Hot Blooded Murder (16 page)

“Good God!” His face creased up in pain. “What kind of monster–!”

“A very angry monster. A very strong monster,” I added.

“God, yes. To crush her heart like that. Those were powerful blows.”

“I am reading your mind, Arthur. Fil is publicly cruel to Tammi. Didn’t hesitate to get physical with her even with people watching. As though he’s oblivious there’s anything wrong with his actions.”

“Smells like a psycho to me.” Arthur leaned toward me, hand outstretched. “Hand me the remote, Bryn, will you?”

I handed it over. He pressed the rewind button, slowing to check where he was. When he reached the part with Marcie riding, he let it play.

“Watch. Thought I saw something earlier…there!” The camera followed Marcie on Once around a corner. It swung to the left and caught part of Fil’s profile. Arthur hit Pause.

We stared. Filmore Takeur was staring at Marcie with a look of near rapture. Tammi ‘s small face, on his far side and only slightly above his elbow, scowled up at him.

“What do you think of that, Bryn?”

“He could be thinking about anything of course, but it’s possible he’s showing a lot of admiration for Marcie and his wife doesn’t like it. One bit.”

“For sure. It’s something more for you to chew on. It could also mean he’s such a jerk he doesn’t mind in the least his ogling might hurt his wife’s feelings.”

“That, too. Of course wives frown at ogling husbands every day of the week.”

“You’re right. Doesn’t mean anybody murdered anybody.”

“Exactly. America would be dripping blood. So let’s speculate. Let’s consider Tammi,” I said. “What do you make of her, Arthur? After all you’ve seen more of her than I have.”

“I wonder too about her, but look at her. Listen to her. Tiny voice, tiny person. She looks fit but she’s barely five feet tall. Whoever did it not only had to be powerful enough to land those stomping-type blows, but also to get an unconscious body all the way from the kitchen, down those verandah steps, past that pool, to the barn–the far end of the barn.”

“It’s not her. But for Fil, flabby as he is, Marcie’s weight would be manageable. But motive? He had the hots for her.”

“Maybe she turned him down. He’s got a temper. Maybe with her gone he’d get a better deal on the farm,” said Arthur.

“I wonder how? Cade’s a pretty desperate man. He might sell cheap. He’s really on the skids–cheap motel, missing-toothed hooker–completely sleazy, no longer the classy guy who could attract an Aimée. Maybe somehow Fil would be able to connive better terms with Cade without Marcie.”

“I dunno.”

“But as for managing the unconscious Marcie, Arthur, yes, she was somewhat overweight. I checked, to make sure it just wasn’t all too-big clothes. At the autopsy she weighed a hundred and sixty-two pounds. And she was 5’-4” tall. That’s not all that fat. I imagine younger, she would have weighed say, around one-thirty. She had a fair amount of bone to her. And she would pack lots of muscle. Horse care puts on muscle like crazy. One-sixtyish would be manageable for the average man. Cade’s average. Fil is bigger than average.”

“So, Bryn, sleuth that you are, you think it was Fil Takeur? What did he gain by backing out of buying the farm? They had the place, through Marcie, on a real buyer’s deal! Did he actually lose his job like they said?”

“I need to check on that.”

Arthur sighed. “If it was him, poor little Tammi.”

“‘Poor’ my fanny, Arthur.”

“What?”

“Poor little Tammi,” I said in a mincey tone.

“What? Bryn Wiley! You sound scornful.”

“I am scornful! I think it’s important to avoid feelings of pity for potential murderers.”

“You’re right. But she’s such a little bitty thing…” A smile came over his face. He stared at me.

“Bitty thing!” I grinned, made my hand into a pistol and did a little ‘pow’ at him. He laughed. I blew across the tip of my finger and tried to raise one eyebrow again. Failed.

I holstered my finger and dropped my eyebrows. Nodded ruminatively. “Back to Marcie’s kitchen. A blow that hard would bleed, wouldn’t it?”

“I’d think so,” he said. “Wonder if Simon Asprey went over the kitchen floor looking for blood. Have you asked him, Bryn? He has a big crush on you.”

“He does? News to me.”

“Yep.”

“What makes you think that?” As unappealing as Asprey was, still, I was a little flattered he found me attractive.
But I hope he’s not the man who’s coming for me!

He waved a hand. Saw his watch. “I hear things. And if I don’t get a move on Suzanne will clobber me. I am way late.” Suzanne was his wife, and the mother of his four sons. He got up. “So bat your eyes. Ask Simon.”

