Mostly Murder (18 page)

“Go on ahead. I'll catch you later. I promised Nancy I'd hang with her and have some dinner, and I don't want to disappoint her.”

Black's jaw tightened and a muscle worked in his cheek, giving away his true feelings, but he nodded. He was not going to beg, and he wasn't usually overly controlling, either. “Okay. I'll see you at home in a little while. Don't forget to show up. If I'm asleep, wake me up.”

Claire watched him thread his way through the tables and disappear out the door and began to feel fairly down in the dumps herself. They rarely had cross words, much less a fight. She didn't like it any more than he did. But he certainly hadn't given her a good reason for lying about where he'd been. It made her wonder how often he had been off having good times with his friends when he'd told her he was working. She sighed, and then headed to the bar and Nancy. She'd have a good time with her friend, too, damn it, or die trying.

After a fantastic dinner of a fried-shrimp-and-mayonnaise po'boy and Cajun cheese fries and a Pepsi and some fun with Nancy Gill, Claire decided to bid her friend farewell and drive back over to Lafourche Parish. She had something important she had to do there, and she wanted to take a look at Holliday's video before she went home to Black. The roads were dark and relatively free of traffic, and once she reached the bayou crime scene, she drove straight past the house, still surrounded by crime scene tape, her headlights spearing the black velvet night. She turned off the engine and sat there alone in the dark, listening to the tick of the cooling motor. She thought about the brutal murder that had gone down and the abused body found just up the hill and felt an urge to turn the car around and go home posthaste. But she couldn't, not quite yet, so she got out. She smelled the cigarette smoke first, and then she saw the shadow move across the aft deck. Her nine-millimeter was in her hand instantly, and she went down behind the car door and held it on the dark figure moving around on the boat.

“Who's there? Don't move, you hear me? Don't move a muscle! I've got a gun on you.”

“Claire! Don't shoot. It's me, Ron Saucier.”

Claire recognized his voice, so she re-holstered her weapon and walked quickly to the lamppost that housed the covered outside light switches. She flipped all of them on, and the boat was flooded with light.

Ron Saucier still stood on the aft deck, not far from her, a lit cigarette in his left hand. He had a rifle in his right fist, pointed down at the ground. What the hell was he doing on the boat?

He didn't give her time to inquire. “Sorry if I scared you. I was out fishin' and came by here. I just pulled in to check out the place and see if you were still stayin' out here alone. There's a night light on inside, and I just wanted to check, that's all. You know, just to make sure you were okay.”

“Didn't you see my car wasn't here?”

“Yeah, but I just wanted to be sure. Honestly? That voodoo scene up there in that house pretty much freaked me out. So I decided to sit down here in the dark and watch the crime scene. Thought maybe the killer might come back and revisit the place once the police were gone. They do that sometimes.”

“Yeah, that's true. I guess you haven't seen anything?”

“No. I'm really sorry if I scared you, though,” he said again. “I didn't know it was you. Too dark, and I didn't want to give away my position.”

“That's okay. Thanks for checking on me. I appreciate it.”

“So why are you out here? Anything wrong?”

Claire didn't want to tell him the truth, a little embarrassed about her spat with Black, so she only said, “I guess we're thinking on the same wavelength. I wanted to check the place out.”

“Yeah. It's really creepy down here in the dark. The floodlights make it better.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued as he made his way down the narrow, roped gangplank, still holding the rifle. Claire decided to be gracious. After all, the guy had gone to the trouble of checking on her. “Want a beer, or something, before you go?”

“Nah, I need to get home. It's late. You're not stayin' out here tonight, are you?”

“Oh, no, I'll hang around a while, then I'm heading home.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow at the office.”

She watched him climb into his boat. It was a big brown-and-gold bass boat with a built-up seat in back, a nice one that looked fairly new. He got the motor started, gave her a quick air salute, and took off. Saucier was truly a weird dude, to be sure, she had to admit. Pretty nice, too, but definitely on the peculiar side.

