Mostly Murder (31 page)

She stared at the photograph on the first page. Kristen LeFevres. Lying on a red-and-white-checkered quilt, a bullet hole in her forehead. Claire swallowed hard, remembering the woman's warm laugh, her tight good-night hugs, the homemade sugar cookies she always kept in the cookie jar. She had died in a blue gingham, long-sleeved dress with a scooped neck edged with white lace. Yellow flowers were printed all over the skirt. A large yellow rose was pinned in her silky blond hair behind her left ear. There were several strands of colorful Mardi Gras beads around her neck. The dress had a large bloodstain in the bodice where the assailant had shot her in the heart.

Somewhere in the deepest reaches of her mind, a misty picture tried to rise up and take form. Kristen, strolling along a bayou path holding Sophie's hand, her shoes crunching on the tiny white shells. She had turned around and smiled back at Claire and Gabe. They had gone on lots of picnics when she'd been there, all of them together, always on the edge of the bayou.

The second picture was of Bobby LeFevres. He was dressed in a white sweatshirt and jeans with the same Mardi Gras beads around his neck. He lay on his side, his service weapon on the ground beside him. Had he really used it to kill himself and his wife? Had Gabe's mental and physical abuse played tricks on his memory? His legs were sprawled apart, one arm bent and pinned beneath his torso. His eyes were open, as if staring at the camera lens. Blood was dried in streaks down over his nose and mouth from a bullet wound to his forehead.

Claire stared at him a long time. After carefully examining the placement of Bobby's body and the gun, she realized that it was entirely possible that he had shot himself. On the other hand, she felt fairly certain that he had not. The man she remembered could never have killed his wife, never. They had been inseparable. If he had been standing when he'd shot himself, the gun could have fallen out of his hand and landed where it was depicted in the photo, as Rene had surmised, but percentages were against it. She tried to make sense of it all, bring all the parts together into some kind of plausible scenario. She glanced up at Rene. He was watching her closely, his glass propped on his knee.

“I don't believe he killed her. I think the same guy who took Gabe killed them both, just like Gabe said. He said he saw a masked man do it.”

“And it could've happened that way, sure it could've. I know that. But it was a long time ago, and Gabe was just a boy and probably in total shock if he saw it all go down. Then right after that, we think he might've been drugged. There's no evidence to prove what happened one way or the other. Believe me, I tried my best to find a clue, something, anything. I'm just telling you what might've happened. I don't wanna believe he killed Kristen, any more than I wanted to believe he was dirty, but I do think it's possible. I've kept all this to myself all these years to protect the family, especially Gabe.”

Claire picked up the next photograph. This one was of Gabriel. He didn't look much older than he had when she had been with his family. Dark and striking and good-looking, even then. He was lying unconscious in a hospital bed. He had two black eyes, horribly swollen, bandages everywhere, and he wore no shirt. His naked torso was practically skin and bones, indicating he'd been starved, with awful stripes cut into his chest where he'd been flogged. A second picture was a close up of his back, with stripes and crisscross patterns that indicated he'd suffered blow after blow after blow. How could he live with what had been done to him? It was too horrible to imagine.

There were more pictures of the crime scene from lots of different angles. The blood on the quilt, the fishing poles lying on the bank, a Folgers coffee can full of bait worms found in the bushes near the abduction point. All of which verified Gabe's version of the crime.

Rene said, “Gabe was barely breathing when they found him on that bank. All covered in blood and algae and mud. The doctors told us it was a miracle that he survived—just take a look at his wounds. Most of them were infected, too.”

“Who could do something so inhuman to a child? What kind of sick and twisted mind could do it?”

“I've run into my share of psychotic killers and so have you, from what I've heard. But I haven't seen anybody else like this guy. He has to be a sadist, some kind of a pedophile, and a child killer. Whoever he is, he's probably long gone.”

Claire looked up at him. “Do you mind if I take this file with me? I want to read the reports and think everything through.”

Rene did not look thrilled, but he finally agreed. “Okay, just don't let anybody else see it.”

