Chapter Seven
Jack Holliday's house was indeed located in the world-renowned Garden District, on St. Charles Avenue, in fact. He lived close to where the nostalgic streetcars still clanked by. Wow, talk about an exclusive abode. Claire and Zee found his primo address with no trouble and parked in front of a stately home built circa early 1830s, about half a block down the street from the Holliday house. They walked slowly up a magnolia-shaded sidewalk, admiring one Christmas-decorated, beautiful old home after another. Great evergreen wreaths hung on every door, with velvet ribbons and expensive gold and glass ornaments. None of the historic houses had anything on Holliday's domicile, however. He had an elegant old mansion, well kept, with lots of dark green wrought iron fashioned into intertwined roses and ivy.
Two long galleries graced the front, upstairs and down, entwined with lights that would probably be beautiful when turned on. Garlands of fresh greenery and wreaths were tastefully displayed in swags tied with huge red velvet bows. Claire and Zee stopped at the front gate and stared up at the house. The sidewalk fence matched the balustrades, ornate with medallions of roses and ivy and another huge wreath, this one plain except for one large red bow.
“I cannot believe we are going to walk right in there and meet Jack Holliday in person,” Zee said reverently. “Nobody back home's ever gonna believe me. I'm nervous as hell.”
Claire stopped there, her hand on the gate's latch. “Do you think you can control yourself around this guy, Zee?”
Zee revealed openly that he was offended. “Man, Claire, lay off. Anybody'd be excited to meet him. He's a legend around here.”
“This is not about meeting a football hero. Don't forget that, and please, let me do the talking.”
Now Zee looked annoyed. “You're sellin' me short, Claire. I ain't exactly some rookie officer who never interviewed a suspect before.”
“No, you are not. But I can see that wowee-I-get-to-meet-the-big-Tulane-super-star gleam in your eyes. It's a little unsettling, to be perfectly honest.”
“Aww, c'mon, I'm not all that excited. Get real.”
“Well, I hope not. Let's go. Remember, I'll do the talking.”
“Okay, whatever you say.”
Zee was miffed, but Claire had meant what she'd said. He was a little too enthralled with Holliday to remain neutral. On the other hand, she was not enthralled with him at all.
Claire opened the gate, and they walked up a red-bricked sidewalk laid in a herringbone design and climbed the front steps. She could smell citrus and found lots of real oranges and apples in the large floral arrangement beside the front door. She considered picking a few pieces off to snack on later, but decided that would be tacky. They stood in front of the most beautiful cut glass door with more facets than the British Crown Jewels. Zee lifted the gold knocker that was shaped like a fleur-de-lis and let it clang down and proclaim their very official presence.
Claire was surprised when a butler opened the door, but then again, who else would open a sports god's portal? More surprising, the elegant servant wore a black tailcoat, white starched shirt with ruffles down the front, and a black bow tie. White haired and dignified, he looked to be in his mid to late sixties. But he also looked physically fit and able to repel hysterical sports fans and tittering women trying to get to his boss. His skin was abnormally pale, as if he'd never been out in the sun one minute or was a vampire. Claire stared at him and felt like an extra in
Gone with the Wind
.
“May I help you?” Said butler's accent was not Southern, not even a little bit. Oh, no, he was oh-so,
ooh-la-la
French.
“We're here to see Jack Holliday on police business.” Claire and Zee presented their badges and stated names and titles, and Mr. Supercilious Servant examined them for a whole lot longer than he needed to. Something about the man's staid manner gave Claire pause. He wasn't exactly creepy, but he gave her the willies. Why, she couldn't quite fathom. But she did not like him, not at all.
“Yes, madam and sir. Mr. Holliday is expecting you. He's in the drawing room.”
Yeah, she bet he was. Probably with Scarlett O'Hara and Melanie Wilkes and that sissy guy named Ashley that they both had the hots for. Rhett Butler was more Claire's cup of tea, probably because he was manly like Black. Scarlett must've been blind or had a thing for weaklings with wavy blond hair.
