Timothy (32 page)

Sheriff Tate managed to smile at me. “No, sir, I certainly didn't.” He retrieved his notebook and flipped it open with a sigh.

“Show him the bruises,” Seth ordered, and I pulled up the sleeves so the sheriff could see them.

“Looks like fingerprints,” the sheriff observed, adding that he'd have the crime scene guys take some pictures of me. “We're going to need your robe, too.”

“I'm not wearing anything underneath it,” I replied with a slight shrug.

“I'll send Olivia to get you some clothes.” Carlo walked out of the room.

“Can I wash the blood off me now?” I asked.

Sheriff Tate bit his lip and looked over at Seth. Seth replied, “I did take pictures of him, Sheriff. I'll be happy to sign an affidavit authenticating any you might take with your phone.”

So, once again I stood up and the Sheriff took pictures of my arms and legs, and me in the bloodied robe. Carlo came back in while that was going on, and once we were finished, I sat back down again.

“You can go ahead and wash up now if you like,” Sheriff Tate said.

“I'll wait until my clean clothes are here,” I replied in a monotone. Carlo gave me a worried look and I gave him a faintly reassuring smile back.

“Walk me through what happened,” Sheriff Tate said.

So I told the story again. My voice remained in an unemotional monotone. I told him how I went over to see Nell, but not why—and he didn't ask. I told him how I got caught in the storm on my back and took shelter in the studio, stripping off my wet clothes and putting on a robe.

This was when Olivia showed up with some clothes for me, and I excused myself. It seemed like I was in the bathroom a really long time—scrubbing my skin until it turned red, and putting on my new clothes. She'd brought me sweats, and they felt warm and comfortable against my skin.

I flushed the toilet, and the water turned a weird brownish color. I flushed it again, and this time it was clear.

I smiled to myself and walked back into Carlo's office, sitting back down in my original chair and sipping my coffee. I gave the sheriff a weak smile. “Where was I?”

“You were looking for something to eat,” Seth prompted me, earning him a frown from the sheriff.

“I found some goldfish—the crackers—and was eating them when he arrived.” I replied, frowning a bit, trying to remember exactly how it had happened. “He startled me and I dropped them—no, wait, I dropped them before he got there. I was picking them up when he arrived.” I gave the sheriff a sad look. “I'm sorry, Sheriff, everything happened so fast…”

“It's okay, son. Go on,” the sheriff said, not unkindly.

“So, anyway, Taylor opened the door and came in. I was startled, and he scared me.”

“What was Taylor Hudson doing there?” Sheriff Tate asked.

“He trespassed frequently,” Carlo said from behind me. “I had warned him any number of times he wasn't welcome here, for all the good it did me.” He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I kept telling him I was going to have him arrested for trespassing, but he didn't care.”

“He was looking for something,” I said. “A medal of some sort, that meant something to him and Timothy from when they were kids. Every time I saw him he asked me about it. He wanted me to look for it here in the main house—he wouldn't come here.”

The sheriff looked at Carlo and back at me. “When you say Timothy, that would be Timothy Burke you're referring to?”

I nodded. “Yes, he told me they grew up together and had been friends…more than friends…almost all of their lives. The medal had sentimental value to him, and he really wanted it. He said that was why he kept showing up at the studio, and he asked me to look for it, since I lived here and could look in places he couldn't. I didn't find it.” I sighed. “It clearly meant a lot to him. I felt bad for him, but I never did find it anywhere.”

“So he came here in the middle of a storm to look for it?” The sheriff's voice sounded disbelieving. “Come now, that seems a little strange.”

“I don't know why he came by today,” I said. “He had an umbrella. He—he seemed a little unhinged…” I coughed. “He did accost me last night at the ball in the studio. I'd gone there to get away from the party for a moment and he followed me in there. He tried to kiss me—I didn't want to be kissed.”

“You said he seemed unhinged. What did you mean by that?”

“He seemed—
different.
” I took another drink of my coffee. “I think—I think the news about Timothy unhinged him a little bit, I don't know. He never scared me before, not even last night when he tried to force himself on me—I mean, last night when I made it clear I wasn't interested, he backed off. Today, I got the feeling he wasn't going to stop.” I bit my lower lip. “And he kept bringing Timothy up—talking about the body being found and he didn't seem—right. He kept talking about how Timothy should still be alive…a lot of it didn't make any sense. I can't remember everything he was saying, but he was scaring me.” I shivered again for emphasis. “I kept backing away from him. I tried once to go around him but he moved. He was backing me into a corner—well, he backed me up until I was up against the kitchen counter, with nowhere to go.” Saying the words brought back the memory sharply, of how it felt to be backed up, scared, how much bigger than me he was… I started shaking and a tear ran out of my right eye. I took a couple of deep breaths, wiped at my eyes, and said, “Sorry.”

“Did you try to call for help?”

“I did yell, once, but the studio is so far away from the house, and even if it wasn't raining so hard I knew no one at the house would hear me…but I was terrified, so terrified, especially after—” I stopped.

“After he what?”

I looked him right in the eye. “After he admitted killing Timothy.”

Carlo inhaled in a sharp gasp, but other than that silence fell over the room.