“Arthur! Are you suggesting I should use my wiles–” I sat up straighter. We were grinning.

“Your Wiley wiles–”

“To solicit–”

“You don’t need to go so far as to
solicit
–”

“To solicit information from an officer of the court?”

“How ‘bout you just ask him in a nice tone of voice?”

“Worth a try, Arthur.”

On the TV now the tape showed the mare and her son, Twice, in a distant paddock. Tammi was prancing in circles in the pen, enticing the foal to play with her. A brisk wind blew her windbreaker tight around her body and I could see then that she had a remarkably good figure, a broad chest and prominent boobs. Filmore walked onscreen, jerked open the gate, entered the paddock and grabbed Tammi by the arm. Both Arthur and I paused to stare. There was a gasping sound, on camera. Arthur said, “That was me. I forgot about this part.” Fil yanked Tammi off her feet for a moment. Then held her tightly as he spoke to her. We watched his lips move. The long sleeves of her windbreaker bunched up and made her arms look bulky, but Tammi looked tiny in his grasp.

From off-camera, on the tape, a man’s voice said, “Happy family.” I recognized Arthur’s voice.

Also from off-camera a female voice answered, “If they buy the farm, it’ll somewhat save me, Arthur…please God, I hope they do, then I can sell the bulk of the mares but keep Once and Twice and go on from here.”

“They will, Marcie. They will,” answered Arthur. The tape went to static. I hit Stop, then Rewind.

I looked at the blank screen. “Wow.”

Arthur stood, arms folded, nodding his head. “Fil looks good for it, Bryn, but you’re the expert.”

“Me? I’m no expert. I just blunder around and ask a lot of questions. That’s all. It’s amazing what people tell me.”

I backed up the tape. Then stopped it. Fil was just lifting his wife from the ground. I stared at the freeze frame. Tammi looked quite wrathful toward him. “Did she cry when he did that, Arthur?”

“Oh yes. But she blinked them back quick, like she was ashamed.”

If anyone did that to me, I’d show them wrath. But usually abused wives never show a wink of anger. Or do they? More questions. I just didn’t know. Now I knew Filmore Takeur was a nasty man. But a murderer? He looked too simple to plot anything as complicated as this murder. But what about Tammi? I stared at her image. It was hard to say. She didn’t seem dumb. But she was small. No way could she drag Marcie from the house to the barn. Besides, I thought she was a pretty basic little Southern woman, polite, bubbly, deferential to her man. As I got to my feet to show Arthur out, I said, “The question is did the Takeurs have any motive whatsoever for committing this crime?”

Arthur shook his head. He was turning to leave. I followed and continued talking.

“For that matter, what would Pritchard’s motive have been? He was about to get his money back and then some, from Marcie via the Takeur’s.”

We got to the door and I stepped outside with him. The stars were fat as ping-pong balls and so close I could reach up and grab one. Arthur went down the steps, dangled a long hand behind in a farewell salute. He got into his truck and drove off. Lulu came out and sat beside me. She trotted off and anointed the gravel. It was still warm out. The night air had a velvety feel to it. I felt a rush. I loved Louisiana nights like this.

Tomorrow I was calling on Anton Delon, maybe I’ll also call on wife-beater Fil.

In a few moments, Lu and I went into the house and I got into bed. A moment later the foot of the bed sank as Lulu’s weight arrived at my feet. We curled up and fell asleep.

Chapter Eighteen

Over a second cup of coffee I read a few lines of the
Tao Te Ching.
Then I went to my computer and made myself finish an article for the
Quarterhorse Journa
l. I emailed it to the editor along with an invoice. I needed that check! Then I decided I required someone who loved local history and gossip because my next act for Marcie would be to find Anton Delon and I wanted to be armed with information. Even though Delon seemed to be primarily a New Orleans’ figure, many New Orleanians lived on the Northshore and others owned racehorses stabled and trained over here–so–that expert could be Lila. I drove toward the diner.

“I am heading into town to chat up Anton Delon after I go to the inquest this morning. Got any tips?” I asked Lila while leaning on the counter. The diner was busy, with after-gallop trainers and riders crowding the place. Lila’s good food smells made me hungry even though I’d had my scanty, lose-ten-pounds-quick diet meal. (One soft-boiled egg. Half a piece of wheat toast, dry. Half a pink grapefruit. Yum.)