The butler preceded them with his über-formality, and they followed with their usual not-impressed-by-you-buster posture. She did feel a bit irked, if only because he seemed so uppity and scornful. They strolled through a beautiful foyer, which contained the expected curved and highly polished staircase entwined with more fresh greenery that smelled heavenly and a ten-foot-high, expensively decorated Christmas tree that would impress Black to no end. They passed under a glittering chandelier that looked as if it had been filched out of a medieval cathedral or the White House. Frenchie walked with the brisk step of a much younger man, and then stopped and slid open a pair of well-oiled, white double pocket doors. They were announced, not by name but as the police officers the gentleman had been expecting. Okay, she guessed that pretty much summed them up.
Frenchie disappeared, and they stood in the doorway. The parlor did indeed look like a room where Jack Holliday's purported octogenarian granny would serve tea to her hoop-skirted old cronies, all right. Claire sure couldn't picture Holliday sitting on those little gold and red velvet chairs with knotted fringe and crocheted doilies. Now that would be a big bull in an antique china shop. But he was doing just that, and he did look like the aforementioned bull. He sat on a hump-backed, gold and white striped brocade sofa in front of a pink veined white marble fireplace. The mantel was carved with beaucoup angels and cherubs playing harps and floating on clouds. The logs in the hearth were crackling and snapping up a storm, despite the warm weather outdoors. Hell, it probably felt the stuck-up coldness of that butler, too.
Way across the room, Jack Holliday rose quickly, with all the good manners of devotees of
Pride and Prejudice
movies. He wasn't wearing a starched cravat or stovepipe hat, though, just khaki pants and a red polo shirt and black Nikes.
“Okay, show's on, Zee,” Claire muttered under her breath to her partner. “Now keep your cool, and I mean it. No groveling or drooling on this guy.”
Zee gave her a look of mock hurt, but he was whispering. “Ha ha. You are so funny. Give me a break, will you? I can be as professional as you can.”
“Okay, now's the time to prove it.”
Jack Holliday strode quickly across to them, and then he was there, right in front of them, towering over them, and she meant
towering
. Claire hadn't been around all that many men who were four inches shy of seven feet. Black was six-four, which was pretty good size in her book. She had to look way up at Holliday, which she didn't like much, and which somehow made her feel at a disadvantage, right off the bat. She was five-nine and felt like a six-year-old looking up at her daddy. A glance at Zee told her that he was maybe a half degree away from the forewarned idol drool. Actually, she watched a second longer to see if he staggered with the sheer delight of meeting his Fabulous One.
Claire showed the big guy the badge hanging around her neck, hoped he could see it from way up there. “We're with the Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Department, Mr. Holliday. I'm Detective Morgan. This is my partner, Detective Jackson.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, all easy and calm and rife with confident charm. Smiling, he held out his hand. And then Claire felt it, too. Like a blow in the solar plexus, an immediate physical attraction to the sheer masculinity of the man. Now, this just wasn't gonna do. In fact, it made her angry with herself. Black better get home in a hurry, though. She put her hand in his, just to show she could, and his long tanned fingers closed around hers. She shook it like she meant it, with a grip like she meant it. He had the biggest hands, aka bear paws, she'd ever seen on a guy, but all she could think about was how easy it would be for him to press those self-same long, strong fingers around Madonna Christien's neck and slowly squeeze the life out of her. That pretty much put a damper on her appreciation of his massive sex appeal.
Holliday stared down at Claire for an instant too long, as if he read her distrust of him, and then he released her hand and offered a handshake to Zee. Claire's unaffected, purely professional Louisiana law enforcement partner then said, “Oh, man, you got on your Super Bowl ring. Wow, man. You were awesome when you played that last game, the one where you blew out your knee. I got all your games on video.” Then he grinned, all white teeth and gridiron-crazed eyes.
So much for Zee's promise not to wallow in the man's greatness. She bet Bud, her trusty partner up north, wouldn't react like that. Oh, well, on second thought, maybe he would. Yeah, he definitely would. And yes, Zee was young and a football fanatic so she guessed she had to take that into account.
Holliday was mighty gracious, yes, ma'am. “Thanks. We had a hell of a good day when we won that game. Wanna try it on?”
