Hot Blooded Murder (21 page)

“Once? Love to! I’d feel closer to Marcie takin care a’ him.”

“Good. You need to get in touch with Tuan about all this. He’s on top of things.”

He nodded eagerly. Action could be such a relief.

“Theo. About your–recovery situation. The–drug thing? You asked if you could help.”

“Sure. Whut?”

“Still go to Twelve-Step meetings?”

“A course. Three times a week.”

I spoke. “This is probably totally outside the rules of Alcoholics or Narcotics Anonymous, but I was wondering if you could go to a few different meetings, see if you can find Mr. Anton Delon at any of them–”

“Anton? Hail–he’s m’sponsor! That’s how he got to helpin Marcie with the farm. Through me.”

“Is that so,” I said, jacking up both eyebrows and not caring one whit about wrinkles.

“Watcha want to know?”

“I think he murdered your wife, Theo.”

He leaped to his feet. His pale face turned crimson. “No! That’s a load of hooey. He’s m’sponsor! I innerduced them. He’s always helpin out folks in recovery. Said he’d be delighted to help Marcie with sellin the place. Arrange for an appraisal–” A silence. “That false–?” said Theo in a tiny voice.

I nodded. “–appraisal. Yep. Don’t say a word but I–accidentally found it last night at his office. Grabbed it just as it was about to go into a shredder.” Oops. Too much said about my activities? But Theo seemed too upset to notice.

He collapsed into the chair. “I cain’t believe it. M’sponsor! Supposed to be my most trustworthy friend. I cain’t believe it.” He stared at me. “What d’you want me to do? Ask him?”

“Can you?” I asked. “I mean given AA rules and all, is that appropriate?”

“Sure. I can ask him anythin! He is a good man. No way did he hurt Marcie! He’ll have an explanation.”

“When can you do it?”

“Tonight. Meetin tonight. He’s always there. There’s a big clubhouse in N’Awlins. Big Daddy Anton practically runs the place. Ever body loves him. He tells funny war stories…”

“I bet,” I said as I stood. “Theo, thanks a bunch. Will you call me after you talk to him? Please don’t say where you heard of the false appraisal.”

“Whut’ll I say?”

“You were going through Marcie’s papers and found it.”

“Okay. That would be true, too. She’d have it, somewheres I’d guess. Okay. Thank you for working so hard to help poor Marcie. I’ll call you tomorra.”

“Make it tonight. Never mind how late,” said I. “And you can give me your attorney information then, too.”

“I’ll call you tonight, for sure.”

We reached the door. I opened it, felt the heat, then I turned and said, “Theo. Why is Once’s stall so huge?”

“Oh! Easy! That’s how come Marcie could afford ‘im. Horse has claustrophobia. Gorgeous horse, big talent, couldn’t get ‘im to shows. He’d panic in any small space, kick apart any trailer. Seemed like he could never have a career as a show horse like that. So Marcie got him cheap, before we met. She kept him on her nurse’s salary. Got him Gris-Gris for a buddy. Always rented two stalls for him when she was boarding him, and that did it.”

“Three times a world champ.”

“Yep. ‘Cause Marcie’s a smart horsewoman. Understands what makes horses tick. Or, like in Once’s case–not tick.”

“Thanks, Theo. One last question. Why is all that gym workout equipment still in the old ballroom?”

“No room for it here,” and he gestured at his small place. “Also,” and his head dropped and his neck got pink, “I just kept leavin it there, hopin Marcie would change her mind about us gettin the divorce, after all.”

“I see.” Murderers don’t usually want to resume married life with their intended victims. “Okay, thanks, Theo. Take care.” I closed the door and followed the path out to the street of beautiful homes.

Back in the Tempo headed toward the Northshore I wondered again, did he do it? And answered myself, if he did, he’s a great actor.

Second Brain said,
Theodore has surprising layers.
That stained glass! I began to comprehend what Marcie saw in him.

If he’s an artist in glass, could he be an artist as an actor? I stopped at a light. Then I made a small scream and pounded my thigh with my fist. “EEEEEeeeoooooooow!” And I said out loud to no one, “I am so damn frustrated by this case!”

Second Brain made another intelligent suggestion.
How about lunch at Commander’s Palace. Splurge just this once.

I answered, “Food always helps. Spectacular food helps more.”

