Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (161 page)

Stanley’s missing crown.

Angelo froze the image. “Well, I’ll be damned. What we were talking about before? Yeah, fifteen years I’ve never seen this.”

The woman looked pleased with herself. She was smiling—a small smile, turned up at the corners. As she reached the front door, she called out a cheery goodbye, just as the housekeeper said she had.

They switched cameras and fast forwarded to Vanderlund climbing into her car and driving off. Not even a glance back.

Micki stood. “We’ve got our girl. Let’s go get her.”

Chapter Five

4:00 P.M.

The Vanderlund residence had the wow of the Stanley’s, but not the history. “New money,” Grandma Roberta used to sneer. As a youngster, Micki had always wondered what that meant; she’d finally realized the ugliness was about the sender, not the recipient.

The Vanderlund housekeeper stared at their shields, then looked at them in surprise. “Mrs. Bitty isn’t here right now.”

“Do you know where she is?” Micki asked.

“She had a doctor’s appointment this morning, then planned to visit a friend.”

“What’s the name of the friend?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Angelo stepped in. “What time did she leave for that meeting?”

“Before nine this morning.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. I came in at eight-thirty and she was preparing to go.”

Micki made a note. “And she hasn’t been back?”

“Not that I know of.”

Angelo looked up from his notebook. “You say she had a doctor’s appointment? Do you know the doctor’s name?”

The woman wrung her hands and darted a glance behind her. “Her daughter, Tori, is here. Maybe you should speak with her?”

“That would be helpful. Thank you.”

She showed them to the front parlor, one similar to the Stanley’s. Micki pictured Bitty sitting there waiting, expression so deceptively…pleasant. At that moment, had she been planning to beat the other woman to death? Had the thought, the urge, already been planted in her mind and heart, just waiting to bloom into full carnage?

Micki stopped the housekeeper on her way out of the room. “One last question. How did she seem this morning?”

“Mrs. Bitty? Same as always. Sweet and upbeat.”

“Sweet and upbeat,” Micki repeated as the woman exited. She looked at Angelo, who was busying checking out framed photos placed strategically throughout the room. “Hard to reconcile that description to the blood-soaked woman in the video.”

“What did you say?”

Micki turned. A young woman stood in the doorway. Tall, slim and attractive, shoulder-length brunette bob. And obviously smart, Micki thought. Some people simply emanated intelligence.

“Detective Dare,” Micki said, holding up her shield. “This is my partner, Detective Angelo. Are you Bitty Vanderlund’s daughter?”

“Yes.” She moved her gaze between the two. “Victoria Vanderlund, how can I help you?”

“We’re here about your mother.”

Alarm raced into her eyes. “What’s wrong? Has she been in an accident?”

“Not that we know of, Ms. Vanderlund. When do you expect her back?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Why do you need to talk to her?”

“Do you know Vivianne Stanley?”

She stiffened. “I do.”

“I see by your expression you don’t like her.”

“She’s not a nice person.”

“Not a nice person,” Micki repeated “Why do you say that?”

“She’s a snob. And a bigot, by the way. Constantly reminding my mother, who’s the sweetest person on the planet, that she’s not good enough. My mother, who’s kind to everyone, volunteers all her time and—hello—doesn’t look down on anyone because of income, ethnicity, or anything else.”

The reserved young woman had become passionate. Not with hatred towards Stanley, but in defense of her mother.

“Why,” she went on, “Mom keeps working with that woman on all her pet projects, I’ll never get.”

“Was your mother working with Mrs. Stanley on the Queen’s Tea?”

“Of course not,” she said tightly. “That’s work’s only fit for a queen. Or her hired help.”

Micki glanced at Angelo, working to keep her excitement from showing. She might be new to the Detective Bureau, but she’d have to be blind not to see this had motive written all over it. “Would you say your mother’s obsessed with Mardi Gras?”

She folded her arms across her chest, gaze sharpening. “You still haven’t told me what you want with her.”

“Mrs. Stanley was murdered this morning,” Angelo said.

“Murdered?” She brought a hand to her chest. “Oh, my God.”

Micki noticed her fingertips were painted a soft, petal pink. “We understand your mother was there to see her around the same time as the murder.”