When Zee actually squeaked out a peculiar little noise than sounded suspiciously like a man giggle, Claire took back the reins. “We're here to ask you some questions, Mr. Holliday, if that's okay with you.”
“Yeah, I know. Rene told me. No problem. Ask away.” He took off the ring and handed it to Zee, who put it on his finger and gawked at it in a really goofy way. It was way too big and hung on Zee's finger like the class ring of a teenage girl's boyfriend.
“Please, Detective, call me Jack.” He smiled down at her, but he was watching her closely, really looking her over, and she wondered why. “You know what, I've got some good food left over from the charity event I hosted today. You guys want to help me eat some of it? There's plenty.”
“That sounds good,” said Zee, reverently cradling the ring in his palms.
Claire said, “Thank you, Mr. Holliday, but I don't think we'll have time for that. Do you want to talk to us here, or did you have somewhere else in mind?”
He looked surprised by the question. “Here's fine, I guess. Whatever. You sure about the food? There's some good stuff out in the kitchen. Barbecue. Seafood. Jambalaya. You name it.”
“Man, I love that jambalaya,” said Zee. The two men grinned at each other, in love already, she guessed. Jeez. But her stomach growled, just to mock her.
The three of them sat down. Holliday took a seat beside her on the sofa and turned slightly to work his magical smile on her. This guy was indeed the phrase
hot as fire
personified, a real chick magnet, as Zee liked to describe himself. Holliday knew it, too, and he was waiting for Claire to melt into a puddle of goo like the Wicked Witch of the West. She might be a witch sometimes, but she wasn't about to melt down when a great big hunky guy gave her the come-on. Unless, of course, it was Black, who happened to be equally as hot as, if not hotter than, Jack. But she was not always meltable, even then, depending on the circumstances. Nancy, on the other hand, would be all liquid and soaking by now into the priceless Persian carpet under their feet. Good thing they'd left her at the morgue.
“So, what's this all about, Detective Morgan? You really look familiar somehow. Have we met before?”
Claire didn't like the familiarity of that, either. Claire was rapidly starting not to like anything that was going on. He was playing herâshe could feel it. “No, we haven't. Now, if you don't mind, we don't really have a lot of time.” They did, of course. They had all the time in the world, in fact, but he didn't need to know that. Time to make that big self-satisfied, Crest-white grin fade away and make lots of deep frown lines wrinkle up that handsome brow of his. The smile did falter a bit. He searched her face, openly puzzled at her giant-chip-on-the-shoulder attitude.
“Okay, Detective. What can I do for you?”
“Are you acquainted with a woman named Madonna Christien, Mr. Holliday?”
Well, now, lookee here, the mighty one's expression just changed, and in a nanosecond at that, the very moment she mentioned their victim's name. In fact, Jack Holliday was showing her what his most massive frown looked like.
“Oh, yeah, I know Madonna Christien. Unfortunately for me.”
“Unfortunately for you,” Claire repeated slowly. “What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Holliday?”
“Madonna Christien is as crazy as a loon, that's what. She's been stalking me for three months and making my life into a living hell.”
Okay. Claire scribbled something on her notepad, most of which looked like scribbles because it was. But it looked official and gave her time to think and hopefully would make him worry some more.
It didn't make him worry some more. “Your handwriting looks like chicken scratches,” he said, grinning at Zee. Zee grinned back, of course, rather maniacally, too. Claire tilted the notebook so Holliday couldn't see what she wasn't writing.
“How did you meet Ms. Christien?”
“I met her through one of the Saints cheerleaders. Wendy told me a friend of hers wanted my autograph for her little boy, so I said okay. I like little kids.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At the Superdome, down on the field, right after a game. I was down there congratulating some of the guys I represent. Madonna had one of those stupid posters some paparazzi jerk took of me down in Miami when I was on spring break.”
“You were saying about Ms. Christien?”
“She said it was for her son, and that he was too sick to come to the game. We talked for a minute or two, but then she started acting a little weird, so I made an excuse and took off. Later, I wondered if she really even had a kid.”