When Claire stood up to go, binder in hand, Rene hugged her tightly, but all she wanted was to get away, go off somewhere by herself and figure out what the hell was going on. The killer, the man who had done such unspeakable things to Gabe, was still walking around, still getting away with his heinous crimes. She knew it, felt it in her bones. He was their killer. They had to catch him, and they had to do it before he struck some other innocent family.

Across the street from Rene's house, Claire got into her vehicle and sat there in the driver's seat, thinking about everything Rene and Gabe had told her. Then she opened the binder, using her flashlight app to scrutinize the photographs and reports again. One by one, she sorted through them, studying each one in minute detail. Ten minutes later, she leaned her head back against the seat and shut her eyes. She was so tired; she needed to get some sleep. But she couldn't quit thinking about the terrible things that Gabe had endured all those years ago after she left his house in the bayous.

Surprisingly, her mind kept returning again and again to a particular photograph, as jarring and terrible as the images she'd just seen had been—the one of the LeFevreses and Clyde and Rene sitting on the steps at Rose Arbor. Something about it struck her as odd, something wrong, something out of place, something that didn't sit so well in her mind. It seemed way too much of a coincidence that they had been photographed on the front gallery of Jack Holliday's family's mansion, and possibly by Jack Holliday's current caretaker, the ever weird and armed-to-the-teeth Old Nat. But the snapshot had been captured many years ago. Gabe had said he and Sophie had been held captive in an old house. Could it really be the same one? And was it just a coincidence that Jack had been implicated in her current cases and lived in the house the killer had used as a lair? How could that have happened? Most of all, why did that picture bother her so much?

But it did, and continued to do so, and yeah, enough that she gripped the steering wheel, wrenched a sharp U-turn and headed for River Road and Rose Arbor. Maybe Jack knew something about the history of the house that could provide her with a clue, something he had either intentionally or unintentionally left out. Who had owned the house before his grandmother? Nat Navarro? And had he really carved that fleur-de-lis in the banister? And when? The carving was not professionally done. It was a nice rendering but slightly rough in spots, probably the work of an amateur, maybe even dug out with a pocket knife. Why? And why had Jack's grandmother left it there when she'd renovated everything else in the house? It was certainly out of place when every other feature was pristine and beautiful and restored, and meticulously so.

The photograph was the key, she knew it, especially after Rene's talk about his high school friends. Plagued by suspicions and doubts, she tried to figure out the root of her misgivings. It bothered her more than even the pitiful images of Gabe, abused and whipped and heartlessly discarded in the swamp like a dead dog. She kept thinking about him, wondering how he could bear such destructive memories. Now that she understood just how bad a time he had gone through, she was surprised he'd ended up on the right side of the law instead of becoming a drunk or an addict or a felon or a real drug-dealing biker.

Feeling guilty about taking off, she called Black and explained where she was going and asked him for the code to Jack's entrance gate. He said he'd call Jack and they'd meet her there. Five minutes later, he called back with the code and permission for her to enter the house but asked her to wait for them. It was still dark when she reached the spiked gate at Rose Arbor, the hour very late now, and the gate was closed. She decided not to step on Old Nat's toes again by barging onto the property. He'd appreciate the courtesy, no doubt, and she'd appreciate not getting shot. So she climbed out of the Range Rover and pushed the bell. Nobody answered.

Claire had the distinct feeling that Old Nat was already creeping around in the dark under the canopy of live oaks and zeroing in on her head with his trusty shotgun. Probably enjoying it, too. The two of them just didn't quite cotton to each other, in Zee's vernacular. Well, that was just too bad. She had some questions to ask him, and he was going to answer them, like it or not.

So, without further ado, she punched in the code and watched the gates whir themselves open. She drove through and watched it close securely behind her. Once up the drive and at the front portico, she saw no fancy, six-figure-window-sticker vehicles sitting around the driveway, no limousines, either. Nobody home. Well, good.