“I met him a few years ago. Cade Pritchard brought him in here a few times. I think Cade was trying to sell him a racehorse. Never heard that he succeeded. You’ll enjoy him,” Lila answered, squinting up at me. “Deep South charmer-type gentleman. In some historic Mardi Gras Krewe. Old-line blueblood. Soft spoken, well-educated. Noted for philanthropy. It’s supposed to be hush-hush but I happen to know he supports quite generously a battered women’s shelter. And.” She stopped talking and got busy accepting a payment from a customer. The cash register rang. The customer picked up a toothpick and stuck it in his mouth. Off to the side, I waited patiently. She handed over change, and when the man sauntered out the door, she beckoned me closer. Leaning toward me she said in a low, arch voice, “I also happen to know he is secretly a recovering alcoholic.”

“You don’t say.” Inside, I perked up considerably. I shot my eyes around the establishment like a spy who didn’t want to be overheard–mainly to please Lila–and added, “How long has this recovery gone on?”

“Decades. But apparently on his last big drunk he drove a car up to the building of his former business partner–who he believed cheated him–tossed a live grenade into the building then sped off. Don’t know how he got away with it, but he didn’t do a split second of jail time. The police love him! Fortunately, it was at four in the morning so the building was empty. But demolished.” She laughed admiringly. “Completely demolished.” She laughed again. “But he sobered up right quick after that.”

“Good ole boys will be good ole boys.” My smile was part grimace.

Lila leaned on the counter, musing, apparently, about the attractive wickedness of such a man.

“Lila, you think perhaps that grenade affair suggests a somewhat psychopathic penchant for violence and a vengeful nature?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “He was drunk.” Drunkenness was usually always forgiven in New Orleans. I’d used to like to drink a bit myself, and in those days I had appreciated the forgiveness, too. Now, I was not so forgiving.

“In vino veritas, Lila?”

“You’ll see, Bryn. He’s a real Southern charmer.”

I thanked Lila and ducked out the door. But first, maybe I’d better attend the inquest.

In court, I sat in the back and watched Judge Hebert accept Arthur’s clear description of hooves that stomp vs. hooves that kick. The judge, a dry-looking medium-sized man with sparse gray-brown hair and rimless spectacles over gray eyes, even appreciated the finer points such as the wear on shoes and the conformational flaw that would cause uneven wear, as appeared on the one hind shoe. Arthur held up the shoe he’d just pulled from Once for emphasis. The judge asked to see it. The bailiff handed him the shoe and the judge turned it every which way, letting the light shine on the uneven, beveled portion. I held my breath. Would he agree the wear was significant? He adjusted his glasses and with a little “Hmm,” handed it back to the bailiff. I knew Judge Hebert himself had a few racehorses in his hundred-acre backyard. Bred a few mares every year to the stallions at Big Bough Stud too. He should know about horseshoe wear.

Arthur opined the wear in Once’s case was from a slight deviation of the hock. Then I was called. I hadn’t expected this and I was sorry I was in my usual jeans and cotton top, but hiding my nervousness, I loped up to the stand and got sworn in. I immediately guessed MacWain had put the Assistant District Attorney, Mindy Asher, up to this, a sort of payback to my prying. Judge Hebert also listened attentively as I told how I’d discovered the sets of shoes, and that the year 2000 set had a missing shoe.

Ms. Asher said, “Ms. Wiley. You found three sets of championship horse shoes?” The ADA was a hawk-keen young woman with wildly curling hair, in a baby blue linen suit badly wrinkled from the long morning and the heat.

I cleared my throat. “They were in a coffee-table styled chest in Marcie Goodall’s tack room.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about these shoes?”

“Yes. From one set one shoe was missing. It was one of the smaller shoes so I knew immediately that a hind shoe had been taken. Then I saw that on the other complete sets, one of the hind shoes had uneven wear, as Arthur–Mr. Svenquist has pointed out.”

“So someone had taken a hind shoe?”

“That is correct.”

“Then what happened?

“I went by one evening to check on the horses and while I was there I was hit on the head and the other worn shoes were taken.”

She offered me the shoe Arthur had discussed. I looked at it closely. I said, “This shoe is identical to the missing shoes. The wear is beveled and unique. Hard to forget.” I was relieved to see that this shoe was identical to the one that had been literally ripped off from me. From my jeans’ back pocket, that is.