Authors: Erica Spindler
“An ending. A departure.” She made a sound of frustration. “I see where you’re going with this. But I know what I heard.”
The therapist glanced at her notes. “In that moment, you said, you knew you weren’t alone.”
“That’s right. Someone was in my house!”
“Those were your words, Mira. And they’re powerful. Symbolically powerful.”
Tears flooded her eyes and she shook her head in denial. She wasn’t ready for this. “No,” she said. “No.”
Dr. Jasper reached across the table between them and grasped her hands. “A door was open, in your mind. And there was Jeff. You relived him through your sensory memory.” She tightened her fingers. “Then you shut the door. Because you knew you weren’t alone. Not anymore.”
Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I ran for Nola.”
“And when you thought something had happened to her, you panicked. You were terrified.” She squeezed, then released, Mira’s hands. “You’re choosing the present, Mira. You’re letting someone—something—into your life and you want to live.”
She was. It was so obvious.
“What did you do then?”
“I called Connor. I wanted to share my happiness with—” Mira bit the last back.
“I think that’s significant, don’t you?”
She did. But she wasn’t ready to admit it. They finished out their hour in silence. When it was up, Dr. Jasper walked her to the door. There, she gave her a quick hug. Hands on her shoulders, she looked her in the eyes. “Be careful, Mira. It’s good to feel again. It’s important. But it’s easy to be hurt.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Tuesday, August 16
1:00
P.M.
Anton Gallier had lived well. His home was of the same ilk as Scott’s, only grander. Bayle parked on the street in front of the man’s St. Charles Avenue mansion. Malone stepped out of the vehicle, his gaze settling on the home before him. In New Orleans, there were pieces of ground, the structures that sat upon them, so rarefied that only royalty could reside there. The Big Easy’s own brand of royalty.
Anton Gallier’s home was one of those. Neither newcomer nor Yankee would be allowed the honor of owning such a home. A smart guy could come to town, he could buy car dealerships and professional sports teams, could even become the mayor, but he could not possess this house or the pedigree that went along with it. Rumor had it that the actor Nicolas Cage had attempted to buy such a property and was shut out.
Malone didn’t doubt other cities had similar unwritten rules, but he couldn’t imagine it being as ingrained as it was here. In New Orleans, some things were simply not done. These gems were passed down within families and through marriage. Period. End of story.
Malone swept his gaze over the property. Spanning a half block on arguably one of the most beautiful avenues in the United States, it represented the Old South. A privileged existence where one class did not mix with another, where the help was ever-present but unacknowledged, and real life, as experienced by everyone else, rarely came knocking.
It was coming to call today.
Malone and Bayle stopped at the iron gate. Gallier had a sophisticated video intercom. They pressed the call button.
“NOPD detectives here to see Mrs. Gallier.” They held their shields up to the camera.
A moment later the iron gate swung open and they made their way through and up the tree-lined walk to the front door.
They were greeted by a uniformed houseman. The man held out an envelope. “Mrs. Gallier asked me to give you this and to thank you for your service.”
“What’s this?” Malone asked.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gallier’s annual contribution to the benevolence fund.”
Typical. Money was the answer to everything.
He saw by Bayle’s expression that she was thinking the same thing. “Go tell Mrs. Gallier we’re not here for a donation. It’s official business and a serious matter.”
Something akin to glee lit the houseman’s eyes, then was gone. “One moment.”
As he walked away, Bayle said, “I get the feeling he looks for ways to fuck up her day.”
“You got that, too?”
“Oh, yeah.” She motioned around them. “Are you believing this? Makes my place look like a hand-me-down dollhouse for trolls.”
He chuckled. “Tell me about it.”
The butler reappeared and indicated that they should follow him. He escorted them to a room filled with Mardi Gras memorabilia. Not the cheap trinkets tossed from floats to the masses, but collectibles in glass display cases: crowns and scepters, jeweled masks, elaborate invitations and dance cards.