When he faded into the darkness, headed downstream to his own place, she climbed the gangplank and looked around for anything out of place. After all, and despite his story about worrying about her, she didn't know Ron Saucier all that well. But the houseboat looked no different from the last time she'd spent the night there. She shivered in the cool air, thinking about what had been done to Madonna Christien's body. She drew her weapon again and thoroughly checked out the boat, turning on overhead lights in every room, but found nothing disturbed. Satisfied, she slipped out of her faded denim jacket, walked to the DVD player, and slid in the disc. It came on as she collapsed in the worn brown recliner facing the television, with the sound of multiple male voices, loud and boisterous in overlapping conversations. Then there they all were, with smiles and toasts and laughter and great good cheer. About fifteen or twenty people sat around a formal dining room table set with lots of crystal goblets and fancy gold-rimmed plates and one giant silver candelabra sitting in the middle of the table and burning with a multitude of white tapers. Male hotel waiters in starched white shirts and black vests hovered around unobtrusively, topping off wineglasses and serving delicious-looking food.

Wow. Black knew how to throw a birthday party sans her, all right. But, hey, this was how rich shrinks and famous sports agents celebrated stuff. Hell, just the other day their department had Zee's birthday party down at the office with red Solo cups and a sheet cake Nancy had picked up at Winn-Dixie. Nope, and there hadn't been any candelabras on his desk, either. In fact, there hadn't been any candles at all. Claire had forgotten to buy them. But the cake had been milk chocolate with fudge icing and sugar sprinkles and had probably tasted just as good as the three-tiered, magnificent white cake with Holliday's name on it sitting on the buffet. Jack's cake was decorated with fleurs-de-lis, too. In fact, there were lots of fleurs-de-lis decorating the table. Tulane graduates, all, and through and through.

On the screen, the hijinks commenced, a good time being had by all, it seemed. Bone tired all of a sudden, Claire kicked back the footrest and watched her honeybun have a spanking good time with all his friends. It was turning out to be a friendly, good-natured roast, with lots of teasing about Sigma Chi and all their wild shenanigans in their college days. They even mentioned the night in jail during Mardi Gras so they were probably telling the truth and not exaggerating everything.

Claire's attention sharpened considerably when Black's old love, Jude—no other name, just Jude, because she was such a super-famous fashion model, bless her skinny little heart—was escorted into the room by a maid. And yes, she looked just like a modern version of Scarlett O'Hara entering and wowing all the menfolk in her über-slinky scarlet sequined dress. She was also wearing a gaudy display of emeralds around her neck. Yep, all decked out in red and green. Guess she had gotten into the Christmas spirit. No
To/From
tag hung off her come-hither holiday package, however, unless she had it attached where no one could see it without opening it up first. Claire would bet it had Black's name on it, though, and in capital letters. Upon her appearance, the rowdy men all stood up like even wealthier versions of Rhett Butler or Mr. Darcy, but without top hats or male scornful attitudes. Well, maybe some of the attitudes.

The lovely-beyond-compare Jude sat down beside Black, of course, making one of the other guys give up his chair. She was all over him immediately. Black wasn't encouraging it, but he wasn't exactly throwing her hand off his arm like it was a scorpion, either. The party progressed, with toasts galore, and the two of them had their heads together at times, smiling at somebody's joke once in a while, but mainly talking seriously in low tones. Black didn't look like he was nailed to the floor, but he didn't kiss her or look like he wanted to drag her into the bedroom and unwrap her, so Claire gave him a pass on that.

After a while, Black, as the host, stood up and made some toasts, and the party went on, through the meal, through the dessert and the singing of “Happy Birthday.” Jude stuck like glue to Black's side the entire time, but when she left early, he didn't go with her, didn't walk her to the door, didn't kiss her good-bye, not even a peck on each cheek for old times' sake. In fact, he acted relieved to get rid of her so he could get back to drinking and kidding around with his Tulane buddies. Okay, he hadn't had a quickie with dear old Jude, no matter how hard she'd tried to get her lips on him. So, okay, nothing untoward had happened. No need to get bent out of shape.

More important, Jack Holliday was there with him, having fun and laughing and not strangling a small woman to death on Carondelet Street. It looked to Claire like Holliday was off the hook. Still, some inconsistencies in his story nagged at her. If somebody had attempted to frame him with the murder by planting a glass with his prints on it, they were either inept or they'd done it in a big hurry. Either way, they'd done one crummy job since he had a whole passel of eyewitnesses to corroborate his alibi. Once, not so long ago, somebody had tried to frame Black for a murder and done a much better job of it. Even she'd had her doubts on that one for a while, but at the time she'd recently hit her head in a car crash and hadn't remembered if Black was a good guy or a bad guy, so there you go.

