
“If so I’m happy for her and hope everything goes well.”
The unfolding scene near the door caught my attention. Detective Falcon leaned closer to Trey and said something to him. He responded with a slight wave of his uninjured left hand. He was alive, but bloody. A woman officer led a wild-eyed Lisa away in handcuffs. Hard to believe this woman was the same person I thought I knew. The whole tableau seemed unreal—like something out of film noir.
Proving Trey killed Charlotte might be difficult, considering his family influence, but I prayed for justice to be served. Her murder started a chain reaction leading to a lot of pain and suffering. I wondered about the fates of John and Michael. Would they be charged with a crime? I planned to do everything in my power to make sure they would all pay. Legally, that is. No more investigating on my own.
Suddenly I felt cold, and couldn’t stop trembling. Jim put his arm around me and held me close. Sirens wailed in the distance. An image of Honey Island Swamp flashed in my mind. Alligators, snakes, and beaucoup mosquitoes. A chill ran down my spine. I turned and stared at the swamp painting on the wall. Thank God I didn’t end up there.
Lisa and Trey were fools. Their deductions turned out to be way off base and their actions despicable. But Anne was still dead. Charlotte was still dead, as well as Greg . My brother’s life remained in shambles, although most of that was his own doing. I once considered Lisa as a friend and confidant, but now I saw her as a contemptible human being. To top it all, the realization hit me; I accused Jim of having tunnel vision for not considering anyone other than Steven as the murderer. Homing in on Mary Catherine as Anne’s killer, so had I. Fate played a cruel joke on all of us.
Epilogue
August 1
Cypress Lake, Louisiana
A little over three months ago Jim started his job heading up the five man force of the Cypress Lake Police Department, and he and I settled into our brand new home. The house faced the lake in a recently developed subdivision named—would you believe—Cypress Lake Point. Only four completed homes other than ours have been built on the three dozen or so cleared lots. I’m really glad we moved here.
Four or five months ago, I never dreamed how happy I would be in the middle of nowhere, much less admit it. Of course, all the physical and emotional wounds from the horrific events of April haven’t faded yet, but I’m healing in both departments. With all his extra baggage of guilt, Steven’s wounds would probably take longer to heal. We both will be required to testify at the trials. I hate the thought of reliving those traumatic events.
A Postal Service vehicle pulled up in front of the house and the carrier stuffed a bunch of letters into our large black mailbox. I prayed for the response to my manuscript submission to be among them. After a few more Hail Marys, I got up the nerve to go check the contents of the box.
The August heat blasted me when I stepped outside, but the sight of the lake, sparkling like diamonds in the mid-morning sun, and the huge moss-draped cypress trees along the shoreline made walking out into the South Louisiana sauna worth being uncomfortable for a little while.
Our next door neighbor, Rachel Marchand, came out to check her mail also. She waved and I returned the greeting. As I opened the box, my heart beat so loudly it sounded like bongo drums in my ears.
This is stupid, I thought. Either the publisher wants to buy my book or this is another rejection letter. No matter what, I planned to continue writing. Right on top of the bills and junk mail sat an envelope showing the publisher’s name and return address. I ripped it open and began to read.
Dear Ms. Foret,
Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to review Murder at Gentilly Manor. Although your story is well written and characters believable, there are several problems with the plot. Also the ending is somewhat unsatisfying. I have outlined these points on the attached form. If you agree with my suggestions and make the changes, please feel free to resubmit your manuscript. Good luck in your writing career.
Cordially,
Carolyn Smith—Senior Editor
At least she didn’t address me as ‘dear writer’. This letter actually fell under the category of the oxymoronic ‘good rejection’. The editor’s words offered me some encouragement and positive feedback, although I wondered about her remark about my ending. Who knows? I might have a real chance at becoming a published author.
My neighbor’s voice cut into my train of thought. “Not bad news, I hope,” she said, walking over to me.
“Yes and no,” I said with a sigh. “I got another rejection letter, but it wasn’t a form letter so that’s good. The editor made a few suggestions and invited me to resubmit the manuscript if I choose to make the corrections.”
Rachel smiled. “Sounds like you’re on the right track.” A tiny breeze ruffled her salt and pepper hair.
“It’s my best rejection letter so far,” I said. “Say, is the get-together still on for tonight?”
“Yes, I’m hoping Danny won’t be called out to supervise some ridiculous incident like the paranoia of little old ladies.” She chuckled.
“Maybe they just want to see Danny,” I joked.
“You’re probably right about the old ladies, especially Miss Adelaide. She is always phoning him because she says she hears someone on her back porch.” Rachel laughed. “But the woman is eighty-five years old. I guess she deserves her little secret pleasures.”
“Real crime is still a bit rare here, isn’t it?”
I nodded in agreement. “Same here as far as Jim’s concerned,” I replied. “If everything goes as planned we’ll see you about seven.”
“Good. See y’all then.” She turned and walked back to her house.
Although Rachel Marchand was older than my mother, she and I hit it off immediately. Her husband Danny, a Vietnam vet, happened to be the sheriff of Allemand Parish. She and Danny took both Jim and me under their wings to initiate us into the community. I looked forward to socializing with them and several other couples who made us feel welcome.
As I walked toward the house, my thoughts strayed back to the horrific scene at Lisa’s apartment and the many lives ruined by this cruel joke of Fate. The effects will last much longer than April Fools Day. Every time April rolls around I’ll relive the nightmare.
Back inside the comfort of air-conditioning, I tossed the mail on the kitchen counter. The editor’s remarks about the ending to my story crossed my mind again. There’s nothing satisfying about a murder. Maybe I should consider changing genre and write historical romances set in New Orleans. Romances always have a happy ending. Murder does not.
P.S. Speaking of happy endings—it seems my husband also has twins in his family tree several generations back. Jim and I are expecting a set in January. Something good did happen in April after all.
Meet A. C. Mason
A.C. Mason is a native and resident of the Bayou State. She shares her home with three cats and several fish. Her two married daughters and their families live in nearby communities. She is a member of Sisters-in-Crime, Romance Writers of America, and Heart of Louisiana RWA.
Works From The Pen Of A. C. Mason
April Fools - December 2010 - Susan Foret, an aspiring mystery writer, takes on a real life mystery when she tries to prove her brother didn’t murder his wife.
Mardi Gras Gris Gris - July 2013 - Susan Foret is again thrust into a murder scene when one of the town’s wealthiest citizens dies near her as the local Krewe’s parade is ending.
Deadly Bayou - October 2014 - Police chief Jim Foret’s death is ruled a suicide. Susan Foret believes her husband has been murdered and sets out to prove his death is a homicide.
The Mistletoe Murders - Oak Point, Louisiana homicide detective Caleb Bourque is tasked with solving the case of a serial killer who leaves an unusual calling card with each victim—a sprig of mistletoe. After Joanna Chatelaine, a co-founder of a women’s outreach center, is killed, her sister Jamie starts receiving threats to her life if she doesn’t close Magdalen House.
Can Caleb unravel this complicated case before the killer makes good on his threat to kill Jamie?
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