Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) (10 page)

He was a short man, about five-foot-five and always impeccably dressed, but he had a presence that made him seem much taller. He’d always had a bit of a paunch, and in the years since Katrina, it had expanded into a full-blown potbelly. He wore round-framed glasses and slicked his dark hair down, claiming it helped hide the balding. (It didn’t.) Like a lot of people in New Orleans with racial mixing in their genetic history, his skin was toffee color. He was probably the best criminal lawyer in town, and he was very active in gay politics. We’d been friends of a sort before our run-in during the last case he’d referred to me.

“I appreciate your taking on the case,” Loren said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Which is why you had Cordelia pressure Barbara into pressuring me, I thought.

“Which begs the question, why me?” I replied.

He smiled enigmatically. “I prefer to work with the best. What happened last time wasn’t personal. I want you to know that.”

It wasn’t quite an apology, and the compliment was meaningless. He’d throw me under the bus again if he thought it was in his client’s best interests. Loren’s first allegiance was to his clients. That made him a great lawyer, but also made him slippery to deal with. I’d made the mistake of trusting him once, and I never would again.

“If I’d thought it was personal, I wouldn’t have taken the case—and you sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting on my couch,” I said evenly.

“Fair enough.” He opened his briefcase and placed a file folder on the coffee table. “Here’s the autopsy report you requested.”

I resisted the urge to start reading it.

“Tell me, Loren, what exactly is the point of my investigation?”

“Didn’t Cordelia explain what she wanted?”

He kept his voice and face expressionless.

“If you’ll excuse my language, it was a bunch of horseshit.”

“Well, that’s honest, at any rate.”

“Which is more than I can say for either Janna or Cordelia.”

“Oh?”

“I know you can’t tell me anything, but if they gave the police the same stories, I don’t understand why Cordelia hasn’t been arrested. Scratch that. I
do
understand why she hasn’t been arrested.”

“You think the police are cutting her slack because of who she is.”

“You tell me. A man is shot to death, someone is found holding the murder weapon, her fingerprints are on the gun, her hands test positive for residue, yet she hasn’t been arrested. How often does that happen?”

“When you put it that way, it does look suspicious. Maybe it’s because she has the best attorney in New Orleans. Maybe it’s because she’s powerful and has a lot of friends in high places that owe her favors. If it were anyone other than Cordelia Spencer Sheehan, they’d probably be in jail. It’s not for me to say if that’s right or wrong. I work with what I have. My top priority is always the client. I’d have to say Cordelia’s position and standing are assets, and I’ll use everything I can to protect her.”

“You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed their stories don’t mesh. To believe them you have to accept that Janna and Cordelia are not only stupid, they’re
incredibly
stupid.”

“Smart people do stupid things sometimes, Chanse. It happens every day, and more often than you think. I seem to remember you handling a murder weapon fairly recently.”

“True, but when I handled it, it wasn’t a murder weapon.”

“Touché.”

Loren put down his drink.

“Put yourself in Cordelia’s place for a minute, Chanse. She’s a mother who walked into her own drawing room and discovered her son’s dead body. Obviously, she wasn’t thinking clearly.”

I took another small sip from the drink and put it down.

“You might be able to convince a jury of that, but I don’t buy it, and I don’t think you do, either. And we both know Venus and Blaine won’t believe it for a second.”

“Leave the legal strategy to me, Chanse. That isn’t what you were hired to do. Find someone outside the family to pin this on.”

Loren polished off his drink. I picked up his empty glass and went into the kitchen to mix him another vodka tonic.

“It seems to me that all Cordelia has to do is blame Janna, and all Janna has to do is blame Cordelia,” I said as I carried the drink back and sat down.

“What’s wrong with that equation, Chanse?”

When I didn’t answer, Loren went on.

“Cordelia’s gotten herself into a bad situation, certainly, and she may truly believe Janna killed Wendell. But the most important thing for Cordelia is to protect the family name. Apparently you didn’t grasp that when you met with her.”

“She came through loud and clear. I just don’t get it.”

“You don’t
have
to get it, Chanse. Just do what she wants. Wendell Sheehan had enemies. Focus on them.”

“Like Kenny Musgrave?” I said frostily.

“Bingo. I doubt that Cordelia herself slipped those photocopies through your mail slot, but she has plenty of employees. This Kenneth Musgrave may be Grace’s half-brother, but he isn’t a Sheehan. Neither Cordelia nor Janna will be available to you for future questioning.”

He held up his hand as I started to protest.

“I know what you’re going to say, but you need to look elsewhere. You won’t have access to either Mrs. Sheehan, and they aren’t going to let you anywhere near the kids. You’ll be fired first. The last thing you want to do is get on the wrong side of Cordelia Spencer Sheehan, Chanse. She’s a very vindictive woman—especially when it comes to her family. Just do what she wants. Stay away from them. Wendell had plenty of enemies.”

“None of whom had access to his wife’s gun or could have gotten into and out of the house without anyone knowing. And there’s another thing. Wendell’s whereabouts are unaccounted for during three-and-a-half hours that night. He left his campaign office at around eight. According to the Sheehans, he didn’t get home until eleven-thirty. It’s a fifteen-minute drive, tops.”

“Find out where he was and who he was with,” Loren said. “Check into Kenneth Musgrave. You might be surprised by what turns up.”

That sounded like I was being sent on a wild goose chase. This entire thing went against my grain, and I said so.

Loren laughed. “Once a cop, always a cop,” he said. “Nobody’s asking you to frame anyone, Chanse. Is it so hard for you to conceive that everything that happened that night happened exactly the way they said it did? Can’t you for one minute imagine that neither Janna nor Cordelia killed Wendell?”

