Hot Blooded Murder (18 page)

“What else did you help Marcie with?”

“Nothing. Just gave her those forms. Told her of course if she did find a buyer mah company would like the first opportunity to provide them with a mortgage.”

“And did she?”

“Matter of fact, she did. The Fil-more Takeur’s Ah believe. Had it all sewn up for poor Marcie. She’d a walked away, got all her investment back, and some change on top. Shame Takeur lost his job.”

“Shame Marcie lost her life.”

“Well, yes ma’am, of course.”

“You think there’s any connection?’

“Connection between Filmore Takeur losin’ his job and Marcie’s untahmly demise?”

“No. Connection between her death and that change on top.”

He started, then chuckled. “Don’t know what’all you are getting’ at Mz Wiley. Ah thought you were writin’ some horse article.”

“Yes, I am, but of course there is interest in how she died. Could I see the paperwork you must have prepared to approve them for a mortgage?”

“Paperwork! You see this here confusion? And all mah staff have gone home because of this here heat.”

I noticed he had evaded the question while giving the appearance of answering it. But I had learned through repeated experiences that a response was not always an answer. Suddenly the door flung open, banged against the wall. I jumped, and I saw an expression of malevolence drop like a shade over Anton’s face.

I turned to look. A tall, broad-shouldered and very handsome man in a well-cut brown suit stood there. He held a file folder fat with papers.

“Son!” cried Anton. “What’re you doin’ back here?”

“I–thought I’d just drop off the Goo–”

“–You got the goods, did you? Excellent, son. Son! Put that mess down and come here and meet this pretty lady. Ms. Bryn Wiley. This is mah boy, Anton the Third. Joinin’ me in the mortgage business. Just graduated not so long ‘go from Tulane.”

“Howdjyee do?” and Anton III placed the file folder on a nearby desk and in two strides was next to me. He offered a hand. I took it, feeling its huge size and its softness. I suddenly felt a little nervous, alone in this gloomy office between these big men.

“Is Daddy helping you okay?”

“Yes. Wonderful,” I said, “of course there’s not much ya’ll would know.”

“Concerning what?”

Again the menacing look on Anton’s face. He stared hard at his son. Warning him? I saw the son see the look and flinch. Afraid of Big Daddy? The young man’s hands started to shake. He clasped them but still they shook.

“Concerning the death of Mrs. Marcie Goodall, former wife of Theodore Goodall,” I said.

“Oh, certainly. Very sad. Heard it on the radio. Prize horse killed her.”

“I just came from the inquest. The horse was exonerated. Now they’re looking for a human killer.” My eyes were on Anton III’s hands as he unclasped them. They trembled and he jammed them into his pants pocket. He jingled change. His father gave him another annoyed look. The jingling stopped.

“She wasn’t his former wife,” Anton III blurted.

“Seems that way.” I responded. “Weird, isn’t it? Their property settlement is on file at the St. Tremaine Courthouse, but the divorce–”

“You find a divorce decree on file there too?”

“No. Only found the property settlement. I assumed–” I decided to stop giving forth with information. Let them tell me things!

“Ass–umed wrong,” said Big Anton. “They never finished out the divorce.”

“That’s amazing.”

Big Anton chuckled. “Ms. Wiley, seems to me you’ve got yourself a po-tential suspect, now dudn’t it?”

“Theo?”

“Stands to inherit it all.”

“But he couldn’t–Marcie signed the place away. Back over to Cade Pritchard. She lost everything.”

The son went rigid. His eyes shifted to his father’s face, which was now closed, emotionless. “She just gave it away? Did you know about this, Dad?”

“Seems like I might have heard. Very noble gesture of her.”

“Why! We got funding for the Takeur’s!”

“That bad appraisal, then he lost his job–”

He stopped. I dropped my eyes and mentally ran though the pile of papers I had accumulated, at home in my office. Was there anything there that looked like an appraisal? I thought so. Hadn’t focused on it. So there was an appraisal and Anton knew about it. What was wrong with the appraisal? Had that screwed Marcie somehow? A bad appraisal? With a bad one, how’d Delon managed to get funding for the Takeur’s? The hot jungle air suddenly felt like it was charged with electricity, preface to a lightning storm.

I looked up at the son. His whole body was shaking now. Frustration? Fury? Both? Or–fear? His hands jerked out of his pockets so violently he almost ripped the pockets.

“Son…” said Anton warningly.