Picking up the murder binder, she got out of the car, climbed the steps, and shined her flashlight on the newel post. The fleur-de-lis was still there, whittled into the wood, just like in the old Polaroid. Whoever had done it was pretty good. It occurred to her that Bobby LeFevres, or Rene, or Clyde, or Kristen or anybody else, including Old Nat, could have wielded the knife that had carved it. She sat down, focused her flashlight, and stared at the design.

After a moment, she walked up to the front door. It was unlocked so she breezed inside as if she owned the place. She had permission. She wasn't going to steal his fancy antique furniture or priceless Ming vase. She flipped on the light and the chandelier flared. She stood there a moment and looked around with fresh and determined detective eyes. Could this really be the old house where Gabe was held captive? It looked as if Rose Arbor had been restored pretty much along original antebellum architectural lines. Slowly, methodically, she walked from room to room, not quite sure what she was looking for. But Gabe had said that he had been held in a cellar so a cellar she was going to find. Off the kitchen, she found a large butler's pantry with glass-fronted cabinets, and it was full of the most beautiful gold-edged dishes and crystal goblets, each etched with the letter H with lots of curlicues and flourishes. More priceless stuff handed down from Granny Holliday.

Moving through all the downstairs rooms, she turned on the overhead chandeliers one after another, pulled open doors, looking for something, anything, that would help her. Some instinct told her that she had to search this house, compelled her, even if she had to rip it apart, board by board. And she had learned to follow her instincts most of the time.

Finally, she hit pay dirt on her return visit to the butler's pantry. A small door was hidden by a curtain, and she discovered that it opened onto steps descending into what appeared to be a root cellar. There was no basement in the house, but the first floor was built up off the ground about twelve feet. She flipped on the light switch at the top of the steps. The steps went down halfway and then took a sharp right turn. She inched down cautiously, an unsettling sense of unease descending over her. She pulled out her weapon, just in case, and stepped down onto the floor, her finger right alongside the Glock's trigger.

Was this it? Where Gabe and Sophie had been held and tortured? It was extremely dank inside that musty, cold, and nasty place. She could smell mildew and dirt and mold, but there was little else to see. The bricked walls had been whitewashed, but the floor was dirt. She peered up into the floor joists above her head and wondered where all the spider webs were. Holliday must have one hell of a good housekeeper on staff. There were a couple of small windows, rectangular and high on the walls. How would it have felt to be imprisoned there, a monster coming down the steps in some kind of hideous mask with a whip in his hand? She thought of little Sophie, who was so sweet, so little, and how hard it must be for Gabe not knowing what had happened to her.

When a deep voice suddenly spoke behind Claire, she nearly came out of her skin. She dropped the binder, and jerked around, both hands gripping her weapon out in front of her. To her shock, it was Yannick the Snooty Butler, of all people, the all-around indispensable servant at Jack's grandma's house in the Garden District. This time he wore a distinctly startled expression on his face. He quickly raised both his hands, palms out, in a whoa-don't-shoot-me-dead sort of way.

“Good heavens, put that gun down,” he choked out, real shaky like, and his manner wasn't nearly as haughty as the last time they'd exchanged pleasantries. Deadly weapons had a way of disarming stuck-up butlers, she guessed.

Claire lowered the weapon and sheathed it in her shoulder holster. “I'm sorry, sir. You startled me.”

“What are you doing down here, miss?” Yannick glanced around, puzzled. “Do you always pull your gun on people like that?”

“Yes, sir, when they sneak up on me. What're
you
doing out here in the middle of the night? I thought you worked in town.”

“I'm here to oversee the night custodial service that cleans this house. They come at night and are gone by dawn so as not to disturb Mr. Jack. They're upstairs and ready to go to work.”

“How did you know I was down here?”

“I saw your vehicle and called Mr. Jack and asked him if he was expecting company tonight. He said to tell you that he and Dr. Black are on their way. The door in the pantry was standing open, and the light was on.” He gazed curiously at her. “I must say, Detective, that I'm surprised to find you down here in Mr. Jack's root cellar with a gun in your hand.”