“I’d find it a lot easier to believe if they weren’t lying,” I said.

“Open your mind to the possibility.”

Loren removed a check from his briefcase and passed it to me. I looked at it and put the check down on the table.

“Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money,” I said. “Is this a bribe?”

“For God’s sake, Chanse. No one is asking you to do anything unethical or immoral. What if, in the course of your investigation, you find out someone else did kill Wendell Sheehan? Take this check to the bank, cash it, and do what Cordelia wants. Run your investigation predicated on the idea that neither woman committed this crime. Presumption of innocence, remember? You just need to find someone—anyone—who had reason to want Wendell Sheehan dead, and who doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder. It’s a pretty decent payday—and it’s not a bad thing to have Cordelia Spencer Sheehan in your debt.”

He stood up, closing his briefcase. I went to see him out.

“And what if I find evidence that Cordelia or Janna actually did kill him?”

“That’s my problem, not yours,” he said as I unlocked the deadbolt and swung the door open. “All I’m asking is for you to keep an open mind. I know you can do that.”

“One last question, Loren.”

He paused on the porch. “Shoot.”

“What did you think of Wendell Sheehan?”

His face became a mask.

“I think Wendell would have been a really good friend to the gay community in Congress—and we need all the friends we can get. Don’t quote me on this, but personally I couldn’t stand the man.”

He walked down my front steps and got into his BMW.

*

I looked across the park. The car was back.

I shut the door slowly, went to my desk, and picked up my cell phone, then waited for Abby to answer.

“Chanse!” she breathed into my ear. “I was just about to call you. You wouldn’t believe—”

I interrupted her. “The car’s out there again.”

I walked to the front door and peered through the blinds. It was in the exact same place it had been last night. I squinted, trying to get a look inside. I could make out two men in the front seat, but not much more than that. The car appeared to have shaded windows.

“You’re sure it’s the same car?” Abby asked.

“As sure as I can be from this distance. If it’s not, it’s pretty similar.”

“I’ll be there in about fifteen. I’ll text you when I’m close.”

I took a big drink from my glass and carried Loren’s glass to the kitchen sink, then stoppered the big bottle of vodka and put it on the living room shelf where I kept my liquor. I resisted checking on the car again. Instead, I paced.

I hadn’t told Loren anything about Kenneth Musgrave other than the family connection to the Sheehans. Shortly after Grace Sheehan died the same way Barbara’s husband had, Musgrave somehow came up with the money to buy a gallery on Julia Street, in the Arts District. I’d been there a few times, most recently a few weeks ago, on White Linen Night. The gallery had some pieces I really liked, but they were a little pricey. I tried to remember if I’d met the gallery owner, but couldn’t. Whoever had the bright idea to hold a big art block party in August should be taken out and shot. Everyone was drenched in sweat and packed into the oh-so-welcome air-conditioning in the participating galleries. I have a tendency to be claustrophobic, so I’d tried to examine as much of the art on display as possible before I was forced to flee, screaming.

According to what I’d been able to dig up, Kenneth Musgrave lived in a condo not far from his gallery, and was single. His record was spotty. He’d attended Tulane, but didn’t graduate. He never held a job for more than a few months. Since opening the Allegra Gallery, though, he’d made a serious name for himself in the New Orleans art world. He had exclusive agreements with some top local artists, and had curated a show at the Museum of Modern Art in City Park. It was a pretty dramatic change for someone who’d seemed to drift with no direction before.

My phone chirped as I peered through the blinds again. I clicked on the text message button.
Almst thr boss!
Abby’s text read.

I slid the phone into my jeans pocket and almost laughed. A gutterpunk girl on a one-speed bicycle that had seen better days was heading downtown on the Coliseum Street side of the park. When she passed under a streetlight, I saw that she had multicolor dreadlocks around her face and wore a pair of ratty overalls cut off at the knees, with a red and white striped T-shirt underneath. Knee-high socks matched the T-shirt. All of the clothing looked like it hadn’t been washed in several years. I was certain it was Abby. As she got nearer to the car, she dismounted from her bike and knocked on the passenger side window.

I told myself to relax. They have no idea who she is or what she’s doing and besides, you don’t know if they’re dangerous. Regardless, I left the window and got my gun, tucked the gun into the back of my jeans, slid the deadbolt open, and stood there, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding apart two slats of the blinds, so I could see what was going on.

Abby was talking to them. Even from the distance I could tell she was playing like she was stoned out of her mind. I cursed myself for asking her to spy for me, and cursed her even more for approaching the car.

Abby waved at the car, climbed back on her bike, and fell over onto the street. The car drove off. Abby got up, dusted herself off, and shook her fist at it.

Once the car was out of sight, I opened my door and went out onto the porch. Abby was walking her bike across the park. She crossed Camp, and grinned at me as she hoisted the bike onto her shoulder and climbed my steps.

“Are you insane?” I yelled. “What the hell were you thinking?”

She carried the bike inside and I locked the door behind her, resisting the urge to shake her.

“Just chill for a minute, boss. They had no clue I’d made them.”

She crossed her eyes, shut them halfway, and weaved.

“Dude, I think I’m lost. Do you know where Camp Street is?”

It was pretty convincing, I had to admit.

“The suckers just thought I was some gutter girl, so stoned I didn’t know where the hell I was.”

She removed her watch and handed it to me with a wink. It looked like it had cost six dollars at Wal-Mart.

“Why are you giving me this?”

“You
really
need to get into the twenty-first century, Chanse.”

She grabbed the watch from my hand and pointed the face at me, pressing the button on the side, clearly delighted with herself.

“There. You can use it as a headshot for your next batch of business cards.”