I smiled for the first time in hours, put on my blinker, and turned toward Washington Avenue and the turquoise Victorian mansion that is Commander’s Palace.

Chapter Twenty One

I ate West Indies Crab salad, which the Commander’s Palace menu had told me contained such succulent goodies as lump crabmeat, green papaya, mango, hearts of palm, plantain croutons, crushed lime, ginger and special vinaigrette.

I was seated in the second story room with wrap-around windows. Huge oak branches outside gave a feeling of dining in the treetops. A mockingbird hopped along a branch toward me. I sipped a martini, of which I’d promised myself I’d have only one. Starched napkin in my lap, fresh flowers on the table, and the laughter and conversations of others surrounded me. I closed my eyes and savored crabmeat and ambiance. I thought, this is one of the peak experiences of living in the micro-culture of New Orleans. And Creole food to boot.

I had issue with the Cajun craze, a mere two decades old in the city. Of course, it was hundreds of years old out on the bayou. It had, in fact, been launched in town from this very restaurant by a young chef named Paul Prudhomme. Inspired by his mother’s Cajun cooking, he prepared packets of extra-spicy seasonings at home and sneaked them into Commander’s famous kitchen and secretly added them to certain dishes. These got raves from diners. He also began to blacken things. And so began the Cajun food revolution that spread worldwide. Later he left Commander’s and opened his own restaurant in the French Quarter. While I loved Cajun cooking, I was a little bit afraid the cuisine that had made New Orleans famous, Creole, would be overshadowed, lost. Like this West Indies salad, a Creole recipe hundreds of years old

I ate in silence for a while. Getting out, being in a nice place, was excellent for my morale. Did I wish I had a partner sitting opposite me? I paused, a forkful of delicate crabmeat in midair and pondered. Did I? I remembered the exhaustion of trying to get along with my husband, each spirit-sapping moment when it seemed everything I did was wrong. I did not miss it.

I sipped some ice water with a lime wedge. There were many pairs of uptown women out doing lunch. They wore little dresses from Saks and Lord & Taylor. And here I was. Plain me–very light makeup except that dash of near-black waterproof mascara on my pale redhead’s lashes. My jewelry, just small pearl studs. I wore a tailored blue shirt over a K-Mart black shell. Black pants fed down to my ‘dress-up’ Sabrina heels. My red hair curved sleekly around one jaw line, for once. I always wore a lip-gloss, as much to stop my lips from chapping as to be fashionable. Besides, I liked the taste of the stuff: watermelon, vanilla, mocha. Today was a mocha day. I actually thought I didn’t look too bad. As a further nod to the Uptown lifestyle, I’d left the fanny pack at home today and carried an old, but good leather handbag, big enough to hold file folders, lip-gloss and latex gloves.

I noticed the women often paused in their nibbling and drinking to stare at one particular man seated by the window catty-corner from me. He was broad-shouldered and had the jaw and hairline of Superman. I stared a bit too. I knew him slightly. Keith Tolliver, a successful lawyer, former polo player, now a dressage rider. Some trick. He’d been playing farmer on his horse-breeding spread a few years back when his tractor tipped over and crushed his legs. Now he was in a wheelchair, both legs amputated below the knee, making ghastly real that expression ‘cut off at the knees.’ He was still a bold rider and we often fought it out for the top spot at shows, so we had a joking kind of competitive acquaintance. On some deeper, subconscious level I guess I was attracted to him, but I was not the kind of frou-frou gal I imagined him wanting. Before his accident, he’d had quite a reputation as a womanizer, but since the accident, that seemed to have changed. He was dining with his all-round assistant Todd, who also rode dressage. Naturally Lila’s Diner habitués thought they were gay, but that was so clichéd of them. There was no Brokeback Mountain sheep-herding romance. Keith had chased too many women. He could afford a fulltime helper like Todd, that was all. He did have a warmblood breeding operation not too far from my place near Absinthe Wells with a yardful of great horses for Todd and himself to ride. I went up against them on sweet ole Heinz 57-variety Amethyst. Sometimes we took top points against the hundred thousand dollar pedigrees.

I’d noticed a blonde a table away from Mr. Keith Tolliver had been giving him the eye. I felt some satisfaction that, so far as I could perceive, he had not succumbed to her battings and lashings. I caught myself staring at the blonde, perhaps with some slight hostility, but she was as intimidated as a Rottweiler and merely looked brazenly back at me. She took a defiant gulp of her martini.
Drunken tart.