Then Yannick gave her that wary look that people usually reserve for when they happen upon machete-wielding escapees from mental institutions. He didn't seem concerned enough to hightail it out of her scary company, though.

“How long have you worked for the Holliday family, Yannick?”

“For many years, even before Miss Catherine bought this place. Well, I think I'll go upstairs now and wait on Mr. Jack.”

Apparently not wanting to answer any more questions and without further ado, Yannick turned on his heel and headed up the steps. Since the shadowy cellar made her jumpy, she picked up the binder and followed him. Inside the kitchen, she met up with him again. This time he was busily instructing a small army of cleaners, all of whom were dressed in matching black uniforms and holding various feather dusters, brooms, mops, dustpans, and cans of Pledge. They all stared at her as if she were some kind of armed alien apparition, so she hurried past them when she heard Black's voice call her name from out in the foyer. She met up with Black and Holliday under the giant, sparkling chandelier.

Black said, “So, what's up now, Claire? Why are we here?” He observed her face a moment, and then frowned and said, “Are you all right?”

“I just need permission to take a look around this house.”

“Looks to me like you already have,” Black said on a wry note.

“Why?” asked Jack.

“I'm following a hunch. Case related. You know how I am. A dog with a bone.”

“Why don't you just tell us what's going on?” Black again.

Claire frowned. “I need to talk to Jack, ask him some questions.”

Jack said, “Okay, what'd you want to know?”

“I want you to tell me about the history of this house. Everything you know about it.”

“Why? Does this have something to do with my sisters? Do you have a new lead?”

“I think maybe Gabe and Sophie were held right here in this house, probably down in your root cellar.”

Jack actually gasped, a soft but audible intake of breath.

Black said, “Here? How do you know?”

“He kept them in
my
root cellar?
This one
? Here at Rose Arbor? Oh, my God.”

“Gabe told me that he remembers a dark place like a cellar with a dirt floor and it was inside an old boarded-up house. I think this is that place. If this guy held Gabe down there, Jack, he might have held your sisters down there, too.”

“But how? My grandmother lived here for years. She would've known about it.”

“It wasn't her house then, and I want to know whose house it was. Would Yannick or Old Nat know who owned this place that far back? I need to interview both of them. See what they can tell me. My gut tells me that I'm on to something pertinent to the case.”

“Both of them have worked for my grandmother for years. I sort of doubt if they'll know who had this place before that. But we can ask them.”

“This is tied together. I think you were right. I think the same guy who killed Gabe's parents and took him captive killed your parents, too. I think all this is happening now, Madonna, Wendy, the attempt on Gabe's life, all because he's getting rid of witnesses. He's killing anybody who got away and might be able to identify him or lead authorities to him. Maybe he found out you were questioning Madonna Christien about her kidnapping, panicked, and got rid of her.”

“How the hell did you figure out that it was this house?” Black said.

“It's a hunch. I saw a picture of Bobby and Kristen at Rene's place tonight, taken back when they were young. Rene said Old Nat was out there with them, and I saw the fleur-de-lis carved on the newel post and recognized it.”

“The one outside at the top of the steps?” said Jack.

“Yeah. I can't prove it, but I think this is the house. I've also seen the file on Gabe's parents' murders. It's right here.” She held it up. “Rene took it and kept it at his house to protect Gabe and his family.”

Black said, “He's going to be in big trouble if that gets out.”

“The LeFevres family asked him to keep it quiet. They didn't want Gabe's past to be publicized, didn't want him to find out how bad it really was. So he got the department to seal it. He took it out of storage later.”

“Let me see it.” Jack was not asking; he was demanding.

Claire handed it over, and he moved into the adjoining formal parlor and sat down at a desk. She and Black followed him, and Claire watched his face as he sifted slowly through the photographs. His jaw tightened when he saw the picture of Gabe's bloodied back. He handed the folder to Black.

“I want this animal. I want him dead. The deader, the better.”

“Well, join the crowd, Holliday. Gabe's been searching for him for years with blood in his eyes. He thinks he's still around here, in the bayous, murdering people and snatching their kids. So do I.”