I wanted to be gone. I also wanted to look at the file folder that had been clutched in Anton III’s shaking hands. I didn’t dare ask. Softly, Second Brain made a suggestion:
Perhaps you can drop back later this evening…

I stood. “Gentlemen. Great to meet you-all. I need to get back across the lake. My horse doesn’t like me to be late with his dinner.”

Big Daddy Anton slowly rose behind his desk. Seemed to take a long time for him to reach his full height. He was taller than his tall son. He loomed over his desk and me. “Nice meetin’ you, Ms. Wiley.” He extended a hand. I took it. It was limp, a surprise to me.

Squeezing his fingers, I nodded and said, “Thank you for your time.” I scooted around the quaking Anton III and scurried from the heat and intensity.

Chapter Nineteen

I drove home over the Causeway barely noticing the glory of the lake. I was just plain glad to be out of Anton Delon’s smarmy presence. Fear still had me; my hands were sweaty on the steering wheel. I drove the country roads barely noticing where I was. Crunching gravel, I pulled into my driveway. My fears were ebbing. I went straight to the barn, threw feed to Amethyst and marched into the house.

I had a shower and half a glass of wine. Red. Healthy. And a mango chicken curry frozen diet dinner that felt like a lot of food, since it was served in a bowl rather than one of the shallow trays. I ate sitting in my green terry robe on my emerald loveseat, Lulu asleep at my feet. I knew my poor horse was munching his sweet feed in the barn, probably delighted he was not being ridden, although I felt guilty that I had
not
ridden him. All over again, I got scared to bits. My hands began shaking as badly as Anton III’s had been, as I tried to prepare myself mentally to do some recon at Delon Mortgage, tonight. Had the eighteen-year-old Anton felt frightened at all when he’d slunk into Cambodia on his murderous missions? Or, was he truly a psychopath who was feeling either nothing or a great thrill? If the ability to feel fear was a measure of one’s psychopathy–then I was far from being one. I needed to talk to a friend. I grabbed the phone with a perspiring hand and dialed Arthur. A woman’s voice answered. “Hello.”

“Hi, Suzanne. It’s Bryn. How are you?”

“Good. You?”

Tremble, tremble. “Good. Your husband home?”

“He just walked in. But I’ve got dinner coming–”

“It’s about the Marcie Goodall murder and I promise I won’t talk long.”

“Okay, Bryn. Here he is.” There was child voice’s calling, “Daddy Daddy,” the sound of a TV abruptly turned low and then Arthur’s voice.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Arthur. It’s Bryn. Your wife’s about to feed you so I won’t take long. Just wondered if you’ve ever met up with Anton Delon.”

“Yes. I have, in fact. He was a good friend to Marcie–helped her with details of selling her place. He was out there a few times. Fine old aristocratic gentleman.”

“My take is slightly different. I think he’s a psychopathic jerk. I just met him this afternoon.”

Arthur chuckled. He repeated this to Suzanne. I heard her laugh in the background. And comment.

Arthur said, “Suzanne just said maybe you met the wrong man.”

“Tall? Weird blue eyes? Silver hair–big shoulders? Upperclass Alabama accent?”

“You’ve nailed him.”

“Suzanne met him too, eh?”

“Yeah. Once. We’d run by Marcie’s one day after church. We go to the Word of God right there. Dropped in just for a minute. She got lonely after Theo left. Mr. Delon was there helping Marcie with some paperwork. He was arranging for an appraiser to come by I think.”

My ears lifted. “Appraiser? That keeps coming up. Something fishy about an appraisal. Well, Arthur, I might be reaching here, but I think Anton Delon could be our murderer.”

“Bryn! You sure you saw the right guy?”

“He is a wicked man,” I said. “He lied to me about where his office is–”

“Which makes him a killer? His office is in Metairie–”

“Not any more. He’s way out in Kenner.”

“Since when?”

“Since a few days ago. He led me on a pretty extensive tour of the lovely streets of Kenner. He lied to me about the address. More than once…”

“He must have made a mistake–”

“When I finally found the place, the office was a mess, all his staff gone. No air conditioning.”

“Broken?” said Arthur.

“Maybe he couldn’t pay the bill.”

“Mr. Delon? No! He’s very successful.”

“Arthur. Consider: interest rates are in the basement now. Perhaps he’s just not hauling in as much coin as he used to. And how up-to-date is he? People can go online and in a few minutes apply for a new mortgage at a lower interest rate, then switch their mortgage to another company without even seeing a human being. Anton strikes me as someone who may not have adjusted well to the dot-com way of doing business.”