A distant sound filtered through the trees, somewhere way out on the bayou road. Concerned, with visions of sewing needles and black thread and white candles and the smell of death erupting in her head, she walked outside and stood on the aft deck under a string of white lights and realized soon enough that she had company coming down her road, all right. Recognizing the roar of a big, souped-up Harley Davidson when she heard it, she pulled her weapon, held it down alongside her right leg, and stepped back into the shadows where she couldn't be seen. She kept her eyes peeled on the dirt road up near the house. When the motorcycle came into sight, jouncing down the hill toward her over ruts and gravel, it didn't take long for her to identify the rider. Well, well, her friend Rocco hadn't had any trouble finding her, after all.

Rocco stopped the bike at the bottom of the gangplank beside her white Range Rover, turned off the motor, and sat there staring up at the boat. Claire didn't move a muscle. She watched him swing a leg over the seat and set the kickstand. Tonight he was dressed in a faded denim jacket, black jeans, and a gray sweatshirt, actually almost looked like a regular human being, except for the giant red swastika painted on the front of the shirt. He didn't have a gun in his hand, which was always a good sign.

“Hey, anybody home on there?” he yelled, but he still didn't step foot on the gangplank. Probably afraid Claire might jump out and shoot him.

“Over here,” she called out, and when he saw the business end of the Glock in her hand, he raised both his hands in the air. “Don't shoot. I come in peace.”

Claire re-sheathed her weapon. “So, Rocco, tell me, what's up with the skeezy Blackbeard impersonation?”

Rocco grinned. “Jack Sparrow's my man. Admit it, Annie, he's a cool dude. Or, wait a sec, I gotta call you Claire now, right?”

When he grinned, looking as devilish as always, Claire was just so glad to see him that her throat clogged up and she couldn't speak for a second. It had been years since she'd seen Gabriel LeFevres before she'd run into him at Voodoo River. His parents were the ones who had lived up the hill in the house when she'd been with them. Gabe had been her best friend and confidante when they were both ten years old. His family had taken her in and treated her like one of their own children. Back then, she had absolutely worshipped the ground Gabe walked on. Still did, in fact.

“Well, c'mon, now, Annie, don't I get a hug or a kiss, or something good like that?”

Gabe strode up the gangplank, and Claire went quickly into his arms. She clutched him, just so glad he was safe. He led a dangerous life, but he'd always had a wild and reckless streak inside him. One that often got him into trouble, even when they were little kids.

“Damn it, Gabe, what the hell are you doing, riding around with those cretins?”

He laughed softly. “Tell you one thing, for sure. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you and your partner waltz into that bar. I thought you were gonna shoot up the place there for a minute.”

Claire stared up at him and examined his handsome face, and then she shook her head. “That dumb little beard braid is weak, Gabe. Pretty sucky, actually.”

“Makes me look tough, and you know it.”

“It makes you look stupid, is what it does. By the way, I don't appreciate your calling me a bitch. Three times, if I recall.”

Gabe perched a hip on the aft railing. “Your partner shouldn't've messed with Manny. That guy's psychotic and stupid, and not afraid to show either one.”

“I think you're psychotic for hanging out with him. They'll kill you if they even get a hint that you're undercover.”

“Not gonna happen, unless you poke your nose in Voodoo River again and try to start something. I got hell for defusing the situation. They wanted to beat you and Zee to shit. Still do. And they will if they ever see you again, trust me. So watch out for them. You're on their radar now.”

“
You
just be careful. You always did take too many chances.” They smiled at each other. Claire shook her head. “So how long have you been back home? Rene spun us the usual cover story—you know, that you'd gone bad and spent time in prison. Last I heard, you were working undercover narcotics in Seattle.”

“Six months.”

“Thanks for coming by and saying hello.”

“Hey, I'm risking my neck right now, coming out here. Yours, too. But I wasn't followed. I made sure of that.”

“Well, I need to talk to you about a case. It's important.”

“Yeah, that one-on-one remark came through to me loud and clear. And I'm sorry to hear about Maddie. She was a good kid, messed up in the head for sure, but sweet, in her own way.”