The New Orleans elite took Mardi Gras very seriously. To be named the King of Rex was a monumental achievement. The young woman anointed his royal consort was also bestowed a huge honor—never mind that Rex was always some rich geezer, old enough to be her father. The parents of the lucky young woman spent tens of thousands of dollars on the honor. Parties were thrown, gowns purchased, votes ensured. None of it came cheap.
Apparently, Charlotte Gallier had been been Rex’s consort in 1968. She had the photograph, crown and scepter to prove it.
“Ma’am, Detectives Malone and Bayle.” She waved them in but didn’t look up from what appeared to be thank-you notes she was writing.
“Mrs. Gallier,” Malone began. “We—”
She held up a hand, stopping him. “One moment, please.”
How like royalty, Malone thought, deciding to grant her the moments so he could use the time to study more of the room’s interior. He was drawn to a grouping of photographs of the Krewe of Rex and its court going back at least a century.
He wandered over to a display of shadowboxes on the wall to his left. Cloisonné doubloons and real glass beads. From the time before made-in-China plastic beads and cheap aluminum doubloons. Amazing.
“Excuse me, Detective, what are you doing?”
“I’ve heard about these,” he said, indicating the shadowboxes and their contents. “But I’ve never seen any.”
“They’re quite rare.” She folded her hands in front of her. “How can I help you, Officers?”
“Detectives,” he corrected. “I’m afraid we have some bad news.”
She waited, though she barely looked interested. He wondered how she would react, if at all.
“Mrs. Gallier, your husband was murdered this morning. I’m very sorry.”
She blinked three times; her lips trembled. “Oh my, that is bad news.”
That was it. He glanced at Bayle. She was as blown away as he was.
“We’re eager to find his killer. To that end, we need to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course.” She cleared her throat. “Can you tell me how he … how they did it.”
“He was shot. In an elevator in the French Quarter.”
“I see.”
“Did you know he kept a second residence?”
“The apartment on Royal Street? Yes, I knew. It’s the company’s apartment.”
Malone took a spiral notebook from his breast pocket. “When did you last see him, ma’am?”
“Yesterday morning when he left for work. He had business last night.”
Monkey business.
Bayle stepped in. “Mrs. Gallier, are you aware your husband had a mistress?”
“Of course.” She said it matter-of-factly. “We had no secrets from one another.”
“And that was okay with you? You didn’t care?”
“His dalliances meant nothing. I’m certain you can’t understand, but he and I are partners. Much like you two are. We watched out for each other, always.”
“You didn’t worry that he’d leave you? Ask for a divorce?”
The way she looked at Bayle was condescending. “He would never have left me. Nor I him.”
“Where were you this morning, Mrs. Gallier?”
“Here. I haven’t left the house yet today. Now I’ll have to.”
“Is there anyone who could corroborate that?”
“Any number of the help.”
“May we have permission to speak with them?”
“Certainly.”
“Did he have any enemies?” Bayle asked.
The woman looked at her. “He was very rich, Detective. Very powerful. He had many enemies.”
How different her response and Jaz’s to the very same question, Malone thought. Interesting, too, her lack of embarrassment. Money equaled power. Power bred contempt.
And the earth revolved around the sun. Just the way it should.
“Let me rephrase that, Mrs. Gallier. Anybody want to kill him?”
She laughed, the sound brittle. “I imagine so, perhaps fantasizing about doing it. But to actually pull the trigger?”
She drummed her fingers on the desk. “My money would be on that little tart my son was married to. Just the other day, she threatened Anton. Barged into his club and did it in front of everyone. It was very ugly. Connor Scott was there as well. Everyone’s talking about it.”
And now they would be talking about this.
“You called your daughter-in-law a tart. Was she cheating on your son?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Is there a reason you and your husband disapproved of her?”
She made a dismissive gesture with her hands. “He married beneath himself, Detective. She had nothing and was nobody. A stained-glass artist? Dear God, please.”
“Do you believe she killed your son?” Bayle asked.
“I wasn’t as convinced as Anton; they did seem happy with each other. But now, with this … She got away with it once, so she did it again. Isn’t that what these people do?”
“These people, ma’am?”