Arthur said, “Bryn. I’m just not seeing it. He was Marcie’s friend–gave her those forms. Coached her on how to sell the place, all for no remuneration.” His voice changed and I heard him say to Suzanne, “She thinks Anton Delon might be the murderer.”

I heard Suzanne answer, “No. Can’t be him. He’s a famous philanthropist or something. Battered women’s shelter. See him all the time in the paper at society fundraisers along with his wife, Daisy. Can’t be him.”

Arthur’s voice in my ear again. “You get all that?”

“Yeah. Still, you weren’t there. The way he talked about the little ‘Vet’nam wimmin….’ Gave me chills, Arthur. Anyway. The proof is probably in the paperwork so I am going to do a little extracurricular scouting. Drop by his office tonight and see what I can scare up.”

“Bryn! B&E? You get caught, the Metairie police–”

“Kenner police–”

“Whatever police! They will frown upon your presence in someone’s office after hours–”

“Whoa. Less you know the better! Just letting you know in case I disappear or something funny.” My hands resumed shaking. Fear curdled like cottage cheese in my belly. “That’s all. Don’t worry about me, though. I’m taking Lulu.”

“Bryn. For God’s sake. Don’t do this! Just a couple of nights ago someone pounded you senseless. You forget that concussion already?” In the background, Suzanne, “…what’s she up to now?”

Arthur continued talking to me, “Bryn. Don’t.”

“Okay. Okay then, Arthur. I won’t,” I lied.

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I dunno.”

Suzanne was making more worried sounds. He spoke to her, “She says she’s not going to do it.”

Then I heard Suzanne saying, “Whatever it is, that’s a relief.” Her voice got stronger, so I would hear her, “Ask her does she want to come over here for dinner now. Lasagna. Got plenty.”

My mouth watered. Suzanne was a great cook, but she and Arthur were those whippet-thin kind of people who ate huge amounts of great food and stayed whippet-thin. Unlike myself, who got Lab-Retriever-fat.

“Tell Suzanne thanks, I’ve already eaten. Guess I’ll turn in, have an early night. I probably need a good night’s sleep after all the excitement.” Such a liar!

“Yes. You do,” said Arthur in a stern Daddy voice.

“Good night, Arthur.” I raised my voice, “Good night, Suzanne,” and we hung up.

I set the phone on the coffee table and picked up my
Tao Te Ching
booklet. Read some wise calming thoughts, stop the fear-shakes, I told myself. No more wine, and certainly no caffeine. Sip water. Then when it was later, say around nine, I’d slip into black jeans, black long-sleeved turtleneck, tie a black scarf pirate-fashion over my red hair and drive to Anton Delon’s office. But before that I would deal with my guilt and ride my horse right now. Plenty of time for a nice, meditative, schooling session. I had a few lights strung down one side of my sandy arena. A ride would calm me down.

My Tempo was parked one mini-mall from Anton’s yella brick building. I was in the shadow of a huge spreading oak, under the gassy-green rays of a streetlight. Fear and the hard work of my ride had dissolved my diet resolve and I wolfed a shrimp po-boy, dressed, from Ye Olde College Inn. Shrimp spilled out onto the plain newspaper wrapper on my lap. The New Orleans’ French bread deliciously held many fried shrimp, with shredded lettuce, tomato, tartar sauce, Tabasco and mayo. I wanted to close my eyes in joy as I chewed, but I kept them wide open. Light issued from a window on the second floor of Anton’s office.
What are those boys up to,
I wondered, swiping at some tartar sauce on my cheek, licking my finger, then was forced to say out loud to Lulu “Yum.” She watched me, panting. I had spoiled her with a quarter-pounder from McDonalds, but as always, she ate too fast.

I took another giant bite. The crust of the crisp bread, the tender inside, the shrimp melting in my mouth…the light went out. I chewed fast. Groped for a paper napkin. Swallowed. Desperately I wanted another bite, but I saw Anton III emerge from the front door. He walked across the parking lot and got into an old black Mercedes. Backed out, drove down the street. His red taillights winked as he crested a bump in the undulating Kenner street, then flared as he braked before turning onto Williams Boulevard, back toward Metairie. I wrapped up the rest of my sandwich and snuck back to my car. I stowed the sandwich away from Lu in the glove compartment, knowing the heat would make it toxic but as yet not bearing to throw it away nor give it to Lu. I checked my fanny pack. B&E tools there. I snapped on latex gloves. Wished I had one of those balaclava bank robbers’ hood things to pull over my too-white face and to help me get into a cat-thief frame of mind. But, maybe not. It was a warm spring night. My hands resumed shaking, and my stomach got cold with fear.