She swayed slightly, grabbed the door casing for support. “Mom wasn’t…she wasn’t hurt?”

“Your mother left the scene unharmed.”

“Thank God. Thank—” She crossed to the couch and sank onto it. She held her hands up. “Look at me, my hands are shaking.” She dropped them to her lap, visibly pulling herself together. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

“We do, Ms. Vanderlund. In fact, we have the perpetrator on video.”

“That’s good.” She let out a long breath. “I didn’t like the woman, but that doesn’t mean—” She bit the words back. “But if you have the killer on surveillance video…why do you need to talk to my mother?”

She moved her gaze between them, disbelief growing in her wide eyes. She shook her head. “Ridiculous.”

“What’s that, Ms. Vanderlund?”

“That my mother could hurt anyone.”

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Vanderlund, but the person caught on the surveillance video was your mother.”

“No,” she said, getting to her feet. “That’s simply not possible.”

“It’s more than a possibility or speculation.”

“Please leave our home. You’re no longer welcome here.”

“There’s no question she did it,” Angelo said softly. “She left the scene covered in blood and wearing Vivianne Stanley’s crown.”

Micki stepped in. “We have a warrant for her arrest, Ms. Vanderlund. A BOLO has been issued for her and her vehicle, and it’s only a matter of time until we locate her.”

“And I’m sure,” Angelo added, “you’d like her arrest to be as trauma free as possible. Help us see to it that it goes down that way.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

Micki turned.
Mr. Vanderlund.
Stationed in the doorway, an indignant thundercloud.

“Daddy!” Tori jumped to her feet and ran to his side.

Micki watched as Tori was enveloped in his arms. She had never quite come to grips with the southern practice of grown women calling their fathers daddy. But maybe she didn’t understand because she’d never had one.

Until now, she thought. Until Hank. He was the father she never had.

But she sure-as-hell wasn’t about to call him daddy.

“It’s okay, baby,” he said, leading her to the couch, cradling her to his side. “I’m here.”

“They say Mom killed that awful woman!” she cried. “That Vivianne Stanley. They say they have proof!”

“That’s ridiculous, sweetheart. Your mother couldn’t hurt a flea. We’ll get this all straightened out, Tori baby.” He handed her his handkerchief and shifted his attention to them, gaze settling on Angelo. “You’d better start talking, Detective.”

While Angelo explained, Micki studied Vanderlund’s expression. Outraged disbelief didn’t quite cover it. It took several minutes to convince him this was for real and that his wife was in deep trouble. The confident and powerful man who had burst into the room seemed to deflate before her eyes.

“You’re absolutely certain the woman in the video was my Bitty?”

“One hundred percent, Mr. Vanderlund. I’m sorry.”

“What now?” he asked, voice shaking.

“Anything you could tell us about her state of mind would be helpful.”

“State of mind,” he repeated. “This morning? She was fine. Cheerful. Positive.”

“She always is,” Tori whispered. “This isn’t right. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Your housekeeper said she had a doctor’s appointment this morning.”

“Yes,”—the slightest pause—“with her psychiatrist.”

“I thought you said she’s always cheerful and positive.”

“She is. It’s not that. Both her parents passed recently, and with Tori graduating in May then heading to law school in the fall, she was—” He looked helplessly at his daughter.

“Lost,” she answered for him, eyes filling with tears. “It’s been hard for her.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, where’re you going to law school, Ms. Vanderlund?”

“Harvard.”

She’d been right about the smarts.
“Congratulations. The psychiatrist’s name?”

“Renee Blackwood.”

Micki made a note. “This morning, did your wife mention Vivianne Stanley? That she meant to stop and see her? Anything at all about her?”

“Not to me,” Vanderlund said. He looked at his daughter.

She shook her head. “If she had, I would have told her not to.”

“Why’s that?”

“Mom liked to think they were friends.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “She
wanted
them to be friends.”

“But they weren’t?”

“The woman used her,” Vanderlund offered. “She dangled the carrot in front of Bitty’s nose, then at the last minute snatched it away.”

“What sort of carrot?”

“Social position,” he replied. “Privileges.”

As if she were a child, Micki thought, earning the right to ride her bike down the block. 

“Could you give us an example?”