“Criminals. Murderers. First my son—” Her voice grew so thick she could hardly speak. “Now my husband. I’m alone now, Detectives. Completely alone.”
Neither Malone nor Bayle had any more questions, and with her permission they questioned the staff. They learned she had been telling the truth—she hadn’t left the house since the evening before.
As they buckled into her Taurus, Bayle said, “I don’t think that woman has a heart.”
“Either that or ice water runs in her veins.”
Bayle eased into traffic. “Can you imagine that being your mother?”
“I can’t. My mother’s Italian, she’s got plenty of fire. All that icy restraint, hell no.” He laughed. “If she found out my dad was having an affair, that little woman would have killed him.”
“Exactly. Thank you.” She took a left to cross the neutral ground, stopping for a streetcar rumbling past. “Rich people, I swear.”
He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. After a couple moments, he unclipped his cell phone. “I’ll see where Percy’s at and let him know we’re on our way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Tuesday, August 16
3:10
P.M.
Mira left the studio early, realizing after she had screwed up four consecutive breaks and sliced her finger open that it’d be safer for everyone if she went home. She couldn’t stop thinking about the things Dr. Jasper had suggested. They played over in her head, stealing her ability to concentrate on anything else.
Was she closing the door on the past and on Jeff? Had the entire event been a creation of her subconscious: Nola barking, the sound of the door clicking shut, the smell of Jeff’s aftershave?
It had all been so real.
“You’re choosing the present, Mira. You’re letting someone—or something—into your life and you want to live.”
She turned onto her street, mind racing. She recalled Dr. Jasper’s final warning about it being easy to be hurt. The words, something about the way she had said them, had sounded like a threat. They had certainly affected her like one, sending a shiver of apprehension up her spine.
Why would Dr. Jasper threaten her?
She wouldn’t. Period. Another case of her runaway imagination.
She rounded the corner, Mrs. Latrobe’s house coming into view.
Nola barking.
Of course. That’s why she had gotten out of bed. She’d been afraid her cranky neighbor would be awakened.
Mira stopped in front of her neighbor’s house and stepped out onto the sidewalk and into the blinding sunlight and suffocating heat.
She hardly noticed as she hurried up the walk to her neighbor’s front door. She rang the bell. A moment later, the woman responded. Dressed in a crisp hourglass suit and pillbox hat, she was like a picture out of a 1950s
Life
magazine. Except for the baby blue slippers on her feet.
“Hi, Mrs. Latrobe,” she said. “I’m Mira Gallier, your neighbor from next door.”
“Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m addled. I know who you are.”
“Right.” Mira cleared her throat. “I just wanted to apologize if my dog’s barking woke you up.”
“A dog?” The woman frowned. “I expect you’ll keep the animal leashed.”
“Of course, Mrs. Latrobe. And again, if she woke you up last night, I apologize.”
“No, thank goodness.” She narrowed her eyes. “But what has bothered me is the comings and goings over at your place all hours of the day and night.”
“If you’re talking about the police, I had an intruder—”
“And the men! It’s not proper. I’m sure your poor husband is turning over in his grave.”
Angry heat climbed Mira’s cheeks. Several sharp retorts sprang to her lips, but she swallowed them as the image of the woman’s hat, gloves, and house slippers filled her head. Nothing would be gained by pointing out that she was the one who should be ashamed for spying and jumping to nasty conclusions. Nor would she believe in Mira’s innocence, even if she proclaimed it.
Mira took a step backward. “I’m glad you weren’t awakened by Nola. Excuse me, Mrs. Latrobe. You have a good day.” She turned and started back to her car.
“If it’s one of those kind of dogs, I suggest you muzzle it,” the woman called after her.
Mira held her tongue, though she wanted to defend Nola with every fiber of her being. Funny how the urge to defend her pet was stronger than the urge to defend herself.
She reached her Focus, climbed in and started the engine. In the short time the car had been off, the interior had become like an oven.
She set the air on high and sat with cool air blasting her face.
Mrs. Latrobe hadn’t heard Nola.
But why? Because the dog hadn’t been barking? Or because her neighbor simply hadn’t heard?