The sheriff cleared his throat. “You're saying he confessed to you that he killed Timothy Burke?”

I nodded and kept my eyes locked on his. “Yes, Sheriff, he did. I was so terrified. He told me he was going to kill me, just like he had killed Timothy. He was unhinged…the look in his eyes—he meant every word of it.” And I proceeded to tell the story Carlo had told me about Timothy's death—only as if Taylor had told it to me.

When I worked for her, Valerie had once told me the best way to lie and make it believable was to keep it as close to the truth as possible. She was right, as it turned out. All I had to do was tell the truth—the story Carlo had told me—only tell Sheriff Tate that it had been
Taylor
who'd told me the story.

“And I was scared, I kept backing away as he came closer and closer—and he tried to force himself on me.” I held out my arms and showed the bruises on my upper arms where he'd grabbed me. “And I reached for the knife and stabbed him.” I covered my face with my hands and let go of the rigid self-control I'd been practicing. I started to cry, and once I gave way, my entire body shook as I sobbed.

The sheriff stood up, and closed his notebook. “Thank you for your time. There will be an inquest, but I really don't see any reason for charges.” He stood up. “Mr. Pennington, of course he'll need to come down to the station to make a formal statement, but the evidence seems to back up his story.”

“Of course,” Seth replied and walked him out of the room.

Once the door closed behind them, Carlo sat down next to me on the sofa. He took my hands. “I love you so much, Mouse,” he said wonderingly. “You're unbelievable.”

I looked at him. “And now we're free of Timothy, Carlo. We're free at last.”

He pulled me into his arms. “You're absolutely amazing.”

I closed my eyes and relaxed into his embrace.

The inquest was held a few days later, and I had to get up and tell the story again. I told it plainly and simply, apologizing to the court at the beginning and letting them know I was on anti-anxiety medication. I saw Maureen Drury out in the spectator's gallery as the district attorney asked me questions. I had refused to speak to her, and I knew that Nell never would. She'd have a story for
Street Talk
—and probably a good one. She was a good writer, after all.

I couldn't help but wonder if she believed me.

The grand jury determined that I had acted in self-defense.

The investigation into Timothy's death was also officially closed.

Once the grand jury was dismissed, Carlo and I pushed our way out of the courtroom through the throngs of reporters and cameramen, and got into the back of the town car.

“We're going to go away for a while,” Carlo told me as the car pulled away from the curb. “Get away from Spindrift and all the incredibly bad memories here. Would you like that, Mouse?” He put his arm around me.

I rested my head against his chest. “I would like that very much, Carlo.”

And the next morning we went into our voluntary exile.

I doubt that we shall ever return.

Greg Herren is the award-winning author of fourteen novels, and has edited eight anthologies, including the award-winning
Love Bourbon Street: Reflections On New Orleans
. He currently lives in New Orleans. He has published over fifty short stories, and is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, Private Eye Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime. He has worked as a personal trainer, and published over fifty articles on health and fitness. He began his career as a book reviewer, and has published over a thousand reviews and interviews with authors as varied as Margaret Cho, Dorothy Allison, and Laura Lippman. A long time resident of New Orleans, the flavor and culture of his beloved adopted city colors all of his work.

“Herren, a loyal New Orleans resident, paints a brilliant portrait of the recovering city, including insights into its tight-knit gay community. This latest installment in a powerful series is sure to delight old fans and attract new ones.”—
Publishers Weekly

“Fast-moving and entertaining, evoking the Quarter and its gay scene in a sweet, funny, action-packed way.”—
New Orleans Times-Picayune

“Herren does a fine job of moving the story along, deftly juggling the murder investigation and the intricate relationships while maintaining several running subjects.”—
Echo Magazine

“An entertaining read.”—
OutSmart Magazine

“A pleasant addition to your beach bag.”—
Bay Windows

“Greg Herren gives readers a tantalizing glimpse of New Orleans.” —
Midwest Book Review

“Herren's characters, dialogue and setting make the book seem absolutely real.”—
The Houston Voice

“So much fun it should be thrown from Mardi Gras floats!” —
New Orleans Times-Picayune

“Greg Herren just keeps getting better.”—
Lambda Book Report

“Greg Herren is a master storyteller, and his latest book is no exception. It's a beautifully crafted mystery, geared to a young adult audience, with a focus on family and peer relationships and a valuable lesson about tolerance. It's strongly recommended reading for teens…5 stars out of 5 stars”—Bob Lind,
Echo Magazine

Sleeping Angel
“will probably be put on the young adult (YA) shelf, but the fact is that it's a cracking good mystery that general readers will enjoy as well. It just happens to be about teens…A unique viewpoint, a solid mystery and good characterization all conspire to make
Sleeping Angel
a welcome addition to any shelf, no matter where the bookstores stock it.”—Jerry Wheeler,
Out in Print

“This fast-paced mystery is skillfully crafted. Red herrings abound and will keep readers on their toes until the very end. Before the accident, few readers would care about Eric, but his loss of memory gives him a chance to experience dramatic growth, and the end result is a sympathetic character embroiled in a dangerous quest for truth.”—
VOYA

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[email protected]
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