“The latest was about me,” Tori said. “It’s stupid and I totally didn’t care.”

Her father stepped in. “Vivianne had promised this was Tori’s year.”

“For what.”

“To be the queen of Rex.” He sighed. “Bitty wanted that more than anything. As a young woman, she was passed over. Both of our other daughters were as well. Third time was supposed to be the charm.”

“Was Mrs. Stanley the deciding factor?” Micki asked.

“No. But she had a lot of clout.”

“And she stabbed Mom in the back by lobbying for someone else.”

“Who?”

“Emily St. Pierre,” he said. “The St. Pierres are an old, New Orleans family. Emily’s an accomplished young woman. It makes sense.”

“I don’t know why she wanted it so much,” Tori said, voice breaking. “Her Majesty, Queen of Rex. Really, what does that have to do with real life?”

He looked at his daughter. “You know how she feels about it, Tori, honey. And it is an honor. It opens doors.”

“Not that many doors! Certainly not enough to be at the beck and call of—”

Vivianne Stanley.

A dead woman.

As if that fact truly just hit her, she started to cry again, deep rasping sobs. It looked to Micki as if her father was also fighting tears.

Angelo’s cell sounded. He excused himself, returning a moment later. “We have to go,” he said, then turned to the Vanderlunds. “We’ll be in touch soon.”

Micki waited until they’d reached their vehicles to ask what was up.

“They’ve located Bitty Vanderlund,” he answered.

“Where?”

“The Rex Den. She’s got a can of gasoline and a lighter and is threatening to torch the floats.”

Chapter Six

5:10 P.M.

Eight cruisers beat them to what was essentially a Central City warehouse—but not
any
warehouse; it was the one that housed the floats and historic memorabilia for the Krewe of Rex.

Micki couldn’t help but note the irony: a murder had pulled one cruiser, but some floats were threatened and an entire precinct turned out.

Bitty Vanderlund still wore the blood-spattered gray suit. Although slightly askew, the crown still perched on her head. In her right hand she held a barbecue lighter, in her left a gas can. Gone was the calm countenance of earlier. The woman looked as wild-eyed as a cornered doe.

And cornered she was, circled by NOPD, weapons drawn.

“Get back”—Vanderlund shrieked—“or I’ll do it.”

The smell of gasoline hung in the air. All it would take was one flick of her Bic and the famous Le Boeuf Gras was going up in flames.

Micki assessed the situation. She was the only other woman in the room and it seemed the circle of men with guns was not having the desired effect on Vanderlund.

Micki stepped through the ring of officers. “Bitty,” she said, voice soothing, “you don’t want to do this.”

“Yes, I do! They’re liars! All of them!”

“I’m a woman, too, Bitty. It’s hard sometimes. I get it. Not fair.”

“I did everything they asked.”

“I know.” Micki took a step toward her. “I’ve felt the same way you do now. But it will get better.”

“It is better. I’m not powerless. Not anymore.” She shook the gas can; the liquid inside made a sloshing sound against its sides.

Micki took another step. “You were never powerless, Bitty. You have a family. Raised beautiful, strong daughters.”

“She promised Tori would be queen. She
promised.”

“Think of all the people you’ve worked to help. That’s real power, Bitty. And raising good children—what’s more important than that?”

“No.” She shook her head. “That’s not…it’s not…”

“They need you, Bitty.” Micki moved closer, almost within reach of the lighter. “Your daughters. Your husband. He’s a good man. He loves you.”

Vanderlund blinked, looking startled. “Where am I?” She moved her gaze quickly around, taking it all in. Confusion became panic.

“Vivianne was just saying…” She choked up, chin wobbling.

“What, Bitty?” Micki coaxed. “What was Vivianne just saying?”

“That not everyone…who wants to be queen—” Her eyes grew round. “Oh, my God…I didn’t mean…it just…I don’t know what happened!”

Micki took the final step and plucked the lighter from Vanderlund’s grasp. As she handed it off to Angelo, the woman dropped the can and brought her hands to her face. “What am I going to do now? What’s going to happen to me?”

Angelo stepped forward with cuffs; Micki waved him off and put an arm around her. “You need to come with me, Bitty. Then we’ll call your husband.”