I ate another piece of crab. Succulent! I sipped my martini and to continue with my real work of the day silently asked Second Brain, “So. You think Theo dunnit?”

There was a long silence. The mockingbird let out a shriek like a jay and stared at me. I swear it was only a foot from my face, the branch was that close. Then I felt a response and I imagined Second Brain harrumphing importantly and replying, “Well. Do I think he ‘done it?’ He’s smarter than you realized, Bryn. Remember, good artists aren’t just about creativity. They have much higher than average I.Q.’s, so he could have engineered the entire event.”

I chewed lettuce, vacantly staring at and admiring Superman by the window, then responded, “All that weeping…?”

“Yes. All that weeping. Could be good acting. Sociopaths do that all the time.”

I finished the last acidic, delicious drop of my Martini and thought back, “I think it’s real. I think he genuinely loved her. I think they loved each other.”

Second Brain said, “Hmm. The explanation might be that each, in his or her own way, was so psychologically damaged that their neuroses triggered the obfuscation of their sincere love.”

“Obfuscation?” I said.

“Hiding. Hid their love, which drove them apart. Possibly ended in this tragedy, which had they been able to stick together, could have been averted. Unhappy childhoods strike again.” There was a silence, then, “I could be wrong. I am not always right, unlike First Brain, which is seldom right and always thinks she’s right.”

I signaled for coffee, internally argued back, “I disagree. We know nothing of their childhoods. And, the more I think about it, the more I believe he’s our man. Did you notice what big hands he has?”

“Noticed that.”

“And he might be so lacking in horse knowledge that he’d select the wrong horseshoe: the hind. Just because he was around horses does not mean he learned anything about them.”

“True, but–my gut is saying he honestly loved her.”

“You have a
gut?!
I thought
you
were
my
gut!”

“I am. But I have to have a Source, too, you know. Let’s just say calling it my gut simplifies things.”

My coffee arrived. I sat and tried to understand how my gut could have a gut and eventually gave up. I mean how crazy was I? Having a conversation with…myself? With my
gut?

By the other window, Superman cocked his eyebrow exactly like Sean Connery. I felt jealous. He looked good doing it too. I sighed.

That blonde was really watching. When I saw her glance back over at me, I smiled, mysteriously, inscrutably, and wondered if I had the bravado to saunter over to Mr. Keith’s table and re-acquaint him with myself. Taunt him a little about the next horse show for which Am and I were lookin’ pretty darn good. Did I have the nerve?

Second Brain made an attention-getting sound. “You also still like Anton Delon for the killer?”

“Yes! Now you’re talking! That’s some scary guy! Hates women, too.”

“Even though you have been told by Lila that he subsidizes a battered women’s shelter?”

“Even though.” I placed crab and lettuce into my mouth, chewed, swallowed, dabbed with a giant starched napkin and said, “You had to have noticed how he threatened me. Or were you asleep when I was going through that encounter with him?”

“I seldom sleep. I am your woo-woo,” said Second brain.

“I know that! So, as my woo-woo don’t you just
know
these things for sure?”

“Most of the time. And on this one, as your woo-woo, I am suggesting that even though he’s one scary guy, Anton Delon is not your man.”

I was pouting over this, preparing a comeback, when I heard,

“Keet!”

Mr. Keith Tolliver’s head jerked up. The gorgeous Madame Maigrèt, clothed in long blue silk, swayed around the mâitrè de toward him. Myself, along with the brazen blonde, stared opened-mouthed at this astounding creature who was kissing Superman on both cheeks and making sexy French sounds. The whole room slowed their eating and watched the New Orleans’ scene unfold.

“Madame Maigrèt! Comment ça va?”
How are you?
said Keith suavely.

“Ah, Keet! Trés bien! Et tu?”
Very good, and you?

“Bien! Quelle plaisier, Madame.”
Good! A pleasure, Madame.

“
Pour moi aussi.
” Todd was on his feet. Keith said, “Care to join us, Madame?” She murmured more sexy sounds as she assumed the chair Todd had pulled out for her. My ears were growing, yearning to hear their conversation. I wondered if she’d ever glance around and notice me?